Chapter Text
Dr. Watson turned his steps toward the on-call room. The patients had settled down, the A&E had placed it’s last admission, with only legal blood alcohol draws remaining in the holding bays at present. And he was very ready to pay a visit to the on-call room, where he had sent his flatmate a few hours previously after suturing up his arm.
Sherlock had a glimmer in his eye, the last he’d seen him, as John tried to alleviate the boredom that may have ensued until John would be able to meet him. “Don’t worry,” he’d said, “I am bringing restraints.” While John had a few qualms and reservations about Sherlock being in the call room with him, there was no way, however, that they would be actually using them while John was on duty. The possibility for interruption, discovery, or worse was enough to have settled that in John’s mind. At home, though, perhaps seeing his flatmate cross-tied to the bedframe would be a pleasant dalliance. And satisfying for both of them, ultimately anyway.
He’d threatened Sherlock with them a few weeks previously in order to get him to cooperate with a CAT scan after he’d sustained an injury with mental status change. An on-going threat, then, never carried out. Until now, at least. Thank goodness for deep pockets of his clinical lab coat, embroidered in red letters over left breast pocket.
As the door came into view, John removed his keys, and paused, his step slowing. He considered the likelihood of an ambush awaiting him just inside the door. Sherlock’s newly sutured arm would probably be slightly painful, but the berk had a ridiculously high pain tolerance and John didn’t think it would stop him. Whatever his plan for entering the room, it would have to be quickly decided, as Sherlock would get suspicious if there was too much of a delay after hearing the jingling of keys in the hallway.
John went into the room in a bit of a crouch with an arm up as he’d learned early in mandatory boot camp until he was (mercifully) assigned into the medical corps where he belonged. So when he was grabbed from behind around the top of the head instead of the neck as intended, he was able to wrench around, catching Sherlock’s tall and now slightly off-balance form from the side, pinning one arm and holding head low, while legs held him safely out of harms way.
“Have a care with my fresh sutures,” John growled, low. Sherlock had initially struggled a bit, caught off-guard and he bobbled as not to completely lose his footing. And then he was eerily still...
...and just as the hair on the back of John’s neck prickled, he felt something metal slip around his wrist and click tight, the slight bite of metal digging just slightly into his skin. A handcuff, then.
He froze. “Shit!” He twisted his wrist in the manacle. “What are you thinking?” he hissed.
“Exactly,” Sherlock said, grinning, as John shifted enough to maneuver what he hoped was a safe position keeping his other wrist out of Sherlock’s reach.
“Jesus, Sherlock, do you have a key for that?”
“Back at the flat. When I stole these off Donovan, I didn’t want to risk getting caught by also stealing the key. Really John, obvious.”
“Sherlock.” John looked at him with incredulous frustration. “I don’t keep lockpicks here. I’m working, you daft git.”
“Oh.” Then, Sherlock, realising his blunder, said, “Ooooh,” blinked as the teasing atmosphere in the room changed, deflated. “Oops. Maybe...”
And on cue, John’s phone rang, then, and John fixed a furious glance at Sherlock as he answered the call. One of the patients needed a urinary catheter that the nurses had been unsuccessful in placing due to bleeding and obstruction; the patient was in distress. “I have to go. This is going to be difficult to explain if it’s seen. You can be such a bloody big idiot sometimes.” John slid his sleeve down, it covered most of the cuff. Until he moved, the free end jingling.
Glaring, he reached into his pocket, deliberately removed the soft limb restraints he’d five-fingered, then tossed them aside, and withdrew a roll of silk tape. His sleeve went up, and he secured the other end of the cuff up along the lower side of his arm, just high and tight enough to remain silent and out of sight. When Sherlock reached out as if to help, John snarled, “Touch me and you are a dead man.” Sherlock realised the depth of his blunder, because as a physician, soon to be appointed the director of the intensivist program, they were not words John would ever say lightly.
John pulled his sleeve back down over the now secured and silent hardware, looked over at Sherlock. “I’m sorry, John,” he said with a neutral expression for a few seconds until the corners of his mouth twitched, and before he could help it too much, they were both chuckling. John’s mirth was brief, and quickly replaced by aggravation.
“I’m regretting many things right now. I would take back the call room key except that it wouldn’t stop you.” He crossed to the door. “I highly recommend you pray this isn’t seen.” He leaned back, lowered his voice, murmured, “There will be retribution. Count on it.”
