milliways_bar | (no subject)

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Sherlock is in A Mood. The more he prepares for the trial, the more he has to offer as evidence that James Moriarty is a dangerous man, an element of chaos, a nexus of crime from which a thousand other paths are led.

But he is also Sherlock's lover. Despite his best intentions, Sherlock does...feel.

It is in his power to turn all of it away from Jim. (And then they would be ... what? Together? A couple? Normal?)

It is in his power to direct it all back to its source.

He needs to think.

You will find him in the garden, playing the Stradivarius.

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Fry is watching him. It's nice to hear someone play the violin who isn't at primary school.

Eventually the piece comes to an end and Sherlock lowers the bow.

It takes him another moment to notice he has company. "Hello, Fry."

"Hello." Fry says. "I haven't seen you for ages. I needed to talk to you."

"Sorry," Sherlock replies. "I've been a bit preoccupied at home."

He sits on the grass and starts putting the violin away in its case. "What did you need to talk to me about."

"Is Jim your friend that you like to touch?" Fry asks, sitting nearby.

Sherlock blinks a few times, then says, "He's one of them. Why?"

"He outed you as autistic to me." Fry says. "I told him he shouldn't do that. He's not right anyway, unless you're different from the other you, who told me they were a high functioning sociopath."

Sherlock sighs and scrubs a hand through his hair. "High-functioning sociopath is what my family were told when I was younger," he says. "My doctor-friend thinks it's more properly Aspbergers.

"Either way, I'm not upset with him about it. You don't need to be on my behalf."

Fry shrugs.

"Okay. I didn't think he should be telling total strangers. He said you didn't know."

"I don't know like I'm unaware, or I don't know like I don't have the answer?"

"I think the first one." Fry says, picking bits of grass and twisting them in his fingers.

"Well, he's incorrect about that."

He's not bothered, though.

"So is he your boyfriend?" Fry asks.

"Yes, he is." He smiles a bit. "Did he tell you that, too?"

"Sort of." Fry says.

"Ah...deduced it yourself, then." He nods.

"No, he was just vague." Fry says.

"He told me to memorise the dictionary."

"Hm. You must have spoken to him about it a while ago. He's not vague anymore.

"You could do that...it'll increase your vocabulary, at any rate."

"I started. Mr Irons told me I was using words incorrectly and I would be better off reading them in context."

An older, quieter Sinric lingers by the trees, listening to Shelock's music.

There are signs of where he's been, little indications of his travels - a Nara period Japanese comb in his hair, the Indian cotton wrap around his shoulders. And a weariness in his resting expression.

He makes no move to disturb Sherlock, still as a shadow in the dappled shade. Just listening.

Edited 2016-07-31 09:41 (UTC)

Eventually the piece ends and Sherlock lowers the bow.

A moment later he looks at Sinric and smiles. "Sinric. Still traveling the Far East, I see."

[ooc: Off to to work in a bit and so no tagging until after, but I didn't want you to feel neglected :).]

"Indeed." He nods in a half bow. "I'm currently exploring the Vengi kingdom."

He cocks his head, watching Sherlock. "Your music sounds troubled, my friend?"

"You must tell me about it."

He sighs, and waves his bow back and forth a moment in restless gesture. "I have failed to be ice and sapphire, and it's left me facing a difficult decision--one that reminds me why I considered myself married to my work for so long."

"Like ice, like sapphire. He ducks his head with a half smile. "Gods, that was a long time ago." Three years at least and not all of them kind.

"If time runs true for you as it has for others here, it's only been a few months since last you saw me. So I take it it is your lover and adversary who has unsettled you so? He has forced you to choose between what is right and your own happiness?"

Edited 2016-08-01 23:41 (UTC)

"Yes. His name is Jim.

"I have the power to either send him to prison for the rest of his life, or exonerate him completely. If I did that, we might even be able to be together, if he ever stops laughing at me about it." This said in a fond tone--Jim mocks him much less than Sherlock expected him to.

