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When the first note comes, Sherlock expects it to be unpleasant. Something rude, most likely someone complaining about the chemical smell from the broken beaker on the carpet accident, or, even more likely than that, someone complaining about his excessive violin playing at three in the morning when he can't sleep, or he's just bored.
He hardly believes his eyes when he reads the actual note that was slipped under his doorstep at midnight on a Saturday.
Could you play Bach's Violin Sonata No. 3 in C Major, BWV 1005 please? Preferably the Allegro. You play beautifully.
Sherlock Holmes stares down at the note in shock. He doesn't recognize the handwriting, but he knows it's obviously a doctor's (or, since he's in uni, a medical student's) handwriting, left handed, thick and scrawled, and positively hideous. Obviously male, and obviously someone who lives close enough to him to be able to hear the pieces he plays. But, they not only complimented his playing, they also requested a piece, and already, he adores this person.
Whoever they are.
Of course, Sherlock knows the piece that his mystery note sender requested from him (though he prefers the Largo), so, he lifts his violin, places it under his chin, and begins the piece from memory, silently hoping his distant audience is enjoying the music.
_______________
The next day, as he's sitting in one of his chemistry classes, he begins to wonder who could have sent the note. It sounds ridiculous to him, but he does his best to work through it. He calculates the distance that the sound could have travelled well enough for anyone to hear it well, and decides that there are four possibilities for his mystery note sender's identity.
There's the neighbor to his left, Sebastian Wilkes, a righteous dickhead with a passion for making peoples' lives shitty and being a prick. He's a good candidate, however, he does enjoy classical music, but, Sherlock thinks it's more for image than pleasure.
Then, there's Victor Trevor across the hall. Another posh prat, but much less snide, and more just rude. Sherlock has only met him a few times, and neither of the occasions were particularly pleasant, as Victor was a secret drug dealer, and he had tried to get Sherlock to buy. He seems more likely than Sebastian Wilkes, but not by much.
Jim Moriarty, a creepy, borderline psychotic (or as he'd say 'eccentric') bloke who lives in the room right next to Victor is an even better candidate, though he's rarely home because his boyfriend, Sebastian Moran owns his own flat a few streets over and he spends most of his time there.
The last bet he has is the neighbor to his right.
The only one he has never met.
Obviously a medical student, with that handwriting. But, he doesn't even know what this neighbor looks like, let alone anything about him. All he knows is that they like classical music. If that indeed is who sent the note.
He decides to find out. He decides to stay up late and see if he can spot his mystery note writer coming home. Then he'll know. He'll know for sure.
Sherlock's train of thought is cut short by the sound of his professor calling his name. He answers the question correctly, without even looking up from his notes and gives a lengthy description of his answer, much to the surprise of his peers. It goes silent in the classroom, and Sherlock continues to write his notes. During the prolonged silence, there is a quiet, amused snicker from a few rows behind him. He doesn't turn, but he does smile. Whenever he makes a clever remark, the blonde boy who plays rugby and drinks enough tea to make the Queen jealous always snickers. Sherlock knows that this particular student hates the class as much as he does.
Eventually, when everyone starts talking again, Sherlock's mind goes back to wandering. He needs to find out who this mystery note sender is.
______________
After a most unfortunate run-in with his brother, Sherlock stomps angrily across the pavement toward his building, soaking wet, irritated and in need of a cigarette. He doesn't acknowledge the security guard who waves at him, nor does he say hello to Mrs. Hudson who practically owns the building. He takes the stairs instead of the elevator, allowing himself to let off more steam as he stomps up the steps to his room. He's exhausted. He's angry.
He's surprised to find another note on the floor just under his doorstep when he walks inside.
Sherlock's heart skips when he sees it, and it nearly stops completely when he reads it.
Thank you for playing my request, it was fantastic. May I make another one? It's actually a full orchestra piece, but I just love the solo. Samuel Barber's Violin Concerto, Op. 14: II. Andante. If you know it, of course.
Of course Sherlock knows it. It's a rather good concerto, though he prefers the first movement. But, he'll play it all the same. He hopes his note sender is happy.
________________
Over the next few days, the notes continue to show up under his doorstep every day. It's always something different; Mozart, Bach, Copeland, Schubert, Saint-Saëns, Brittien, Poulenc, Tchaikovsky, and it's starting to give Sherlock heart problems. Every time he would arrive home, there would be a note, and he would have already missed the sender's appearance, but, he would play what was requested of him with a smile on his face.
But, as the days go on, he's practically itching from wanting to figure out who keeps sending them.
Well, he's sure he knows, he's ruled out Seb Wilkes (ew), Jim Moriarty (also cringeworthy), and Victor Trevor (the lesser of the three evils), which leaves the neighbor he's never met. He wants to meet him, just to see what's really going on, but each time, his blatant distaste for human contact holds him back. He's too nervous to just go knock on the door, but, he knows he can't just wait. He needs a reason.
And two weeks into the daily requests, he receives a perfect one.
