Author's Note: So I decided to revamp this story, it wasn't coming along the way I wanted it to. Hopefully anyone reading/ following this will still enjoy it :)

"Sherlock."

The screeching of the violin waned slightly before picking up again.

"Sherlock."

If possible, the violin would be screaming in agony at the ferocious pace.

"Are you listening to me, Sherlock?"

Mycroft watched as his petulant brother finally stopped torturing the violin, he could at least show a bit of appreciation for all the work it took to get the damned thing to him.

Sherlock removed the bow from the strings of the borrowed violin as he turned to face his brother. Mycroft looked…apprehensive. Mycroft was many things, but never apprehensive. His mind immediately started supplying him with all sorts of reasons why that would be. Was he able to obtain the information they had been looking for? Had they overlooked something? Or was it something to do with the people he had left behind in London? Had something happened? He had been away twenty-two months, four days, and fifty-two minutes…now fifty-three.

Feigning an uninterested calm he replied, "Yes. What is it now Mycroft?"

Mycroft stood there and, though he would deny it, fiddled with his umbrella. He was unsure of what to make of this information, unsure if Sherlock could handle this information and all that came with it.

"I have some…news," Mycroft said turning to the lone window in the cramped flat. He let the statement sink in, casually giving a sidelong glance to see if he had Sherlock's full attention. He saw emotions flit across his brother's face before he composed himself. No, Mycroft thought, best leave it for another time.

Instead, he said "I have found one of the would-be assassins."

He had officially gone around the bend. That was the only reasonable explanation. He dropped his head into his hands, scrubbing his fingers through his hair. With his elbows on his knees, John looked up at the object placed almost in the corner of the room, by the window. It had been an impulse buy. Not something John was exactly proud about, but it was something that didn't immediately remind him of…

John bit back the swell of emotions. He could at least think of his best friend's name, couldn't he? It had been almost a year after all. But it still hurt, still aggravated the tender and raw pieces of his mind, and if were honest with himself, his heart.

The past eleven months had not been kind to John. After watching his best friend commit suicide, John tried – and failed – to drown his misery and guilt with alcohol. When that stopped helping, he refused to leave the flat, refused to eat, refused to talk. He carried on that way for weeks, months, he wasn't sure until one day he woke in a strange room, connected to machines.

"Good to see you awake John."

John looked over to see Mycroft Holmes standing in the doorway.

"Wha-What's going on?"

Mycroft said nothing as he strode to the single chair in the room. After seating himself he fixed his eyes on John.

"Mrs. Hudson found you unconscious and unresponsive. She called for an ambulance, then called me."

"Oh."

"Yes, 'Oh'," Mycroft held back a sneer, "We've all been quite worried, you've been in a coma for almost two weeks."

"A-all?" John's voice broke, not able to contain his shock.

Mycroft simply raised a brow at him, "All, as in Mrs. Hudson, Molly Hooper, Mike Stamford, DI Lestrade, and of course, myself."

John had no words for the man, he stared at his hands.

"John," Mycroft sighed, "You almost died."

He whipped his head up to look at Mycroft, "I…I never intended-"

"I am aware of that John, which is why I don't think having you go to therapy would help," Mycroft stood from the chair, "But I do think it pertinent that you do find some way of coping…this may surprise you, but there are still people who need you."

John shook his head clear of the memories and looked at his most recent, and possibly stupidest, purchase. The sun's dying rays were shining through the window glinting off of the slightly worn finish of the object. It was a beautiful piece of craftsmanship, even though it was some years old and fairly used. John stood and slowly crossed the floor over to it, trailing his fingers across it lovingly as he rounded it to seat himself on the bench. He gently placed a finger on one of the keys, pulling forth the sound from the inner workings of the mechanism. This…this was something he had never shared with…with Sherlock, with anyone really. It had been his secret. Well, not really a secret, just something that the consulting detective hadn't deduced about him. He hadn't played since his teenage years, but he could feel the knowledge coming to the forefront of his mind, little bits and pieces flowing over his consciousness. John shook his head, standing again and looked meticulously over the piano. It was an older model but it was a finely crafted instrument, a Steinway & Sons Model S. A "baby" grand piano, with a satin ebony finish that was worn down in spots and a few of the ivory keys were yellowing with age. He felt a kind of kinship with the old instrument the moment he spotted it, knowing inherently that he had found his coping mechanism. John would have to find a piano tuner in the area, but, he thought, that could wait until tomorrow.