To his credit, Sherlock looked contrite first, barely, then his pupils dilated in arousal and anticipation, and John disappeared, still shaking his head.
The rest of the shift passed in fortunate obscurity, although John was busy until it was time to leave. The patient who’d needed the catheter was also positive for a MRSA infection, on isolation, which conveniently added a layer of invisibility to his arms once they were covered with the impervious isolation gown.
When John arrived home at Baker Street, there was a handcuff key taped eye level to the outside of the entryway door at the top of the landing. He snagged it on his way in.
In the bedroom, Sherlock had donned the soft wrist restraints, leaving them untied, long white straps hanging. The only other thing he was wearing was a smile. Well, and the white bandage over the stitches John had placed earlier. John could only shake his head. Life would never again be boring, provided he survived his flatmate’s indiscretionary behaviour.
John grinned, his gaze falling to Sherlock’s waist, lower. “I can tell you’re glad to see me.”
“I’ve been hard for hours now.” He took the key from John’s hand, made quick work of John’s white lab coat and rolled up his sleeve to get at the lock. “I am sorry, you know, I wasn’t thinking.” The grin deepened on Sherlock's face. "Well, actually, I was thinking..." He ran a finger transiently over John's scarred shoulder, ending under his chin.
“No one noticed, lucky for you.” The cuff came off, and Sherlock grinned again as he pulled the tape securing the loose cuff, taking a good amount of blond arm hair with it. John didn’t fuss despite the exquisite though brief pain, but an eye narrowed in response. He was still mulling over the various ways he was considering retribution against his flatmate. “But I have been well aware. And have not been hard. I’ve been rather concerned.” When Sherlock was clearly surprised by his statement, John paused. “Any thoughts as to why?”
It was probably a wise decision that Sherlock did not volunteer any smart-arsed remarks, speculations, or comments as to anything remotely unreasonable.
“Here’s what it was not: it had very little to do with the handcuff. Which was just stupid and out of character for you, too.”
Sherlock shrugged, partly, John thought, afraid to venture a guess and be incorrect.
“So the knife wound, defensive obviously.” John lifted Sherlock’s arm using the soft restraint, appreciating if not commenting on the convenience. “Where was your back up? Was Lestrade there?” Texts had been exchanged earlier, so John already knew that Lestrade wasn’t there, and Sherlock picked up on that fact, too, and kept silent. “Foolishness - rashness - doesn’t become you. What if it was your chest, or even worse, your neck instead of your arm?” John was slipping out of the rest of his clothing, hung up the lab coat, the rest tossed in a laundry hamper. “And the handcuff was rash, too. Not well thought out.”
John’s body might have been physically exhausted - night shift hours were bloody difficult on a person - but sliding into bed with a partner who was all long gangly limbs, particularly one who was emitting all kinds of sexual frustration and craving amorous attention, seemed to perk John up rather quickly. Sherlock grabbed at his wrist, the one recently freed from the cuff, rubbed his thumb over the deep grooves the metal had bitten into his skin. “Oops again,” he said, slightly apologetic. “These are better for that reason,” he said, shoving one of his own decorated wrists in front of John.
“You realize I could tie you up and go sleep upstairs? Or tie you up and wreak all kinds of personal havoc on your person, yeah?”
“You won’t. You’re tired. You’re after a quick orgasm and hoping I’ll get out of bed as soon as you’re asleep.”
“Well, you do attack in your sleep. All those ridiculously long bones.”
“Bones? Oh please. Your medical humour is sorely lacking after working all night.” John deftly knotted the cords hanging from Sherlock’s wrists together and anchored them in a slipknot to the corner of the headboard frame, leaving him on his side, facing away. With strong arms, he pulled the lanky body toward the footboard until his arms were stretched to their fullest.
“You ok with that?” John reached toward the nightstand for lube. “Don’t need a safeword or anything?”
“Oh, please, one pull and I’m out of that. Your knots are pathetic. This is not what I had in mind, you know.” He was really winding up, whinging at John, and would have continued had John not bitten him on the back of the scapula to shut him up. Sherlock gasped, mostly in surprised pleasure, and stopped talking.
