Praying won't do it,
Hating won't do it,
Drinking won't do it,
Fighting won't knock you out
Of my head.

Sherlock Holmes walked the streets of London in the dark, the orange embers of a cigarette his only light. He took another drag of the nicotine he was so desperately trying to quit and shook his head. Trying, for once, to get his mind to stop thinking. For the first time in his life, he wanted it to stop observing, to stop scrutinizing every detail of everything around him. For once, he wanted to be left alone by even his own thoughts.

Irene Adler is dead. That was the only thought that refused to leave him alone.

Hiding won't hide it,
Smiling won't hide it,
Like I ain't tried it.
Everyone's tried it now,
And failed somehow.

Sherlock kept pounding the pavement with his shoes, the soft 'thunk, thunk' of his rubber soles provided a small distraction from the tornado inside. "This is what I get for feeling." He muttered to himself. "Years of disconnected, emotionless case-solving, and the one time I slip…" He trailed off and threw the cigarette on the ground outside 221 B Baker Street, smashing out the embers with his nice black shoes. "I hate Christmas."

So when you gonna let me?
When you gonna let me out?

He turned the handle and went into the flat, intending to go straight upstairs to his violin. And just think.
And if you know,
How do you get up from an all time low?
I'm in pieces,
Seems like peace is
The only thing I'll never know.

How do you get up from an all time low?

He could hear John whispering to Mrs. Hudson over the tune of his violin, but he could care less that they were talking about him. He just wanted to play, to think. Think about anything else. This was a new emotion, and it was hard to process.

Everyone had gone now, and he was left to play in peace. The strokes got harder and faster as a lonely tear, the only of its kind, fell upon the strings.

I can't even find a place to start.
How do I choose between my head and heart?
Till it ceases, I never know.

The last note was held out for much longer than it should have been, but Sherlock was too busy looking out the window into the night sky; a title, etched into his mind's eye, was strewn across the stars. "The Woman".

How do you get up from an all time low?