(no subject)

[mightbeagoodone]

[OOM: London's terror alert has been raised to critical. I'm just passing the time.]

When he returns to Milliways, there are gifts to get under the tree, which Jim will probably figure out with enough shaking.

Sherlock has one more gift to give. This one he will make himself.

You will find him at the piano with some blank sheet music, doing just that.


[ooc: If there is anything Sherlock should observe and deduce about your character, please comment here. Comments are screened.]

Comments

[cook_the_rude]

Hannibal Lecter is by the fireplace, watching him.

[mightbeagoodone]

What he sees will probably not be that interesting--Sherlock plays, writes it down, plays, writes it down.

[cook_the_rude]

He listens as well, though.

[mightbeagoodone]

The music is melancholy. Not exactly pretty, but there's a tenderness to it, and a Celtic flavor in the key.

[cook_the_rude]

HAnnibal gets up eventually, and comes over as if to observe the creative process.

[mightbeagoodone]

Sherlock is absorbed in the creative process, to the point that he doesn't notice Hannibal for another few minutes.

"Dr. Lecter," he says eventually, when he realizes he has company. "Hello."

[cook_the_rude]

"Don't let me disturb you," Dr. Lecter says, leaning against a nearby pillar.

[mightbeagoodone]

"Mm," Sherlock says. "I may be some time."

He plays the next measure, frowns, and re-plays the last one again so that they lead into each other smoothly. The second go-round gets written down.

[cook_the_rude]

"I don't mind," Dr. Lecter says. "It is amazing to observe your creative process."

[mightbeagoodone]

"I'm no Mozart," Sherlock admits. "I don't write music often."

Gifts, mostly. The occasional memorial.

[cook_the_rude]

"So observing you is much more entertaining than Mozart would have been, as he apparently wrote his music down straight from his head as often as not," Hannibal says.

[mightbeagoodone]

"That's what they say."

He puts his hands back on the keyboard, but admits after a moment, "I'm not certain i can compose with an audience."

[cook_the_rude]

"Would you like to borrow the use of my harpsichord?" Hannibal offers.

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric comes over to listen. He still looks tired, not matter how much sleep he gets. But he likes listening to how others play and compose. He finds it inspiring.

[mightbeagoodone]

Sherlock composes a few more bars before he notices he has company. He puts his pen down with a smile. "Sinric. How are you?"

[thewidewideworld]

He gives Sherlock a little bow and a smile. "I'm well, thank you." He cocks his head. "You're composing? The melody is haunting and beautiful."

[mightbeagoodone]

"I am." He glances at the sheet music. "Thank you. It's going to be a gift."

[thewidewideworld]

"For him." Sinric said more than asks. "Your addiction." There's no accusation in his tone. A weighty understanding perhaps.

[mightbeagoodone]

"Yes," Sherlock says simply. "He likes my music."

[thewidewideworld]

The corner of Sinric's lips curl in a half smile. "I can hardly fault him for that."

[mightbeagoodone]

Sherlock smiles a little bit too, looking bashful. "Christmas is coming," he says, snuffling some papers. "I have other gifts for him, but I wanted to give him something no one else would have."

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric nods. That makes sense, even if his first thought is that it panders to Jim's jealous nature. "That's thoughtful of you. I have no doubt he will enjoy it greatly."

Sinric seems a little restless, a little trapped perhaps. "Do you mind if I listen while you compose? Perhaps it will bring me inspiration."

[mightbeagoodone]

"If you like. It will probably be more repetitive than entertaining, though."

He picks up where he left off, playing the previous few minutes before moving into the next new one.

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric smiles and nods for Sherlock to go on. He fetches his notebook and sits nearby, half listening as he writes. Part of him itches to help, to sing along, to provide accompaniment but the part of him that still flinches way from Jim stills his tongue.

[mightbeagoodone]

Sherlock is soon absorbed in composing again, a few measures at a time.

The thing that might be surprising is that while the song is melancholy, it ends on a hopeful note.