spirit cold ➙ writings

sera sonata.

Sera Sonata!

SUMMARY; In which lazy sleepless nights spent dwelling lead to mugs of tea and kicks of adrenaline.

PROMPT; "It's okay, I couldn't sleep anyway."

PAIRING(S); Sherlock Holmes/John Watson.

TRIGGER WARNINGS; Fluff. Fluff. So much fluff.

NOTE(S); Sera = Evening in Italian; Sonata = a composition for an instrumental soloist (a word which is Italian in origin). Set post-ASIB. / i cannot believe i finished my second johnlock one shot within 24 hours of the last one ?? fingers crossed this writing trend continues ??

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"Sorry. Did I wake you?"

Hearing Sherlock apologize, even about the most inconsequential of things, always surprised John. He had done it almost frequently as of late. That disaster with Molly at their Christmas party (which still caused John to cringe and long to vanish into a black void) had been perhaps the most shocking occurrence of all. Until tonight.

Sherlock never apologized for waking John up.

Regardless of whether it was an experiment gone terribly wrong or a particularly loud breakthrough on a case, and certainly not over violin compositions. Apologies were rarely in his nature. John had resigned himself to it.

Maybe Irene Adler had changed him more than anyone noticed.

Thinking of the Woman filled John's mouth with a bitter taste, reminiscent of bile. Not pleasant. He swallowed, shaking his head as he slipped into the kitchen to put the kettle on. "It's okay. I couldn't sleep anyway." True enough. He had been tossing and turning in bed all night, thoughts of dark brown hair and a devious smile somehow getting her way filling his thoughts.

It shouldn't bother him so much.

She was dead.

What did it matter if she'd texted Sherlock fifty-seven times in John's vicinity? What did it matter if she could have texted him countless more times than that? Throughout the night, throughout cases, throughout every second for all he knew. Why did it matter? It shouldn't matter.

It didn't matter.

You flirted with Sherlock Holmes.

Fine, maybe it mattered a bit. A tiny bit. Minuscule, really.

Are you jealous?

Little more than a bit. But that was all.

Sherlock continued guiding his bow along his violin, filling the flat with exceptionally melancholic music. It reminded John of the week between Christmas and New Year's; how he refused to eat, refused to speak if not to correct the television, only communicated through unfamiliar violin melodies that tore through John for reasons other than their heartbreaking edge.

John tried not to listen. He tried to convince himself that hearing Sherlock play violin was not special to him. He tried to pretend that it didn't make his heart physically ache with understanding and something terrifyingly similar to yearning with each note. It didn't, it didn't, it couldn't.

Possibly the last one was the most accurate one. It couldn't. Shouldn't.

Did.

John filled two mugs. It was instinct by now, really, always making enough of everything for Sherlock even if he didn't want it. Ordering or cooking enough dinner, making enough tea, picking up two coffees (one specifically black with two sugars), leaving enough space around the flat for his ridiculous experiments and piles of heavy books.