Since I'm taking my time with my second Fandom Trumps Hate story, I've decided to give you all a small teaser. I won't give the title away yet, but the prompt from the brilliant @totallysilvergirl was that John can sing. Really sing. And he's managed to keep it a secret. Even from Sherlock! Yes, that's right.
As is my wont, I always rec fics (influenced long ago by my lovely recipient) and to my astonishment, I found that there are very few fics with this topic. Another reason to write one.
Excerpt:
John’s blog.
Anniversary Post
Congratulations to me on my tenth blog post! I know for a fact that the main character I’m writing about won’t even notice, but to me it is kind of a milestone. If you think that this is the tenth case I’ve been privy to, you’re wrong. Not every case is worth writing about. Some of them are actually classified if you can believe it. Shh…
If you are a regular reader, you know how this normally goes – clients and/or the police want Sherlock to help with their predicament. This time, though, things were slightly different.
I got an email from an acquaintance I hadn’t spoken to – nor thought of – in years. Claire Burnell nee Turnbull who I went to school with back in the day, has moved up in the world apparently. She is now the lady of Matfen Hall: Northumberland’s only five-star hotel. In fact, it is also a spa and a golf resort. Very posh going by the website, which is extensive. Or excessive, as Sherlock described it.
Anyway.
A little digression – you all know how heedful Sherlock is of his brain capacity, which is why I was utterly befuddled when he seemed to know Claire’s sister, Chloe. I only remember her as a clingy eight-year-old, but of course, she’s a grown woman now. And an acclaimed classical pianist. Hence Sherlock’s knowledge, I suppose.
Having read the email, I was quite certain I would have to disappoint Mrs Burnell – the case was a five at best – and Sherlock refuses to even leave the flat for less than a seven. If we were to help with this one, though, we’d have to leave London for the rural parts of Northumberland. My hopes weren’t high, but for the sake of my previous relations to Mrs Burnell, I decided to at least ask Sherlock when he got home from wherever he was at that particular moment. He sure wasn’t at Tesco to get milk, I can tell you that much!
I won’t bore you all with Sherlock’s deductions about my previous relationship with Claire Turnbull (now Burnell) – let’s just say they were just as substantial as Matfen Hall’s website.
To my utter befuddlement, Sherlock readily agreed to take the case.
“You do realise we need to travel to Northumberland, yes?” I asked, just to be sure he’d understood what it would entail to solve Mrs Burnell’s plight.
“Don’t be obtuse, John!”
And that was apparently that, because the next day we were on the 8.30 train from King’s Cross, which would reach Newcastle a little after 11 a.m.
“Because I wanted to do something new for a change.”
“Ah, so you are finally tired of chasing criminals and watching me deduce at crime scenes.”
“Not bloody likely, Sherlock!”
“So, what, then?”
“Wait and see. Or should I say: wait and hear.”
“You are being ridiculous, John.”
“Maybe.”
“It doesn’t suit you to be cryptical and mysterious.”
“No? Pity. I was trying to impersonate you for a moment. A failure, apparently.”
John sighed deeply, but I knew it was a ruse. I could read him better than anyone, and I had to admit – to myself, at least – that I was rather intrigued by this excursion.
We were in a Japanese inspired, high-end karaoke bar in Marylebone.
“What do you want to drink, love?” John asked.
“Single malt, please,” I responded.
“Make that two,” John said to the bartender.
“Coming right up.”
Once he had spoken with a man in a tailored suit, John - drinks in hand - guided me to a black door adorned with a deep-red treble clef. It was quite dark inside the room, which was the size of Mrs Hudson’s living room. A large charcoal-coloured sofa took up most of the space on one side, while an obscenely large tv-screen hung on the opposite wall. Red LED lights were the only light source, but John found a remote control and momentarily turned up the brightness.
“Take a seat, love,” he said softly, and placed our tumblers on the long and narrow table in front of the sofa.
“Where do you want me?” I asked.
“Nowhere in particular. At least not yet.”
His low voice reinforced the innuendo, and I felt a flutter in my chest.
“You are enjoying this, aren’t you, John?”
“Immensely.”
I hummed and took a sip of the excellent whisky.
“So, you are going to sing.”
It was a statement. John would never have dragged me here to cajole me to some sing-along event, even though we were alone.
“Indeed, I am. The singing I do at home… well, it is rather insufficient in my opinion. I feel more confident when I can hear the tune. Besides, the mic will intensify the experience. Or so I hope.”
His face colour was competing with the red light in the room, and I couldn’t bear to see him embarrassed.
“Come here for a moment,” I said and reached out my arm.
He sat down heavily beside me, resting his head on my shoulder. I pulled him closer and kissed the top of his head. We didn’t speak; there was no need for words. Being close to each other was enough.
John sat up, swallowed half of his drink, pecked my cheek, and stood. He walked over to the tv-screen and hunched down to type something on the keyboard located on the bench in front of it. The screen lit up, but before I could discern which song John had chosen, he dimmed and changed the colours of the lights into blue green.
An unfamiliar and quiet tune filled the room, and then John started singing.
I don’t know how I should say it
His voice sounded so different when he could use the music as a metaphorical crutch. It was beautiful. I leant back in the surprisingly comfortable sofa and decided to close my eyes for a moment to relish the sound of the music and John’s voice properly.
If it's real, and if it's true
And if our love is wrong
Then I don't ever wanna be right
I opened my eyes when he sang:
Why do I care what people say?
'Cause I'm nobody's but yours
The last line made tears prickle behind my eyelids.
Oh-oh-oh, I just want you to be mine
John put the microphone down, typed something on the keyboard again; classical music – Chopin – started playing, and he finally joined me on the sofa. I was speechless; in fact, I didn’t trust my voice at all. A big lump swelled in my throat, and I buried my face rather forcefully in the crook of John’s neck. There, I let my tears fell freely.
“Oh, my darling,” John murmured, not entirely unaffected himself it seemed.
He cradled the back of my head and stroked my back with his other hand.
Eventually, I withdrew, cupped John’s face, and placed a hard kiss on his lips. I couldn’t see his eyes properly in the dim light, but I saw his smile.
“That was extraordinary, John.”
“Really?”
My heart twisted when I heard the incredulity in his voice.
“Of course, it was. You know I don’t use terms like that easily. Not outside our bedroom, anyway.”
That made him laugh wholeheartedly. He was relieved.
“Do you want to come here again, then?
“Oh, yes, John! I would like that very much.
“Excellent!”
***
Where were you last night? Could’ve used your input.
You always need my input, Lestrade. SH
Not going to tell me?
It’s personal. SH
Fine. I’ll just ask John.
He sang to me. That’s all I am willing to divulge. SH
Just a dumb thing I thought of while watching The Sound Of Music
John is like, really good at singing and after windy powers he can hold notes and yodel because of his really good lungs or something . And like post-sburb, school is doing a sound of music production and Jade was going to be maria but got sick. So John filled in for her since he was the only one who knew all the lines notes and cues (he helped jade practice). So like yes, I want to hear John sing this and yodel. I want to hear him sing all the songs, in his pitch though. I'm sorry but I really do. (Also Dave is the Captain go fig johndave sorry not sorry they kiss. Guys I already started doodling this help me)