“Oh, yes, I know what you had in mind. And it would have been problematic had my pager gone off for a stat call, or a code, while we were in the middle of something. Or security on rounds checking the on-call room.” His hands were quickly nipping in various sensitive places, waist, iliac crest, nipple before squeezing, warming and deftly applying lube to various body parts in need of it. “It was bad enough that the handcuff got involved.” He pressed in close, fingers having done enough preparatory work to have Sherlock writhing just a bit. “I think you’ll enjoy this well enough.” John levered his grasp to keep Sherlock’s arms stretched out long, rib cage expanded, back arched. Sherlock, having been aroused longer, climaxed first, and the sensations around John were intense enough to wring a few shaky moans as he joined him.
Digging his toes into the sheets, he reached up a few minutes later, gave a simple tug to the slipknot, releasing Sherlock’s arms. Pressing soft lips to the smooth spot between Sherlock’s shoulder blades, John murmured quietly, “And I’m not hoping you’ll get up after I fall asleep, by the way. This is very nice.” His arms drew tighter as Sherlock pulled up the sheet. The last thing John heard before falling asleep was the sound of the soft limb restraints being removed and hitting the floor.
++
A frequent collateral damage of shift work, John awakened with a sudden jolt, sitting upright as his brain worked feverishly to immediately figure out where he was, if there was a crisis, what time it was, where he was going, how long he had before heading back in to work, and had he forgotten anything mission critical. It was still light outside, and would be a few hours until the alarm would go off. The long strap of a discarded wrist restraint caught his eye, and he slid an arm backwards to evaluate the emptiness of the other side of the bed, found it cold. He slid his legs out of bed, realizing Sherlock had exhausted him so much before they fell asleep that he slept naked, again. Donning pyjama bottoms, he padded out to the kitchen, where he found a substantial amount of remnants from what appeared to have started as a leafy substance and was now burnt beyond recognition into a pile of char. Several piles, in fact. He felt his jaw clench. There was quite a hint of an odor, clearly some smoke had existed at one point, and there were two windows open in an obvious attempt to ventilate and aerate the flat.
John considered the teakettle to be in unscathed condition, fired it up, turned back to the detritus of whatever his flatmate had been up to. He pondered the new batteries in the smoke detectors and thought perhaps they should invest in another for the first floor, bringing the total to 3 for the small amount of rooms. The fire extinguishers hadn’t been discharged, but one had definitely been moved nearby. None of this gave John a particular measure of comfort.
The door opened, in walked said arsonist, immediately and obviously alarmed and a tad disappointed to see that his antics had been discovered. “Oh. You’re up already?”
John let the obvious statement hang unsaid. “How’s your arm?” he asked, an edge to his question, his eyes flicking around the mess Sherlock had left. His query was a side attack, a decoy to what was clearly in need of being discussed, and deliberately stated in order to keep Sherlock off balance just slightly. And, John knew without a doubt, Sherlock was not going to appreciate the other issue that they needed to have a serious chat about.
“Fiiiiine,” he answered tentatively, stretching out the word while he apparently tried to separate John’s recent awakening with the degree of anger over the living conditions. They had bloody talked about this, more than once. There was a bit of hesitancy before opting to dodge the issue. John watched solemnly as Sherlock hung up his Belstaff, then moved close, raised his sleeve to prove the wound was at least not hemorrhaging and the dressing remained intact. They were close enough for John to lift the arm for better visibility, and he tipped back the corner of the bandage, nodded his approval that all was within normal limits.
“I need to talk to you.”
“Yeah, about that, I’m going to take care of it, you were never in any...” he paused, afraid he’d said too much, but even more, noticed that John was shaking his head.
“Not about this. Because you will clean this up until I am satisfied. And we will be splitting the cost for another smoke detector. Mrs. Hudson and I will be insisting. But don’t make me involve her.” John stretched, fatigue still most definitely with him, and he was still in need of more sleep before heading back in to work. Decaf tea, then. He held up the tin to Sherlock, who shook his head. “So. You in the middle of something time sensitive?”
“No, just considering the increased or decreased sensitivity of wide leafed tobacco that has been infiltrated with ... various substances.”
Ah, Sherlock and his evasive maneuvers strike again. John did not flinch. “What substance did you just bring home?” When Sherlock didn’t answer, John continued. “The one in your coat pocket. Conveniently left there, I see.” At Sherlock’s non-response, he continued, “Don’t think for a second that I won’t search your pockets and possibly anywhere else on your person, in order to find out.”
