"Brother-mine, where is my violin? And my sheet music, for that matter…"

Mycroft watched with an air of carefully detached interest as his brother walked around his now uninhibited flat. "Your John Watson took them with him when he left."

"What would he do that for?"

"To learn, of course."

"Yes, but why?"

"My best guess would be that it was the only way he felt close to you, brother-mine. Perhaps you should pay a visit. He has done little else in the past three years expect play. Even I must admit he had gotten quite good."

"Why haven't I heard about this before?"

"You never asked." Mycroft took a deep breath. "He's at the clinic today, recently got a job there in the past year. When he gets home he sometimes eats and then spends at least an hour playing before he moves on to something else." Mycroft moved ever closer to the exit of the flat.

"When will I be able to return?" His mess of a younger brother didn't spare him a glance as he opened the door, much too preoccupied staring at the space that his violin and music stand normally occupied.

"Give me three days, Sherlock, and then make contact. If I were you, I would be expecting mixed reactions from all parties. You know that this lie will not go smoothly, with John especially."

"Yes, yes. I am aware. Go and stop a war, Mycroft. Keep with the diet, it's been doing you good. Or is that just the new goldfish in your life?"

Mycroft could feel the smirk from the doorway. This was in jest and he heard the silent thank you anyhow. "Good day, brother." You're welcome.

Sherlock followed his brother's advice that night. He stood in the hallway outside of John's flat: a dismal place really, and listened. When he heard the first couple of notes, at first he was shocked by how right his brother was. John was good. Then he recognised the piece.

It had been the only thing that had kept him sane in the past three years. Between the streets, torture, and starvation, that was the one thing that reminded him of what he could come home to. It was John's song; or rather, the song he had been composing about John. It had been mentally working on it for three years, itching to put it down on sheet music. That had been the first thing he'd done, actually, as soon as he came back. After a shower, of course. To hear it being played, not just in his head but out loud by John-

It was too much. He could feel the emotions that he poured into it seep back out through the notes and under the doorway. He could feel the longing and admiration that he put into it repeat itself to him as despair, grief, and melancholy.

He sat in the hallway and listened. He listened to the parts that John had added, smoothly integrating his own notes as to create a fluid transition to his own, individual contribution to the piece. His was about him, Sherlock. He felt the rush of the chase, the love of the game, and the wistfulness of what had been. The notes fell sharply, dangerously, almost expertly. It was all masterfully done. This had to have been the piece that John played the most.

The song faded and Sherlock was overcome with what should have been and what finally could be if he made himself know. As it was, he heeded his brother's plea and left, unnoticed. He walked back to 221B and started mentally adjusting what he added while he had been away with what he had just heard. It could be a beautiful duet, he realised, if John would have him after this.

There was really only one way to find out, wasn't there?

It was John's day off. He got up, limped into the kitchen, made tea and toast, and skimmed over the news. When the tea got cold and the toast too soggy with jam, John went over to the music stand and shuffled through Sherlock's composition. He had found it when he took the violin and Sherlock's binder of sheet music. After all, what good is a violin if it wasn't played?

The composition had been in its own folder, with nothing but 'John' written on the top of the first page. After he had brushed up on his own skill of reading it, he had made sure he could work the bow without making anyone's ear bleed- he had made sure he could play it as close to a professional as possible, and then he added his own notes to it.

(He never played with a mute, unless it was late at night when he either couldn't sleep or woke up sweating, his swallowed screams making his throat raw.)

It took him a solid two years before he worked up the courage to change what Sherlock had made. After he had gotten a grip on 'John', he had started working on his own piece and named it 'Sherlock'. In his mind, it was always an extension to 'John'. Neither one of them sounded right without the other awhile now. He slowly started to add bits of 'Sherlock' into the ending of 'John', and turned it into almost something of a dance. John kept beats open where Sherlock could have played, skipped over notes that should have had someone else stringing them along.

This morning, the sheets were not how he had left them.

They were stacked neatly into a pile next to the stand with a sticky note on top of them.

Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.

He could never mistake that handwriting.

With his hand as steady as it had been in three years, he pulled off the sticky note and dared to hope. If this was Sherlock, there would be only one way to answer.

John set up the sheets, skimmed over them, and started playing.

It started off how it always did. He could feel his entrance into Bart's lab, the last night at the bedsit, the first chase and lost cane. He felt the emotion of having someone kill for you. Someone who you had known for less than 72 hours. He felt the hope of a possible friendship with another person. He was carried along with the notes as they swelled with hopefulness and pride. It was in the music, how guilty Sherlock felt, after trying to drug him. Then the music picked up again; not as happy and hopeful as it was before, but more resigned. Sherlock had let himself accept the fact of something that John could still not name.

He was so lost in the music that he almost missed the gentle entrance of a second violin moments before what he had understood as the months before the Fall, the slow pace of knowing the betrayal that Sherlock had known was going to take place. The pace sped up as it got closer and closer to the end. He understood. He had made this duet and he knew what his part was.

His part in this was to lead. He was in charge of how this was to work. He made the adjustments, he would set the perimeters. Sherlock would know how to follow, how to anticipate the pattern of his chords.

John played by himself for most of 'John'; and as the pace sped up as it got closer and closer to the end, it was here, where John had added a sharp crescendo. He made one final swipe across the strings, and Sherlock, because who else could it be, took control of John's piece about him. He followed along, giving it a quiet undertone, adding in the notes that Sherlock left out. They played together and when John got to the last page, he saw that more had been added.

When the other, still unseen violin, didn't pause, John played the music in front of him. It was soft and clement. The answering piece that Sherlock played was forbearing and humble, full of sorrow. It sounded as if he was breaking, ruins of emotion cracking under indescribable anguish and heartache. There were moments during the quiet that sharp, shrill note rang out. It called out to John's piece, begging for the kindness and support it so desperately was in need of.

With the aide of John, he could feel the music building upon itself, mending what had been too exhausted and defeated to go on its own. The melody built up, their chorus sonorous until they both slowly withdrew.

As the last note slowly faded out, John felt more whole than he had in three, long years. He gave the last sheet of music one last, long look, noting that it looked unfinished, before dropping his arm and bow down to his side.

Still vibrating with symphonious of the music, John turned around. As he had hoped, Sherlock was standing there, violin and bow hanging limply at his side. He looked the same as he did when he jumped that horrible, unforgiving day at Bart's.

He looked disconsolate, and now that John had moved closer, he could see how tired he must have been. His hair was longer and he wouldn't meet John's eyes, almost huddled into himself as if he expected John to hit him or to yell abuse.

It was the fear of being rejected that had Sherlock carefully slide into his piece. It was the possibility that he could have been turned away and done with that kept Sherlock at arm's length.

With his eyes burning and jaw clenched to keep the shaking sobs silent, John put his violin and bow down. He closed the distance between them, forgetting his cane, and gently pried the violin and bow that Sherlock was holding and put it down on the coffee table next to him.

John looked up and raised a now shaking hand to Sherlock's face. His thumb brushed a cheekbone. He wrapped his arms around his neck and pulled him down into a tight hug, afraid to let him go lest he disappear.

Sherlock returned the hug with an equal amount of force, each man with their face buried into the other's neck.

"You utter bastard." John's voice was hoarse, rough with unshed tears.

"I know, John. God, I know." Sherlock kept his voice low, his own concealed tears threatening to spill over. "I am so sorry. I am so very very sorry."

"It's alright, Sherlock. It's going to be okay. It'll all be okay. It has to be alright."