Duet for Clarinet and Violin

John was fumbling to get his keys out of his pocket, his arms loaded down with bags from the local Tesco, when his mobile rang. "Of course", he thought. "Isn't this always the way?" He managed to get the door open, drop the bags and answer his phone just before it went to his message service.

"Hello, John Watson speaking."

"John, it's so good to hear your voice! How are you? Oh, sorry, it's Clara."

"O my god, Clara! I haven't heard from you in ages! How's everything?"

"Good, John, really good. But why do you sound out of breath? I hope I'm not disturbing you".

"No, no, not at all," answered John as he closed the front door to 221B, grabbed the bags in his hand and headed up the stairs. "I was just picking up some groceries and you caught me as I was trying to get the door open. Can you give me about two minutes and I'll call you right back? It's just that I've got to get some of this stuff into the fridge …"

"Of course, John. I'll be waiting for your call," answered Clara with a smile in her voice.

John ended the call, quickly put the milk and other perishables in the fridge which, for once, was stray-body-part free, got himself comfortable in his chair, the Union Jack pillow placed just so at the small of his back, and called back his ex-sister-in-law.

"Okay," said John as Clara answered on the second ring, "the milk is away, I'm comfy in my chair, and I'm all yours."

They were on the phone for about ten minutes before the reason for Clara's impromptu call arose.

"Actually, John, there was a reason I called … well other than to catch up with my favourite ex-army Doctor," said Clara. "Do you remember before you left on that last posting to Afghanistan, you left some boxes at the house for storage? Well, we've accepted an offer on the house and it's been sold. It's the last thing to be done and then it's finally over between Harry and myself. But, as I was cleaning out the storage room, I found about six boxes with your name on them. Basically, I just want to know if you want them back."

"Oh, Clara," said John sadly. "I'm so sorry about everything that's gone on between you and Harry. You know I love Harry, but I love you too. And please don't take what I'm going to say in the wrong vein, but I'm glad that the house is now sold and you can get on with your life. You deserve to be happy."

There was silence at the other end of the phone and then, in a quiet voice, John heard Clara say, "Thank you. I love you too, John. And I hope we can still be friends."

John laughed and said, "Clara, you can't get rid of me that easily! Of course we're still friends. As for the boxes, I'd completely forgotten about them. I'm not even sure I remember what's in any of them. Tell you what, I'll arrange for them to be picked up and delivered to me here. That way, they'll be out of your hair and it will give me some time to go through them at my leisure. Though, with my luck, they'll contain nothing more than some useless school junk and maybe an old t-shirt or two!"

"John, don't worry about having them picked up. I've already arranged for the removal men to pick up my stuff, and I'll just have them drop the boxes off at your place. Will you be around on Thursday?"

"Really? Thanks, Clara. And Thursday is fine; I'm not scheduled to be at the clinic so I'll be here all day."

Thursday rolled around and, to be honest, John had forgotten all about the boxes. He'd just received a call from the clinic asking if he could fill in for Doctor Singh. Leo and his wife had gone out for dinner the night before and it turned out the "always fresh" lobster wasn't as fresh as advertised. Needless to say, the poor man was out for the count for a couple of days and when the clinic called, John, being John, said "I'll be there in about 20 minutes".

He grabbed his jacket, wallet and phone and called out to Sherlock as he started down the stairs, "I've been called in to the clinic. Doctor Singh ate some questionable lobster and he's home for the next little while. I should be back by about 4:00."

As he flung open the front door, John came face-to-face with a large man in a blue shirt with the logo "Morton's Movers" on the breast pocket. The two men stared at each other, surprised, for a couple of seconds, and then the man said, "Delivery for John Watson."

"I'm John Watson, but I'm not … expecting …. Oh, shoot. I forgot you were coming today. Sorry. Um … can you just leave the boxes inside the door? I'm in a bit of a hurry."

"No worries, mate," responded the mover, "but if you can give me about 2 minutes, I can bring them upstairs if that's where they need to be."

"Great, that would be great," answered John. "Just follow me."

The mover signalled his partner and they both grabbed boxes and followed John up the stairs and into the flat.

John gestured to a clear space beside the sofa and said, "You can leave them there. Thanks so much."

Once they had left the cartons in two neat piles, the movers were back down the stairs and out the door in a matter of seconds. The noise had roused Sherlock from his experiment in the kitchen and he wandered out, saw John staring at the boxes and said, "I thought you were going to work? And what, pray tell, are those?"

At Sherlock's voice, John's head snapped up. "Oh, right. These are just some boxes Harry and Clara were storing for me at their house. I've got to go through them, but I'm already late for the clinic. As long as they're not in your way, I'm just going to leave them here. I'll deal with them when I get home."

