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[Sherlock BBC] The language of others
Doctor Who - Ten
harriet_yuuko wrote in serian_inn

Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Titolo: The language of others
Rating: K
Notes: miss_random prompted me Sherlock - Solfeggio. I'm sure a thousand better writers than me all around the world have already written something better than this on the subject of Sherlock and music. I tried, anyway.
If you find any mistakes in my English, please point them out to me and I'll gladly make them disappear. Thank you! <3

The language of others

There was something strange (something wrong) in the way the boy confronted the music sheets, Rosemary was positive about it. Maybe it was just his face, always so focused, totally absorbed. Maybe it was his blue eyes so rarely full of something different than a cold curiosity. He bent down on the sheet, looked at the black marks and rapidly mastered them, with no apparent effort.
The thing that disturbed his teacher, though, was the way he seemed closer to the maths than the heart of music. He was good and fast in learning notes, names and rhythms, his hand moving up and down on the table to follow the right tempo. He almost never missed a single beat. His ear was good, his mind was good: he dominated the music sheet and all its numbers and patterns. He was the best amongst the other kids, no doubt.
Still, Rosemary couldn't help thinking that there was something strange. While the numbers and the rhythms perfectly flew in his voice chanting the solfeggio, he never seemed to enjoy the playful songs she taught the kids, or the musical games she set up for them. He won, most of the times, and he sang in the right key. But his eyes kept distant and his laughter seldom resonated amongst the others.
- He's just one of those geeky kids who love to study and get bullied because he's always with his nose stuck in a book.- Nellie told her once, when she expressed her thoughts to her colleague. She had seen him twice, when she had to substitute Rosemary. She had found him annoying and a little spooky, but nothing more.
- I think you might be right.- Mister Wells told her, one day they ended soon their lessons and started talking about their students over a coffee. - He's got something strange. More than that. I'd say he's got something...
- Wrong?
He smiled and nodded.
- I was afraid to use that word. I know he's just ten years old. But he's got something I can't quite grasp. He's good with the violin, the best of my students. He masters the technique, he's got an excellent memory, he practices constantly and never forgets my tips and indications. But when he plays, sometimes he seems so... distant.
- I've heard him at last year's final performance. He can bring you to tears when he plays - I mean, he's really good, but he's so serious and so little... childish. I met him before the show, with the other kids, and asked him if he was nervous. He told me it was stupid to be nervous about something he perfectly knew it was going to be fine. How can someone so young be so detached, I wonder? And how can someone so cold be so good with music?
- Well, Rose, there are lots of cold and cerebral people who are good with music. Music can even help them to bring out emotions that they keep locked up. That boy, though, has something completely different. I don't really think he can relate to the emotional side of music. Maybe because he can't really relate to the emotional side of himself.
- This is what I believe too. I look at him when he plays or sings, and I think that it's like he can perfectly speak a language that he doesn't understand.


They didn't acknowledge the presence of the woman until she started clapping her hands. John had been totally absorbed in typing on his laptop and he had been absent-mindedly playing, relaxing in the simple act of his hands on the violin, his mind following the pull of an impromptu melody.
- I didn't know you were so good!- Said the woman (a friend of Mrs Hudson, he remembered. One with the annoying habit to pop into the others' houses uninvited.)
- Thank you.- Said John, smiling to the woman. He smiled too.
- It was such a passionate piece, you were playing!- Her hand were on her bosom, her eyes widened in what was an act of admiration. - Music is really marvellous. It comes straight from the heart. One must have a big heart, to write or to perform music.
He wanted tell her that music is actually outstretched sounds and rhythms and repeating a pattern. He wanted to tell her that behind music there is no heart: there is maths. He was starting to open his mouth to clean her mind from her stupid error, when his eyes were intercepted by John's alarmed gaze. He had that look, the one that meant just keep it to yourself, whatever it is that you're about to say.
He closed his mouth, made a little nod with the head and attempted a warmer smile. The answer seemed to satisfy their landlady's too curious friend, who smiled back and left.
John went back to his blog, with a little sigh and a small movement of the head that clearly was a mixture of scolding and relief.
He resumed playing, quite sure that John had stopped him from being honest with the woman because it was another of those sentiment things, the ones that made him feel like he spoke a language different from the others'. He much preferred the truth over their conventions. But his whole life had taught him how necessary it was, to speak their language and adhere to those rules.
He was lucky to have at least a good interpreter.

Licenza Creative Commons
Questo opera di Francesca C. è concesso in licenza sotto la Licenza Creative Commons Attribuzione - Non commerciale - Non opere derivate 3.0 Unported.

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Mi ero persa questa tua produzione. Onta su di me! Davvero bella, come ogni tua storia del resto!

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