Sherlock Holmes could not stop playing his violin. In just a week, he had written down two separate songs and kept playing another.
One of his works sounded like a waltz; the other sounded rather normal and common, just a simple composition of notes with a common time signature. The third was a combination of notes that Sherlock couldn't figure out into an actual song; he kept trying to match it into various time signatures, but nothing seemed to work.
Most of Sherlock's music would be based upon a person: their personality, their actions, even a little bit of how he felt about those persons. These pieces were different from everything else he had composed before in that way: None of these pieces had anything to do with anyone. They were from the private little case that was put to his attention by Mrs. Hudson. It really wasn't even a case; not one that John would bother to put on his blog, anyway.
Recently, every day when she brought him his tea, Mrs. Hudson would bring a little note along with it. On the small envelope, it would be addressed to "Sherlock Holmes" in different forms of handwriting. It was always written in golden Sharpie on a piece of evergreen card-stock, which was what the homemade envelope was made out of; inside, there would be a piece of paper with a group of notes. Sherlock would play each of these notes in the order they came in, and they came out to be the beginning of each of the songs he had written. So, he figured, whoever wrote the notes must be a musician, or must at least know how to play some sort of instrument, even if they could only pluck strings.
Another envelope had come this morning. This was the fourth envelope, and it had been just over a week after the first one arrived. By this time, Sherlock was treating the occurrence as if it was any other case: he posted each note on the wall, comparing the handwriting with the handwriting of those he knew.
The handwriting changed with each note: one was curly and fancy, as if someone took time to write it (most likely Mycroft trying to be discreet); one was blocky and simple, much like his own (Lestrade?); another was small and hurried but neat, suggesting that they were used to writing notes (this was obviously John's writing). This fourth one brought a new handwriting: it was small and elegant, and the initials of his own name were much larger in size than the rest of his name. Sherlock didn't recall anyone who had such writing as this.
Another thing Sherlock couldn't figure out was this: Why was this anonymous person sending him these notes over a span of time? Surely it would be easier to just send him the whole composition at one moment. Why was the character even anonymous? Besides, considering John was in on this, then it must be someone he knew. Mary? No, she wouldn't be one to inspire Sherlock to do such trivial things. Molly? Can't be, she's too busy at St. Bart's (as far as he knew). Lestrade? Also quite busy failing at solving cases on time with Dimmock. (That was mostly Dimmock's fault.) Mrs. Hudson? After all, she was the one giving them to him, and maybe she was tired of hearing no music. No, the whole scheme is too clever for her. Same thing with John; plus, he had a baby on the way. Mycroft? He wouldn't do something as pointless as this, not with the elections and wars he continuously referred to.
Sherlock pondered the meaning of this case over these new notes. The notes stimulated trains of thought wonderfully. When he got tired of walking around, he placed his violin down and sat in his chair, cross-legged and his hands in that silent, pondering, prayer-like pose he always assumed when thinking about a deep and complicated case.
The next morning, Mrs. Hudson found him in his chair, his eyes closed. He was sleeping so soundly that he didn't even flinch when she dropped the fifth note in his lap.
When Sherlock did wake up, he was still in the same pose, the note still there in the space between his torso and his leg. Eagerly holding it up, he saw that the handwriting was the same as before: a large S H with the rest of his name small.
Upon opening this envelope, instead of receiving the notes, there was a message:
"I'm closer than you think."
Sherlock had figured as much.
But who could this mysterious person be? They certainly weren't The Woman; she's too far away to be able to send letters with no stamps or address. Lestrade can't play music on anything, not even his vocal chords. John and Mary are much too busy with their own family. Mrs. Hudson's only experience with music was the music she listened to while she exotically danced in her earlier years. (Let's not dwell on that too long.) Molly...?
"Oh, come now, are you seriously considering that Miss Hooper is behind all this, Sherlock?" Mycroft interrupted Sherlock's thoughts in his mind palace.
"Despite its high improbability, there is always a chance that she is musically talented. Her hands tell of her pathological work; her feet tell of a possible piano at home that she would play. I would only know this as a fact if I could see her bare ankle; I have not, however, which causes doubt and therefore causes me to disregard the idea nearly altogether," Sherlock reasoned with his currently metaphorical brother.
Mycroft smiled smugly. "Yet you have retained the information through all of your cases. Perhaps you value Molly Hooper in ways you haven't made out yet," he almost teased.
"Why would I value her? She is only of use to me when I need proof," Sherlock scoffed.
