Sherlock, as he was prone to do after a case was over, was playing Mozart on his violin. He wasn’t doing it on purpose, he wasn’t even really listening to it, it was sound at the moment, and that was saying something as he usually quite enjoyed Mozart’s works. But, he wasn’t playing for himself either. He often did this when John came home beaten down and worn out from a shift at work, or when he was particularly pleased with the other man.
This instance had nothing to do with him being pleased. He was far from it, in fact. The hospital job wore John down to his last nerve, and while provoking that could be fascinating, it was wearing on John’s health and that simply wouldn’t do. So he lulled his friend to sleep with the pianissimo violin and left the mute on to keep the violin’s tone warm and soft. It was a fact that the violin was so popular because it mimicked the human voice, and with the mute on the bridge, this only served to broaden the melody and took the piercing sounds out of the tune.
John had long ago fallen asleep, but Sherlock didn’t stop playing. He played until the ache in his fingers was bad enough that it actually snapped him out of his reverie. With a flourish he finished the movement and tucked the violin under his arm to turn and look down on John like the dubiously benevolent god he was. The smaller man was curled on the couch, his tea half-consumed, his dress-shirt rumpled, shoes still on. The corner of Sherlock’s mouth drew upward as he noticed his blogger was drooling. That was a good sign. Saliva meant a sleep so deep that nightmares rarely bothered to disturb John’s slumber.
This was one of his favorite activities: watching John sleep. The good doctor had caught him at it a number of times, but after the initial shock of waking up with Sherlock Holmes looming over you like the pale specter of death itself…well…it was obvious that his clever companion had figured out that Sherlock was unlikely to stop doing it, so he gave up arguing. He had to force himself to move, putting away his violin and bow so he could turn and sit at his desk chair and watch the other man sleep easier.
It wasn’t for the reasons John thought he did it. He didn’t do it to creep John out, or to scare him, nor even as an experiment. It was simply the awe of a surprised genius that brought Sherlock back again and again; the shock that he was no longer alone. That John knew much of the worst things about him and hadn’t fled.
Sherlock Holmes finally had a friend.