Words: 415

Author's Note: Pretty sure I wrote this for a music prompt. Unbeta'd.


It had started when John had gotten in trouble with his last period teacher and was asked to stay after class to talk with her. Something about missing journal assignments (Nothing happened to him - why should he write about nothing?).

He was lucky it wasn't a day where there was football practice, otherwise the guys would have given him hell. John was making his way downstairs when he heard a soft trill coming from the music room.

John had never had a true interest in music. He like it, but he couldn't recognize pieces unless they were well known (like Fur Elise and such). He never understood the need. But the music coming from the room was stunning.

He had not known how long he stayed there, listening to the violin play, but when he head the music stop, he panicked a bit, not wanting to be found out. He made his way down the hall and down stairs, hoping the person inside had not seen him spying.

This had gone on for a week. John would stop outside the music room to listen to the person play inside. His friend Mike informed him that the person was named Sherlock and he could introduce them if he wanted. He didn't know what he would say to Sherlock if he ever came across him.

On the eighth day, however, someone had stopped behind him. He didn't notice for a few minutes, listening to Sherlock play on the violin. So many emotions, often anger scratching at the strings. It was entrancing.

"Beautiful, isn't it?"

John had nearly jumped, but he kept himself composed (surprisingly). He gave a sound of affirmation though. The man was taller than him by at least half a foot, but probably more. The man gave a smile, swinging the umbrella in his hand a bit and using it to push open the slightly ajar door.

"Sherlock," he called once, and the previously mellow tone had screeched then halted. "You're early," Sherlock grumped, placing his violin gently back into the case. He gave a glance at John. Football Jock, walks home. Has a sibling, older not younger judging by the borrowed coat... He glanced back at his brother.

There was an infuriating grin on Mycroft's face that made him want to punch the elder.

He maneuvered his way out the door, not giving the intruder a backwards glance.

John had a niggling feeling that they would be seeing a lot more of Sherlock.