As he headed back down the stairs, John's voice came floating up, "And don't touch them, Sherlock. I mean it! They're private and not yours to go rooting through! I'll see you later." A bang of the front door heralded John's departure.

"As if I have any interest in going through the contents of your boxes," said Sherlock with a haughty sniff. "They can't be that important since you'd obviously forgotten about them," and on that note, he returned to the kitchen and his experiment on the decomposition rate of eyelashes when exposed to various acids.

A couple of hours had passed with Sherlock totally absorbed in his 'work' when he called "John, I need a pen." But he got no response.

"John, a pen!" he called a little louder.

"JOHN!"

The lack of response finally seemed to penetrate Sherlock's thoughts and he sat back from his microscope, blinking owlishly in the bright noon-time light. He got up from the table, now covered with petri dishes, numerous bottles of chemicals and several pairs of tweezers, stretched and wandered into the sitting room. A quick look around was all it took for Sherlock to remember that he was alone in the flat, John having gone off to clinic.

"Right, bad lobster," mused the consulting detective as he went to pick up his laptop.

It was then that he again saw the boxes in two neat piles nestled in close to the end of the sofa. They were regular cardboard boxes labelled in John's distinctive writing, "Property of JH Watson". It was always a bit of a surprise to Sherlock every time he saw John's handwriting. Despite the nature of his work, and the stereotypical (though not always incorrect) belief that doctors have illegible writing, John's was crisp and clean, with slight flourishes in the lower zone that indicated both creativity and a meticulous nature … if one actually believed in the accuracy of graphology which, as a true scientist, Sherlock did not.

Ignoring the boxes, Sherlock grabbed his laptop and, ensconced on the sofa, began his daily review of the various news feeds, blogs and gossip sites that he subscribed to.

All the while, the boxes were sitting there. Sitting there, so innocently. Sitting there, taking up space. Taking up space, but definitely not calling to Sherlock. No, they weren't calling to Sherlock at all. Oh no, he had absolutely no interest in them, despite the fact that he had glanced over at them at least ten times in the last five minutes!

The raven-haired detective was now surfing the Yard's supposedly 'secure' internal site, but he couldn't concentrate. The boxes were still there, calling to him, mocking him, enticing him with their box-ness. He resolutely shook his head, causing his curls to bounce, and brought his attention back to information scrolling across his laptop screen. But it was no use!

Finally, with a snarl, Sherlock snapped shut the lid of his computer, tossed it to the side and stared at the cartons. His mind was processing information a mile a minute: He could recite the history of each individual box, including the type of paper used in its construction, its approximate age, and some basic information about its location for past few years.

But it was his lack of knowledge about the contents that was the real frustration.

Now, the lanky git understood the theory of "private and personal", but it was in the application of that theory where he fell short. Even knowing that what he was about to do was a violation of his friend's personal space and specific directive wasn't enough to stop the detective from detecting. A glance at his watch showed that John wasn't due home for another three hours. Plenty of time to give the contents a quick scan; John wouldn't even know. Besides, it wasn't as if anything the boxes contained could be that important since John had obviously not given them any thought over the past few years, he theorized.

He quickly grabbed the top box, unfolded the flaps and spread them open. As he leaned over the now open box, Sherlock's nose was met with the faint aromas of must, mould and the distinctive smell of paper. "School books," he thought, "and from the faintness of the aromas, they must be from Sixth Form, or even secondary school; definitely not University." A quick rummage through the box confirmed his impressions: mostly class texts from sixth form, a few novels (obviously required reading for Literature classes) and a couple of workbooks. Nothing exciting.

The second box contained much of the same, except this time it was university texts, some final papers, a couple of dried-up pens and some scratch pads half-filled with notes and doodles. Once again, nothing exciting.

This continued on the same vein until Sherlock reached the fifth box. So far, the most interesting thing he'd uncovered was faded black t-shirt with the logo of some band – 'The Clash' – he'd vaguely heard of.

The fifth box, though, that was the treasure trove. As he opened this box, it was immediately obvious that it was special. Unlike the others, its contents had been packed with care. Papers were neatly encased in binders, there was a small box that rattled when he picked it up, and finally there was a rectangular black box encased in bubble wrap.

"How intriguing," thought the World's Only Consulting Detective. Long fingers deftly removed the bubble wrap to uncover an instrument case, approximately 91cm x 28cm x 16cm. "Obviously a clarinet case," muttered Sherlock.

The case was old, but in good condition. A quick snick of the lock and the lid opened to reveal the component parts of an obviously second-hand clarinet, but one that had been well cared for. A plaque on the inside cover of the case was etched with "John H. Watson" and a quick look at the body of the instrument revealed a manufacturer's stamp: "Leblanc". The small box that had lain at the bottom beside the case contained a couple of unopened packages of reeds.

