Serialism. [John+Sherlock]
Rows of twelve tones--that's all it is, at the core. Sherlock lies in rapture on the sofa, hands steepled beneath his chin and eyes closed, mind fully focused on the layers upon layers of atonal symphonic brilliance. Schoenberg--a proper mind, Sherlock thinks, except for the rest of him. The bits that hadn't been devoted to composition. Those bits--no. But these bits, these twelve tone rows. These bits are ingenious. His mind latches onto every aspect of the piece and deconstructs, reorders (inversion, retrograde, retrograde inversion)--it is like diving headfirst into a sea of sound. Each note, each interval, each relationship or lack thereof a puzzle to be worked and reworked.
Racket to the untrained ear, it is what Sherlock occupies his mind with when there is nothing else. Today, it is enough, although normally it would not be. It is enough because he knows John will be home soon, and with John in the flat, he can breath freely. And if John so happens to place his hand on Sherlock's shoulder, his arm, his hand--his hair--he may think freely as well. For now, it is Schoenberg and the rapid fire processing of his chaotic brain.