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Early Morning Violin

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John woke up to the sound of Sherlock’s violin. Glancing at his alarm clock, he cursed. 3am. Muttering about crazy detectives and their stupid violins, he stumbled out of his bed and into the living room, where Sherlock was standing, back towards him.
Although Sherlock didn’t acknowledge him, John knew he had been heard by the subtle straightening of his back.
“3am Sherlock! It’s bloody 3am in the morning! Why the hell, does it have to be now?”
Sherlock turned to look at John, still holding the violin to his chin.
“I was thinking.” Sherlock said, as if it explained everything.
“Thinking? Wh-“ John blearily rubbed his eyes.
“Yes John, thinking.” He dropped the violin onto the sofa, and turned to face the wall angrily.
“I need to solve this case! It’s been three weeks. I know I’m missing something, I just can’t...”
“So the violin...”
“Helps me think, yes. Besides, you took away my nicotine patches.”
John frowned, “But I thought you needed quiet when you were thinking. You know, ‘shut up Lestrade, your thinking is annoying.’”John took up a high pitched falsetto for the last words.
Sherlock turned to glare at John. “ ... I do not sound like that. Besides, of all noises, I think music is the least disagreeable*.”
John sighed. He couldn’t believe he was getting into this at three in the morning, but now he was curious.
“Why is that?”
“Why do you not mind music?” John repeated.
Sherlock frowned as he scanned his mind for the reasoning.
“... it makes sense.” Was his reply. “It has rules, and regulations, but it’s still free and beautiful”.
John blinked. That was the most profound thing he had ever heard Sherlock say.
“... music is the arithmetic of sound**”. Sherlock concluded.
John blinked again. Sherlock, seemingly bored with the conversation, turned and began to play again. As the music washed over him, John walked up to stand at Sherlock’s shoulder.
The music stopped, and Sherlock turned to John.
“The playing.” John explained. “It’s brilliant.”
Sherlock’s lips twitched.
“There’s nothing remarkable about it, John.” He smirked. “All one has to do is hit the right notes at the right time and the instrument plays itself***.”
He smirked again as John blinked once, then twice. John scowled at his crazy roommate, then shook his head.
“I’m going back to sleep.” He said. “Try not to wake Mrs Hudson up. I’d rather not have to move.”
Sherlock merely started playing again.
Smiling to himself, John walked back to his room. Maybe early-morning violin playing wasn’t that bad. After all, it had got Sherlock, the ‘high-functioning sociopath’, to say something deep and meaningful.
In the living room, Sherlock smirked again as he nudged ‘The Little Book of Musicians Quotes’ out from its hiding place underneath a cushion. What John didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him...