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Sounds of an Artist	By : darkangel1210 Category: S through Z > Sherlock (BBC) > Sherlock (BBC) Views: 3980 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 3
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Sounds of an Artist
Disclaimer: Lyrics of ‘My Immortal’ belong to Evanescence, I make no profit from their usage here.
A/N: A big thank you to everyone who has rated and reviewed so far - you guys are amazing! :-) Hope you enjoy this installment.
Warnings: angst, emotional trauma
Part Nine
Sherlock’s POV
John had stopped crying at twenty-three minutes past one in the morning. Sherlock knew this because he’d been awake to hear when John stopped, the lights from his alarm clock shining their digits at him, the bright glow almost accusatory although he knew that it was just a reflection of his own thoughts at himself trying to find an outlet. Throughout the entire experience Sherlock had kept John’s sketch pad clasped to his chest, his left hand gripping it with his picture facing towards the ceiling (he had promised not to damage it so was lying on his back with it), the index finger of his right hand lightly tracing the lines of his drawing by memory alone while he waited for John’s sobs to subside.
Once John had finally settled into what would be a restless slumber, the quiet that overtook Sherlock’s own room felt nothing less than oppressive. He didn’t dare think that the sound of John’s pain was preferable to it though, never in a million years. His more logical side confirmed that he was only feeling this way because of his own reaction to John’s emotions and the overwhelming need to comfort them both from a hurt that he was responsible for, but he didn’t know how to go about it, his own emotions making him feel weak and useless in a way that an illness never could. This was a break down from the inside out, each memory and thought tarred with a brush that he had never thought would have any power over him. Had analysed countless times and seen the consequences of in other individuals, unknown test subjects to his curious mind, but he was rapidly learning that emotion was not something to be trifled with and that it was completely unbiased. Race or language, age or gender; none of them mattered. Just as his perception of his own intelligence and supposed immunity to emotion didn’t matter either.
How could he not want to help, given the way they were obviously both feeling?
Sherlock turned his head on his pillow so he was facing towards his bedroom door that had been left ajar so that John could hear him in case he needed help. The faint light from the bulb on the staircase to John’s room provided a small amount of illumination into his own room, allowing his mind to focus a little, and with marginal effort he cast his mind back to the time when John had put his CD player on less than two days ago.
He’d recognised the song ‘My Immortal’ by Evanescence, what little had been played before John had rushed to turn it off, and now that the fogginess from his sickness had mostly subsided (thanks to John’s stringent care) he wanted to go back and listen to the rest of the music on that CD. John had put it on to help with his artwork, Sherlock had realised that straight away when he watched John go to his own Mind Palace, or a version thereof, the memory still sharp where it had been stored away.
‘Fingers twitching; possibly switching between materials and styles of drawing depending on the piece being created. Eyes closed allowing full concentration, head bowed to chest to increase comfort on neck and shoulder muscles during process of creation.
‘Elevated breathing, jarring of fingers when ‘My Immortal’ began and followed closely by feelings of panic and shock; uncontrolled physical reaction to lyrics supports deduction of emotions subject felt, including final outcome of subject’s efforts to regain control of said emotions and to rationalise situation to normality. Lyrics therefore hold special significance to subject.’
But what significance?
Sherlock understood that the music John listened to was a conduit for his creative energy, allowing him to express his emotions in a deeper way that, if successful, would be shown in the image that was being completed at that time. John’s own grief certainly hadn’t ended, not even with Sherlock’s return, his reaction to the song too emotional, a fight or flight instinct against the memories that Sherlock was certain revolved around his fall and death. The pictures that John had displayed on the wall held no such emotions within them, lovely as they were, and therefore were of no use to him. They were all depicting moments of their life from before when the days had blurred into each other, the work being the focus, the glue that had held them together initially before their bond had been created through danger, the adrenaline of the hunt and the spoils of victory. He would need to look at the evidence that was in front of him now, not then, and John’s CD player was the best place to start.
He also knew he would have a better understanding of the way John’s mind was working now by listening to that CD, sure that the overall tone of the songs would at least give credence to the thought that, although John was suppressing his grief in front of Sherlock, it was far from over and possibly never would be unless steps were taken to counteract it.
The question was how to take those steps without breaking John any further, but Sherlock shook his head at the thought and closed his eyes against the frustration at his indecision. No, that wasn’t right; he needed John’s resolve to crack, needed the careful composure that John had so rigidly built around himself to shatter. Sherlock didn’t doubt his own ability to break men apart, dissect them piece by piece, and John was no stranger to that (having had it done to him by Sherlock the first time they’d met and been a passive observer thereafter). Sherlock had needed and enjoyed the process itself numerous times, watching people gawp and splutter as the truth about them was revealed, like he’d plucked it out of thin air when actually it was right there, blindingly obvious for anyone with the eyes to see it.
No, his concern was that although he was very good at taking people apart, he was a bit not good at putting them back together again. He’d never seen any reason to as they ended up doing that on their own, usually by hiding behind whatever they needed to so that they could convince themselves that Sherlock must have found out some other way. Must have bribed some weak public official to gain access to whatever file the British Government had on every single person in the country, as surely there could be no other explanation as to how a complete stranger could have known their secrets, their skeletons in the closet that they were sure had been closed, locked and forgotten about even to themselves.
