"John, as long as you're standing there looking like you need something to do, hand me my composition book."
From the periphery of his line of sight, Sherlock watches as John's gaze travels around the room until he spots the book on the floor just a hand span too far away from the sofa to retrieve comfortably. His indolence earns him a sour expression, but that's an improvement from the raw sorrow and fatigue that had been on John's face before he realised he wasn't alone.
Even in the depths of his pain, he is desperate not to inflict his grief on those around him. But in unguarded moments, when he thinks he is unobserved, John's stiff upper lip quavers and he seems utterly lost. Though he is meant to be immune to the suffering of others, John's pain tears at Sherlock's heart. Mary had been good for John after all. She had made him happy.
But now John's beloved Mary is gone, and he is grieving.
"You could get off the sofa and get it yourself. Just as a novelty, mind," he replies sardonically.
Taking the pre-emptive strike of sarcasm as a warning, Sherlock fails to comment on John's haggard appearance or otherwise show any sign of concern. He casts a desultory glance around the room and frowns. It's another part of his performance. A harmless charade so that John can believe that hours of restless pacing, communicated by the creaking second storey floorboards, have gone undetected. He pretends to notice for the first time that the room is shrouded in the sort of darkness that suggests sensible people should be in their beds and not lounging on the sofa with a fiddle in hand or meandering aimlessly, barefoot and dishevelled, about the flat.
"It's not morning?" he says instead.
John shrugs as Sherlock interlaces his fingers and stretches out a kink in his shoulder, keeping up his indifferent pretence. "Far from it."
"Shouldn't you be asleep?" Sherlock asks after a pause. It's a safe question. It's the sort of question he might normally ask if he found John wandering in the middle of the night.
John shrugs again. "I knew you'd be up, working on the case. I thought maybe I could help."
The composition book still lies at Sherlock's feet. John crosses the room and picks it up, stares at the cover for a moment, as if he wonders how there can still be music in the world, and then hands it over. "But I see I was wrong. I guess I'll just get a cup of tea and then head back upstairs."
"John, wait." Sherlock sits up and extends his hand, brushing his fingertips against the hem of John's dressing gown. "I was working. Thinking laterally. But I've reached a point where I could use some help." He extends a piece of sheet music. A copy, naturally. The original is in the custody of Scotland Yard.
John pauses. "How?"
"Andrew Marsh was a man of eclectic interests," Sherlock explains. "Adventurer. Inventor. Avant garde musician and World War Two enthusiast, especially when it came to the field of radios."
"So?" John shrugs a third time. He's been to Marsh's crowded flat. He's seen the shelves lined with books. The display cases crammed with memorabilia. He's seen the little recording studio. The last was inevitable. That's where Marsh's body had been found.
"Think, John!" Sherlock wills John to leap to the same conclusion that had taken him hours of reconstructing Marsh's habits and methods to reach. "Music! Radio! Military radio codes," he adds, knowing the small clue should provoke John's epiphany.
In a way, the solution to the case had been breathtaking in its simplicity. Fearing for his safety, Marsh had coded the secret location of his most important work into a piece of sheet music which he'd then posted to his personal assistant. He'd trusted that she would be able to decipher the message and take appropriate measures.
It was a good idea with a mixed result. Marsh's enemies had got to Lisa Brent first, interrogating her so violently that they put her in a coma. Marsh's final instructions had been delivered as Lestrade and his team combed the crime scene for clues.
"Wait a minute." John frowns as he takes the music and studies it. His brow furrows as Sherlock picks up his violin and plays the composition from memory. It's a violent piece, full of staccato phrasing. To anyone not looking for it, the message would be lost in the noise. John's lips begin to move as he finally recognises a familiar sort of pattern. "Morse code?" he says uncertainly.
He drops onto the sofa next to Sherlock, takes up the composition book, and begins to translate the strings of musical notes into letters and then into words.
