John Watson walked into 221B Baker Street, his arms tiered with groceries. Huffing to himself, he pulled open the fridge, nudging the pitcher of toes aside to make space for the new jug of milk. A rich moan emitted from Sherlock's room. Ice melted down John's sizzling back as he stood, hand frozen on the handle of the refrigerator door in shock.
It couldn't be. Sherlock wouldn't.
John quietly inched towards the door to Sherlock's room, silently hoping that his suspicions would not be true. Holding his breath John leaned his stocky frame towards the door, peering through the crack into the consulting detective's private chambers. Sherlock stood, one hand jammed in his pocket, smirking and dangling his cell phone in his hand. John's eyes flew open in shock.
No! It's not possible. He must be… but Mycroft proclaimed her dead!
John tried to clamp his jaw together as Sherlock twirled the phone around in his hand, rapidly texting with his long slender fingers. It was not Sherlock texting that was the surprise, but that he was texting a woman. Not only a woman, but a woman who was dangerous, coiled around the finger of a sinister—dare John say it—arch enemy of Sherlock's. She was a woman that John knew to be dead for almost a year now. John stood still like prey at Sherlock's door in wary and fretful anticipation, battle senses kicking in, and body alert as if waiting for an ambush. None came. Sherlock turned shoved the phone deep into his pockets, almost chuckling to himself. John frowned.
"You left the fridge open John and I need those toes to stay at that temperature; please tell me that it is within your capability to close a refrigerator door"
John stiffened, backing away from Sherlock's door with a creasing frown. Though he ignored John's sidelong glances, Sherlock said nothing of the text message all day. Later that evening, as John padded his way to his room to turn in for the night, he passed by the moonlit silhouette of Sherlock Holmes. Much like a time not too long ago, Sherlock stood with the violin at the surface of the window, the bow of the violin kissing the strings as he played a happier twist on Beethoven's Violin Concerto. The pleasant delicacy was haunting in a flat that was accustomed to hearing banshee shrieks from the instrument. Sherlock loved German composers but to hear Sherlock play so sweetly, was a rare occasion.
John lay swallowed in his bed, watching the ceiling lower towards his swimming vision as it breathed, and he listened to Sherlock play deep into the night.