John had his own fair share of skeletons, especially after the fallout from the war, but Sherlock knew that airing out cramped spaces and sorting through the debris of one’s life was never an easy affair to deal with and John had already been broken to an extent. He needed to hope that what little strength John would have at the end of it would be enough to hold the man together in some form, some semblance of self that Sherlock could work with and mould back together, much like the doctor he knew John was capable of being but had never had any experience in himself.
Not to mention the fact that his own mind couldn’t resist the chance at another experiment, another chance to see if he really was as good as he thought he was, even with the possibility that this could turn into a complete failure and leave them both broken and bleeding on the living room floor. But he had to try, for John’s sake if not for his own, as a life spent in purgatory was no life at all and he couldn’t watch John live through that if there was a chance that he could pull him from it.
He was very sure that John would be fast asleep now, his own exhaustion working against him to make his unconsciousness deep and undisturbed, which provided Sherlock with a golden opportunity to examine the evidence he needed without it being contaminated by John’s presence. Although he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was going behind John’s back, which was entirely what he would be doing when the time came, it felt like a necessary step, so certain was he of the sensation in his gut that told him that John was hiding something and would not be forthcoming with it on his own.
Sherlock put the pad down to his left side, careful not to disturb the pages, before gingerly testing out the muscles in his legs and stomach. They didn’t feel strong, not as strong as they were while he was on the hunt, but they had recovered somewhat since his influenza had started so he was hopeful that they would be able to support his weight now; if not, he would crawl to the living room, pride be damned. This had to be done.
Swift calculations were made; time, distance and predicted muscle fatigue all added together, the numbers swirling in front of him as his gaze remained fixed on the light shining through the door, almost beckoning him to it like the light that people supposedly saw when they died, except this was different. This wasn’t a search for the light, for the comfort of an afterlife with a benevolent deity. This was a search for the truth that could be found in the physical world, just beyond that door in fact, so close he feel it although it never remained in one place for long. Much like the faith that some people professed to have found in their own lives but were still searching for that one thing that would complete them. Somehow, the human mind still couldn’t escape the need for proof, undeniable, empirical proof that even the strength of their faith couldn’t quell.
‘Seek the truth and you shall find salvation.’
Despite all his calculations and predictions, the journey from his bedroom to the living room, although quiet, was the hardest physical thing he’d done since he allowed himself to fall off the roof at Bart’s. By the time he made it to the desk where the CD player was, his legs were trembling beneath him and his breathing was ragged, thankful for the various sturdy objects along the way (the wall, mostly) that had provided him with the stability he needed so he could find the strength he knew was buried in his body somewhere. Once he successfully manoeuvred his body into the chair, his frame slumped forward onto the table with his arms out in front of him, careful not to disturb any of the items there as he rested his head on his forearms to recover. His breathing sounded far too loud to his own ears and he held his breath for a moment, ears straining to hear any sign of movement from John’s room in case he’d been disturbed. On hearing nothing, he proceeded to allow his breathing to reach its own equilibrium.
The CD player, ‘Roberts, three-band, dual alarm with stereo, clock-radio with CD player; silver in colour, widely available from two-thousand and six onwards, popular with online retailers,’ was on the right side of the table facing Sherlock. It appeared that John often preferred to sit where he could see his other drawings while using the music to inspire him, utilising the light from the windows to his advantage during the day and the light from the fire during the night. The fire had been put out long before they’d both gone to bed so the living room was dark now, just the light from the street outside shining through the windows in that garish yellow colour rather than the warm glow from the flames just hours before. It was still early, early enough that (if John had retained his predictable habits) meant the other man wouldn’t even think about stirring until at least seven hours from now, just before nine in the morning. Plenty of time.
Sherlock’s fingers shook when he forced himself to sit upright, his right hand clutching weakly at his stomach when it protested, trying to soothe the tense muscles while his eyes sought out the power button on the CD player. The usual place, to the left of the search, play and stop buttons, the whir of the CD inside a gentle sound while he found the volume dial on the right side and turned it down to its lowest point, allowing him more control over the sound as required while he waited for the reader to finish analysing the disc. The time was shown in green digits, not what he wanted to see, so he ensured that the device was aligned to the correct function and pressed the CD display button in the top left hand corner.
The number ten was shown on the main screen, obviously the amount of tracks on the disc, relatively short in comparison with the main stream compilations that could be found in a normal person’s music collection. Couldn’t be more than three-quarters of an hour at the most, the average track lasting about four minutes with a two second break between each track, but what did it matter in the end? He had four hours to kill (four of the seven available to listen to the music and evaluate its importance, three to leave everything as he found it and make it back to his room without John noticing that he’d ever been there).