“And you think that’s an incentive to tell you? John.” His smile was disarming, and he knew it as he stretched out his arms. “Have at it. Maybe there’ll be a surprise?” His blue eyes were sparkling, tiny lines at the corners of his mouth and eyes, and he took a step closer to further entice.
“I’m a bloody physician. Albeit a tired one. How many more surprises do you think there are? I swear, some days I think I’ve seen them all.” His weekend rotation in A&E in his residency had been enlightening - cavity searches, foreign bodies in assorted orifices, inadvertent overdoses, and sexual activities gone horribly wrong.
“The handcuff was a surprise.” He grinned arrogantly. “You were expecting me to make a move, well done, but you were not expecting that.”
John’s eyes closed. Had he just been so foolish to issue another challenge to his already impulsive/half-knocked flatmate? Sherlock’s capricious behavior was, on a good day, difficult enough to predict - John was loathe to consider if he was actually trying to act volatile or outrageous. Teacup in hand, then, he launched. “So, okay, here’s the problem. Yes, another rule,” he offered, seeing Sherlock about to protest. “Lay off the Med Exec board. What we have here is an absolute conflict of interest - yours - in my job. You need to abstain from voting on me getting the lead intensivist position. You may not lobby for higher salary. You need to quietly and without fussing fade into the background on any decisions about these issues. Because when they find out, which they will, or when we tell them, which we eventually need to, it could create problems for me as well as for you. And I like this job, and don’t want to jeopardize it. We need the money. And your board position, well...” John watched his face, stopped. “Yes, I said we. You have an issue with that?” Sherlock shook his head in the negative. “Keep up, here. Don’t jeopardize either one. And I highly recommend, from here on, out, you stay out of the on-call room. Security cameras.”
“You sent me there last night.”
“My mistake.” He set the tea cup down, appreciating the warmth, feeling rather languid now. “My contract kicks in after six months. We can either go with full disclosure now, which I am ok with, or we wait until after that.” John stretched, stood up, returned the empty cup to the kitchen. “We can talk later if you need to. I’m curious to hear what you think about it. After a few more hours’ sleep I mean.”
“I can tell you now. I agree to yet another of your boring rules.” At John’s expression, Sherlock almost chortled. “See, surprised you again.” He gave John a gentle shove back toward the bedroom. “Go sleep. You look terrible. And in no condition to make life-and-death decisions.”
++
John’s next day off was a bit of a blur until after his second cup of coffee, when his higher logical functions were somewhat restored. Shift work was never harder than that last day, when he woke up earlier than he wanted in the interest of getting back on schedule.
Sherlock had apparently been busy studying ash, and never did actually confess to what he had been experimenting on as far as burning accelerators he was using. It wasn’t until after John’d showered and dressed that he noticed the lone handcuff on the table.
“Planning on returning this, then?” he asked, picking it up.
“Planning on using it, actually.” He raised his head, looked directly at John. “I’ve been meaning to ask you, though. Is there anything strictly off-limits?”
“Off limits.” John tested the words and considered their relation to the flat and the flatmate. “Would it matter? Do you ever actually comply with limits?”
“I might.” The corners of his mouth turned up just slightly and he reconsidered. “Doubtful. Regardless, it’s good to know where the boundaries lie as you cross them.”
“So you’re asking me for my weaknesses? Things that will only serve to tempt you to try?” The belly laugh was a warm bubbly sound. John continued, “Yeah, I won’t be giving you that ammunition.”
Sherlock was completely engaged now, intrigued, and his eyes narrowed in the thrill of the hunt. “How long is the list, then?”
John didn’t bat an eye. “How long is yours?” He made it sound as filthy as possible, and both smirked then grew serious again.
“I’m rather amenable to more than you are, I suspect.” John kept his face neutral but didn’t doubt the truth of that statement. “I think I would prefer to draw the line before adding a third person. Unless that was something that was a hidden, secret fantasy of yours, in which case it would be open for discussion.”
“No. No additional partners.” John could almost palpate the charge in the room. “Not interested in sharing. Most days, you are enough of a handful by yourself.”
“Of course. No sharing for either of us.” There was a dangerous sparkle in his eye. “So if I ask you about something specific, will you tell me if it would be acceptable behaviour?”
“How about, if something were to come up, and it’s not okay, that we speak up and respect the boundaries then?”
Sherlock smiled as he reached for the metal cuff. “So this is ok?” When John was silent, Sherlock reached out for his wrist, noted the thrill of a bounding pulse.
