Wednesday,11th January,2012

John

John: 221C, Baker Street, that is going to be my new address. I'm moving on Saturday.

Harry: Baker Street? That's central London. Must be pricey. You must be doing rather well

Johnny boy. Need help?

John: Thanks. But I think I can manage. Mike and Molly are coming over to help.

Harry: Okay, good. But Clara and I will come over anyway. It's been too long.

John: That it has. How are you guys doing?

Harry: We're fine. I've been sober for six months now and I think she's starting to trust me again. Thanks.

John: What for?

Harry: For talking her into giving me another chance.

John: Not a big deal.

Harry: So…are you seeing anyone?

John: No.

Harry: What about Molly?

John: Molly? What about her?

Harry: You could ask her out…you seem rather fond of her.

John: I'm very fond of her. But she's just a friend.

Harry: Okay. Remind me. How long has it been since you went out with someone?

John: Honestly, I don't know.

Harry: And you don't think there's anything wrong with that?

John: So I haven't been dating for a while. So what?

Harry: John, you haven't gone out with anyone for a year…ever since you broke up with Mary. I know she hurt you, but come on.

John: You know what, I was angry with her when we broke up, but she was right. I really didn't care about her. I said I did, but didn't mean it…

Harry: What are you saying?

John: I'm saying that I'm tired of this…I meet an attractive woman and I ask her out, we go out on an couple of dates and we get intimate and then after a couple of months it just fizzles out. It's meaningless and stupid. I don't just want to date, Harry. I want to be in a committed relationship… with someone I have real feelings for, someone I connect with. Someone interesting, for goodness sake.

Harry: And how are you going to find that?

John: I have no idea. But I do know that I cannot be in a meaningless relationship again.

Harry: I hate that you're alone Johnny. You deserve better.

John: Since when do you worry about me :-)

Harry: It's always been the other way around, hasn't it? I know I haven't been much of an elder sister, but I'm trying to do better.

John: Thanks. Well, it's past midnight. So…see you Saturday?

Harry: Sure. Good night.

John: Good night.

John closed the chat box and logged out. He put his laptop away, got up and stretched. It was past twelve and he was rather tired. He looked around the dingy little apartment that he'd been in for over two years now. It really was a bit of a hole.

How did I stand this place for so long? He thought. But it wasn't like he'd had a choice. He'd come home wounded from Afghanistan. He'd had a severe shoulder injury, hand tremors and a limp. He hadn't been able to work at all for the first six months.

It had been a really hard time. His therapist had called it PTSD and she'd said he was just having trouble adjusting to civilian life. But it hadn't been that. He'd been someone important, someone necessary in the army. He'd come back to London and suddenly it seemed like he didn't matter anymore.

After a while, his health had improved and he'd started working at a clinic…mostly locum work. It was boring, repetitive work and it hadn't paid well at all. Finally, his shoulder had healed and he'd been able to get back to surgery.

It had been six months now, working as a trauma surgeon, and he was starting to feel like himself again. This was what all his education and training had been for, after all. The job was interesting, it kept him on his toes and it paid rather well. So at long last, it felt like his life was looking up.

...

Wednesday, 11th January, 2012

Sherlock

Avery Fisher Hall, New York.

Another stage, another successful performance…the audience on its feet, clapping and cheering…this is what he lived for, the violin was his life. He lived for the music. So why wasn't he ecstatic? Why did he find it such an effort to smile and wave at the audience? He was so tired. All he wanted was to get back to the relative quiet of his hotel room and just go to sleep.

Finally, it was over. He was off the stage. He went to his dressing room and got changed. There was a knock on the door. It was his manager.

"Ready?" he said.

"Ready for what, Lestrade?" Sherlock didn't bother to hide his irritation.

"Dinner! I told you, you had a dinner party to go to. Don't tell me you forgot."

"I'm not going!"

"You have to. You're the guest of honour."

"Why do you get me into these things? Just make some excuse."

"Sherlock you always do this. It is not nice. You already have a terrible reputation. Why do you insist on making it worse?"

"I don't care what kind of a reputation I have."

"Well, I do, damn it! And you're going to listen to me. Come with me… smile, make some small talk, have a glass of wine…you'll only have to stay for half an hour, I promise."

Sherlock glared at his manager. He really was not in the mood for company and conversation...but then he was never in the mood for anything like that. He'd never been sociable, but over the last few years, he'd grown more and more withdrawn. The only thing that mattered to him was the music. Everything else was detail.

He opened his mouth to protest again, but he decided against it. Lestrade had a certain look in his eyes that told him that it would be futile to argue with the man tonight. So he sighed and gave in.

"Thirty minutes. No more. And you won't try to make me eat."

"Okay fine. Fine. Can we go now?"

Boring, Sherlock thought, as he looked around him, smiling vaguely when someone came up to him, nodding politely, pretending to be interested in what they were saying. He had his eye on the clock the whole time though. He'd been having a difficult year. He'd been on tour for ten months now, going from hotel to hotel, stage to stage, until it all seemed to blur together.

This had been his life for the last ten years and he had enjoyed it. But now, it felt like something was missing. The music had become more mechanical, less soulful and he wanted to stop. Take a break…How ironic, he thought. Mycroft had been telling him this very thing for years. That he worked too much, pushed himself too hard. That he needed to have a life beyond music. He'd always ignored him, insisting that music was what he lived for.

Well, once this was over, he had a performance in San Francisco on Friday and then he would be free. He had nothing booked, no performances, no recordings for the next two months. He would be free to go back home to London and his quiet little apartment in Baker Street and dear Mrs Hudson…