The note is scrawled out just like the others, on a blank piece of computer paper with no recognizable marks except for the ghastly handwriting. It's different than the others though, and just reading it sends Sherlock's heart once again into overdrive.
It's been a really shitty day. I don't have a specific request really, just something pretty. Something that'll make me happy and put me to sleep. I hope I'm not being rude.
You looked really cute in chemistry today, by the way.
Sherlock stands up so fast that he knocks over the glass of water on the counter, sending it crashing to the floor where it shatters. He curses to himself and runs to clean it up with trembling hands, still thinking about the note.
He has another clue now as to who keeps sending them, it's someone in his chemistry class, but, unfortunately, he has three of those. Of course, they did just say 'chemistry', so it might just be his main chemistry class. They would have been more specific otherwise.
On top of that, whoever this is, they think he's cute.
So, smart, knowledgable in music, attracted (?) to him, and they had a bad day.
Sherlock decides that he's done waiting. He needs to meet this person, one way or another.
But, in the mean time, he picks up his violin, and thinks of a slow, beautiful piece to play to please his invisible audience. He decides on a piece that he wrote himself, a piece that is long, but sweet and soft and perfect for a gentle moment. He hopes it does the trick. He's never played it for anyone before.
I hope you enjoy this.
______________
The next day, Sherlock skips his last class, pretending to be sick, just to see if he can catch his neighbor putting a note under the door. He remains silent the whole time, as he knows he has to pretend like he's not home. He knows that the note sender conveniently gets home before Sherlock does, leaving him time to slip a note under his door and retreat back to his room before he's seen.
Not this time.
Sherlock waits patiently at the kitchen table, looking at the clock every few minutes, becoming more and more nervous as more and more time passes. He tries to read, but he realizes after reading the same passage six times that it's pointless for him to try, and he eventually gives up. He sighs and closes the book, then slides it across the table away from him.
Then, he hears footsteps right outside.
His heart jumps, and he gets to his feet, creeping on the balls of his feet toward the door. He listens carefully to the sounds of crinkling paper, then the sound scratching of pen across the sheet. He's holding his breath. The anticipation is killing him. When he sees the piece of paper slip under his door, he makes his move.
He throws open the door at an almost alarming speed, startling the hell out of the guy on the other side. "Shit!" The guy hisses as he stumbles back, nearly colliding with the wall. "Sorry mate, I didn't think you were home. You scared the shit out of me."
Sherlock blinks, once, twice, then narrows his eyes in confusion as he sees the last person he expected.
The boy outside his door is the blonde rugby player who sits behind him in chemistry and laughs when he says something clever and hates the class as much as Sherlock himself does. Sherlock had never made the connection from chemistry to med student, though he should have (stupid!), but it's quite obvious now.
The embarrassed rugby player in front of him rubs at the back of his neck apprehensively while Sherlock looks him over. "Um... Sorry about that, I-"
"You're the one that's been leaving me notes." Sherlock states, though he realizes he sounds a bit more nervous than he should.
The blonde nods. "I like listening to you play. You're really good."
Not exactly news, but it's still shocking.
"My name's John Watson, I live next door. We have chemistry together."
Sherlock stays still. "I know."
"And you're Sherlock Holmes, right?"
He nods.
John Watson drops his gaze uncomfortably. "Look, um, sorry to bother you, just... Fuck, I'm really no good at this." He bites the inside of his mouth, obviously pondering over word choice and courage to say something big. "I was wondering if you wanted to have dinner with me."
Now that is something Sherlock hadn't expect.
He glances around, looking for anybody else that John Watson could be talking to. "Tonight?" He asks stupidly.
"If you want."
Sherlock thinks about it. He doesn't have plans, but he has no understanding of why this boy wants to take him out for dinner. It's stupid and cliche, and he has no idea what he would say...
But, then he looks John Watson over, and realize just how utterly attractive he really is. He isn't very tall, but he has gorgeous toned muscles that are visible even under his loose fitting t-shirt, and it's very easy to see that he's very strong. His eyes are big and blue and really pretty, and he has a smile that can warm the whole room. He knows he sounds ridiculous, but it's true.
You've waited to meet him for two weeks. He thinks to himself. Go with it.
Sherlock nods. "Sure. I'm really not much company, though." He warns, stepping out of his room and closing the door behind him.
John's face lights up, and he suddenly stands up a little straighter. "Really? Great! I mean, it's great that you're accepting, not that you think... Uh, let me just throw all of my stuff in my room, and we can go." He grins excitedly, then quickly steps around Sherlock toward his room. He drops his backpack right inside the door, as well as his jacket that he just sort of throws inside. He looks nervous, and Sherlock can't help but find that adorable. The rugby player joins Sherlock once again, and inclines his head toward the door. "You want to go?"
"Yeah, sure."
______________
Twenty minutes later, the two are sitting in a small Italian restaurant a few streets over, the table complete with a small, but strangely romantic red candle that sits in the corner. Sherlock honestly isn't all that hungry, but he orders food anyway, just because he doesn't know what else to do.