His index finger didn’t hesitate when he pressed the play button, the number one shining at him in a small green glow as his fingers reached around the side of the player for the volume control. Sherlock turned the dial up a fraction until the first notes of the song began to come through the speakers, the first notes of the piano and the strings morphing into long, fluid pieces that sounded like a build-up, but to what he couldn’t be sure. He recognised the piece as that of ‘Roslin and Adama’ from the popular sci-fi series of Battlestar Galactica, but he’d never watched the series. Too dull, the concept of man-made machines rebelling against their creators, while in turn creating their own synthetic versions of the very thing they were trying to destroy; their purpose to infiltrate and besiege the last human beings in the galaxy.
Too predictable.
Yet John had chosen this track as his beginning, and in the context of drawing Sherlock’s own image, it sounded like the beginning in more ways than the most obvious one. An opening into John’s mind certainly, but what else?
The music itself sounded faintly melancholic, like mourning for something that had never come to pass, or indeed had come to fruition but was not the outcome that one had expected. A mourning for the loss of something which had been good, better than good, but which had been lost; meanwhile the drums nearer the end of the piece brought the overall tone of the music to a lighter feeling, like the sadness at the start had been tugged away. That it had worked out in the end and something more had come along, the drums heralding back to John’s army days when everything was the battlefield and blood and death, but which had been found again, with joy and purpose.
With a small gasp, Sherlock’s mind snapped into focus.
Of course!
His first meeting with John at Bart’s, that fateful introduction which had heralded the start of a friendship that had blindsided both of them with its intensity. John had missed the war and had found it again through meeting Sherlock. Mycroft had said as much to him not long before he was smuggled out of England and into France, his first destination on a trail that would span two and a half gruelling years of exactly what John had missed before they met. ‘Had’ being the operative word in that sentence. John had found what he needed with Sherlock and the track was a reminder of that fact.
Heart heavy as the last notes of the song ended, Sherlock allowed the small break in-between the songs to settle him, barely breathing with the next one began, this one being much happier, electronic bass, strings and guitar working in harmony to leave joy in their wake. He didn’t know who the artist was; found he didn’t care, freeing his mind to the music and the journey that called to him because that’s what it was. He could almost see himself in John’s Mind Palace, the notes of the music floating in front of him and leading him to the various doors that opened to something precious; John’s mind, his thoughts, his feelings, everything that made the man who he was. And this track spoke of friendship. Of a trust and brotherhood which had been forged in the fires of excitement and purpose.
A small smile graced Sherlock’s lips, the corners of his mouth tilting up over the next two songs which held much of the same emotion within them, the same focus on the connection that they’d shared during those first days and beyond. There wasn’t a chance John knew what the lyrics meant on the third song, unless he’d researched them or had learnt Gaelic after Sherlock’s funeral and not told Sherlock about it (which was unlikely because he would have noticed John slipping into small tells easily if that were the case). It seemed that the lyrics themselves where there just because John liked the sound of the lady’s voice and the lyrics themselves provided the spur that he needed to create his work. Nothing more strenuous than that.
His ears pricked up when the violin he so well remembered began to play, the unknown song, but he didn’t skip it, allowing the violin and the piano to lead him down a different corridor of John’s Palace. This didn’t have the same feeling as the other songs; rather it was designed to be melancholic, to allow emotions and nostalgia to mix and converge while giving the listener a chance to view the whole process, and the memories, with happiness, not regret. It didn’t mean that some things in those memories wouldn’t be changed if they had the chance to do them again, but hindsight was a wonderful thing and most people could say that they wouldn’t change one aspect about their lives because it made them who they are today.
All the arguments, the bickering over experiments left too long in the microwave when Sherlock forgot about them, why they kept running out of jam, why Sherlock had to be such an arse to some people who clearly didn’t deserve it. This song gave John the freedom to unearth those memories, accept them for what they were and not feel like he should have done something different. It was a reminder that the past was gone and couldn’t be changed, so you may as well take the best from it.
Sherlock found himself looking back at his own memories during the song, dusting off the ones that had been left on the shelves too long but hadn’t been deleted down to sentiment. The first proper smile his mother had given him when he was eight, having recited the French alphabet and words beginning with the letters perfectly, not a hitch to his rolling r’s or his accent in general. The time when John told him he was brilliant after a particularly easy deduction, John’s own mind still grasping just how good Sherlock’s was at figuring things out and still amazed by it. Mycroft’s smile of relief when Sherlock had told him that he’d stopped using drugs for good, thanks to his new flatmate who was, Sherlock had found, a bigger high than any of the substances he’d partaken in his youth and with far less side-effects.
Once the song had ended, and knowing what waited for him with the next one, the two second break was a welcome one indeed. So far, John’s CD was awash with reminiscence, the songs very carefully chosen to give a certain feeling. Whatever feeling was inspired in Sherlock showed him by proxy the reason for the song being chosen in the first instance, each having a job to do in John’s own mind and his art. So why had he picked ‘My Immortal’ on a CD which was very clearly there to aid his drawing?
The opening of ‘My Immortal’ began, and he had a feeling that he would have his answer shortly.

