I was out of bed before I even really realized it, my blanket hitting the floor in a rumpled pile. My aggravation seemed to deafen me from everything besides Sherlock's incessant screeching. Well, the screeching wasn't coming from the consultant himself, but his violin. The old, haggard scrap of wood he insisted on playing. I refused to consider his mindless ripping of strings anything close to actual music. The random, rusty seeming notes poisoned my brain and most likely, Mrs. Hudson's as well. Though the poor old woman would never voice her complaints, I was more than willing to bash in Sherlock's curl-encased head by now. I had always kept my frustrations with my roommate down, letting them ferment somewhere by my liver.

But tonight, after double shifts at the surgery, my well known patience eluded me completely. Between inconvenient work hours and frequent night terrors, I couldn't bare Sherlock's insane symphony on top of it. I stormed down the hallway, gripping the railing and peering down into the vast darkness of our small flat. I could just barely make out Sherlock's wiry form by the living room window, his violin cradled to his neck. My lips parted, teeth bared, ready to scream at the top of my lungs. Ready to rip into him for dragging me away from the few hours of relief I get between my job and being his lackey. I wanted silence, I wanted peace, I wanted…..

To hear him play exquisitely?

Sherlock's choppy, un-tempered notes melted into a much softer, sad tune. I sucked in a breath and bit back my words, suddenly losing them to the sound. Why had my presence warranted such a drastic turn around? My lips parted slowly as I watched him rock from foot to foot as he played.

"Sherlock?"

There was no way in hell Holmes didn't notice me, he was like a bi-pedal blood hound. That led me to believe he was simply ignoring me, letting the music mute my words as he rocked. I had never heard Sherlock play anything remotely pleasant in all the time I'd known him. Of course id requested, but he'd always give me the same abraded look before promptly shutting me out of his secluded little world, as if the request had nullified my pass to get in.

"Fine," I murmured, heading for the stairs "I didn't want to go to Holmes-Land anyways."

Not even the creaking from the ancient stairs roused him, and I began to wonder if he was even really there. Only when I reached him did I know, staring at the back of his head as he played, that he wasn't an apparition of some means. I listened to the rest of his song, fighting back the urge to fall into the same rocking as Sherlock. It was rhythmic, and for some reason I was finding it hard not to mimic him.

"Ah, Watson!" Holmes cried happily once his piece had faded to its end "Did I wake you?"

"You knew damn well you would." I answered, but the bite was missing from my voice. My frustration had left with the song, dragged off to wherever musical notes go after their composers let them fly free. I imagined it was a wonderful place. Sherlock lowered his lanky arms, smiling.

"Perhaps."

"Perhaps my arse. What are you doing up with that bloody thing so early?"

"Practicing, my dear Watson. And what better time to practice than now?"

He directed the violins bow stiffly to the window, causing my eyes to follow. The sun was just rising, bathing every filthy window pane or overturned trashcan in florescent pink light. I hadn't taken the time to watch a sunrise in years. I stood idly, mesmerized as my mad-man roommate began another soft melody. One that seemed familiar to me.

"Holmes?"

"Yes?"

"Why did you change what you were playing when I got up? Did you….. Want me to come down and hear you?"

"A fine deduction, John."

I tore my eyes from natures grace to face Sherlock, watching him sway. I couldn't help but smile at him, the corners of my lips felt like they could have reached ear to ear.

"I've been asking you to actually play for me for months. Why now of all times?"

"Seems like a keen time to me. Don't you agree, John?"

Between the music and the pink hued sky, the time was no longer an issue to me. Sedated by music, I plopped down onto the couch. I propped up my bad leg and leaned back, content.

"I honestly couldn't thing of a better time. Do you take requests?"

Holmes ignored my question. His hands froze dead in place between notes, depriving the room of his tune. He turned to me, a smile on his thin lips.

"What was that I head earlier, John? Something about Sherlock-Land?"

"You heard that?" I asked, raising an eyebrow. Yet again, I was ignored.

"I believe you said you 'didn't wanna go anyways'?"

"I…. Yes, I guess I said that."

"Well…. What about now?"

I laughed gently, watching his sea foam green eyes watch mine. My smile returned full force as I sighed, settling into the couch some more.

"I wouldn't mind coming in, if you'd have me."

Sherlock nodded slowly, returning his attention to the violin. He picked up right where he left off, boney fingers working at a speed I myself couldn't even comprehend. He grinned.

"Welcome to the Land of Misfits, my dead Watson."