Sherlock had done the same, albeit in a much less laborious manner; sight reading, rather than scratching down a translation. But he doesn't tell that to John. He knows how much John needs this; to lose himself and, for at least a little while, forget his grief.
"It's an address. And a message," John says quietly as he hands the book to Sherlock. "Get these to Travers. And give Ponsonby my fondest regards and thanks."
"That would no doubt be Sir Neil Travers at the MoD," Sherlock surmises. "Given Mycroft's interest in the affair."
"And Ponsonby?" John asks.
"Fitzgerald Ponsonby, the proprietor of The Busker's Paradise. It's from him that we'll collect the plans."
John frowns as he regards Sherlock. "You know this place?"
'This place' is a small music shop located less than two miles from 221B. It's tucked away in a mews off of Oxford Street, along with several other small businesses that appeal to artistic types. Sherlock has purchased sheet music and violin strings and rosin for his bow there many times. "I do. Ponsonby is getting on in years. He generally opens up around ten on Wednesdays. A little later if he's treated himself to a concert at Covent Garden the night before. There's no need to rush off."
He glances over at John and sees disappointment shading his eyes. It was obvious that he'd hoped that once the vital clue had been found they might spring into action. He wants the rush of adrenaline that would keep his pain at bay. And if there is a chance of danger, so much the better. At the moment he cares little for his personal safety, and that's an aspect of his grief that concerns Sherlock greatly.
Sherlock has other ideas. He begins to pluck a different sort of tune from the strings underneath his fingers. Not the sort of wild cacophony Marsh had created, but something slower and more soothing; a lullaby of his own devising.
"Sit back, John, and listen to this. It's a piece I've recently completed, and I'd like your opinion."
The room has cooled noticeably in the intervening hours between the restless perambulation that had resulted in Sherlock taking up his violin and John's entrance. There's a duvet folded neatly over the back of the sofa, put there, no doubt, by Mrs Hudson when she was in one of her mothering moods. Sherlock tugs at the edge, giving John a not so subtle hint he should make himself comfortable, and waits whilst he props his head on a cushion and assumes a listening position.
Sherlock adjusts a tuning peg and then takes up his violin properly, tucking it under his chin and drawing an experimental bow over the instrument to make sure he won't accidentally elbow John as he plays. Satisfied that all is as it should be, he coaxes the opening notes from the strings.
The beginning passage takes its inspiration from the slow airs so expertly rendered by 19th century Celtic fiddlers. It's a meditation on solitude and the various ways one can be alone. The first phrases are wrought in melancholy lines, but gradually the moodiness lifts and the tempo brightens, becoming lighter and more self assured.
It's a piece that Sherlock had composed to console himself on John's leaving. Despite repeated assurances to everyone from Mycroft to Molly that he was quite capable of managing on his own, thank you very much, Sherlock had initially felt John's absence keenly. Eventually, he had come to realise that loneliness, like most states of mind, was a conscious decision, and he was only as isolated as he chose to be.
He plays the piece for John so that perhaps, he too, will realise that the sharp sense of loss he feels will ebb with time, and that he will never be truly on his own. That Mary, although she is no longer physically present, will always be a part of his life.
He lets the music die away gradually. The final notes fade, leaving a contemplative silence in their wake. John smiles softly. "That was lovely. Did it take you long?"
"Mmm," Sherlock replies as he puts the violin aside, thinking of the nights he had spent bent over strings and notepaper. He considers revealing the inspiration for the composition, but he finds himself tongue-tied, and knows, for all of his usual loquacity, he will be unable to find the right words to adequately explain his own emotional journey.
"I really miss her," John says abruptly. He sounds helpless. "It feels like there's a hole in my chest." He looks down and seems amazed that the heartache is only metaphorical.
"I know, John." John's depth of feeling is both a virtue and a vulnerability. At times, it's a useful counterbalance to Sherlock's rigidly enforced sang-froid, but right now he is in danger of becoming consumed by his emotions. "But you're strong, and you will survive this."
