A sound woke John from his sleep. It was a haunting melody, so familiar, yet so very far away from his mind. The minute his eyes were open though, the soft melody dissipated entirely. He was left with only the feeling it had given him. It was like someone had opened his chest and clenched their fist around his beating heart. They squeezed it then, making sure that he wouldn't die, but have to live out his days with the sorrowful pressure on his heart.
He tried to think as he felt a tear slide down his cheek. The pain in his chest was unavoidable, but he tried to think of the sound he had heard. If he could figure out what it was, he hoped he would be able to relieve the pressure on his heart. It had to be something that his mind didn't want to remember, but so desperately needed to.
If it was anything else, he would have simply been able to wake up in his own time, without the pressure on his heart, and the tears sliding from his eyes. No, it had to be something that he wished to forget. Something that was tied to some important time. Nothing else would explain the pain the sound brought him.
He sat up slowly, clutching a fist to his chest and letting out a sob. John was unsure where it came from, but he let it happen. He no longer fought the tears and the sobs anymore. Crying had become a normal thing for him, but nobody outside his flat's door would ever see him do so.
After a few minutes, his sobbing finally quieted down and he was able to wipe some of the tears from his eyes. He looked around then, realizing it was much too bright to be his bedroom. He always had the windows covered with dark curtains to give him a safe haven from the bright cheery light of the day.
He gasped sharply as his eyes landed on a very particular object propped up on a chair. John hadn't actually made it to his room the night before. Instead, he found that he had fallen asleep on the couch in the main room. Of course he regretted that very much at the moment, as he was finally able to recall the sound that had woken him.
If he hadn't been sitting across from the instrument, he may never have realized it. Even seeing the violin sitting untouched on the chair where it had been left didn't relieve the pressure on his heart. It only increased it. He had been awoken by the haunting melody of a violin, but not just any violin. It was the sound of the instrument that he knew well, and had heard many times. It was the sound of the violin when played by the only violinist he cared for, his best friend. His best friend who had jumped to his death as John watched.
He found himself sobbing uncontrollably once again. He allowed himself to fall back into the cushions of the couch. Even that wasn't a comfort to him, as even the couch reminded him of his friend. It only made him wish that he was strong enough to pick up his gun and use it. Only then would the pain stop. Only then would he be with his best friend once more, his Sherlock Holmes.