“Ok, absolutely.” His voice lowered. “But not necessary. I’ll bet you that I can stay perfectly still and in whatever position you choose, without them.”
“I’ll bet that you can’t.” Sherlock stood then, tucked one end of the handcuff into his belt, drawing attention to the fullness in his trousers. “Stakes?”
“One favour. Nothing immoral or illegal. To be redeemed within ten days.”
“Deal.” Bargain sealed with a handshake, John tugged on Sherlock’s hand, drawing him solidly against him, other hand slithering into the unruly curls. He didn’t have much on Sherlock, but he knew about sensitive hair follicles, and was not disappointed when Sherlock moaned into their open-mouthed snog. Sherlock turned and led the way to the bedroom.
Despite Sherlock’s best efforts - and John would rather die than admit it, they were really herculean efforts - John called into fruition every ounce of previous military training and was able to hold still, arms and legs spread, face down, back arched, while being coaxed, prodded, and licked into probably the best delayed orgasm of his life. Sherlock had drawn it out, prolonging John’s gratification, watching for reactions and knowing already exactly what John found escalating. It was an exquisite, heavenly torture, until John was quivering and breathlessly needy. He had been ready to give up, give in, words forming in his throat, grab every piece of Sherlock he could reach. He was ready to cling hard enough to bruise, to never let go when Sherlock had finally let John plummet over the edge of his limits into a blissful, violent release. John would be loathe to admit how close he’d come to surrender. And when Sherlock, admitting defeat, was working himself into a bit of a sulk, flat on his back, sweat drying on his own skin, arm thrown elegantly over his eyes, John heard him mutter, “Not a bad deal, really, I suppose. Losing a bet in all that pleasure.” John was basking in a post-coital exhausted wrung out state, still prone, muscles aching at the expense of taut, self-imposed restraint.
John grinned, and even as he tried to prevent it, a deep chuckle leaked out from his chest and Sherlock glared in his direction.
“Shut up, John.”
A few days later, the wheels clicked into place like landing gear for repayment of the debt. Had John tried to orchestrate the details, he would never have imagined such perfection that presented itself to him.
++
Back on day shift, thankfully, he arrived home from work, late again - God, it would be great when the Med Exec board next got together and approved additional hiring - and Sherlock was actually heating up dinner. “What is this, then?” John could count on one hand the number of times dinner had actually awaited him.
“I’m repaying my debt to you. This is your favour.”
Staring just a bit, he angled his head at his flatmate’s odd interpretation of both debt and favour. “No, it’s not. Actually.”
“It’s pretty good. Mrs. Hudson’s recipe.” Sherlock was at his conniving best, and John could see it clearly in his forced nonchalance.
“Did she make it and you’re trying to take credit?”
“I’m not that unscrupulous.”
“Since when? If you thought you could get away with it, of course you would.” John paused as Sherlock passed him a dirty look. “The thing about owing someone a favour, in this case anyway, is that they get to ask for it. I get to ask, and I have not yet done so.”
“Well, just figure out what you want then, and get it over with.” There was a brief, hinted look of dread on his face, and it stirred a bit of something akin to tenderness in John’s chest.
“Do you really think for a minute I’m going to ask for something unpleasant or do something that’s going to make you - and therefore both of us - miserable?” When Sherlock was silent, the answer was obviously that he did expect something negative. “What have I ever done to deserve that?”
“You’re a power hungry control freak, that’s all.” Sherlock’s typical light-hearted banter and sharp cynicism was curiously missing. “You and your stupid rules. You’re dragging it out intentionally.”
“What is the matter with you?” He shook his head, watched as Sherlock divided dinner onto two plates, set it down. “Okay, no more waiting. I promise. This weekend, Saturday night, I’ll tell you. I’ll try to come up with something.” John pondered the reaction, seeing that he was acting like a spoiled child who always got his way. He wondered, not for the first time, about Sherlock’s childhood and how warped it may or may not have been. “You just don’t like losing. And this might be my only time to really have ever won, so don’t rush me, because it might not ever happen again.”
After dinner, and things had calmed down, John crossed to his pack, pulled out something, handed it to Sherlock. “I almost forgot. Had a patient this week, got talking music. I ended up getting tickets to Saturday’s matinee, the Symphony, I think? Or was it the Symphony Orchestra?” He absolutely knew the difference, threw out a bit of a red herring. “He gave me a copy of one piece they’re doing. He had it with him, of all things. Anyway, here ‘tis, in case you wanted to fuss at it. Throw it out, s’fine.” John shrugged. “And the tickets were free, we don’t have to go.”
