"Ah, look at all the lonely people!"

This shouldn't last, this couldn't last.

Luke was laughing, father's singing was accompanied by his own quiet smile. His eyes were shining. I distinctly remember his green eyes shining as he faced us. His children. His family.

"Ah, look at all the lonely people!"

It should be impossible for things to be this perfect. We should be unable to feel such a happiness as this, as such a family that is missing a mother, a crucial member. But somehow, we managed it. Oh, we managed it.

"Eleanor Rigby, picks up the rice in the church where a wedding has been."

Luke's elbow jumped as he drew the bow expertly over the strings, fingers pressed against the neck of the violin, brow creased in concentration but a smile on his lips as I started to copy his notes on my own instrument. Lower, deeper.

"Lives in a dream."

Even faster now, fingers flying, every stroke flawless, perfect, faultless.

"Waits at the window, wearing the face that she keeps in a jar by the door. Who is it for?"

I picked up on it, my own notes providing a foundation for his quicker ones.

"All the lonely people; where do they all come from?"

Father loved this song, I remember. Loved it even more for its name, Eleanor Rigby. Mother had been named Eleanor.

My name sounded so clumsy in comparison. Nothing elegant like hers, nothing extraordinary like hers. Something normal. Normal is good, father said. Normal is boring, I replied.

"All the lonely people; where do they all belong?"

I bet father missed mother terribly; sometimes, on rainy days where he had no meetings and I had no lessons, he would pick me up and set me on his lap and talk about her. Luke would walk in on us laughing and crying about something or other that she did, and he would sit down by the armchair and lean against my father's legs, listening quietly. And my father would let the the cook go home early and he'd make us dinner himself.

"Father McKenzie, writing the words to a sermon that no one will hear."

He didn't do it that often anymore. Now I was older. Now Luke was older. And my father was older. He didn't have many more meetings, but instead locked himself up in his office and worked tirelessly for hours. I knocked many times, but he wouldn't answer, and when he did it was to tell me to go away.

"No one comes near."

Luke tried to keep me company but he drew away too, playing violin for hours on end, thinking.

"Look at him working, darning his socks in the night when there's nobody there."

They taught me something, my father and my brother. By drawing away, they taught me to instead retreat into myself and work on something: work on building up my walls against the outside world and curl up within my own self. Writing. Photography. And cello, always cello.

"What does he care?"

Oh, but now was not one of those times. Now was time to laugh, to smile with my father and my brother, playing Eleanor Rigby as a duet and hearing the deep rumble of his singing and the fast, high-pitched notes of my brother's violin.

Now was a time to be happy as we all came out of our hiding places.

A time to find ourselves.

"All the lonely people; where do they all come from?

All the lonely people; where do they all belong?"

"John, may I borrow your gun?"

I glanced up from the morning paper and eyed my friend warily. Usually, this sentence would inspire a bit more surprise, shock, or disturbance in an individual, but living with Sherlock Holmes has gotten me used to it...somewhat. "What do you need it for?"

"May I borrow it?"

"Not if you don't tell me what you want it for."

Sherlock growled - an unusual show of frustration - and he randomly picked up a book and chucked it open-faced at the wall.

I flinched, even though he had thrown it in the opposite direction of my person.

"I'm bored! Bored! Bored of this case, bored of Lestrade's incompetence- why can't he just solve it by himself?" He moaned, dropping disconsolately into a chair with his face in his hands. "It's obvious who murdered the boy, they just have to look at the felt band around his father's bloody hat!"

"And why don't you just tell him who did it?"

"Because then I'll have no distraction from how boring everything is. This case - however frustrating, however commonplace - is at least a little bit more interesting compared to having no case at all. Besides, it makes Anderson work overtime." (I gave him a disapproving look.) "Now are you going to let me use your gun or not?"

I sighed; closed the paper. "Since when have you started asking for my permission? Did you suddenly grow manners overnight?"