I'm so tired of being here, suppressed by all my childish fears

And if you have to leave, I wish that you would just leave

'Cause your presence still lingers here and it won't leave me alone^*
‘Presence. Usually associated with an ethereal being, or ghost, refusing to cross to the afterlife for personal reasons. Lyrics denote anguish, pain of the singer mourning the loss of someone close to them. Wishes for the past, for the presence of the person to leave them so they can move on. Lyrics would suggest that John wished for his memories of me to leave him.’
This would make sense. John’s crying earlier that morning was the best example he had that the man was still grieving for the way Sherlock had left him, and the following lyrics in the song cemented it in Sherlock’s mind.

These wounds won't seem to heal

This pain is just too real

There's just too much that time cannot erase^*
'Wounds and pain described in lyrics match John’s emotional reactions over the last forty-eight hours. Crying and feelings of panic supports theory that John has not recovered from incident at Bart’s and lyrics are further evidence of the above. Conclusion, song chosen specifically for lyrics as an almost direct pathway to emotional trauma and anxiety, direct cause being my suicide.’
Ah, but this was a feeling he remembered well. The lump in his throat from earlier had formed again when he had come to the conclusion of his analysis, his breath held in his chest when a particularly strong pang of something echoed in his ribcage and settled around his heart. Amy Lee’s voice did nothing to help ease it, her own sorrow in her past adding a depth to the words that no one could surpass and, Christ, had Sherlock hurt John this badly?