He was rather interested, thumbed into the music. “This is one of my favorites. It’s what I was playing a few weeks back with the telly, remember?”
John shrugged. “Not really, I mean the playing I do. That very piece, that’s odd.” Sherlock had tuned his violin to the TV performance, was playing along, and was bloody amazing. John remembered the Vivaldi composition very well.
“Well, it won’t sound as good without my orchestra behind me,” he said cheekily, taking the sheet music and crossing to the stand, picking up his violin, “but... this is a great piece.”
Sherlock tuned, his fingers loosening up on a few quick scales, and he limbered up on the first bars and measures until the first violin solo came up, as John was now well aware. His fingers worked his phone discreetly from his pocket, hitting record.
The next half hour, John zoned out on the outside, anyway. A several minute piece of the recording emailed off to the conductor, the son of John’s patient who had been critically ill the first 48 hours in hospital, but had rallied nicely. The text back was fairly prompt, “Rehearsal is 1030 am for the noon performance. Concert dress, provided you can pull this off.” The next text actually had a few music note emoticons, and then “I should tell you I will be actively trying to recruit him. Talent!”
“Who was the connection, again?” Sherlock asked, and John worked hard at a disinterested expression.
“Hmm?” It was easy to feign interest in his mobile. “What connection?”
“To the Symphony Orchestra, John. Please.”
“Patient’s son is the ... director?”
“You mean conductor. God, there’s a huge difference. Do you only speak medicine?”
He shrugged again, off-handedly. “She’ll probably still be in hospital tomorrow. I can look him up if you want.” The smile reached his eyes and John seemed to enlighten, himself. “Hey, maybe if I see him, I could ask if you could sit in on the dress rehearsal of that. If we’re going to the performance anyway. He really was a nice guy, and would, probably anyway, be okay with that.” Sherlock raised a shoulder and both eyebrows, then nodded. “I mean, it’s only a matinee performance anyway, so rehearsal’s probably not a big deal at all.” Sherlock poked his nose back into the music, fine tuning again and picking through a few arpeggios and phrases from the piece. “I’ll try not to forget,” John added, casually.
The next day, John set a reminder on his phone to text Sherlock at noon. It read, “1030 am rehearsal for the Vivaldi Four Seasons (Spring). Sound ok? JW”
Not given to emoticons, the closest thing Sherlock could find was the colon and capital D. John nodded, smiling, hoping the more critical piece of this plot would not upset his flatmate too terribly.
Saturday morning, Sherlock downplayed his excitement, as John tried to sleep in (failed, drat that week of night shifts), running through a few measures of the piece. Timing things just right, John entered the sitting room, a bit nervously, stood in front of him. Sherlock noticed immediately. “What?”
“I’m cashing in my favour.”
“What? Now? You realize we have to leave soon.”
He tried to gauge how best to start, and the silence was perhaps a bit not good.
“John.” Sherlock’s tone was more impatient than usual.
“The conductor has requested you to arrive at 1030, in concert dress.”
It was fully 30 seconds before John saw Sherlock’s chest expand, verifying that he was indeed still breathing. “That is unheard of. Certainly you misunderstood.” John watched the physical responses to stress - dilated pupils, bounding pulsatile carotids, eyes wide, the faintest brush of sweaty palms against his trousers.
“I sent him video, well, it was mostly audio, of you playing the piece.” He held up his mobile, wriggled it. "Of the solo."
Absolute stillness greeted him. John continued, “He wants you to rehearse with them. If it goes well, to play with them.” Stony silence. “Be forewarned, he’s going to try to recruit you.”
More hesitating, and Sherlock looked cautiously intrigued. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Say you’ll do it. I mean, their regular first chair will play it, if you don’t. But it should be a good time, right?”
He raised an eyebrow. “A good time? You’ve obviously never performed. That might not be the correct term for a stage performance.”
At that comment, John stood up, faced him square. “Do you remember when I stitched up your arm?”
“Of course.”
“That was performing, yeah?”
“Okay, so was that fun or a good time?” He rubbed the scar under his sleeve. “I don’t recall it that way.”