"Good point." He ignored the barb, striding over to the bookshelf and standing on the tips of his toes while reaching up to the top.

"Hey, wait- hang on." I scrambled out of my chair and stared at him in disbelief as he groped around. "How do you know I hide my gun up there?"

He removed his arm, weapon in hand, examining it. "Mm. You have dust from the top of the shelf on the right cuff of your shirt. Wasn't too difficult of a leap."

I glanced at my shirt cuff and found a smudge of dust. "How did you know that it was from the top of the shelf?"

"Because normally you clean this flat from top to bottom- it's a doctor's habit, I suppose, but your insufficient height has prevented you from cleaning the top of the bookshelf because it's too high up. You toss your gun up there to keep it out of sight. Obvious."

"Yes," I repeated tiredly. "Obvious."

"Mm." He loaded the gun and I immediately went into cautious mode again, backing away a few steps and reaching behind me for an object that might block a bullet just in case he decided to shoot at me.

Hey, you never know with Sherlock Holmes.

"Sherlock, if you fire that, I swear to God-"

Bam. A bullet hit the wall.

"Sherlock!"

"I told you, John, I'm bored!" He paced the floor in an agitated manner, waving the gun around. I steered clear of him, just in case he got trigger happy and happened to fire again in my general direction. "Completely and utterly bored!" He shot under his arm and hit the wall again. And again. And again.

"Right, thank you." I approached him from behind and tugged the weapon from his grasp...just as Mrs. Hudson burst into the room.

She looked frazzled, clutching her burgundy drape around her thin little shoulders. "What's all this awful noise...?" She stopped dead at the sight of the bullet-ridden wall and butchered wallpaper. "Oh, John, what have you done to my wall?!"

"What...?" I looked down at the gun and then at the wall...and then shot a pointed glare at Sherlock. "Oh, no, Mrs. Hudson, it wasn't me-"

"That bloody thing is yours, yes?"

"Well, yes, but-"

"And you're holding it, yes?"

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson, but-"

"Then I see no one else as the culprit but yourself."

"Mrs. Hudson-!"

"Shush! Now I want no more of this nonsense! I do hope that you two don't misbehave yourselves when she comes over..."

That got Sherlock's attention. He looked up from where he had been examining the bullet holes in the wall. "Who's coming over?"

Mrs. Hudson perked up considerably at the thought of this mystery someone. "My new tenant; she's renting out the flat below. You know how hard it is to rent that one; I imagine it's the damp, that's the problem with basement flats-"

"221C? You're renting it out?" I rubbed my hand across my forehead, thinking of how quickly we would probably scare the new tenant away. It'd probably take a day if Sherlock doesn't have a new case. Only an hour if he's on the trail of a particularly dangerous one.

"Yes, dear, and I want no more shenanigans like shooting walls, or-or blowing things up in the microwave or else I will stick it on your rent, do you hear me? And I'm not just talking to John, Sherlock, I mean you too-"

There was a knock at the front door. Everybody looked towards the stairs.

"Hm." Sherlock glanced back to the bullet holes disinterestedly as Mrs. Hudson hurried back down to ground level. "Slight female, planning to stay long-term; conservative."

I shot my friend another look as the door opened, irritated. "How do you know that?"

"Footsteps; you can hear her trunk behind her. She has two, and they're large. You can't hear any jewelry however, so conservative. Also, no heels. Simple."

I rolled my eyes at the last word. Luckily, he had his back to me, so he didn't see.

"...and these are my two other tenants, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson."

I turned around, sighing. I've got my bets on three hours until this tenant leaves.

Sherlock was right. Slight. About five and a half feet tall, but her long coat made her seem taller. A quick glance at her feet told me that she was wearing a pair of undecorated brown flats; well-worn.

