A.N. I started writing this years ago, and found it and finished it up. Originally, it had the lyrics from Rufus Wainwright's Hallelujah interspersed between the paragraphs: that song, in combination with a few random ideas, inspired this vignette. It fits the story perfectly, and absolutely sets the tone. Hopefully this hasn't been done before and doesn't seem forced. I'm debating expanding the storyline into a full-blown fanfiction, but I wanted to see if anyone was interested first.

Composing Hallelujah

It had been years, now. Ages gone and past, measured in cases and cocaine bottles. That first night was just a distant memory, the kittenish face framed in clouds of smoke disappearing into a darker part of Sherlock's mind. But occasionally she returned, wraith-like form appearing behind the eyelids of the most celebrated detective in London, turning him into the one thing he hated the most: a man. Just a man, who had loved and lost.

Pale fingers pulled the bow across the strings, directing the crystal notes. They spilled like sound made liquid, a slithering thing, crawling across the air. A discordant harmony emerged, haunting in its emptiness. Flying forth from the heart of the player, the song was the one last silken rope, binding him to her. She had written it for him. A piano aria, born from the instrument forced upon her since childhood. Always had she liked the violin better. And now, he played for himself, held a cold wooden bow, when some persistent part of him felt he ought to be holding her.

Memories flitted by, and the song grew wistful and slow, Sherlock drowning himself in a drug far more powerful than any opiate. Regret coursed through him as surely as did the music, the warmth of the fire doing nothing for his soul. If only he'd not gone to the ball, he would still be whole. But he had, and so he wasn't.

It was the typical social function, nothing special—save her presence. The doll-like figure had floated in on a cloud of perfume and innocence, an angel with a criminal's eyes. But Sherlock believed in not punishing the child for the sins of the father, and had tolerated her presence. But, as these things so often went, she would not agree to be merely tolerated, and wore him to friendship, wit and curiosity ingratiating her into his society.

Even so many wishes ago, he was love's atheist. As the smallest grain of sand ruined a lens beyond repair, so did love tenderly destroy logic. No gentle words for Sherlock, no Mrs. Holmes would grace his bed. After he met her, however, he began to fray. So subtly did the woman weave her net that he argued against the feeling to her face, even as his heart tugged him closer.

He doubted, even now, that she'd meant to do as she did. Her father, of course, was aware: he'd likely placed the two at the same table that night specifically for that reason. Even her growing love for him, however, could not temper her familial loyalty. The apple was used as a prop by the snake, the innocent used for nefarious deeds. Unfortunately, she knew well what the deeds were: and when the crises point came, she fell along the family line.

Finally, he became aware of the growing bubble, the beautiful disease coursing through his body. As was his character, he denied it, refused to see the woman, both the cause and the cure. She, of course, had divined the reasons, and did not begrudge him the time: perchance she welcomed it. Well known was his dogging of her father, and she could never quite forgive Holmes for it, though she loved him all the better for his chase.

The final night before the case was closed, she came to him. For many months, the two had not set eyes upon each other, and the time painted her canvas. Her features, china-soft and porcelain-pale, had not the usual blush to them, her eyes hunted things. Flickered the fire's light upon her high cheekbones, made her eyes glow with a lovely sadness. She was leaving for Paris, she said; she'd come to bid him farewell. Pain flitted 'cross his features, past and present. Her haunting smile, wistful and slow, diffused across his vision. So long ago; he'd never seen a quirk of the lips quite like it.

It wasn't until now, after everything, that he saw these small bits that made up the picture of Melody. As he played, he could close his eyes and trace the notes, attaching each to a memory. Her eyes were the glance of innocent interest when they'd first met; her lips, the playful pout when he won an argument. Her hands were wisps as they tickled the piano, moving quicker than the eye could see across the ivory keys. The rest of her was burned into his heart and behind his eyes and in his veins, flowing through him as surely as blood.

They sat, pretending. Each heart looked out upon the other, willing it not to be so, chiding the brain for not doing something, anything. Her presence burned him, mind and soul and body, until he knew himself not. Later, he would regret what he did, knowing that he'd forced her hand, knowing…but it mattered not. At the time, all that mattered was the ache where he realized his heart had been.

She stood, noting the time—there was relief in her mien, though he'd never have recognized it—and he stood with her. With an ease he would have scorned in any but her, they embraced chastely, lingering a little longer than was proper. With a rustle of her full dress, she pulled away. Before his nerves got the better of him, the detective kissed her softly upon the cheek.

They hovered there, a breath between, for an irrevocable moment. A vibration passed between the pair, and something broke in the ambient air. Deliberately, she moved her face and tilted up, gemstone eyes searching his, before slowly returning the kiss. The air was sanctified as they continued, her hesitating experience at odds with her sainted eyes. He logically knew better, of course, logically knew the dangers of fraternization with the enemy: but logic was sulking in a corner of his mind as his heart took over, and the passion play continued.

He adored her openly in those few moments, the arch of her neck and the half-closed eyes. He overlooked their warning green and smiled a beatific smile as she curled catlike near him. There wasn't a question of her leaving, not that night or for eternity, he would save her, he swore as he drifted to sleep. Her hair tickled his nose as he plotted her rescue, and their life, and the delights that were to come. He slept, and the smile never quite strayed from his lips. She cried quietly, and he did not stir.

He woke to the sunshine on his eyelids, and his bed was empty. Stones dropped in his stomach, and logic quit its sulk to chide him for his carelessness. A single drawer was open, the lock picked expertly; contents removed. His notes upon the recent case, the evidence that would set his nemesis in the gaol…all congealed into a single note, her handwriting and tear drops strewn across the virgin surface: "I am sorry." He read again. The words did not change, and the papers did not reappear. Nor did they appear in the living room, or the kitchen, or the doctor's room. He ripped the remaining paper up; felt his soul rip with it.

As the present reappeared and his dirge continued, Holmes pressed away the memories of running to her rooms and finding the same note, repeated a thousand times, carpeting the place. No papers. No sign of Melody. No sign of where she had gone. Paris could have, most likely was, a lie. He saw her father's carriage drive by and knew the man's laughter, hooting his victory. She was gone and he would stay, the napoleon of crime having played the queen of hearts and taken the game.

There remained nothing more to remind him of her. Everything she had left was destroyed, her haunting presence erased as much as possible from his life. But he could not destroy the memories. He could not bring himself to forget her song, or the music of her laugh. He could not erase the occasional covertly pitying looks of Watson, whose quiet sympathy was begrudgingly accepted—even if the whole truth was known and never spoken of.

And so Holmes sat on a quiet winter's eve, the doctor gone for the night. Moriarty continued his escapades, more cleverly this round, knowing well that his daughter would not save him this time. Once was all that was required, all that was needed. The time was bought, enough for the criminal web to reorganize and become silent once more. No evidence was left behind this time. Another mindless and unprovable crime of Moriarty's, the unjust use of his daughter. Her ghost faded into the darkest parts of Holmes once more, the memories that summoned her dry and brittle as the cracking firewood. The great detective leaned back into the comfort of his armchair and let the violin drop from his hand, music done.

There never was a tale of more woe…