John sat with his hands curled around a newspaper and his foot tapping the floor in an erratic rhythm. He changed his position, wiggled his fingers and nudged the empty mug on the floor with his toe. He focused hard on the words, but they swam beneath him, vanishing into a sea of faded black and white. John's foot twitched and with a large, angry sigh, he raised his head and bellowed, "Sherlock! Will you shut up for just one minute?!"

The melancholic violin that had been distracting him stopped and John relaxed. Finally, some peace and quiet. Sherlock had been playing that damn thing since three in the morning, and quite frankly, it was beginning to piss him off. I mean, at first the soothing tones and sliding glissandos were peaceful and calming, but after over eight hours of sad, depressing music, he was close to grabbing the gun hidden in the sock drawer. All he wanted was silence, blissful silence, one in which he could enjoy a nice cup of tea and the morning paper. Maybe some toast, or a few minutes on his blog. That would be nice.

"Did you not like my playing?"

John's shoulders slumped and he lowered the newspaper. Sherlock, his thin, elegant frame clothed in a blue shirt and some loose sweatpants, was pacing back and forth across the room. John wondered when he had entered. He had gotten so good at being silent that John barely knew where he was anymore - one second he would be sitting in the kitchen, concentrating on the analysis of some chocolate cake and then he'd be leaning over your shoulder, commenting on a freckle he hadn't noticed before.

"Well?" He turned to look at John. His hair, usually so well-kept and shiny, was now lank and messy. His hands were knotting themselves, playing with an imaginary cat's cradle, and he was staring ferociously. "Well?"

"I love your playing, Sherlock. You know that."

"So why did I have to shut up?" He started pacing again, his hands cocked under his chin in that odd praying mantis position. "I need to do something, John. So bored. So very, very bored...composing helps. Why can't I compose?"

John searched his brain for an excuse he hadn't already used. "Because you'll give yourself arthritis if you keep playing." Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, but John cut him off with a raise of the eyebrows, and that old chestnut, "I'm a doctor, Sherlock. Listen to me. You've been awake for two days - don't you think it's time to take a rest?"

Sherlock scowled and moved over to the couch. With an almost feline grace, he sat down and curled up into a ball, his knees hitting his chin and his back arched like a bow. "What do I do instead then? I can't shoot the wall anymore, and now I can't compose." His eyes roved the room, catching on the newspaper now crumpled in John's lap. "Any cases? Murders? Suicides? Bank robberies?"

John glanced down at the paper and couldn't help but feel a little bit of pity. He had read the newspaper cover to cover and there was nothing suspicious to report. For the third week running, there were no murders, no suicides, no bank robberies - just the city, the battlefield, chugging along as usual. And Sherlock had sounded so hopeful. With a sigh, John shook his head. "Sorry. Nothing. Do you want me to make you a cuppa?"

Sherlock crumpled into himself and closed his eyes. "No. Tell me when something interesting happens."

Letting out another long, tired sigh, John stood up and ambled towards the kitchen. Trying to continue the conversation would be pointless - when Sherlock curled up and closed his eyes, you would do better talking to a corpse. Instead, John flicked the kettle on and glanced at his watch. 11:00am and he was already on his ninth cup of tea. Great.

Knock. Knock.

John looked up and furrowing his brow, walked to the door. Sherlock was still lying on the couch, his pale face the picture of death. John watched him for moment, trying to see if he would speak or open his eyes, and then, when nothing happened, he curled his hand round the shining door knob and opened the door.

"Bloody freezing out there."

John stepped backwards as a man with silvery grey hair and thick black scarf strode into the room. He closed the door and crossing his arms across his jumper, said, "Lestrade? What are you doing here?"

"Don't worry. Not a drugs bust, or a search. We have a case." He started pulling off his coat and scarf and laid them on the edge of John's armchair. He looked around the room for a moment. "Where is he?"

John sighed and jerked his head in the direction of the couch. "He's curled up over there. Don't worry - he tends to blend in."

Lestrade looked at the couch and cocked his head. "Is he breathing?"

John nodded. "Yes. He's always like this when he doesn't have a case for over a week. He'll perk up in a moment, when he hears what you have to say. Go on."

Shooting a glance at Sherlock, Lestrade sat down in the wooden chair by the desk and leaned backwards. "A murder. In the woods. A fourteen year old girl was found earlier this morning by dogwalkers. It seemed pretty straight forward, but now..." Lestrade rubbed his forehead and looked at Sherlock. "Now, we need his help."

John nodded. Usually, Sherlock would perk up at this point, with a question, or a smart ass remark, but he was just...lying there, dead to the world. "What made it interesting? Why do you need him?"

"I can't really discuss it here..."

John shot Lestrade a glare and pointed at Sherlock. A second of confusion passed, but then Lestrade nodded. "She wasn't raped, or stabbed, or anything that usually happens to young girls of her age. She appears to have been poisoned but no one can identify where the poison came from or what the poison is. There are no footprints, nothing suggesting she had been dragged or carried. No fingerprints, no hair samples - she's clean. Completely clean."

"How fresh?"

Sherlock's voice, low and gruff and monotone, made John grin. Lestrade smiled back at him, the wrinkles around his face creasing. "Three days, more or less. It's hard to tell. Will you come?"

It was barely noticeable, but Sherlock's head twitched. Lestrade stood up and pulling on his jacket said, "Meet me there in an hour. Joydens Park - I take it you know where it is?"

"Yes."

"Fine. See you there." With a brief nod, Lestrade picked up his scarf and walked out the room, closing the door behind him.

It took a moment for Sherlock to react. "Brilliant!" he announced suddenly, springing up from the seat, full of energy and his eyes glowing. "Excellent! I love a good mystery murder, always something new, something different. A little duller than what I had in mind, but beggars can't be choosers. I'll get dressed, and you can pack my things - you know what I need? Of course you do. Thank you, John. Oh, Lestrade, I could kiss you!" With a bunny hop and beaming smile, he waltzed into his room, his arms still flailing and his eyes still sparkling. He was a reanimated corpse, once dead, now alive. John smiled at the thought, at the idea that only took a minute to bring someone back from the dead, to resurrect them and make them dance. If only life were so perfect. John turned around and gathered up some microscope slides, his fingers slipping over the test tubes and empty beakers. If only life were so simple.

In the background, the kettle whistled.