She was a pretty little thing, in her mid-twenties. Long brown hair rolled into a knot at the nape of her neck, reminding me somewhat of a scroll at the top of Sherlock's violin. She had pearly skin and an air of once being well-cared for, but it had somewhat deteriorated over time. Her lipstick was an unusual shade of deep red, but it suited her somehow. Her eyes were dark; so dark that I couldn't tell what colour they were.

"Sherlock, John, this is Ms. Ashlyn de Borough. She's renting out 221C below you." Mrs. Hudson's pointed frown made it obvious that she would flay us alive if we scared "Ms. de Borough" off.

"Pleased to meet you." She extended a hand towards me first, which surprised me. Usually people tended to be drawn to my friend, and tended to ignore the shorter, fair-haired man that stood beside him.

I shook her hand. She had a firm handshake, a nice handshake. "Nice to meet you too. I'm John, and since my friend doesn't look to be in a social mood right now-" I shot him a look over my shoulder and he stiffened, frowning more determinedly at the bullet holes. "-that is Sherlock Holmes."

Her dark lips slowly curved into a smile.

"You think so lowly of me, John." Surprising everybody, Sherlock turned around and extended a hand. "William Sherlock Scott Holmes."

Uh-oh. I knew that look. His eyes scanned her appearance; clothing style, shoes, tanline, hair style, and everything in between. If he could judge things from her bloody footsteps, then what would he be able to deduce from her entire self...? Oh dear God...

"Pleasure." Her voice interrupted my thoughts and I glanced up from my dilemma. "And just in case you're wondering, yes, I am a musician; I've been playing cello since I was seven. Yes, I come from good money who's seen a fair bit of publicity over the years. Yes, I'm a native Londoner. Yes, I prefer walking to taking taxis, a strange quality in both a Londoner and a higher-up. Yes, I suffered traumatic injury in my childhood, about ten or eleven years ago. And yes, I'm an amatuer writer that prefers vintage to modern."

Complete silence. Sherlock's eyebrows could have disappeared into his unruly hair, but, as usual, he was smooth. "Why so forward?"

She didn't miss a beat. "Well, you would have been able to read all of that without me telling you, wouldn't you? It's obvious from the callouses on my hand and the way I cut my nails that I'm an experienced musician. Judging from my uptight manners and the price and brand of my coat, I'm clearly not your usual off-the-street. My accent says London. The wear and tear of my shoes say walker. You glanced at the burns on my neck - ten or eleven years old, judging by the fade- and no doubt you noticed the limp in my left leg. And I'm sure you didn't miss the callous on my wrist where it rubs against the table when I use a typewriter, nor the ink on my fingers or the writer's bump on the middle finger of my right hand."

Again, silence. Mrs. Hudson seemed stunned. I mirrored her and unconsciously leaned forward.

Finally, Sherlock spoke. Quietly. But he was still maintaining eye contact with Mrs. Hudson's new tenant, which meant that she had captured his full and undivided attention. An impressive feat.

"That was unexpected." She smirked, almost triumphantly.

"You can expect that from me." She released his hand, and I realized that they had been locked in a handshake for almost two minutes now. Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back, and she stuffed her hands back in her coat pockets.

"You say you play the cello?" Mrs. Hudson gave me a wide-eyed look, mouth slightly agape. I caught it and raised my eyebrows at Sherlock behind Ashlyn's back. Normally, if forced to engage in conversation, he would be quite standoffish, usually giving monosyllabic answers at the very best. You say you play the cello was certainly not a monosyllabic answer.

"Yes. And you the violin, judging from the case in the corner?"

If I hadn't been watching for it, I would have missed the tiny twitch at the corner of my friend's mouth, as if he was going to smile. "Yes. Are you any good?"

She chuckled, a deeper sound than I thought she could make. "I do hope so. One has to be after practicing since they were seven." Her eyes gleamed, and I unconsciously tried to figure out what colour they were. Blue, perhaps. Navy blue. Although I could just as easily say that they were brown, black, or very dark green, blue was my favorite colour.