“Okay, maybe a poor word choice. But with your arm, it was successful, it went well, it was memorable. Affirming. A chance to prove something.” He couldn’t resist poking a bit at Sherlock, then. “And I’m sure if you are horrid at rehearsal that you will be uninvited, you realise.”
“As if,” he said quickly, arrogantly. Still, he blew out a breath of disbelief, and John continued to watch him. Sherlock swallowed hard, looked at the music again, his violin, then pursed his lips, shrugging. “S’only a matinee, not like really anyone will be there anyway.”
John, again, worked hard to keep his face dispassionate, having been made privy to the guest list. “Exactly, probably no one at at all.”
His expression must have revealed something despite his best efforts, because Sherlock narrowed an eye in aggravation. “You invited Mycroft, didn’t you.” His glare was rather accusatory.
“I might have mentioned it,” John let the supposed guilt show on his face, then, and Sherlock went to dress. Once the room was clear, John let out a huge breath, as quietly as he could.
They arrived 15 minutes early, and the conductor, Dr. Perry, greeted them both inside the door. “Dr. Watson, almost didn’t recognise you. Out of uniform you know.”
John greeted him, inquired about his mother, received an expression of gratitude and positive update. Then Dr. Perry turned, said, “Mr. Holmes, heard a lot about you. This one,” he said, gesturing with his head at John, “couldn’t bloody shut up about you.” They shook hands. “And after hearing you, I can understand why. Ready?” he asked, excitement and a bit of conspiracy leaking into his words.
“Yes, sir,” and they proceeded to the stage, Dr. Perry explaining the timing of getting Sherlock on and then off the stage discreetly. John followed at a distance, feeling just a bit nervous on his behalf. Sherlock, on the other hand, was standing confident, resplendent in formalwear, curls already reflecting stage lighting. John watched from the wings as Dr. Perry introduced him, working casual conversation into pre-rehearsal warm up and tuning. The concertmaster stood at Sherlock’s elbow, and John watched, fascinated, as he quickly versed Sherlock in stage presence, the stand position, the need for his gaze to encompass music, conductor, and orchestra over his left shoulder. They warmed up on the first piece of the evening, and Sherlock sight-read it. John could tell even from his location, many feet from their spot on stage, that the concertmaster and Dr. Perry were both impressed with his ability.
Dr. Perry gestured Sherlock to his mark on the platform, standing, pointed to the stand and waited until he placed it and then nodded back at him, indicating he was ready. The baton raised, counted out a measure, and the orchestra began, the lilt of the first measures rising, and John felt his eyes drift closed as the orchestra - and Sherlock - began to play. Somber tones carried above the rest, melody infused with life, a living and breathing song of beauty and vibrancy. John knew the piece well enough to sense and watch the finer moments, when the violin melody would begin the solo, with Sherlock’s arm and bow extended, fingers flying, curls bouncing, his hair looking even more burgundy in the lighting. He watched Dr. Perry, mostly, who carefully led the piece, evaluating Sherlock with critical eye. It was almost unnecessary, John felt, such was the skill of both soloist and orchestra. When his eyes weren’t on the conductor, Sherlock watched over his shoulder, taking in the uniform bowing motions of the orchestra, keeping perfect time, expressive, and rarely considering the music in front of him.
The piece ended, the musicians on stage actually applauded him, a wolf-whistle thrown in for good measure, which, John knew would never happen during a performance. The orchestra would likely applaud lightly with their feet during the concert, if at all, as typical practice. Dr. Perry, in order to ensure adequate preparation, turned toward the imaginary audience, bowed, then gestured low, bowing again, to Sherlock. The grin was such as the one reserved for very rare occasions, and he returned the formal inclination. Dr. Perry indicated again, and Sherlock, seeking direction, cocked an inquisitive head at the stand, received the slightest nod, and he then picked up stand and carried it off along with his confident regal bearing, into the wings. John met him at the stage edge as the orchestra launched the next piece.
Neither man was known for displaying affection in public, but John leaned toward him, taking chin in hand, briefly meeting lips together. Sherlock’s face was flushed, eyes bright, clutching instrument and bow. John let him bask a moment, then said, “Absolutely. Stunning.”
They drew apart, and the grin didn’t leave as Sherlock chewed his lower lip, acknowledging the compliment. “Fun for sure. There is one terrible thing, though, that you should have considered.” His tone made John pause. “You cashed in your favour for this. A very bad call on your part.” His voice, low and sultry, continued, “I would have done it anyway, had you asked.”
