Vivaldi At Two, Version 2

It was two in the morning. The streets have been quiet for a while now, and Sherlock had watched as night descended on London. He was working on his laptop, typing quickly and masterfully. There was no case, but he enjoyed searching the internet for any information that might be useful. Or just to find an interesting murder.

There wasn't anything interesting so he closed his laptop, a bit discouraged. It was getting harder to find some work, or rather, worthwhile work. He had helped Lestrade clean out the cold case files the other day and solved a murder they were trying to hide from him. Sherlock wasn't offended, just amused. Still, it felt dull, and his brain was left unsatisfied.

The flat was quiet. There were slight creaks, as if the entire building was breathing softly to the unheard rhythm of night. Sherlock liked staying up; his mind could think for ages without getting sidetracked. Usually, daylight brings activity and noise outside the window. And John.

John. Sherlock listened again. Quiet. Strange.

On most nights, he could hear John's movements in bed. Sometimes there was screaming, when the nightmares were especially bad. Sherlock wondered if they will ever stop.

Probably not, it's the curse of the soldier.

Sherlock felt uneasy with the silence and decided to check on his flatmate. He went upstairs one at a time in the quietest steps possible. He learned from experience that John didn't like being woken up in the middle of the night with a sociopath in his room. Through a couple of experiments, Sherlock has figured out how to prevent from being caught to an exact science.

John's room was a thing of beauty. Completely different from the rest of the flat, the room was clean and organized. Everything had a specific place, and Sherlock admired it. Every piece of furniture seemed to be placed perfectly parallel to each other. Books were stacked on the desk in a picture perfect stack next to the reading light. This was military precision, and Sherlock predicted no less.

As beautiful as the room was, however, Sherlock was annoyed with it. He had scanned the room numerous times, especially the desk, and he had always ended with the same conclusion: there was nothing he could deduce about John by the room. The furniture was the original set that Ms. Hudson had in the flat. John's belongings could fit in two cardboard boxes; there wasn't much to go on there. All the room told the detective was that John was a very organized and careful man.

He pondered this thought, wondering if those traits came from Afghanistan or childhood, when his thoughts were broken by ten words.

"Sherlock, what the hell are you doing in my room?"

Too deep in his thoughts, Sherlock had forgotten to check if John was actually asleep. He smiled in the darkness, amused by this thought, and replied, "Curious."

"Well, I'm trying to sleep and this…creepiness is not helping." John said firmly.

"You weren't sleeping to begin with," Sherlock responded coolly.

"How…"started John, but he changed his mind, "Never mind. I don't want to know."

There was a pause, then John added, "Alright. So you creep into my room every night?"

"No, not every night. You're very interesting to watch when you're asleep."

"Um…thanks I suppose. No, no, wait, no. That's creepy. You shouldn't be doing that. Why are you watching me sleep?"

Sherlock shrugged, "Bored."

He heard a scoff in the darkness, "Ah, so I'm your entertainment when you get bored?"

"If you want to put it crudely and in such absurdly simple words, yes."

In truth, John was more than that. To the detective, John was the only person that was clever enough to follow him: the perfect companion to his genius mind. John was the only person that could see a glimpse of what Sherlock saw while Sherlock had a hard time seeing what John could see. It was a strange exchange, a strange relationship, but Sherlock enjoyed it. He reveled in it.

"Fantastic," the soldier muttered to himself.

Sherlock could hear the irritation in John's voice and changed his answer, "You're interesting to observe."

"And that's a good explanation as to why you creep into my room at night? Frequently?"

"What would be a good explanation?"

"There is no good explanation!" John said exasperatedly, "Normal flatmates don't creep on each other when they're sleeping."

"Normal flatmates don't solve murders and chase serial killers down alleyways. I highly doubt we're still considered normal."

John sighed, annoyed, and Sherlock wondered if he went too far. But instead, the doctor laughed under his breath. "You're right; we've passed normal the moment we met."

Sherlock was a little taken back at this response. It was a bit unexpected, but he should have been expecting it at the same time. He knew John well, as least, he hoped he did.

"Anyway," continued John, "you're right. I can't sleep. It feels like there's something nagging at me in the back of my head, and I can't tell what it is. It's bothering the hell out of me."

"Like there's one thought, or even one word, that's stuck in a small corner, refusing to show itself?"

"Yeah, a bit like that."

Sherlock smirked; he knew that feeling well. It was what kept him up most of the time, that one unfinished thought that refused to reveal itself. When there were nights like these, when that one thought bothered him enough to distract him from cases, sleep or just simple observations of the night, he knew the perfect remedy.

He left the room and practically ran down the stairs. He retrieved what he was looking for on the floor next to his favorite armchair and ran back up the stairs. When Sherlock re-entered the room, he could sense John's eyes were watching him. His every movement was judged, probably to find the purpose. "Don't worry, it's not an experiment," Sherlock reassured.

"Then what is it?"

There was a small smirk on the detective's face, as if this was giving him immense joy. He plucked the strings, already tuned earlier that night as he watched the twilight turn to black, and began playing.

The notes filled the room. They were high and sweet and vibrated through the air. The tempo was fast, a characteristic of Vivaldi's compositions, but somehow it was soothing all the same. Sherlock had been working on this particular piece for a while now, and showing John his work seemed fitting. Also, classical music is known to be relaxing, and maybe this will help John get some sleep.

He cut the song short, playing the entire piece would last almost ten minutes, and ended with a little bit of improvisation. The last long note hung in the air long after it was finished as Sherlock placed his violin back in its case.

"That," John whispered uncertainly, as if his voice will taint the atmosphere around him. "That was amazing."

"Thank you," Sherlock replied sincerely, something he doesn't do often. Usually he'd reply with a smirk and smugness, but John was different. John deserved sincerity every once in a while, so that is what he receives.

"How did you learn to play like that?" John asked incredulously. He had known about the violin, Sherlock had told him when they first met, but there was surprise in his voice as if he never knew.

"Mother pressured us into music lessons," murmured Sherlock offhandedly, "I'm the only one who kept to it. Although, I stopped taking lessons as soon as I learned the mechanics of it. My teacher was incompetent."

"That's amazing," breathed John.

"You're just repeating yourself," Sherlock said quietly, almost to himself.

John heard it anyway and laughed, "Alright then. That was beautiful."

For some reason, those words made the detective swell up in something he couldn't identify. His heart beat a little bit faster. His smile was full blown and happier than serial killer happy. What was this feeling?

Sherlock found himself walking towards the bed, slowly and carefully. He felt the need to get closer, the need to look at John's eyes and show his appreciation, his admiration, towards the man before him. And when he got to where he felt was satisfactory, he said in the most honest way he could, "Thank you."

And for some other reason, he kissed John. Not on the lips, but on the forehead like a mother who is proud of her child's achievements. It wasn't anything romantic, just praise for a job well done: an innocent kiss to show his gratitude.

Yet, when John pulled him closer for an actual kiss, an actual on-the-lips kiss, Sherlock didn't protest.

A/N: Thank you for reading!

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~LG607