"Which, may I remind you, is at least thrice a month."
Sherlock wanted to punch the superiority out of his brother's face. He would have, too, if he wasn't caught up in other thoughts. Even now, in this small internal disagreement, he could hear the queer tune playing over and over in his mind.
Standing up and taking his violin, he began playing the notes again. He changed the tempo again, adding notes, changing them, changing the pitch, making the notes minor to each other, and at one point mixing the notes up to come up with something new. This resulted in a new song; but no matter how he tried, Sherlock couldn't figure anything out with the original set of notes.
Annoyed, Sherlock sent John a text. It was already evening.
"MEET BAKER ST"
"Can't, Mary's in pain."
"I NEED HELP"
"Ask Lestrade! Not replying anymore"
He kicked the wallpaper. If he couldn't get John to fill him in, whom could he ask?
Sherlock began humming the tune again to calm himself down. He closed his eyes, his hands moving as if he were conducting an orchestra for a bit; then he stopped himself.
Music is almost never a practically convenient skill; don't meddle in something trivial for too long, he told himself.
For now, he would have to put the "case" aside and move on to other things; perhaps he just needed a cadaver to experiment on.
Experimenting on corpses was one of Sherlock's favorite pastimes. There was always something new to explore in the world of forensics: something that both he and Dr. Hooper knew well. There was a certain finesse in all sciences, but forensic science was one of the most articulate and practical. This was part of the reason that Sherlock loved the science so much. For him, as his friends knew, astrophysiology and other space-related sciences were unimportant and would have made no difference in everyday life.
Sherlock considered testing what would happen if he poked the prominent vein of his own hand with a pinhead; however, he had no interest in hurting himself in the name of science. Not today, anyway. Maybe when the case of the evergreen envelopes was solved.
Taking some ears out of the fridge, Sherlock began to hum the tune again as he set up another experiment.
"Sherlock, why do you want me to write your name on a piece of paper?" Lestrade's right hand held a pen which was quickly moving back and forth, signifying nervousness a day after Sherlock found the proof that the ears had been cut by a blunt knife and not by a sharp educational instrument. The inspector had probably figured out that the technically amateur detective in front of him was going to compare his handwriting with that from a case in which he was directly involved.
"I need samples of different people's handwriting. It's for a case which I am not at liberty to mention directly to any one person at the moment. Now please write down my full name on the paper. Thank you." Sherlock's gloved hand snatched the paper out of Lestrade's hand when he held it up. "This will be put to good use," he muttered half to himself. Within a minute, Sherlock was out the door, already making his way to the Diogenes Club.
"Mycroft, I need you to write my name in the most pretentious way you possibly can on this piece of paper," Sherlock commanded when he met his self-proclaimed arch-enemy, handing his brother a flashcard.
Mycroft raised his eyebrow, glancing up at Sherlock with a questioning look before scribbling Sherlock Holmes onto the card. "There you are, brother dear, and don't keep me too long; I have a war to declare," he said, with a disinterested air.
It would probably be beneficial to mention what Sherlock was doing, in case you haven't figured it out already. Sherlock was collecting the two samples needed in order to prove or disprove his hypothesis that John, Mycroft, and Lestrade were all playing some sort of practical joke on him.
At least, that was the plan; however, when Sherlock compared the writing on the wall and the writing he had found, he remembered that this only solved a small part of the problem. John, Mycroft, and Lestrade had all written his name; but who was the last person? She was definitely a she, and a she that Sherlock new, but he could never really truly understand any person of the opposite sex, so he had nothing to go on. But what was that, at the corner of the paper? The angle of the light showed a previously invisible mark of oil.
"Oh, stupid, stupid! How could I not notice?" he criticized himself. On the top left-hand corner of the most recent note, there was a clear fingerprint for all to see. Sherlock paced loudly, attracting the attention of the landlady downstairs.
"Sherlock, you're back so soon!" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed, walking up the staircase. "I thought you'd be out for another hour or so."
"Ah, Mrs. Hudson. Your helpfulness continues to grow," the private detective complimented with a gentlemanly smile. "Could you do me a favour and call Molly Hooper for me? I believe that her access to a laboratory would be excellent at the present moment. Tell her I have a fingerprint to examine on a dark green envelope as well, would you? Thank you. Let me know when you receive a reply." With that, Mrs. Hudson left the room, muttering something about not being a housekeeper or servant or something of the sort.
Now the only thing Sherlock could do was wait. Taking up his violin once again, he played a random minor tune that he didn't bother writing down.