This time Sherlock did smile, but there was something shyer this time to it. Instantly, I smelled a rat. Sherlock was never shy, but one thing he was was a wicked actor. "You...you wouldn't mind giving us a demonstration, would you? I mean, only if you're comfortable." He added, as if trying to be hasty.

What a devil! I thought in disbelief, narrowing my eyes at him. He ignored me, kept himself fixated on Ashlyn. Obviously, she had researched us before coming here, otherwise she wouldn't have known of Sherlock's deducing habit. And obviously she was trying to make an impression, considering her peculiar introduction. He was trying to lead her out of her comfort zone, trying to make her make a mistake. I felt sorry for the poor girl.

But Ashlyn matched his grin, and it was a bit too knowing for my taste. "Oh, I wouldn't mind at all. Give me a moment to grab my case, would you?"

"Of course."

They gave each other another faux-shy smile, pretending to be oh-so-harmless. Mrs. Hudson headed back to her flat, winking at Sherlock and I. Ashlyn started out the door and I shook my head as she headed down the stairs once again. "You sly bastard." I accused him as soon as both women were out of hearing range.

His smile grew and changed as it went, going from sheepish to roughish. "I'm not doing anything." His innocent-turned-innocuous tone did not go unnoticed.

"Of course you are. She's trying so very hard to make a good impression, and there you go trying to ruin all her plans."

"Mm. I'm not trying to ruin her plans, per se..." He sat down on the couch and steepled his fingers. "I'm just trying to see how far she went to make them."

There wasn't enough time for me to reply. I could only send Sherlock a look of reprimanding as Ashlyn came back up the stairs, this time labored under the weight of a cello case. My friend resumed his gentlemanly air again and jumped from his seat to wave her into her own. She smiled in thanks.

Her cello was a beautiful thing, all polished wood and gleaming surfaces. A different smile took the place of her previously shy grin- this one was a bit more secret, a bit more real, and, for one second, I saw a little girl sitting where Ashlyn was sitting. A little girl with bright eyes that were deep green instead of dark, dark untangible colour, hair just brushing her shoulders and framing a heart-shaped face. And then the second was over and all there was was Ashlyn.

Sherlock was examining her closely, oh-so-closely, and I recognized this as his analytical mood. No details missed his keen eyes.

Ashlyn, on the other hand, didn't look like she was paying attention to him at all. She was completely and solely focused on the instrument before her as she drew out a bow and placed her cello between her legs. There was silence for three seconds as the horsehair hovered almost hesitatingly over the strings. And then there wasn't silence.

I didn't recognize the song. Somewhere, somehow, I think I might have heard it before, but other than that it was unknown to me. I just knew that it was beautiful. Dramatic and beautiful. Her fingers - how had a not seen how nimble they were before? - flew up and down the neck of her cello, pressing strings down for split seconds before attending to others. Her arm drew the bow back and forth across the strings and the yawning gap in the middle of her cello, coaxing tantalizing notes from the instrument. They hung so beautifully in the air that I swore I could see them, swore that I could reach out and touch them.

And then it was over; all too soon. I blinked and Ashlyn was putting her bow and her cello away. A curl of her hair had fallen out of the knot at the back of her neck, and her cheeks were slightly flushed. A feeling of being cheated rose up inside my throat, and for a few seconds I was tempted to clap, tempted to ask for an encore.

"Cello concerto in A minor, opus 33..." Sherlock muttered. I turned to him and was in for a surprise (I should have expected it by this time). He looked slightly dazed, which was how I felt. His eyes slid in and out of focus as he tried to abruptly pull himself back to reality. He managed it after a few seconds, shaking himself a little. I wasn't so lucky.

Looking back on it, I don't know exactly what had so riveted us to Ashlyn's music at the time. I had never even heard the song before. But there was something. Something between the notes of cello concerto in A minor, op. 33 had permanently fixed us to Ashlyn de Borough.

And looking back on it, I think everything would have been better if Sherlock had never asked her to play for us.

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