John stood staring up at the figure on the roof of the building, utterly gob smacked.

"Sherlock, what's-", he had started towards the closest entrance when Sherlock interrupted him.

"Stop! Stay right there! Stay there and keep your eyes on me, can you do that for me John?"

"Yeah…Yeah, ok Sherlock" John stepped back to look up at his best friend. "What's going on Sherlock?"

"This phone call…this is my note John. It's what people do isn't it?"

John felt his tears spill over and onto his cheeks, "No…"

"I'm sorry John. It was all a trick…just a trick"

John watched as Sherlock tossed his phone and spread his arms wide.

"Sherlock!"

Watched as he leaned forward, and let his body fall.

"SHERLOCK!"

John woke with a start, Sherlock's name a breath on his lips. Looking over at the clock he saw it was five in the morning. So much for sleeping in on my day off, John thought with a sigh. He got up and made his way down the stairs into the kitchen. Maybe a nice cuppa will help. As he waited for the kettle to warm John looked over at the piano. He had had it tuned already, so it wouldn't hurt to play a little right? Mrs. Hudson was surely still blissfully unaware of the world, and he would need to let his tea cool for a moment. John nodded to himself, mind made up. He placed his mug on the table and sat on the piano bench, pausing for a moment before lifting his hands to the worn keys. The chord seemed to ring about the room, as if it were a conscious being, looking for a place to hide in all the nooks and crannies of the flat. John breathed deeply and began to play simple scales, interspersed with strung together chords. He could feel himself beginning to relax, the long unused information coming back to him at first like a trickle of water until it became a stream, then a raging river as he switched to playing arpeggios. The dam in his mind seemed to crumble as the last vestiges of piano related knowledge returned, John began to play a piece by Beethoven, Moonlight Sonata if John recalled correctly.

Sempre pianissimo. Senza sordene. Simile. Crescendo then decrescendo. Decrescendo to pianissimo. Crescendo to piano. Decrescendo to pianissimo. Next would be attacca subito il seguente.

He lost himself to the notes, the chords, the simplicity and complexity of the music. He recalled the first time he had heard someone playing the piano, a primary school demonstration. John had borrowed books from the library and used the school's piano in his free time, slowly learning the art. He had continued to play in secret up until he joined the army where those talents were no longer needed, and the knowledge was pushed aside in favor of more relevant information. When John was invalided out of the army, he had had no desire for anything anymore, including the thing that once brought him solace. Once he and Sherlock began working together there had been no time to focus on playing, or affording for that matter, a piano.

As John hit the last notes, he vaguely heard clapping. Looking up, he saw Mrs. Hudson applauding. "John, dear, I never knew you were musically inclined," Mrs. Hudson smiled, "But then, if Sherlock was my flat mate, I suppose I might not have said anything either".

John stared at her, slightly confused at her statement. "I'm not sure I understand your meaning Mrs. Hudson".

"Well Sherlock was a brilliant violinist," Mrs. Hudson winked at him, "I would feel untalented playing next to him, that is, if I had any musical talent. Now, when I was still quite young I knew this girl, you wouldn't believe-"

"I'm sorry Mrs. Hudson, did I wake you?" John interrupted her before she went on rambling too long.

"What? Oh, not at all dearie. I was up getting a start on some laundry, which by the by, you need to do laundry as well. I'm-"

"Not my housekeeper, yes I know," John huffed with a laugh.

Mrs. Hudson smiled at him, "Well as long as you know, dearie," she turned towards the stairs, "You know John, it's good to see you enjoying something again…it was hard on us all when Sherlock, you know…but you took it harder than the rest of us…I hope you keep playing dearie".

John stared after Mrs. Hudson for a long moment after she had left, thinking about what she said. Since being released from the hospital, he had tried hard to not show how weak he was to the people around him, but it seemed as though it hadn't really worked. He got up to fetch his, most likely cold, tea. Maybe it was time to start coming to terms with all of that, maybe…it was time to start living again.

Author's Note #2: Chapter 2 should be up soon, I'm almost done reworking it! Reviews are welcome!