He and John make small talk for the first few minutes, but it's easy to see that they're both really nervous, though probably for completely different reasons. John is obviously more experienced in this aspect of social activity. More or less, Sherlock has never dated anyone before, and why someone as attractive as John Watson would be interested is beyond him.
"So," John finally starts to ask. "Are you double majoring? I've never heard a chemistry student play violin that well before."
Sherlock shakes his head. "No, I'm just a chemistry major. I just... Really like to play." He answers, a bit irritated at how mousey he sounds. "I have three chemistry classes, so I don't get a chance to play during the day. I must say, I'm a bit surprised that I don't get evicted because of it."
John laughs. "I would honestly be sad if you were. I like listening to you play. It's pretty brilliant." He admits, obviously, and shamelessly flirting.
"You wanted to take me out because you liked my playing?" Sherlock asks suspiciously, as it sounds honestly ridiculous.
"Well, no, not just that."
The musician cocks his head and gives him a questioning look. "Explain, then, because I'm having a hard time understanding why a rugby playing medical student who's joining the military has any interest in me."
John's eyes get wide, then suddenly narrow. "How did you... How could you possibly know that?"
"Please." Sherlock says, rolling his eyes. "It's so obvious. The military is paying for your tuition, as you're not exactly wealthy, but yet, you can afford to come to a university like this, which means you're not only very, very good, but you're aspiring to go further with it. You have an army keychain on your lanyard, which is easy, you know it already. As for the rugby part, I see you wearing your jersey every so often. It's child's play. Seriously, if you were trying to hide it, you shouldn't have-"
And suddenly, John is laughing. He's laughing so hard that there are tears brimming in his eyes. He's laughing so hard he almost spills his drink, and Sherlock can't help but feel a bit insulted. He doesn't know what to do, so, he just sits there and stares, trying to not look as hurt as he feels. He doesn't know whether or not to just leave and not look back.
Finally, John recovers and wipes his eyes. He's still breathing heavily, and his face is red, but still, Sherlock doesn't know what to do. "Holy shit, that was great. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have laughed, but goddamn that was bloody brilliant."
Sherlock does a double take. "It was?"
"Goddamn, Greg said you were smart, but holy shit, I never expected that. You are brilliant. Brilliant, talented, and gorgeous. I cannot believe you said yes."
All of the blood rushes to Sherlock's face when John calls him gorgeous. He never thought that he was anything like that, though he had been told before that he could be considered attractive if he weren't such a dick. He doesn't see it. He knows he's blushing and he suddenly wants to run away again, but for a different reason. "You cannot possibly think that." He utters under his breath.
John looks amused. "What? That you're gorgeous?"
He shakes his head.
"Why not?"
Sherlock glares, though the blush ruins it.
"You are, though. Seriously, for someone so skinny, you should not fill out black jeans as well as you do." He says suggestively. He then laughs when Sherlock blushes again. "I'm kidding. Well, sort of. But look, the truth is, you're absolutely gorgeous, and I've thought so for quite a few years now. I've just never had a legitimate reason to ask you out until this year."
The musician raises an eyebrow. "Why?"
John shrugs. "Well, I knew you were practically a genius, and I knew that I needed a way to do it in a clever way to make you at least think I was a little bit worth it. So, I started with the requests for music, hoping that would get your attention. I loved listening to you play " He replies, sounding a bit embarrassed about it.
Suddenly, the pieces fall into place, and Sherlock's eyes get wide. "You asked me to play for you, hoping that I would say yes when you asked me out?" He asks, though he's highly amused. It sounds ridiculous, but the whole things makes him almost laugh. It's almost adorable.
"Well, actually... About that..." John reaches up to rub at the back of neck apprehensively. "I actually don't know shit about classical music." He admits, his cheeks student burning rosy pink. "Don't be mad, but I really don't. I just started YouTubing songs until I found ones I liked, hoping you knew them. I wanted you to like me, so, I just sort of... Yeah. Sorry." His voice trails off guiltily, and he tries to smile.
Sherlock is silent for a fraction of a second before he erupts into a fit of uncontrollable giggles. "You did all of that to impress me?" He demands, almost completely out of breath. "John Watson, why would you want to impress me?"
Once he realizes that Sherlock isn't making fun of him, John starts laughing too. "At the time, it seemed like a good plan." He answers.
"I don't know whether to be honored or insulted."
"I don't care which you choose, as long as I can take you out again."
Sherlock suddenly smiles, and his chest feels incredibly warm. He can see John's joking eyes, but they're also kind and affectionate, and Sherlock feels the soft heat return to his face, though he tells himself it's just the candle. "I can work with that." He whispers softly.
John Watson returns it with an affectionate grin, and he reaches across the table to lace his fingers with Sherlock's. "I'm holding you to that." He says.
______________
One year later, after graduation, Sherlock and John move into a flat of their own, and Sherlock chooses to play a sonata for him every night. Whatever John chooses, even if he has no idea what he's hearing. Sherlock doesn't mind.