Your scales and your arpeggios

It had been quite some time since Sherlock had plummeted from the hospital roof, and despite the constant nightmares John endured, life goes on. 221B Baker Street was changing. John noticed so about several months ago when he unlocked his door to a terrible screeching sound. Something that sounded like a velociraptor breeding with a deflating balloon. Upon rushing to Sherlock's old room he had found Mycroft strumming the bow over a violin.

"Really."

", if you don't mind, I'm paying homage to my brother."

"Yeah, I would turn in my grave if I heard that. Besides, you weren't close...the two of you. What good is it paying homage to him now." John spat bitterly. Mycroft lowered the instrument off his shoulder, eyes downcast. "I understand that Sherlock and I were a bit...hostile...to each other. But I still loved him. He was my brother." he struggled to find the words. "My..baby brother..." John inhaled deeply.

The room still smelled of Sherlock. Not that Sherlock smelled bad, he just had a certain musk about him. Something about the smell of tea, bedsheets, rosin, and various chemicals made the room uniquely his. Since his suicide John had found himself in Sherlock's room many times to inhale the scent he tried so hard to preserve. It may have seemed creepy, but it helped him get through the day knowing he could curl up on Sherlock's old couch, tracing the smiley face shot into the wall. Aware of the uncomfortable silence, Mycroft spoke again. "Well, in any case I have taken it upon myself to learn the violin." "Uh-huh, and just how-exactly- are you learning?" "I'm just sight reading is all." John really knew he shouldn't ask, because both Holmes brothers had this way of making ordinary people out of geniuses. "What are you sight rea-"

Oh.

That's why.

The page was a mess of black ink. It was splattered into runs, 16ths and 32nds, the spray of which ended up in the highest of registers. Sherlock could do it...he'd seen Sherlock play it. Mycroft, however, could not play twinkle twinkle little star. "You know what, I'm going to shower and make myself some tea. You're welcome to stay, Mycroft, and I would definitely look into buying a beginners book. You know...for reference."

John slid beneath the tightly tucked sheets of his bed and sighed. During the length of his shower Mycroft had disappeared. He had hoped that was the case, because he did not feel like sleeping through that ruckus. A tiny pang of pain rang through his chest. He couldn't sleep when Sherlock played either. When Sherlock performed his private concerts in 221B, John -and sometimes - were the only audience. John would be slumped over in a chair, pretending to doze off, while watching Sherlock pace the room with his violin snug on his shoulder. His long, slender fingers were made perfect to slide across the strings, and the army doctor treasured every time he picked up the darn thing. Though it was never really secret. On a few occasions Sherlock had handed him coffee in the morning and announced the next piece he would be playing, and if John was going to listen he may as well listen to classical music properly...not all hunched over.

'I miss it. I miss him.'

The blond closed his eyes. He felt as if he could still see the ceiling. That same ceiling he sat and stared at after returning from war. It was white, and cold, and nothing like what this place meant to him.

'I should paint the ceiling...or shoot it.' he snorted to himself. The man unbuttoned his night shirt and turned over in his empty bed. It was already 11 p.m. John would normally be up until 2 or 3 in the morning working on a case, but since Sherlock's passing he had taken a job at the hospital. Sleep was more precious now than ever.

Another sigh.

"Goodnight...Sherlock."

And with that the doctor slipped into sleep, hardly noticing the rustling coming from above that white, cold ceiling.

-TBC-