You used to captivate me

By your resonating light

Now I’m bound by the life you left behind

Your face it haunts

My once pleasant dreams

Your voice it chased away

All the sanity in me^*
John had often told Sherlock that he was amazing. Extraordinary, fantastic, undoubtedly the best man in his field and irreplaceable. The words of this particular verse gave credence to that because John had certainly been captivated by Sherlock’s abilities and his presence which could be felt a mile away when he was feeling dramatic (which was almost always). He knew he’d had bad habits in leaving his experiments all over the flat where they would be in the way, and had absolutely no sense of decorum when the need called for it, but he hadn’t thought that John would be bound by him.
The boxes still resting beside the kitchen table said otherwise, the dust on them undisturbed; his experiments still on the table, hardly any of them moved from their original places unless they’d posed a threat to the surrounding vicinity and been disposed of. Sherlock had known when he first entered the flat that the boxes meant John hadn’t worked up the courage to finish tidying up the rest of Sherlock’s things, no matter how small, and the root cause of it was his inability to accept the changes that had happened. The experiments had been left because John hadn’t been able to hush the voice that said Sherlock would return and demand to know what happened to them, some of them taking weeks to complete with round the clock care, knowing that the detective would naturally become outraged and storm to his room without emerging until the next morning.
His violin, still perched by his chair, had only been wiped clean in the time of his absence, but the apparent care that had been taken over it also screamed that John had been looking after it because he didn’t want Sherlock to come back and see the state of it if it had been left unattended. Mycroft had asked for the violin once to try and get it back to Sherlock, who by that point was in Norway and was steadily going mad without it, but John had politely asked for the violin to remain where it was for now. His brother’s words resounded in his head, still kind and apologetic. “I’m sorry, Sherlock, but John has requested that your violin be left at the apartment in his care. Given the state of affairs that you have left behind for him to deal with, I saw no reason to deny him this request.”
Even Mycroft had known, better than himself, what was happening to John and had decided to aid John in whatever way he could to support his grief. His brother’s own way of apologising for the mess that he’d inadvertently put Sherlock and John in by the end of Moriarty’s master plan, without actually having to say anything because neither of the Holmes brothers were good at that sort of thing. Physical signs of affection, no matter how small, were always further reaching than those of words, but in this case leaving the violin with John seemed to have done more damage. Another thing of Sherlock’s that needed looking after in case he returned.

