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Art for Roll Away Your Stone

Holmes would sit and read beside the settee, head resting against Watson's thigh, or Watson would settle himself in the window seat with his feet in Holmes' lap while he wrote in his journal.

It was a scattered collection of notes that sometimes coalesced into something coherent, sometimes not. He didn't care; it was the feel of music beneath his hands that mattered, the slide of his bow over the strings. Nothing else existed in his mind.

John didn't know how long they stayed there, trading kisses until the room grew dark. Eventually he got up and lit the candles.
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