"But he belongs in prison. He's a very dangerous man. And no matter how often he tells me he won't get tired of me, I suspect even if I whisked him away to a tiny island in the South Pacific he'd still get bored enough to induce some mayhem.

"Once again I must choose between what I want and what I know I must do."

"You've already decided." Sinric observes softly, moving closer to admire the Stradivarius almost absently. "That doesn't mean you don't deserve time and space to mourn your choice."

"I suppose I have."

He notices Sinric's interest, and holds out the violin. "The instrument is called a violin. This particular make is called a Stradivarius. They're rare, and famous for their beauty and their sound."

Almost embarrassed, 'Jim got it for me."

Sinric nods. He reads people the way Sherlock reads situations.

"A princely gift." He admires the lines of it without touching. Never one to touch another's instrument without consent. "And such an expressive sound. So much richer than the one you played when last we shared music."

"It's much, much older," Sherlock says with an agreeable nod. "That has only mellowed the tone.

"Would you like to hear something?"

"Please? I would offer to accompany you but my flute is in my room." He turns up hands marked with the calluses of someone who has been playing a lot lately. Perhaps making a living from it.

"Some other time, then, we'll have a duet."

He thinks a moment, and then starts to play one of the melodies he learned from the music Sinric gave him, an ancient lullaby.

(He's played it to put Jim to sleep.)

Sinric knows it well and can't help but sings in soft counterpoint, almost as a reflex. His voice still clear and pure, for all his features have roughened.

Sensing Sherlock's mood, he gives the song a sad edge; a mourning resignation.

Sherlock closes his eyes as he plays, listening to the words. He doesn't speak Old Norse, of course, but knows enough of similar languages to recognize the resignation.

He comes to the end of the song and lowers the bow again. "Do you think putting him away will break my heart?"

"No." Sinric answers softly, crossing closer to Sherlock to rest a hand on his shoulder. "The wound will be deep, and it will scar. But you will live."

"There will be times you wish you hadn't but you will live." He touches Sherlock's cheek softly. "And you are not alone, unless you chose to be."

Sherlock glances at his hand.

"I'm better at being alone," he says, and though he doesn't take a step back or flinch, the touch is more than he expected.

The twitch might not have reached the surface but Sinric senses Sherlock's reaction.

He steps back gently, letting his hand drop. "If that is what you need to heal, then take what solitude you need. But there is a deep valley between those who are alone by choice and those who lack the choice. Your friends will be there when you need them. Myself included."

"Thank you," Sherlock says, but doesn't expect himself to take Sinric up on the offer.

He was alone before Jim, he'll be alone after.

As Sinric knows. But a drowning man who ignores the line thrown to him, does so knowingly.

"I have a gift for you." He takes another small iThing from his pouch. "Music from my travels. Chanting from the temples of Buddha, folk songs from the mountains of Nippon, musical plays of the imperial court, festival music from the Vengi kingdom."

"Sinric," Sherlock says, "I don't know what to get you in return."

He laughs and shakes his head. "There's no need for anything in return. I recorded them because I wanted to share them with you. Because music has always been the language we share clearest."

"I'm afraid the quality of sound is not strong on some of them as I had to hide the recorder from sight."

"I'm excited to hear them nonetheless," Sherlock answers as he puts the iThing away in his suit jacket pocket. "You've brought me some beautiful things. Thank you."

"I would enjoy talking with you, after you've listened to them. But I would rather you hear them first, without my thoughts and the context of my travels to tint them." To let the music speak for itself first.

"We shall."

He takes up the bow again. "Would you like to hear more?"

"Please?" He smiles. "And I promise not to interrupt by singing this time."

{ooc: shall we fade them there? Love these two.}

"It wasn't interrupting. It was lovely. Sing whenever the mood strikes you--I won't tell you to stop."

He tucks the violin under his chin. He was planning to play some Bach but instead he plays another folk tune, to give Sinric the opportunity to sing.

[ooc: Fade is good. They're so sweet to each other :).]

Edited 2016-08-02 02:19 (UTC)

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