John nodded, swallowing. We’ll just see if you still feel that way later, he thought.
John had procured a block of seats stage right, leaving an aisle seat open for Sherlock to sneak into when his performance was over and he was able to join them. Mycroft, Molly, Greg, and Mrs. Hudson were all present, as well, in his row or directly behind. They trickled in, mostly in formal dress, except for Anderson and Donovan, who were technically on duty but had wrangled a bit of coverage in order to be there. A few others from the Yard arrived, too, and a few of Mrs. Hudson’s acquaintances. Shortly before noon, the lights flickered, an anticipatory warning, and the seats filled up. John knew several busloads of students from area universities were expected, and he noticed at least two senior groups from central London. All in all, the performing arts center was very full. Matinees, as Dr. Perry had warned him, were typically less formal but near capacity, as opposed to the late afternoon showing, which was less crowded, and then the evening performance, which was much more formal, catering to the rich, royal, or famous.
The curtain drew back, finally, lights having flickered and then dimmed to nearly off, but not before John caught a glimpse of Sherlock’s expression, amused and slightly chagrined, at the size of the crowd. He tugged slightly at the jacket of the tuxedo as his cheeks colored a bit.
First piece went off without a hitch, and the second, well, in John’s opinion, it was sheer and utter perfection. He was beyond handsome, John thought even watching him on stage, under public scrutiny, and his beauty became part of the music, twining form and notes and something ethereal as the blend of all instruments became one, with his solo lines prominently singing out over all. The piece ended, rich overtones and fully harmonized undertones resonating, bows held in position, and then, eventually, there was applause. There was a standing ovation, unusual mid-concert. Dr. Perry gestured wide at Sherlock, as in rehearsal, indicated the orchestra, and the applause wouldn’t quit. He left the stage briefly, returned, the applause crescendoing, and Sherlock stood, not quite beaming but quietly pleased and at peace. He finally, after another nod from Dr. Perry, bowed politely to the audience, nodded to the concertmaster and the orchestra, and eased off stage right.
Mycroft was next to John, shocked. As they joined the rest of the audience taking their seats, he was shaking his head. “I knew he was good, but had no idea. None whatsoever.” His amazed expression took in John’s quietly pleased smile. “How on earth did you get him to participate?”
John’s lips twitched, considering his words carefully as the next piece began. “Let’s just say I cashed in a favour.”
Sherlock slid into the empty seat during the applause after the next piece ended. He was all smiles as he leaned close to John, muttered, “Glad no one actually comes to a matinee performance.” John held his tongue. “You knew, too, didn’t you, it would be capacity?” He shrugged helplessly as Mycroft leaned forward, nodded his head slightly to his brother, no words exchanged, and then sat back.
After, there was quite a gathering around Sherlock, between friends, Mycroft, random music aficionados, and some of the higher-level university students and faculty. John hung back, taking it all in, feeling the enormity of the event and reveling in Sherlock’s professionalism and accomplishment. Clearly, he enjoyed the attention related to the excellence and proficiency.
John had briefly considered inviting a few people back to their flat for a drink, decided to fly off the cuff if either he or Sherlock were interested. But after a few minutes of watching Sherlock’s entourage gathered around him, John figured out the answer - his limits of good behaviour, of socially acceptable public interaction, was just about stretched as thin as it could get.
He took a few steps toward the group, timing his approach to a lull in well-wishes and the occasional stranger who popped over to congratulate him. “Hate to interrupt, but we have reservations, if you’re through...?”
There was a look of gratitude in the gray-blue eyes that swiveled to set on John’s own. His sigh was just short of believable, and Mycroft let out a quiet snort when Sherlock glanced at his watch and said, “I suppose, if we must.”
The two men exited the building, one with a violin tucked under his arm, the other helpfully holding a black leather music folder. A cab approached, and they climbed in. “Reservations?” Sherlock queried.
“Not so much. An escape, really.” He placed a warm hand over Sherlock’s wrist there in the back of the cab. “You were wonderful today. And we can make reservations, if you want. Your choice.”
His eyes grew more focused, intense, as he looked steadily at John. “Dinner sounds like a great idea. I can think of no better foreplay before another fabulous performance tonight.”
John had to look away, his throat thick in anticipation. “Oh god help me.”
“I’m pretty sure I can make you say that louder, you realise.”
And, after a meal out in one of their favourite haunts, Sherlock did exactly that.