Okay, I know that I have FOUR stories I should be working on, instead of starting a new one... But I just couldn't resist. Sorry. The other stories will be also continued, don't worry.

About this one: it's a sequel to my chapter "The music of your soul", which could be found in Cyberbutterfly's and mine co-authored fic "And now for something completely different".

Also, a huge THANK YOU to sharmini for inspiring me to start writing this story.

And of course, my unending gratitude to my wonderful beta, Pilikia18.

A bit of explanation: the portions of text written in italics are actually John's dreams.

Fancy a Tuesday night concert from now on? SH.

John knew his answer the second his gaze fell on Sherlock's note. It was the same answer he had given to Sherlock during that memorable first meeting in their future flat.

Oh God, yes.

It was simple, really. Because the moment those words had left his mouth, he knew he was hooked.

Scratch that. Try addicted. Fully, desperately, and undeniably addicted to the mystery, wild chases across London, danger, and mayhem that was Sherlock's daily life.

Addicted to the brilliant and crazy man who was living that life.

Addicted to Sherlock.

It was never easy - sometimes intolerable enough for John to start contemplating leaving for good without the backward glance. A couple of times he even did, only to return again a few days later. Sherlock had never asked him about those occasions, but John remembered the expression of relief flashing in the younger man's grey-blue eyes. It was gone the next moment, but for John it had been enough to catch its meaning.

He had been missed.

And just like that, it kept happening. Step by step, touch by touch, little by little, they were getting closer to each other. Well, at least as close as they could get considering Sherlock being a high-functioning sociopath and John always respecting his friend's privacy (even if Sherlock totally failed to reciprocate).

John was okay with that. Having seen much in his life, he understood the concept 'everything in this world comes with a price' perfectly - which hadn't stopped him from arguing with Sherlock though, if he deemed it necessary.

It was one of the recurring arguments that had forced John to execute his clarinet-involving plan and, in turn, resulted in the form of the note, which John was currently staring at.

His decision made, he took the music paper from the fridge, wrote his answer and left it on the kitchen table…

When John returned home in the early evening, Sherlock wasn't there; but a new note was waiting for him on the kitchen table – again on the music paper.

Good. Suggestions? SH.

It was John's turn to pick the music for their next performance, then. He did an extensive web-search, placed an order online and finally left the newly purchased book on the kitchen table, opening it on the desired page.

They had barely seen each other the last few days, but with John's new job and Sherlock's new case that wasn't unusual. Sherlock texted John quite often with important questions, and John kept the fridge stocked with precooked food, sticking reminders for Sherlock to eat on various surfaces in the flat.

And, of course, there was their recent musical correspondence.

The book was missing from the table the next morning; there were scanned sheets in its place, and a note.

Bet you hadn't left yourself a copy. Those are for you. Tuesday night, my room. SH.

Smiling, John wrote "I'll be there" beneath, managed to find a few minutes for simple breakfast and left for work. He had three days till Tuesday, and that meant he needed to start learning his piece this evening. So he took the pages with him in order to try and get the first impression of what exactly he was supposed to be playing. Granted, he chose the piece himself, and he liked it from the beginning when he actually heard it; but hearing and playing was a big difference. He still had a few doubts about the level of his skill, and having Sherlock as the other part in their duet was actually like having some sort of standard. He simply couldn't afford to be careless about the whole thing because, if they were going to play it, it ought to be nothing but beautiful.

When he got home after work, John was pleasantly surprised to see Sherlock in his usual reclined position on the sofa. The thin genius was engrossed in a familiar book, studying it intently and from time to time writing something on the pages. Hearing his flatmate stumbling tiredly into the living room, the detective raised his head, looked at John for a few seconds, and then turned his attention back to the book.

"Evening, John," he said thoughtfully.

"Evening, Sherlock," the ex-army medic slid the strap of his workbag from his shoulder, dropping it onto the floor near his chair, and pulled his jacket off. "So, the case is finished, I take it?"

"Not quite," the younger man replied distractedly. "Well, technically Lestrade has caught the suspect, or so he thinks. He is annoyingly sure about that."

"And you disagree?"

"If it was otherwise, I wouldn't be sitting here now, John," Sherlock said in irritation, throwing his book aside. "But you're not satisfied with your work either, I see."

John sat down and rubbed his face with his hands. "It's not as bad as it looks."