His attention now thoroughly engaged, Sherlock began riffling through the binders. They were full of sheet music, and, on further review, proved to be of a quite advanced level. No beginner clarinettist was John Watson!

The last item he pulled out was a shoe box which contained a few certificates of excellence, a couple of ribbons for various sports activities and some photos. They were all slightly yellowed and curled in at the edges, but they offered the most fascinating insight in Captain Doctor John Watson's past.

Here was a studio shot of John in uniform, looking very handsome, together with a handful of snapshots taken overseas during one of his tours of duty - presumably Afghanistan from the look of the background. In these, John was tanned and his hair was bleached almost white from the strength of the sun. Most of these photos were of John with another man about John's age. From the uniform, Sherlock presumed the second man was Murray, the man who saved John's life and got him back to camp when he'd been shot. "One day," murmured Sherlock, as he gently ghosted his fingers over one photo, "I'm going to have to thank that man."

Another photo showed a much younger John in shorts and a jersey with a gang of other young men, obviously the University rugby team, all of them filthy and faces split with wide grins. The boy to the right of John was hefting a large trophy in the air. They all looked so young and jubilant.

The last photo in the pile was a candid shot: John was in profile sitting on a chair on a stage, a music stand in front of him, and completely unaware that he was subject of the camera's lens. His clarinet was poised at his lips and John's gaze was fixed on the sheet music that could be seen on the stand. He looked very serious, but also calm and composed. The lighting came from behind and it surrounded John with a glowing aura.

Sherlock smiled gently down at the photo; of all of them, this was his favourite.

Suddenly, Sherlock thought to check the time and he looked up to see that almost three hours has passed since he opened the first box. He'd had the most fascinating afternoon. It seemed that John was forever surprising him. Sherlock prided himself on his powers of observation, but he'd never realized that his gentle-yet-danger-seeking flatmate had played an instrument, and apparently was quite good as well. He was a little miffed that he'd missed it, but gratified to have spent the afternoon adding some more information to the 'John Watson Room' in his Mind Palace.

Sherlock quickly re-packed the boxes and as he was placing the last box next to the sofa, he heard the front door open and John's voice as he greeted Mrs. Hudson. As John's distinctive footsteps sounded on the stair treads, Sherlock grabbed his laptop and launched himself towards his chair. By the time John made it to the sitting room door, Sherlock was engrossed in an article on bee colony collapse disorder.

John entered the room, hung his jacket on 'his' hook by the door and headed straight to the kitchen to plug in the kettle. "Tea?" he called. The responding grunt he took to be a "yes".

Walking back into the sitting room, he placed Sherlock's cup beside him and proceeded to sit down on the sofa, lean back and take a long sip from his mug.

"Rough day?" asked Sherlock as he picked up his own mug and glanced over at his Doctor through the steam rising in front of his face.

"Not too bad, actually," responded John. With a flick of his wrist, he gestured towards the boxes sitting to his left and added, "But I will admit I spent most of the day trying to remember what's in those. Probably nothing too important, but I think before I get started on dinner I'll go through them."

"Probably a wise move, John, considering they are taking up valuable space where they are," responded Sherlock as he turned his gaze back to his computer.

With a snort and a grin aimed towards his friend, John set down his now-empty mug and reached over for the first box. Unbeknownst to himself, the Doctor was subject of very great (yet very subtle) scrutiny from his flatmate as he pawed through the contents of his boxes. Every once in a while, John would make a comment, or let out a small chuckle, but otherwise the room was quiet. To an outsider, it would have seemed that Sherlock was completely ignoring the goings-on across the room, but in actual fact he was processing information at a great rate, and was continually updating his internal files on John Watson. And he was on tenterhooks waiting for John to get to the 'important' box … Sherlock couldn't have cared less about old text books and such, but he wanted to store John's reaction to uncovering his clarinet for future reference.

While providing the occasional comment aimed towards his friend, to which Sherlock responded with nothing more than an absent-minded hum, John had gone through the contents of five of the boxes, and except for the T-shirt and a few papers, had deemed them ready for the rubbish.

Sherlock was watching very carefully out of the corner of his eye as John opened the final box and got a good look at the contents. Suddenly, silence filled the room. Sherlock looked across to see his flatmate staring blankly into the box.

"Curious," thought the detective as he stood and crossed the room. "John?" he queried as he sat on the coffee table. "Find anything interesting?"

The sound of Sherlock's voice roused John from his memories and he looked up with a small smile on his face. "You could say so," he answered, as he pulled the clarinet case from the box.

"That's a clarinet case, isn't it? Yours, I presume?"

