Violin (Sherlock)
"Piazzolla?"
Sherlock paused infitesimally before continuing to play, the only sign that he was disturbed a thin line that appeared on his brow, and Emily smiled.
He would never say so, but she knew she had surprised him again. Not with her knowledge of popular 20th-century Argentinian composers, no; they'd had enough discussions --or should she call them arguments?-- on music that he was well aware of the vast and often obscure knowledge she held on the subject. No, the surprise was clearly, simply, her presence.
She settled into the worn, leather armchair across from him, and listened as he played, shutting her eyes a moment to take in the melancholy tango, and smiled. Though it wasn't precisely the same style, she could feel elements of the pieces she had heard long ago on that trip to New York. She couldn't remember why her father had taken her with that time; probably she had begged, as she had more than one piece of photographic evidence that five-year-old Emily adored the great Graham Lord, and she faintly recalled her mother telling stories of her following him around like a puppy.
She didn't remember any of that, though. No, what she remembered was the warm, late summer air, the cool grass beneath her feet, and the music. The music that set her heart on fire and made her itch to practice her piano again even though she had forgotten to practice for a few days as they traveled the city together. (She did remember the scolding for that, mostly because it wasn't so much scolding as a gentle admonishment, and for her father to not shout at her meant that he must be in an excellent mood.)
She remembered, too, being upset that Piazzolla had apparently not composed anything for solo piano. Which didn't stop her from trying to adapt his works for it anyways, of course, but those early forays into musical arrangement were not pretty, and she had to admit the memories were quite embarrassing.
"Are you feeling feverish?"
She opened her eyes in surprise; she hadn't noticed he'd stopped playing, nor that he had decided to pay attention to her, and the flush on her pale skin deepened.
"Oh, no. Sorry. I was just remembering something silly."
"Indeed."
He would never ask for details, she thought, and sighed, though she was smiling as she did so.
"Have you solved your problem, then?" she asked, gesturing to the now-silent violin, and he frowned at her.
"Not exactly. What are you doing here?"
"It's Thursday," she replied simply, and his arched brows arched higher.
A quick glance at the digital watch on his wrist, and he stood, putting the violin gently on the stand that she'd given him just last week after watching him lay it about willy-nilly one too many times, and reached out a hand to her.
"So it is. I didn't think--"
"You're fine," she answered and smiled up at him. He wouldn't apologize either, she knew, but the irritated glint in his eyes and the slight flush upon his own skin spoke volumes. "Is there anything I can help you with?"
"We really should get going," he responded, but she heard the anxious note in his voice, saw the quick glance to the mess of papers on his desk, and squeezed his hand warmly in hers before leading him back to the violin. "Em--"
"Like you'll be anything but miserable if you leave now."
"But you--"
"Okay, more miserable. I know you hate date night."
Something flashed across his expression before she could trace it, and he sighed.
"I'm not winning this argument, am I?" he asked, and she grinned.
Emily was nothing if not pragmatic. Whatever case he was working on --and she hoped he'd cave and tell her what it is later-- it was obvious that he would be thinking about it all night. He was obsessive, and no matter what distractions she might send his way, he'd circle right back around to the case. It had happened on two separate occasions, including Maggie's last birthday.
Maggie had been gracious, but that probably had more to do with the boy she'd been hanging off of all night rather than any real sense of charity. And as for the other occasion he'd been 'distracted,' well...
"Do you know any Vaughan Williams?" she asked casually, trying not to laugh at the glint in his eyes. "Not that I want to intrude on your creative process," she went on. "Also, are you alright with pizza? I could ring up the corner shop?"
The barest trace of a smile crossed his face, and hers fell in surprise as he pulled her suddenly into his chest and pressed a kiss to the top of her head.
"Thank you," he whispered against her hair, and she was certain she was blushing head to toe as she nodded against him.
Whatever this case was, it was worth staying in for the night, she thought, and she pushed gently away, grabbing her phone with a mostly steady hand and searching the number of the pizza shop.
He didn't look at her, though she was sure he knew she was looking as he leaned over and picked up his violin once more. And it took all she had to remember what she was doing as he started playing the theme from The Lark Ascending while a young man's voice came on the line and asked, "Pizza Express, what'll it be?"