Sherlock smirked. "Keep telling yourself that, John," he reached out and picked up the book. "It took a minute and a half for you to walk up the stairs; you keep rolling your shoulder and you're obviously favouring your leg. Shall I continue?"

"I didn't expect it to be easy, Sherlock," John replied defensively. "I can manage, don't worry."

"I guess it's contagious," the detective grumbled, snapping the book shut. "Okay, what about dinner?"

"In or out?" John enquired shortly.

"I prefer to stay here," Sherlock stretched languidly, putting his arms behind his head. "And besides, the fridge is fully stocked, thanks to you. I even promise to help you with the preparation, if you want."

The doctor's eyes followed his friend's movement with accustomed appreciation. "That would be marvellous."

"Good," the detective rose from the sofa in one fluid motion. "Let's get started, then. And after that we can practice together."

John nodded, and the two friends moved into the kitchen to continue their quiet evening together…

Despite Sherlock's obvious disapproval, John continued working in the clinic, although he managed to negotiate a less stressful schedule for himself. That new arrangement allowed John to save his strength considerably, which in turn made his practice sessions more effective.

Sherlock spent those three days at home, adamant in his decision to wait until Lestrade would realise his mistake and call him back.

"It's not 'if', John, it's 'when'," Sherlock said confidently. "I know who the killer is and where he is now. I even made sure that he wouldn't harm anyone ever again."

"How?" John asked, not at all liking his friend's triumphant expression.

"Doesn't matter," Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. "The point is…"

"To prove that you're clever once again, I get it," John interrupted, cringing inwardly.

'There are some things in the world that would never change, and Sherlock will always be Sherlock,' the blond doctor thought with resignation. 'It's time to get used to it.'

The detective looked at him intently, but said nothing. It was a recurring topic in their conversations, and it always led them nowhere, so they gradually got used to curtail it just like Sherlock did now, picking up his violin.

"I'll go first, then," he announced, and John got up to retrieve his clarinet, nodding briefly as he went upstairs.

They had rehearsed together during the last three days, usually in the evening; but they had played their parts separately, so when one of them was playing, the other was listening, and vice versa. It was their mutual agreement to perform the actual duet only on Tuesday night.

Which, by the way, happened to be this night. 4 A.M., as always.

Sherlock played through his part fluently, with his eyes closed, and John allowed himself to get caught up in the music – so deep, that Sherlock actually had to physically shake him out of it. It took nearly three minutes for John to get back to reality, and all that time Sherlock was crouching in front of him, his hands on John's shoulders and his grey-blue eyes searching his friend's face intently.

"I'm okay," John reassured him finally, and Sherlock backed away, reclaiming the sofa once again.

"Guess it was good, then," he surmised, visibly flattered by John's reaction.

"Extraordinary," the blond-haired man confirmed. "My turn, right?"

Sherlock leaned back and closed his eyes. "Take your time, we have all night."

"No, I'm… perfectly ready," John raised his clarinet to his lips, but Sherlock suddenly opened his eyes.

"On the other hand, we can play the whole thing after your part, and let you sleep till morning. How does that sound?"

"Marvellous."

"So be it," and Sherlock closed his eyes…

They played in perfect unison, the beautiful music swirling around them, pulling John deeper with each sound, and he swayed slightly, following it. The sound of Sherlock's violin held him captive, mesmerized, unable to do anything but submit willingly to its strong pull. He risked opening his eyes, trying to see how Sherlock was reacting; and the moment he did it, he felt his breath catch in his throat.

His friend stood in the middle of the room, the grey-blue eyes open wide, unseeing; a dreamy expression on his normally impassive face, and his hands… Like two pale exotic birds they moved gracefully in the air, living their own life and making John want to weep quietly from overwhelming joy and contentment.

It couldn't last long, and it didn't. The moment the last sound dissolved in the air, they both took a few shaky steps and fell into their armchairs, completely drained and exhausted, but at the same time immensely satisfied.

"Sherlock," John managed to whisper.

The detective hummed quietly, and gave a small wave with his hand, encouraging him to continue.

"Thank you," the doctor breathed out, closing his eyes.

Sherlock hummed again. "We need to get you into your room. No good for you to sleep here."

"Doesn't matter," John mumbled, already half-asleep. "Comfy."

"Not healthy," the dark-haired man contradicted, summoning all his remaining strength and pushing himself out of the chair. John, looking at him through half-lidded eyes, honestly envied the graceful ease with which Sherlock managed to cross the room and haul him upright. "Okay, up you go. Into your room and in your bed, pronto."

