Gunmetal grey was in stark contrast against ivory flesh, a band of metal now settled between the long, sinister digits of the detective's subordinate hand. It was a ring worn on his third finger, the metal knot looking heavy and cold against the delicate digit which bore the adornment's moniker-the ring finger, a place reserved for this mark of fidelity long since standing in forgotten tradition. There was no discernible reason to wear a ring there outside a promise and far less reason in keeping with the man's discriminating nature. Sherlock wore a watch because it was useful and gloves for much the same. He did not decorate his person in purposeless accessories but there it was all the same, glossy and perfectly sized to his large but fine-boned finger. And John Watson, for the life of him, could not remember when first his best friend wore it.

Molly had been the first to point it out, issuing her query with the admission she'd noticed it before but considered it might be a one-off sort of thing. Sherlock didn't wear jewelry. He didn't even wear ties or the occasional cufflinks. For three weeks she said she'd seen him gloveless with the ring settled in the same place each time. What was the ring for? It was a perfectly reasonable question-especially for one rather obviously smitten with the abrasive man. Sherlock's simple and dismissive shrug left much to desired in way of explanation but cases were on, more important things requiring his attention than a comment about the sudden appearance of a ring on his left hand. It didn't stop being curious just because it apparently didn't matter to Sherlock. If anything it made it more suspect. Now where John couldn't recall having seen it before, the dark ring had become a beacon for his attention every time he saw the naked hand with its simple, polished burden.

Sitting on the sofa, paper held firmly in his tired hands, John read the day's news with a thoughtful frown amidst the tireless tuning of Sherlock's violin. G, D, A & E all rose and fell from their sharps and flats to hum with great assurance in their proper tune. John had spent enough time on clarinet to wince while a string sang sour, chin tilting in the direction of the pull till Sherlock eased it into proper accord. The E string always made his teeth set on edge, just waiting for the snap as the thin wire sang higher and higher, the string pulling tighter and tighter. Sherlock was adept but strings were fickle. Today's strings were perfect, however, and soon the taut horse hairs of the bow were scratching out a pleasant sound far from the repetition of tuning and instead following scales and melodic forms under the press and slide of Sherlock's left-hand fingers. Bare fingers-John had checked. Other than the preoccupation with the ambient sound quality and placement of Sherlock's ring, however, he really and truly was reading the paper. Mostly.

Sort of.

Either way, it made for good cover.

The ring was something of a fascination for John despite attempts to follow Sherlock's example and ignore its presence altogether. Sally Donovan had once said he needed a hobby but somehow 'ring spotting' didn't seem like the traditional sort of time-sink anyone would have recommended. It was just too odd not to focus on, though-rather like the moans that had once ushered up from Sherlock's mobile every time he received a text from a certain femme fatale. Sherlock's nature was singular and easily accounted for though sometimes difficult to accept or to forgive. Anything that deviated, anything that seemed too normal or too sentimental instantly ran red flags through John's mind like a warning relay just to be sure he was still paying attention. That was Sherlock's ring. And in the same breath as John might be able to describe the paragraph he'd read on foreign affairs and current military action, he could, without checking, be reminded of where the ring was now just by the sound of Sherlock playing.

There were very few times when Sherlock removed his ring and playing his violin happened to be one of them. He kept it on the music stand while he fiddled and always replaced it once the instrument was put away. Part of his nature was to be regimented in his own funny ways and in that much his actions remained in keeping with what John knew of his friend. He also knew he slept with it on just from simple observations of it already being there at hours when otherwise Sherlock would have had to have remembered to put it on despite his usual, single-minded haste. It was there after showers but on the table if the science equipment was brought out. It was there when he texted and typed.

If it had been a gold ring that at least might have been something to go off of. Maybe someone had died, some important male figure of whose property Sherlock came to inherit and found sentimental value in the small trinket. It was out of character, certainly, but then so was the very idea of Sherlock walking into a jeweler and buying a brand new ring for himself. There was nothing at all traditional about the dark metal band and just from the sheen of the it John could see very few nicks which might profess to some amount of wear and tear from a previous owner. By all accounts it was as new to the world as it was to Sherlock's hand, the one made for the other and simply put to rest.

It was very difficult to concentrate on Syria with his mind stuck on the most mundane, noncritical detail one could ever possibly fixate on. John flipped the pages of his paper just to seem as though he was making progress. Better to pretend than be called out on hiding behind the paper folds of newsworthy trivia. He couldn't even say he was all that busy listening to Sherlock instead. It was a nice tune but not one he hadn't heard before. His daylight serenades were more a moment of practice-as were their echoes past the midnight hour. It wasn't till the fire was lit and the lights dimmed that it could be called a true performance and with the autumn sun still hanging above the rooftops, this was, at best, a warm up.

Chinese take-away for dinner, then. Chopsticks and single-serving cartons were a favorite on nights when the strings were tuned and the bow dusted in dark amber. John would make the call in a bit, see about that bottle of wine they'd purchased the last time they'd stopped in the shops together, see that the logs were stacked and chairs arranged so that it didn't seem like a purposeful performance though they both catered to the expectation. It was them at their most civilized and John quite enjoyed it as a deviation from telly or nights out on the town. It was just Sherlock showing off, same as he always did, but not as he always allowed to be seen. John was special in that respect and there was something of an honor in each and every twilight concert over peking duck and pinot noir.

"Get that, would you?"