"Yoo-hoo!" Mrs. Hudson's motherly voice interrupted along with a knock on the door. "That piece was beautiful. I've just received a voice-mail asking for you to go down to St. Bart's. Miss Hooper said she was ready to test whatever fingerprints you found on the envelope."
"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. I don't think I'll be gone as long this time." Sherlock swung his black coat over his head and onto his shoulders, sliding his hands into his gloves as if it was second nature before plucking the envelope in question off the wall and waving goodbye to his landlady.
"He never stops moving, that man," she said, shaking her head.
"Ah, Molly! I am indebted to you. You seem to have left your home very quickly; I hope you were not occupied with something else of importance when I contacted you." The detective looked down at the pathologist with something slightly resembling worry.
Molly Hooper smiled. "No, it's nothing. Listen: I'm going to hop on over to the storage room across the hall to get some equipment for that ear case you were working on-"
"You don't have to, I've already solved it. It was the husband who killed his own wife and her not-so-secret lover in a moment of fury. Shame he was holding a hammer at that moment," Sherlock absentmindedly muttered, partly to himself.
"Oh." Molly paused. "I'll be getting stuff from there anyway." With that, Sherlock was left alone.
Before she had gone, Sherlock, as observant as ever, had noticed that her locks were curled, despite the ponytail that pulled at her light-colored hair. She wore comfortable black heels, which exposed her ankles; the way her right ankle moved while walking told Sherlock that his theory that she played the piano was false. Besides, she wouldn't have been a good candidate for the writing of the notes. He couldn't make out exactly what she was wearing underneath the lab-coat, but she was certainly self-conscious about her outfit, because she had kept wrapping the sides of it around her waist as if she were cold. Since it was of a decent temperature inside the room, she was obviously nervous.
Sherlock was left to himself for quite a while to analyse the fingerprint; or so he thought. He hadn't noticed Molly walk in, at the very least. She was writing something down when he finally noticed her. No one said anything.
The computer next to Sherlock beeped once. "Finally!" Sherlock opened the file of the fingerprint's data and compared it to the records of those he knew.
Molly took off her lab-coat unnoticed by Sherlock, who had suddenly become very confused. The fingerprint had found a match, but it was so unlikely that Sherlock found himself repeatedly trying to find another fingerprint like the specimen on the envelope, but to no avail.
Sherlock stared at the photo of the woman next to him. The fingerprint was undoubtedly hers. Therefore, the handwriting was hers. Considering he had received more than one letter in her writing, she was most likely the one who started it all. There was one flaw, however: how on earth does she relate to music? One glance back to her feet told it all: she danced.
Her long, waist-hugging flowing red dress told him that she was aiming to impress him. Sherlock will never admit it, but it worked. His multi-colored eyes darted across the asymmetric design of the sleeves, soaking in every perfect detail from her long curled coffee-colored hair to the flawless stance of a professional choreographer which he had never noticed before.
Finding Sherlock staring at her, Molly couldn't help but smile. "You need help with anything?" she teased.
Regaining his awareness of time, Sherlock rose up from his seat. "Just one question, Miss Hooper," the detective almost purred, taking the pathologist's hands in his own and smirking. "Since when were you so... attractive?" he asked playfully.
"You tell me. How long have you known me now?" Molly asked, raising an eyebrow and smiling.
"Hm… seven or so years? You've never really made me aware until now," Sherlock said, moving closer to her.
"Aware of what?" Molly dared to inch closer.
Molly could feel Sherlock's breath on her ear as he murmured one word: "You."
Sherlock moved his head back and let go of Molly's hands, holding his own behind his back and grinning before closing the gap between them, pressing his lips against her's. She was wearing lipstick.
They stayed in that position for about two seconds before Sherlock shifted, breaking that small amount of contact. After a moment or two of staring a bit awkwardly into each other's eyes, Molly reached up and ran her fingers through his hair before kissing him back with such an intensity that Sherlock found his arm muscles tensing. Her face was covered in smugness as she turned and put her lab-coat on, walking out of the lab without another word.
For a while, all Sherlock could do was stare after her with some sort of emotion he hadn't encountered before. He was so startled by her sudden fervor in the kiss that it took him a full minute to calm himself down and register that there was a piece of paper left on the table.
It was a sheet of music labeled with Sherlock's name. His face flashed with satisfaction as he read the notes; the final piece was finished. Baker Street was filled with the sound of sweet, sweet song for the rest of the week.