When he played, his whole body moved with a sense of motion only he was familiar with and probably knew better than his own self. But that was just John Watson. The Freak. The Nerd. The Dork. The Piano Player.

They didn't know the truth of John. They didn't realize his secret...and sometimes he wished they did. Just so they would understand. All they had to do was see beyond the scars that etched his arms, and oh, John would be found out.

Ever since he could remember, John had been in love with the piano, this instrument that could give him all the hope he needed in the world. His fingers would fly effortlessly over the keys to create a noise more beautiful than the soft pitter patter of rain on the window in the middle of the night.

He had been playing a particularly difficult piece by Mozart, and John had drowned himself in wanderlust.

Sherlock had been in detention. Once again, for the fourth time that week. He couldn't completely remember why, but it had something to do with outsmarting the Chemistry teacher. Once again, for the one hundredth time that year.

John didn't hear him walk in.

Sherlock didn't know who could've played so beautifully.

John didn't look up until he was finished.

And Sherlock...well Sherlock, clapped.