Work Text:
"You've stopped playing your violin so often," John comments to me one afternoon, when it's raining and we're sitting comfortably in our armchairs. "Why?"
I lower the newspaper so he can see my lips when I respond truthfully, "I can't stand how sad you look when I'm playing. You want to hear it."
He turns his head to look at the wall, the faded yellow face happier than both of us at the moment. "Yes."
You are more than your deafness, John. It's a part of who you are, yes, but you are so much more. To me, to everyone. It's not a defining characteristic. But I still wish I could fix it for you. I know how sentimental this is, how illogical.
John huffs and stands up, walks into the kitchen. He starts to make tea, tea solves everything. I stand up too, I walk over to the window. I pick up my violin and bow, and wait for John to return with the tea. We'll drink it, and then I'll play for him.
I drink the tea quickly, too quickly. It's hot and it burns my throat, but I'm impatient. I wait for John to finish his tea, it takes longer than usual as he eyes me with suspicion (and a slight smile, I think he's figured out my plan).
With a nod, I beckon John over. We've become quite adept at non-verbal communication. The flat is often silent; it suits us both. But not now, not right now. He stands in front of me and I realise he's not quite sure what I've planned. I hold out the violin and bow.
"You don't let anyone touch your violin," John protests, hesitant to take it from me. "What if I break it?"
I shake my head. "You won't," I assure him. "And yes, nobody else has touched my violin. You should feel privileged." He blushes at this, a delightful flush of pink across his cheeks.
He accepts the violin and bow, holding them by his sides. "Alright?" he asks. "So?"
I indicate for him to tuck the violin under his chin, to mimic my stance. He does so, his eyes locked with mine, seeking unspoken approval. I nod, I move forward. I take his hand, the one with the bow. I stand behind him. I wrap myself around his back - my left hand feels for the strings, my right covers his holding the bow.
We play a simple tune - it's hard for me to find notes easily with both of our hands on the thin neck of the violin. I hope he feels the vibrations, feels the music. We stay like this a while.
When he lets go of the violin, I let him step away. I take the bow back from his proffered hand. "Thanks, Sherlock," he says, a hint of sadness still in his voice. "You should still play, for yourself. Don't worry about me." He moves to sit down. I place the violin and bow on my chair and grab for his arm, before he can sink back into his haven of cushions and fabric.
I hold his shoulders, kiss his forehead, pull back again. "Wait," I ask. John nods. He will always wait, if I ask.
Turning to pick up the violin, he gives me a questioning look. I blink back at him. "Stand behind me. Touch the violin, fingertips, here and here," I instruct, gesturing to the back of the instrument. "And watch out for the bow; but you're short, you should be fine." He appreciates when I try to joke, even at his expense. I don't do it often.
"Alright," he agrees, moving to stand behind me. I begin to play, music of my own composition. I want this to be new for John, I want him to feel the music for what it is, and not piece together a tune from his memory. I pour my love and my regret and my hope into the notes. I need him to know I feel these things, just as he feels my music through his fingertips on smooth and shiny wood.
I finish. John lets his fingers fall from the back of the instrument, they rest on my hip. They're trembling, vibrating against my skin. I turn around. His face is wet with silent tears.
"Thank you," he whispers.
From now on, I will play for nobody but John. He alone has earned it.