Authors Note: I don't know where this came from but... here it is anyway!
Sherlock discovers that John has been hiding a musical talent from him and he really wants to know why.
Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or John. They belong to Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC. I also don't own the song 'To Romona' that belongs to Bob Dylan.
Thanks to my wonderful beta fortheloveoftea... what a legend.
After a few weeks of co-habiting with John Watson, Sherlock Holmes came across a startling discovery. He had been studying the indentations on the finger tips of various musicians, when he came across a pattern on the left hand of guitarists. A familiar pattern that lay across his flat-mates fingers.
'You play the guitar.' he stated out of the blue.
John looked up from the television. "Yes I did." Was his simple reply. He needn't ask how Sherlock knew. These random bursts of observation had ceased to shock him anymore, although they continued to amaze him.
Nothing was said after that and they sat in silence for a while. Sherlock was trying to figure out how exactly he missed that fact. Was he so self-absorbed that he would miss such a tell-tale sign as talent in a musical instrument? Had he been so obsessed with solving crimes and riddles that he really didn't know all that much about John Watson?
He could tell you that John had fought in Afghanistan, that he had been wounded, was seeing a psychiatrist, had little family, was not on good terms with his only sibling, but he couldn't tell you what type of films he liked, or what books he read or his favourite food.
Studying John for a few moments, Sherlock felt a cold and uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach. He knew, from study on the subject, that what he was feeling was guilt. But guilt over what? Just because he wasn't aware of John's interests? Did John know Sherlocks interests? Of course he did. Only last week he bought Sherlock a Beethoven CD. He had picked up for cheap in the supermarket. Sherlock had not thought much of the present at the time but now it seemed hugely important. Sherlock was beginning to feel more and more uncomfortable.
"Why didn't you tell me you play the guitar?" Sherlock queried.
John sighed and looked over at him. 'It didn't seem important.'
'But I told you that I played the violin.'
'Yes but you told me because you intended to play it in the flat. I have no intention of playing the guitar.'
'But why not?' Sherlock was confused.
John really did not want this conversation right now. He had left his guitar back where it may have made a difference. He was happy with it being left there, a distant memory in a distant land.
'I wasn't very good.' He lied.
'You're lying to me.' Sherlock stated.
John huffed. 'Can we please just leave it?'
'No I want to know.' Sherlock demanded like a petulant child.
'You wouldn't understand Sherlock.' he sighed.
'It has obviously something to do with Afghanistan. What are you hiding?' Sherlock's eyes furrowed in confusion.
'Just drop it!' John roared and stormed out of the room and down the 17 steps to the streets below.
Sherlock sat in shocked silence. What the hell was that about? He had seen John lose his temper, many times in fact but never had he been on the receiving end of it. It bothered him. Not just because it was a mystery that he wanted to solve, but because John was angry at him. It wasn't a particularly nice feeling he realised. Neither was the fact that John didn't come home that night.
The next morning Sherlock left the flat and headed to the market at Camden. He would solve this. He would learn why John was so secretive. Hopping out of the taxi in Camden he wandered around the market and shops in search of a second hand guitar. Something cheap would do the job. He came across an old battered looking acoustic guitar. It's wood was stained in dark brown, looking almost fire damaged, the paint chipping where the previous owners wrist rested while he strummed the strings. (Yes Sherlock could tell from the location of the chipping that the last owner was male.) He also picked up a chord book on the cheap as well, that had songs like 'Old McDonald' and 'When the Saints Go Marching By', to help teach people how to play.
Heading straight home, he perched himself on the floor of the living room, legs crossed with the chord book opened to his left and the guitar held in his grasp. Placing his fingers in the locations indicated in the book he began to strum. A shrill, out of tune sound pierced his ears. He smirked. This would definitely do the job.
At noon John opened the door to Baker street and was greeted by the sound of an out of tune guitar being butchered. His anger from the day before swelled up once more, he unconsciously clenched his hands into fists, nails digging into his skin. He stormed up the steps and burst through the door. Sherlock looked up from the guitar.
'What are you doing?' John asked through gritted teeth.
'I'm hoping to broaden my musical horizon's.' Sherlock gazed pointedly up at him.
John glared but said nothing and went straight to his room, banging the door shut in anger. Sherlock spent the rest of the night playing the battered, out of tune guitar. John spent the night sprawled across his bed, the discord of the music below and of his thoughts keeping him awake all night.
Sherlock was gone by the time John finally ventured from his room later the next day. As he entered the living room, his eye was drawn to the guitar left sitting on the floor by the window. He headed into the kitchen and put the kettle on, pointedly ignoring the piece of wood and strings laying in the living room. He poured himself a cup of tea, before entering the living room once again. His fingers twitched as his eyes caught the guitar again.
