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Picking up the bow in one hand and the violin with the other he strolls over to the window. Placing the violin under his chin while the other hand settles the bow on the strings.
Play violin, play to the street, to the outside world. Play to his passion, his love, who sits in the chair behind him, unaware of his desire. Stress each note, pull out the yearning for him. He cannot know, will not know. But it's all in the bowing.
He stops, setting bow and violin down and sits across from him.
The man in question stands, and begins to cry, to sob, heavy deep sobs from within.
Over to him, wrapping his arms around his body, his cheek on his blonde hair, one hand caressing the nape of his neck.
Speak violin, speak of love. Let the strings tell of it. Speak.
"John Watson, I love you."
And the strings play a silent love song, a hymn to him.
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