Hello :) This is just kind of a thing...I got random inspiration and viola, here it is. :) I don't know how long it will be...I'll just have to see.
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters, and this is not mean for profit.
"No," said Sherlock, not looking up from his paper.
"You need to get out of the house. Lestrade has a case he wants you to look at, I'd say it's probably a 5 or a 6. Possibly even a 7. Go. Now," John said. He meant to sound as though he couldn't be argued with, but there was a slight note of pleading in his voice. Sherlock hadn't eaten in two days, and hadn't slept in more. He only drank when Mrs. Hudson slyly put tea in front of him when he was occupied with something else, and he sipped it absent –mindedly. He never left the flat. Instead, he sat on the couch, alternately staring at the wall, pacing, reading the paper, and composing very odd melodies on his violin. The music was beautiful, as always, but there was an odd undertone in all of the pieces, something John had never heard before.
It had started a week ago. Since then Sherlock had slept a total of twelve hours and eaten only five meals. Neither Mrs. Hudson nor John had any idea what happened or why. It was while Mrs. Hudson was out. John had come home from the hospital one day, his head full of his latest girlfriend. Then he had opened the door, and all thoughts fled his mind.
There was the sound of a violin. Sherlock was playing again. That wasn't uncommon, of course. It wasn't just his playing. It was the piece he was playing. John froze, listening intently, hoping desperately that he was wrong. More bittersweet notes floated down the stairs, chasing all doubts from his mind.
It was Her. The piece he had written when She had faked her death so well it had fooled both Holmes brothers. He had run up the stairs, his eyes wide. He paused in front of the door apprehensively, then opened the door. There was a figure silhouetted in the window.
He was standing there, staring out the window at the streets below, his grey eyes cold.
"Sherlock?" he had said, the word a question. The figure had made no response. John did not try again. At least, not that night.
"Dull," said Sherlock. The word sharp, punctuated. "The case is simple. Lestrade needs the practice, he can solve it."
"Sherlock!" John exclaimed, a wave of frustration, anger, and helplessness washing over him. Sherlock still did not look up from his paper.
"No." There was something about the way he said it, something completely definite, something no one could argue with. John took a deep breath to soothe his irritation and worry. It did very little. He thought about disobeying his tone and arguing, but it didn't seem like a good idea. Sherlock had shifted so that his back was to him, still reading the paper. John paused for a moment, thinking, then turned and took his jacket from its hook.
"Right, I'm going out. Don't wait up," he said. He walked toward the door, his hand inches from the doorknob. He turned to look at the figure behind him, shook his head, and left. He nearly ran into Mycroft, who was coming up the stairs, his movements more agitated than John had ever seen them. Mycroft barely took notice of him, and instead pushed past him and wrenched the door open.
Thank you so much for reading :) I hope you liked it. I know this isn't very long, but I think next additions will be longer. Review are very much appreciated. :D