They staggered together up the stairs and into John's room, and Sherlock carefully deposited his drowsy flatmate on the bed.

"Good night and pleasant dreams," following a sudden urge, Sherlock reached out and stroked a hand through John's short hair.

The blond-haired doctor sighed in utter content. "Night, Sherlock," he murmured, already drifting away.

The detective turned around and left the room, a soft smile playing on his lips.

It was an exceptionally good night, he decided, walking down the stairs…

The flat was shrouded in semi-darkness and too quiet, so Sherlock clearly was out again, John decided. Funny, even in his dream his flatmate was never resting, always absorbed in his work. The ex-army doctor smiled slightly and reached out towards the light switch in the living room, when a familiar sound made him stop.

It was the sound of Sherlock's violin. And it definitely was coming from John's bedroom.

The thin genius was violating his privacy again. In his own dream. How unoriginal.

Rolling his eyes, John quickly scaled the stairs and pulled the door open.

And then promptly froze on the spot.

The room was bathed in warm yellow light from a dozen candles. And it was definitely different – at least from the one he remembered. It was tasteful and cosy, though, so John accepted that change.

But there was another mystery in his room – a man, clad in a splendid maroon velvet dressing gown, reclining on John's coach and holding Sherlock's violin. The positioning of candles, however, left the corner of the room with the coach in shadow, so the doctor could barely make out a few details about the stranger, but the shock of ginger hair was irresistibly drawing his attention.

"Hello," he said at last, still trying to see his guest more clearly.

"John!" the stranger exclaimed with excitement, his voice sounding somewhat familiar. "Finally! I was starting to worry. Where have you been?"

"I'm sorry, but..," John began, but right at that moment his enigmatic guest put the violin aside and rose from the coach, coming into the light. The ex-army medic took a good look and staggered back. "Sherlock?"

The ginger maverick frowned slightly. "Of course it's me, John, who else? Is something wrong? You look rather pale."

"No, it's just..," John shook his head, trying to come in terms with the strange situation. "What are you doing in my room?"

A guilty expression appeared on the ginger-haired man's face. "I'm sorry to barge in so unceremoniously, but I needed to show you something."

"Another one of your experiments, I guess? I hope it isn't harmful," John replied long-sufferingly.

"Experiments?" the strange dream version of Sherlock looked at him in confusion. "What are you talking about, John?"

"Your work, Sherlock. Experiments. Cases. Solving mysteries. That kind of stuff."

Confusion on the younger man's face was rapidly transforming into concern. "John, are you sure you all right?"

"Yes, why?"

"I think you're mistaking me for someone else, John. Are you sure you haven't hit your head or something?"

"Yes, I'm sure. And you are Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective… Why are you laughing?"

The younger man waved his hands helplessly, caught in a bout of honest belly laughter, tears streaming from his eyes. John had to wait nearly five minutes for Sherlock to finally calm down and recover the ability to speak.

"That's why I really like you, John," Sherlock said finally, still chuckling. "You never cease to amaze me. Such imagination!"

"What do you mean?" it was John's turn to be confused.

"Let me show you something," the younger man turned, bending down to retrieve a painting, which was leaned against the coach. "Here. Look."

It was a picture of their living room in Victorian style, painted in rich colours; stunningly beautiful, John decided.

"What do you think?" Sherlock asked smugly.

"It's great," the blond doctor admitted. "Who's the painter?"

"Me. I'm an artist, John, remember?"

John started to chuckle, but thought better of it when Sherlock's face instantly obtained the deeply hurt expression. "Okay, so you're an artist. And we're flatmates, I guess?"

"Exactly," Sherlock placed his painting on John's bed. "It's for you, by the way. Since you'd become so fond of our flat during this week… I didn't expect you to be so sentimental."

A week? But that means they had to have moved in when he and the real Sherlock…

No, it couldn't be…

He frantically tried to remember his dream after their first night concert, and came up with nothing.

He'd had that dream, obviously; he just didn't happen to remember it.

But this Sherlock did, and it meant having an advantage, however small it was.

A bit not good, as the real Sherlock would've labelled that situation.

Unsettled by his strange behaviour, the ginger-haired man finally made an attempt to breach the sudden gap. "Tea?" he asked hopefully. "You look tired, John, I think a cup of herbal tea would be very beneficial."