"Yeah, I played in the school band for about three years. Then dabbled a bit through Uni, but once I joined the Army I had no time so I just packed it all away and moved on to other things. But I'm surprised to see it here; I thought it had been passed on to one of Harry's friend's son."

As he gently placed the case back in the box, John announced, "I'm starving. Chinese?"

"Fine, but you order. And get extra kung pao chicken," answered the Detective as he stood and headed back into the kitchen to take a look at the results of his experiment, his mind whirring.

The following day, while Sherlock was at the Yard, having been called in by Lestrade to help clear up some information on the jewel smuggling case he had solved the month previous, John took advantage of the empty flat to pull out his clarinet and see if he could remember how to play.

After giving the clarinet some TLC and discovering that one pack of reeds was still in usable condition as they had never been opened, John wet the reed, inserted it in the mouthpiece and attempted to play the first note he'd tried in over 15 years. Needless to say, what emanated from the instrument could in no way be called an F! It sounded more like a sick seal than music. But John was determined, so he repositioned the mouthpiece and tried again. Success! While in no way perfect, there was definite improvement. After about 45 minutes of running through scales John's lips were numb, but he'd remembered the joy he'd felt every time he played. He'd also unconsciously made the decision to keep practicing, at least while Sherlock was out of the house. Considering the skill with which the genius coaxed music from his violin, John was in no way anxious for Sherlock to hear his own attempts at playing.

It was almost a month later when Sherlock stepped into 221B to find Mrs. Hudson standing at the bottom of the stairs and the sound of what Sherlock recognized as Debussy's "Rapsodie" floating down the stairs. He'd heard John practicing, on and off, over the past weeks but this was the first time he'd heard what sounded like an actual melody.

"Isn't it beautiful?" breathed Mrs. Hudson. "I've been hearing John practice for a while now; he's good, isn't he?"

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson. He's very good," answered Sherlock. "But I don't think he wants us to know just yet, so let's just keep this to ourselves for now, hmm?" He then gave the older woman his patented "Am I not the sweetest thing ever" smile and asked, "Do you have any of those chocolate biscuits I like?"

"Oh, you! Come on, I'll make us some tea and yes, I've got some biscuits too," said the landlady with a laugh as she headed into her flat to put the kettle on.

The surreptitious practicing continued for another month or so, until a Thursday afternoon when John arrived home to find his clarinet and some sheet music sitting on the music stand in front of the window. "Of course he knew," thought John, as he stared at the stand. Despite his attempts to keep his practicing quiet and under the radar, he should have realized that nothing ever gets past his amazing, and yet frequently annoying, flatmate.

A quick look around the flat showed no obvious presence of the World's Only Consulting Git; his coat wasn't hanging on its usual hook and the blue scarf was gone as well.

John put his bag down beside his chair and walked over to the music stand. There were two pages of music sitting there, hand written, with no title, no composer ... nothing. As he hummed the notes, John realized that he could probably play the piece quite ably. He took a deep breath and raised his clarinet to his lips.

His first attempt was a bit hesitant, but he made it through. A quick listen... the flat was still quiet and calm. "Once more," he thought. The second attempt was much better; it actually sounded like music! "Third time's a charm," said John, and his eyes returned to the top of the first page of music.

This time, it was almost magical. The notes flowed from his brain to his fingers to the keys on the clarinet and the sounds that filled the room were beautiful. Gone was the hesitation of the first play-through; this time, John was playing with confidence. Then, very gently to the ear, came the sound of a violin, weaving in and out of the melody that John was playing. John cocked his head slightly to the right, but didn't stop playing.

Sherlock entered the sitting room from his bedroom, playing a beautiful counter-melody that joined with, and then flew off from, the music coming from John's clarinet. Sherlock came to a stop beside John and as they played on to the end of the piece, Sherlock's face held a large smile.

John's last note was a B-flat held for eight counts and with a final flourish, Sherlock brought the piece to an end. As they each lowered their respective instruments, Sherlock gave John a smile - the real smile that very few people were privy to - and queried, "Why did you never tell me you played?"

"You never asked," responded John with a smirk. Gesturing to the music, he said, "I don't recognize this piece. Is it one of yours?"

"Yes, well ... it was quite impossible to find a decent duet for clarinet and violin, so I adapted one of my earlier compositions," responded Sherlock. "Do you like it? It's called '221B'".

"It's lovely, Sherlock. Thank you."

With a smile, Sherlock tapped the John's clarinet with his bow and said, "Once more, from the top?"

A/N: My apologies for any flagrant errors - while I do sing, play guitar and can find my way around a keyboard, I've no experience with a clarinet. All info comes courtesy of my nephew and the Internet!