AN: A couple of reviewers asked for more...so I am not to blame for the probable suckishness of this! ;) I'm just not smart enough to write Sherlock, so I have to skip past his intellect a bit and write his eccentric side, which usually leads to some bizarre caricature that's far too childish. So apologies for that. But anyway, enjoy!
In all fairness, Sherlock had warned John about the violin playing before he moved in. This, however, was the first time it had been quite so loud quite so late at night.
Still, staring up at the blank ceiling and hearing the constant, oddly reassuring music from the next room was certainly one way of avoiding night terrors. Unfortunately this also meant avoiding sleep altogether.
It occurred to John that the music had suddenly sped up dramatically - the start of a new piece, perhaps. What's more, the sound was now much louder and much...closer.
Frowning, John got out of bed and crossed to the door. Sure enough, standing right there, instrument raised and bow coming to an abrupt halt, was Sherlock.
"Sherlock," John said wearily, leaning against the doorframe, "If I ask you what you're doing, am I going to get a proper reply?"
Sherlock made a 'hush' sound. "Go back to bed," he whispered. "I'm playing you classical music, it's supposed to be soothing. You know, for your nightmares. For reasons we've already discussed regarding my concentration..."
"I'm touched, Sherlock, honestly, but if you think that ...racket... is soothing, then clearly you've deleted the word's definition along with the basic workings of the universe."
Sherlock looked injured. "It's Wagner's Ride of the Valkyries."
"It's loud, and it's fast, and frankly it's doing more to keep me awake than get me to sleep."
"But the website said..."
John sighed. "Yes. It probably did say classical music is supposed to be soothing. Just...not that particular piece."
"I learnt the whole thing. I even made some improvements."
Trust him to think he could improve on Wagner. "And I appreciate it." John saw his way out now. "In fact, you're right, it was quite soothing." A yawn. "I feel like I might just drop off into a dreamless sleep while I'm standing here."
"Good. Good, right, I'll be off then."
Sherlock turned on his heels to go. John watched him, smiling to himself. Worried about his concentration. Please. Still, it was nice of him to be so concerned, even if he did try to cover it up (very unconvincingly, for someone who could shed a tear over a 'dead' husband he'd never known).
He lay down on his bed, relieved to finally be able to sleep.
. , . , . , . , . , . , . , . , . , . , . , . , . , .
"It worked, then."
John wandered bleary-eyed into the sitting room the next morning to find Sherlock already seated, dismantling what looked like a Rubik's cube, but had a dozen or so too many squares.
"The music. It worked."
John suppressed a smile. "I don't have a dream every night, you know. Usually it's only after a stressful day or something. So we can't really say it was all down to the music..."
Sherlock looked at him stonily. "...however!" John said hastily. "We can't say for sure that it wasn't. So thank you, Sherlock, it was very..." he faltered lamely, unsure what word to use but settling for the rather mundane, "nice."
His flatmate grumbled something about 'not trying to be nice, only trying to keep you quiet, because a man ought to be able to think in peace in his own home'. "Yes, yes," said John agreeably, grinning as he put the kettle on. "Obviously. But even so."
"It's sort of a pity that worked, actually, the next thing I was going to try was meditation."
"You're not serious...?"
Sherlock smiled, that rare facial contortion which somehow meant more coming from him since it was about one hundred times rarer than in other people. "Of course not. Your mind is nowhere near disciplined enough."
"Thanks." John laughed despite himself. "You're probably right."