"I think so," John agreed, glad to have a distraction.

"Good!" Sherlock exclaimed, rubbing his hands together gleefully and darting towards the door.

John started to turn around, preparing to follow his cheerful flatmate, and therefore was totally unprepared when two long arms sneaked around his body and a chaste kiss was placed on his temple. It happened in a flash, and Sherlock dashed away, leaving John stunned and open-mouthed.

Well, that DEFINITELY was something new.

"John, do you happen to know where we put the tea?" Sherlock called to him from downstairs, and John rolled his eyes, thankful for the restored normalcy. And, what was more important, he really happened to know where the tea was.

"Try the cupboard on the left, the one above the sink," he called back, walking towards the door.

"Got it!" Sherlock announced happily a moment later. "Thanks! Are you coming?"

John's brain chose to do a sudden detour into the gutter at that moment and his voice definitely sounded a little strained when he yelled "In a minute!"

When John got in the kitchen, Sherlock was already pouring the tea into two cups. Here, in the bright light, John could see more clearly and he used that opportunity to take a good look at his flatmate.

Truth be said, this version of Sherlock was quite dashing, mostly because of his ginger hair. The vibrant colour made him look younger somehow, and less bitter. All in all, John found that he liked what he saw; and, judging by Sherlock's knowing smile, the younger man wasn't opposed to the fact of John appreciating his appearance.

"Toast or biscuits, John?" the painter enquired, rummaging through the cupboard. "We have jam, by the way."

"Biscuits would be lovely, thank you," John decided, and Sherlock immediately placed a pack of chocolate-covered goodies on the table, then sat down across of John. The ex-army medic took a sip of his tea. "Mmm, tastes good."

"It's a family recipe," Sherlock said, reaching for a biscuit. "My mother used to brew it when I was little."

"Yeah… It's a funny thing, but I don't seem to remember… Have I asked you about your family?"

"No, you haven't. Actually, we haven't had much time for talks, what with moving in and sorting things out… Don't worry; I think that we'll be able to fill that void of knowledge about each other very soon. We can start right now, if you wish. What do you want to know?"

"Why you'd become an artist?"

"I liked to draw since childhood, and my mother encouraged me to pursue an art career. She was a musician, a pianist, the only person who had accepted me unconditionally."

"And your father?"

"He was a politician, like my brother is now. I wasn't exactly close to father nor am I close to Mycroft. It's complicated, really, and I don't…"

"That's okay," John hastened to placate Sherlock, seeing that the younger man was becoming frustrated. "My family isn't picture perfect either."

John always tried to avoid telling anyone about his family problems. He still hadn't come to terms with them, and during the rare occasions when he chose to talk about it, his whole demeanour clearly betrayed his distress. And it was happening right now, judging by the fact that Sherlock's hand suddenly covered his, squeezing lightly.

The younger man looked at him sympathetically and stroked his hand with the tips of his fingers. "Don't torture yourself, John. We both decided to start a new life, remember? So let's just turn over the page and continue living. Oh, and by the way: I'm going to Paris tomorrow, and I would appreciate your company on that trip. How about it?"

Paris? Tomorrow?

This dream kept getting better with each moment, John decided. If only it would last…

"I would love to - if you really want me along," he said, trying to curb his excitement.

"Oh, I definitely want you, believe me," Sherlock replied in a low voice, his eyes twinkling mischievously, and John felt a pleasant shiver run through his body.

Better and better still…

"John! John, wake up! John!"

A hand was gripping his shoulder, shaking him insistently, and John jerked upright, almost knocking Sherlock – of course, who else would it be? – off his feet.

The detective managed to keep his balance by latching onto John's tee-shirt with both hands, and the older man gripped Sherlock's wrists automatically, steadying him.

The dream still lingered in his mind, and it took him a couple of minutes to push the vision of ginger-haired Sherlock aside and accept the real Sherlock again.

"Lestrade has given up, John," Sherlock announced triumphantly. "I already texted him the address. Hurry up, John; we'll leave in five minutes!"

With that, the thin genius whirled out of the room, leaving John's mind scrambling furtively in order to get a grip on the reality.

The possibility of going totally bonkers in a short period of time was becoming frighteningly real, John realised, getting out of bed and starting to dress…

Well... Questions, suggestions, opinions? Considering the fact that the world of dreams doesn't abide by the rules of the real world, of course...