Cautiously John moved towards the guitar. He placed his cup on the coffee table and reached out his hand to grab the neck, only to pull back from it sharply, as if it had physically burnt him. He checked to see if the coast was clear. Sherlock's coat, gloves and scarf was no where to be seen so he was definitely gone from the house.
Once more he reached out for the guitar, his hands trembling slightly. He grasped the neck of the guitar tight and sat down on the armchair closest to him, Sherlock's armchair, his mind registered vaguely.
The guitar settled into his lap comfortably and he felt a vague familiarity in holding it. Like coming home. Placing the fingers of his left hand upon the strings on the correct frets, he ran the thumb of his right hand down the strings. The guitar screeched in protest. Deftly he moved his fingers to the machine heads, adjust the tension in the strings, tuning it to the right pitch.
After a few moments the guitar was tuned to his liking and he began to play a tune. It was slow, mournful and melancholic, and reminded him of many things. The heat of the sun on his bare back as he lounged about with nothing to do for the day. The smell and feeling of the sand as it wafted up into his face. The feeling of one of his dog tags between his thumb and index-finger being used as a plectrum. The thud of the guitar as it hit the ground when he was called away on an emergency to help some poor bastard who had come back wounded. The few moments of happiness, when after playing away to himself, the eaves-dropping soldiers of his regiment would applaud his playing, then the various requests asked off him. The Beatles, Oasis, U2, David Bowie, Happy Birthday. He smiled a little as he thought of the jeering he would get when he'd mess up the chords, or forget the words. He thinks of his guitar left in Afganistan, undoubtedly used as firewood by now. It had broken his heart when it had been shot into pieces. It was a silly thing to get upset over but John did regardless. It was his link to a home that was so far away, his link to his comrades that were being shot at and dying everyday, his link to the emotions that he couldn't express himself.
He strummed lightly and began to murmur beneath his breath.
Ramona come closer shut softly your watery eyes.
The pangs of your sadness will pass as your senses will rise.
The flowers of the city though breath like, get death like sometimes.
But ain't no use in tryin' to deal with the dyin'
though I cannot explain that in lines.
He placed the guitar against the wall and returned to his room. That night he dreamed in sepia, of sand and guns and melancholy melodies that swirled about his head. He awoke the following morning with the familiar twinge of pain in his leg.
Sherlock had returned home late. The guitar had moved. It no longer lay on it's back on the floor but had been placed up against the wall. A mark of respect he imagined. He tried out the C chord, the sound (although not perfect) no longer sounded like a cat dying. The guitar had been tuned while he was out.
John slowly made his way down the stairs early the next morning. He put the kettle on and poured himself a cup of tea. He sat in the living room, the dawn barely after breaking and stared once more at the guitar laying on the floor. He knew that Sherlock was doing this on purpose. He wanted a reaction from John. Sighing he picked it up once more and reveled in the feel of holding it once more. The musky smell from the guitar reminded him of his first guitar. His father had given it to him. Had thought him how to play. He smiled a little. He father had moulded John's taste in music from a young age. The Beatles, Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, David Bowie and Bob Dylan were regular visitors to his home. Their music blaring through their speakers and then later through their guitar.
Sherlock came down and found John sitting in the grey light of the morning with the guitar on his lap, staring out the window. He coughed lightly to let him know of his presence.
John looked up. He looked defeated. 'You really want to know why I didn't tell you?'
Sherlock just nodded, not trusting his voice, the look on John's face was so heart-wrenching, so broken. That cold familiar feeling seeped back into his stomach.
And John told him. Told him about his father, about the army, about his first guitar, his last guitar, about all the feelings that the guitar would conjure up. Sherlock never spoke, for once he just listened.
John Watson had taught him a lesson that morning. Sometimes mysteries were not meant to be solved. Sometimes the mystery is so ingrained in a person's soul that it can physically hurt to try and solve it. It had hurt John in one way, Sherlock in another.
The guitar was moved that day, from the living room to John's room. Sherlock never asked him to play again, but he would listen at night, when John would strum lightly and murmur
I'd forever talk to you but soon my words would turn into a meaningless ring.
For deep in my heart I know there's no help I can bring.
Everything passes, everything changes, just do what you think you should do.
And who knows baby, someday maybe,
I'll come and be crying to you.
Authors Note: Well... who needs a drink? Sorry for the angst... not sure where it came from exactly but I hope you enjoyed it and Read and Review if you would be ever so kind.