New Love, Same Song
John was very startled to hear a loud crashing sound coming from above him, followed by indistinct shouting and hard footsteps. The shouting was in two tones: yours and your boyfriend’s. Soon, the sound of objects being thrown down the steps rang out, followed by tripping footsteps and the slamming of the door.
John stood and peered out the door, finding some books, a pair of shoes, and a coat laying in the hall. The man he’d come to know as your boyfriend was coming down the stairs, gathering his stuff. He shot a look at John before sheepishly sneaking down the rest of the stairs, not even bothering to put his shoes or coat on.
John turned back to Sherlock who hadn’t moved a muscle during any of the commotion. He was still spread out on the couch, fingers steepled beneath his chin.
“Well, what?” Sherlock asked, eyes remaining closed.
“Do you think we should go see what’s wrong?”
“He was cheating on her.”
“With his sister’s friend.”
“How do you–”
“It was obvious.”
“And you didn’t tell her?”
Sherlock’s eyes opened, staring at the ceiling. “I thought I did.”
John shook his head. “We should go see if she’s all right.”
“Mm.” Sherlock’s eyes drifted closed again. “Go tell her we’ll take her out for copious amounts of alcohol tonight.”
“You… you want to get her drunk?”
“Is that not standard procedure for this situation?”
‘Well,’ John thought as he headed up to your flat. ‘When Sherlock’s right, he’s right.’
John looked at his watch. Quarter til midnight.
“I’m going to go,” he said, standing and putting his coat on. “I’ve got work in the morning.”
“Not til eleven,” Sherlock pointed out.
“Come on, John,” you slurred. “Staaaaaay. I’m going through mourning.”
“You didn’t even like the asshole,” John said with a smile.
“I didn’t say I was mourning him. I’m mourning the time I spent with him. It’s gone and I’ll never get it back.” You leaned back, pressing your hand to your head (and almost falling from your stool). “Oh, woe is me.”
John turned to Sherlock. “Don’t let her drink much more, yeah? And get her some water, especially once you get home.”
You and Sherlock stayed at the bar for another two hours. As the bartender called for last call, Sherlock led you out into the street, hailing a cab. He carefully shoved you into the backseat before sliding in after you.
“Ohmigod I looooooove this song!” you cried as the cab trundled down the road. You began to sing along, somehow remembering all the words even in your state.
Back at Baker Street, Sherlock led you upstairs. He found your keys in your purse and unlocked your door, leading you through your flat into your bedroom. You flopped onto the bed, face first. Sherlock knew you should be laying on your side, should you vomit in the middle of the night. But every attempt he made at situating you failed, as you immediately rolled back over.
Sherlock shimmied out of his coat, draping it over a chair. He propped some pillows along one side of you before sitting behind you, keeping you up on your side. He watched your back rise and fall, sound asleep.
It was already the wee hours of the morning. Sherlock knew he needed to remain vigilant until mid-morning.
Good thing he didn’t require much sleep.
“Would you consider yourself the most logical man in London?”
Sherlock barely glanced up as you flounced into his flat. “Of course. How else would I solve all the cases for the police?”
“Okay, well, I desperately need some of your logic.”
Sherlock looked up, not saying anything. You began to pace back and forth, your hands wringing.
“They offered me a promotion at work. And I know promotions are good, they show that the company places value on me and the work I do. And it could open doors to higher positions.”
“But I feel like a promotion will hold me back. I didn’t want to stay there for the rest of my career. But if I take this promotion, I’ll feel stuck; surely I can’t leave if they value me so much, right?”
“But if I don’t take the promotion, it could show that I’m lazy and that I don’t have any interest in the company. That I’m fine where I am and never want to improve myself.”
Never having been in that position, Sherlock said nothing. He watched you pace back and forth a bit more. Silently, he stood and picked up his violin.
You stopped your pacing as the first few notes floated over to you. Your ears pricked up, turning to find Sherlock watching you, his bow moving seamlessly over the strings.
“Is… is that…”
The smallest of smiles lifted Sherlock’s mouth. He’d spent his time practicing, learning to play that song from the drunken cab ride on the violin. The fact that you recognized it showed that he had perfected it.
Your eyes stayed on Sherlock as you slowly stepped over as if drawn hypnotically. You watched his hands, awe filling your face. As the song ended, Sherlock held the violin up to his shoulder, wondering what would happen next.
“Sherlock Holmes,” you said softly, a smile on your face. “So full of surprises. What am I going to do with you?”
“Sing along next time?”