I’ve tried so hard to tell myself that you’re gone

But though you’re still with me

I’ve been alone all along^*
No, no, no, it wasn’t making sense! None of it! The pictures on the wall had nothing of this in them, this pain, this self-torture of the mind addled by grief. They were drawings of happiness, the strokes of the pencils, pens, charcoal; they had no agitation in them. Nothing spoke of John’s torment that this song suggested - which had been chosen for a reason, reasons that he had deduced by listening to the words and the effect that they would have on John. ‘What am I missing, I can’t have…I would have seen it, something, I was looking for it! For this, I can’t have missed it…’
Oh but he had, hadn’t he? He’d missed all of John’s emotional trauma initially because John had become a skilled liar since the Fall and Sherlock had badly wanted to believe him.
The end of the song but not the end of the disc. Not the end of the journey by far. The corridors of the Palace were darkened now, ‘Something dark is coming’ an appropriate track to fit alongside ‘My Immortal’. John had never meant for the CD to be listened to by anyone but himself and this was his way of preparing himself mentally for the agony that would no doubt follow; this descent into the memory that haunted his dreams and waited for him in the depths of his psyche, a demon grown fat on the denial of its very existence. Of course John would need to prepare himself for it, would need to arm himself with all his weapons so he could return in one piece, although not unscathed.
The song was the longest one so far, eight minutes and fifty-five seconds with a gradual build-up throughout, which told Sherlock that this wasn’t the battle. This was the prelude to it, John’s way of searching for his demons so he could confront them, try to defeat them, but first he had to find them. John’s army training was the definite culprit behind this song as the man himself could never go down without a fight, never give up trying to make things better and the only way to do that would be to flush the demons out.
The problem was that it hadn’t been working. In the two days that he’d been back, Sherlock had seen no less than two instances where John’s feelings over their separation had surfaced and they weren’t happy ones. He knew that John had sought counselling after the Moriarty fiasco had finally died down, but that hadn’t helped either, those pesky trust issues again, and he’d stopped going in the end.
So John knew that he’d needed help with his feelings, needed to come back to some level of what people would call normal after losing someone close to you, but he hadn’t been able to achieve it, even with outside help. Although Sherlock knew that it wouldn’t have made a difference to his goal in those early days, he still damned Mycroft for keeping this from him. John was one of the most important people in his life and his own brother hadn’t told him about this. Why?
Amongst the thoughts that swept through his mind, Sherlock realised that the battle had begun, but not just with the grief that still crippled John when the memories came. This was a battle with Sherlock’s nemesis, Moriarty, the music bringing back those last few days when the trap had grown tighter around them both and threatened to kill everything that he held dear. ‘Icarus’ by Michael McCann sounded through the speakers of the player, and when Sherlock felt something trickle down his face, his fingers coming away wet with tears, he knew what John had done by putting this song on the disc.
Before he’d made his decision to sacrifice himself rather than everything around him, both he and John had been fighting against a very real enemy, one that had wanted to watch him burn, destroy himself and his reputation in one fell swoop. His arrogance and pride were hefted to far beyond his station, much like Icarus himself with his wings made of feathers and wax, flying too close to the sun and falling into the sea where he drowned. Icarus’s fall … Sherlock’s Fall … both one and the same. Both suffering from hubris, the price being their downfall, and John had been there to watch it all happen, never to realise the truth.
Yes, Sherlock had taken his fall, he had been scorched by the sun with his overconfidence, but he had survived.
The last two songs on the disc spoke more of John’s struggle to accept what had happened, the aftermath of the events, which were at best traumatic on their own, leaving their own share of scars on his army doctor. He recognised the opening piano of ‘The Scientist’, by Coldplay, as soon as it started and his hands flew to his mouth to stop the sob that tried to force itself from his throat as he remembered the words to the song. It described his and John’s relationship almost perfectly; the both of them running through London’s streets to catch criminals; Sherlock’s attempts to teach John the Science of Deduction during their first cases together; his own fumbling attempts to tell John how much he was needed, how much he regretted having used John in several cases to help solve them despite the risk involved. And oh God, it had been the worst day of his existence when he’d seen John’s face by the grave, wanting nothing more than to rush to him and tell him everything was ok, but forced to stay away until Moriarty’s men had been dealt with.
‘The pictures! The pictures on the wall!’
They were made from this song. Back to the start… John had wished for everything to go back to as it was before Moriarty, when everything had been, for lack of a better word, normal and safe, or as safe as could be when travelling the world with Sherlock Holmes. His profile by his microscope, his violin playing, all of it. All attempts to try and bury the bad memories underneath the good ones until they no longer existed, failing to take into consideration the possibility that buried emotions simply got stronger, like a champagne bottle being shaken until the cork burst from the top with the pressure underneath it.
Soft piano now, soft strings, a short piece full of hopeful longing and a subtle, quiet despair. The battle was over, the war was won, but the cost had been too high in the end. John hadn’t recovered, Sherlock still hadn’t told him why he’d done what he did, what he’d been forced to do, and the instrumental song managed to sum up everything that Sherlock had felt in the last forty-two minutes with barely any effort. He did what he had to do despite all his desire to the contrary, the music almost seemed to realise it, soothing his own pain at his choices and making way for the healing to begin. Yet, there it was, that faint undercurrent of tension right at the end, something more to come, something left unfinished that had to be dealt with.
With a hand that shook, he wiped his tears away from his eyes, solemn with the realisation that John hadn’t reached his bursting point, not yet. Sherlock knew it needed to happen so John could start his own healing and they could both move on from this hurdle in their lives, but along with the knowledge that the break had to happen, Sherlock knew he would be the one to cause it.
To be continued
_*_{Song: Selected verses of 'My Immortal' by Evanescence}
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Sounds of an Artist