AU! No summary so far. It's about music, show business and a new life after a disaster. John+Sherlock. Slowburn.
https://www.fanfiction.net/s/14237516/1/Soft-silk-is-hard-to-tearhttps://archiveofourown.org/works/47086126Ajax, thanks for the preliminary reading.
"Opera?!" Sherlock cried out across the whole area. Even the birds in the orphanage garden fell silent for a few moments. "Nobody listens to opera!"
"I like opera," said John Watson firmly, and smiled at Mycroft with slight embarrassment. "But I can't afford a ticket to Covent Garden."
"It's free. All the major theaters in London, Cardiff and Edinburgh provide the government with a few seats through taxes so that British culture can always be shown to the right foreigners. But this has a downside: Whitehall is obliged to seat spectators in reserved seats, even if there are no foreign guests. Alas, not everyone in Whitehall is cultured, and I don't want my neighbor's snoring to drown out the show."
John looked at Mycroft doubtfully. Whitehall is a large quarter with many institutions; is it really difficult to find those who will be happy to visit the opera there?
"Nobody likes opera," Sherlock repeated gloatingly.
"I'll be glad to keep you company, Mycroft," John smiled. He really loved the opera, and he was sick and tired of Sherlock's puerile antics. "I promise to snore at the beat so that your other neighbors will consider this a director’s reading."
Sherlock almost boiled with anger, but to Mycroft's delight, he couldn't do anything about it.
"How can you love this howl?" Sherlock continued to persevere. "If you want to enjoy the classics, there are instrumental concerts for that!"
"The opera is not afraid to admit how brittle and vulnerable people are," John replied. "Movies show it too, but I like it more in music."
Sherlock gasped, taken aback by the sudden realisation. This is his mistake, the wrong place in the song! That's why John doesn't want to take this thing! Oh, it's incredible! John is a treasure.
And Scotland Garden Records is a lair for donkey-eared idiots who can't tell a song from a crow's cawing. John is also not smart if he could not clearly explain the reason for his rejection, but at least he noticed the error. He was the only one who noticed!
Sherlock looked at John admiringly and said:
"You may never be the most luminous of people, but as a conductor of light, you are unbeatable."
"What?" John didn't understand. And Mycroft smiled with anticipation, rejoicing at Sherlock's epic fail. Mycroft didn't like youthful vocabulary, but sometimes it was very accurate. And Sherlock explained:
"Some people who aren't geniuses have an amazing ability to stimulate it in others."
"Sometimes I wonder," John enunciated thoughtfully, "how did you live to your age with whole teeth?"
"And just lived to this day," Mycroft added.
Sherlock didn't even hear them, caught up in his idea. And he ran away without bothering to say goodbye.
Mycroft said:
"Legworking, fussing, prattling with nonsense. What's he like to communicate with? Hellish, I imagine."
"I'm never bored."
"Oh yes, he always brings entertainment," Mycroft agreed. "Sometimes too much. You're a doctor. In fact, you're an Army doctor. You understand how he damaged his voice."
"Clinically, it looks like a police gas burn," John said neutrally. "One of those used to disperse riots."
"Don't tell me you thought for a second that Sherlock might care about social and political events."
John responded with a sympathetic nod. Mycroft said with annoyance:
"It wasn't only vaping with… dubious substances. He contracted streptococcal pharyngitis because the company, with little concern for personal safety, smoked one e-cigarette at all."
John nodded again. Some things are obvious. And Mycroft added:
"I worry about him. Constantly. But I prefer for various reasons that my concern stays in the shadows. We have what you might call a... difficult relationship."
"Maybe you both need to shed more light on understanding?" John replied.
Mycroft smiled.
"You are too kind… John." He said the name so carefully, as if he were afraid to break it. "But this adventure with substances isn't the first. And, I'm afraid, not the last. My brother has learned nothing."
"You need to talk about this with him, not with me."
"I'm sorry, John." Mycroft tried to smile as charmingly as he could. "There are topics much more interesting. Rugby. Antiques Roadshow".
"Do you watch this TV show?" John was surprised.
"It's cute. And relieves stress well. Just don't tell this to Sherlock!"
"No, no, Mycroft," John smiled. "The Geneva Convention prohibits torture."
Mycroft smiled and invited John to an old pub. And, to Mycroft's delight, he received consent.
***
Sherlock adored this state. His blood boils, and his overflowing energy spills out, creating a song. It's better than any orgasm. It's the coolest of all drugs. It means to be a God.
Unfortunately, this has not always been the case. And then Sherlock just calculated the words and notes mathematically. Insanely boring. Although he did well enough to have songs in the top ten of the charts, and Molly Hooper, this materialisation of all nightmares about tedious secretaries, did not whine that he had nothing to pay the bills with. But it was a go-to product for mediocrities like Donovan and Dimmock. This kind of song making is not something that makes you feel alive. Sherlock is not a machine to live by calculations. He needs a drive; he needs a flight. And this can only give an external impetus. But life is monstrously poor at inspiring events. And Sherlock was looking for incentives. Some of them brought him to intensive care. But Sherlock thought the result was worth it.
And suddenly, John. Fairy. He was the only one who realised that Sherlock was a genius even more than he himself thought! There is not only one Great Song. There are two of them!
Sherlock just needs to carefully separate them and polish them.
And John will sing both. No one else deserves it, because no one else can be such a good tool for translating Sherlock's ideas.
And let Mycroft choke on his opera tickets and even some kind of antique cane of a long-ago croaked Louis or George, which his brother will bring to John.
Sherlock has a stronger lure. John will never be able to resist, even if he doesn't even want to think about the stage right now.
Sherlock polished the first Great Song and, not in the least embarrassed by the fact that the village inn had thin walls and it was getting late, started to record his singing. The voice sounded hoarse and terrible. But that's not a problem. John will still understand the genius of the song. And adding vocals to a melody played in an audio editor is a one-minute job.
John will get a sample on his phone today. And then Mycroft can gobble up his umbrella!
***
The chief content manager released Anderson's song in prime time on Sunday. That's it! While a forgotten pseudo-genius roams the Sussex villages, true talents conquer the world. Anderson looked forward to rising sales of his albums and bookings for arrangements.
***
The trip wire was waiting for John on the stairs. Everyone knew that at that time he was checking on the bedridden residents of the shelter. And it is almost impossible to notice a guitar string stretched at the level of the ankles. If you don't specifically look for it. A cane helps not only the blind not get into trouble.
The killer watches too many action movies. But he does it with his ass. Otherwise, one would have realised that trip wire is not the best remedy against someone who was looking for it almost every step of the way when he left the territory of the base.
If only this rogue did not begin to make IED (10). It will blow up half the shelter to hell even in the process of making the device — this is not an occupation for average minds. You may not be able to read, but you must understand explosives. Illiterate Afghan terrorists knew how to count excellently; they also understood the issues they needed well in physics and chemistry, and they successfully competed with the sixteenth department of MI6 in inventiveness. (11)
John made a call to Sholto. John needs pliers to remove the wire. And he needs a partner's insurance to get the killer to mess up the car and catch him or her when they do it.
**********
(10) IED is an improvised explosive device.
(11) Sixteenth division of MI6 deals with R&D.
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