John tilted his paper down, face scrunching as he imagined how he might have not heard the doorbell. It didn't repeat. "Sorry, what?"

"My phone," Sherlock explained, giving the A string a pluck. "On the music stand. Check the messages and let Lestrade know how much I appreciate his silence if there's still nothing there."

John sighed but folded his paper, not exactly in the middle of anything. "Alright. What threat level are we talking about, here? Get you a case 'cause you're bored or get you a case before you set about to deduce London's citizens to tears and rage?"

Sherlock looked towards the ceiling, contemplating the choice seriously. It generally wasn't an exaggeration. "Tell him to find me a case or prepare me a cell. I think his imagination should provide the rest adequately."

John scoffed slightly with a chuckle, shaking his head as he crossed the short distance to the black stand set behind the green chair Sherlock was currently sunk into, chin caught in the violin's embrace under the bend of his own neck. They'd only been without a case for two days, hardly enough time to be quite that restless, but it was fair to try all the same. Lestrade was a far more reliable source of entertainment than their own income-providing service. Clients came and went but crimes were almost assured. Surely something interesting would reveal itself.

John picked up the phone and did as he was asked, going ahead and recalling the local Chinese from the phone's memory as he raised a quick brow to Sherlock, no question asked but acknowledgement given. "Beef with black pepper sauce," the detective said and John nodded, lips pursed with pleasant assessment. Two of them, probably, or he'd be sorry once he smelled Sherlock's. Some scallops for a shared appetizer as well, and something with greens to prove they weren't solely carnivorous and promote some sort of 'healthy' eating. He loitered at the window and its musical accompaniments as he got them squared away, looking out at the street as he spoke until the glimmer of something smooth and polished caught his eye below the pages of sheet music beside him.

John wasn't immediately sure why he did it. Quick slip, no hesitation in his voice as he confirmed their order, his fingers closed around dark ring and then eased it in against the palm and out of sight. It was cool against his skin. Somehow he'd always imagined it to be hot. He finished his call and replaced and phone on the stand where Sherlock had left it reclining then simply walked back to his spot on the couch to continue reading his paper-all the while he secreted the dark band away from its habitual spot. It was stupid, really. Childish even. But perhaps a bit of genius too.

Sherlock all but ignored questions about the ring, but if the ring really meant nothing to Sherlock, then he would probably search for it for a bit, get annoyed, and eventually forget about it. If instead he tore the place apart, he couldn't exactly pretend to John's face that the ring was still just some pointless adornment. It was Sherlock Holmes levels of sneaky bastard and John almost felt pleased with himself for reacting so coolly in the midst of the sudden opportunity. He'd give it back once he had Sherlock's true concerns on the matter outed and then Chinese and a private concert until wine made it all a bit funny anyway.

Sadly, it was Sherlock Holmes he was trying to fool. With one look towards his resting music, the man paused with a furrow of his brow, looked briefly at the floor, then stared curiously across the room at John. "Why did you take it?" he asked, genuinely confused and a little bit hurt if the shape of his argent eyes was any indication.

By all accounts, John had just walked over and stolen something from his best friend. Somehow he hadn't taken into consideration the fact that it looked very bad when caught. There was a reason Sherlock always looked like an asshole when he did these sorts of things. John's face felt warm with shame. "There really is no way to say this that doesn't make me sound like the villain from a children's story. I just, uh... I wanted to see how long you'd look for it."

"You wanted to gauge its importance."

John nodded, folding his newspaper away with the crackle of pleated pages. "Pretty much." He stacked the paper on top of the others, averting his eyes appropriately though Sherlock remained seated rather than stalking over to reclaim his property.

"You could just ask," he said, fingers unfolding in the air as his hand waited, palm up with his violin perched against his thigh in temporary repose.

Well, that had been an abysmal failure. John's face gave further evidence to the worth-a-try sentiment rather than remorse as he stood up once more, rolling the ring in his hand with his thumb as he gave a quick, tactile search for engravings least the whole thing be a complete waste of effort. The ring was smooth inside and out. "You know what it means to wear a ring on your left hand?" he asked as he deposited it like a hole in the other man's palm.

"That I'm right-handed?" Sherlock closed his fingers around it and shifted as he dropped it in his trouser pocket, giving John a somewhat amused scowl though he still seemed somewhat disappointed in him. "John, details concerning marriage are important to my work and as such you can be assured I am in fact better versed in the tells of matrimony than you could ever hope to instruct me in."

John held up his hands in surrender. "Fine. Okay. Just.. you know. People talk."

"And I continue to be unconcerned."

"Not a wedding ring, then," John asked as they were finally on the topic anyway.

Sherlock hummed over the hairs of his bow under his usual appraisal, his previous task returning with no further reason to cause pause. "Wedding ring? No. Just something I slipped on and as of yet have had no real reason to part with."

John sighed, at least that bit of nagging curiosity quelled after a rather botched attempt at more. He backed up into his floral chair, moving the union jack pillow as he sat in close rapport. "Okay. Just, you know, I guess I just wouldn't be that surprised if somehow you up and eloped and never spoke a word of it to me so just... just asking."

"You're asking the wrong question then," Sherlock said, his attention still invested in the intricacies of his instrument.

John frowned. "Hm?"

Sherlock set his violin to his shoulder once more, his chin delicately cradled in its rest. "You asked if that was a wedding ring. It's not," he said, fingers poised over the neck as the bow hung above the bridge to start. "But I am married."