"How?" John asks miserably.
Sherlock has no easy answer, and so, as he often does when painful emotions are concerned, he holds his tongue. He glances towards the window instead. Dawn is still hours away. Outside the turbulence of city life has quieted, leaving only the occasional rumble of a car engine in its wake.
His gaze travels to his companion and he feels a pang of guilt. Once he had left John in such a state. At the time, it had been necessary, but it was a decision he still regretted. Mary had no choice. She had been taken, abruptly and without warning, and John's secret hopes for another life, one that would provide a respite from the dark world he often inhabited with Sherlock, had gone with her.
He extends his arm instead, offering an embrace.
John hesitates for a moment and then he gives in, resting his head against Sherlock's shoulder. He makes a guttural noise that causes a reciprocal pang in Sherlock's chest, and then he begins to weep.
They stay that way, John sobbing out his pain and Sherlock cursing his ineptitude for dealing with emotionally fraught situations, until the clock on the mantle chimes the hour. It's four o'clock. John's breathing changes. The ragged gasps cease and are replaced by less laboured inhalations. Sherlock glances down and finds that nervous exhaustion has finally given way to the need for rest.
He is faced with a dilemma. Should he wake John, hoping once he finds his bed that he will lapse back to sleep? Should they remain as they are? The sofa is hardly an adequate spot for one, let alone two, yet instinct tells him that, at least for one night, there is no better place for them to be. With difficulty, Sherlock grabs hold of the duvet that has slipped to the floor at John's feet and pulls it up over them both against the chill that has pervaded the flat. Then he carries John with him as he reclines against the sofa cushions.
John mutters something indecipherable. For a moment it seems as he might wake after all and then he shifts, nudging Sherlock's legs to make room for his own as he curls close. As Sherlock had suspected, it's not going to be the most comfortable of positions in which to sleep. No doubt when the sun rouses them they will both be cramped and sore. Reacting instinctively, he presses his lips against John's forehead in a lingering kiss, and then he closes his eyes. John sighs and snuggles closer, tucking his cheek against Sherlock's collarbone and snuffling softly. Even in sleep he holds tight, as if he fears slipping into the abyss of his sorrow.
Sherlock dismisses any lingering thoughts of secret codes and government espionage and contemplates the man lying in his arms instead. John's loss has left him broken. But he has been broken before, first the war and then their separation. At his core he is strong, and given enough time he can once again be mended.
It will be a difficult journey for them both. Sherlock wonders if he is up to the challenge. He hasn't achieved Mycroft's level of detachment, although he often pretends that he has, savaging those closest to him when they let empathy override hard logic. But he has trained himself to a state of rigidity that makes him deeply uncomfortable when he is confronted with overt emotionalism, especially the negative sorts. Now, for John's sake, he must overcome that training and become, for lack of a better word, more humane. He must find a way to integrate the functioning of his head and his heart.
He begins by digging his hip more comfortably against the sofa cushions, tucking the duvet more closely over John's shoulders, and silently promising that he will be a better and more considerate friend than he has been in the past. Though John is of a predominantly optimistic nature, he can be deeply affected by the casual depravities he sees. Sherlock can't make the world a kinder place, but he can be kinder to John and help him make peace with what they are forced to encounter.
The clock continues to tick, marking the passage of time. Inside 221B Baker Street, Sherlock drifts off to sleep as he holds John in his arms. Outside, the city begins to rouse from its restless sleep. Delivery vans and lorries begin to rumble down the street at irregular intervals. Occasionally, a horn honks or someone calls out a greeting.
A few streets away, an old man dreams of the days when he could coax notes from his strings as well as the cellist he had seen play at a concert.
Scattered across London, villains, policemen, and government agents spend sleepless hours wondering where an eccentric inventor has hidden his secrets.
At the Royal London Hospital, monitors bleep an alarm and Lisa Brent gasps in fear as she comes abruptly to consciousness.
Life goes on.