She was so pretty. So amazingly, brilliantly pretty. At least, she sounded pretty. She sounded so, so pretty. That meant, she had to be pretty, right? Not that it mattered either way, her voice was everything, everywhere, soaking into every crevice and inch of my bone in every one of my limbs. There was nothing, nothing in the entire world, that I would have loved more than to hear her voice for only me. I wanted nothing more than to occupy her every thought like she occupied mine. Why would she pay any attention to me? Blind with a voice like a chalk board. She needed to know I loved her. She needed to know I'd do anything for her.

"Thank you! Now please welcome our newest-" she sounded sad. Why did she sound so sad? I don't like that voice. I don't like hearing her sad. "Member of the opera, Ms. Crowlie!" She didn't like Ms. Crowlie. I could tell it in her voice. She didn't like Ms. Crowlie and I didn't like Ms. Crowlie. Her voice was terrible and ugly. Everything about her was terrible and ugly. Ms. Crowlie wouldn't replace my love. I wouldn't let her.

I'd show her how much I loved her and put an end to this Ms. Crowlie. I was blind. No one would suspect me. No one except the one who mattered. Then finally, finally, she would know me. She would know the love that plagued my heart every moment of every day. Finally.

It was so easy. They took me straight to her, leading me by my wrist to Ms. Crowlie's dressing room door. He even knocked for me, as if I couldn't have found the door on my own. Then he left. I could hear his feet on the hollow floor.

"Oh. Hello." Her voice was terrible. How she was ever hired in the first place was a miracle. I forced a smile. "Can I help you with something?"

"I'm a big fan of yours," the lie stuck to the inside of my throat. "I painted a picture for you." She was confused. I could practically feel her eyes search me for an answer to her unasked question; 'How do you paint?'

"Is that so?" Ms. Crowlie hummed softly. The noise was torture on my ears.

"My studio isn't far from here if you wouldn't mind." I acted coy and nervous, as if I were afraid of her rejection. It worked. She was stupid. I heard her sigh and a few seconds later, reluctantly agree.

"Sure. I'll grab my coat." And like that, she had sealed her own doom. I knew my way around this part of town like no one else. I knew where the streets led and where the lights were and every little fence and post. She clearly did not. She allowed me to lead her right down the darkest, most isolated alley this side of London. The rest was easy.

o-o-o

John hardly saw how he needed to be here. The cause of death was pretty clear even to him and he did sort of have a real job that sort of needed to be done. Still, he found it just as hard now to refuse Sherlock as it had been before. He could only stand aside while Sherlock went about examining everything and anything, though John couldn't see the connections between any of it. What he did know is that it was a terrible, terrible mess. The young woman, she couldn't have been any older than twenty, was slouched against the mirror of her small dressing room. Her violin bow had been forced through her throat, just below her dainty little jaw line, and right into the mirror, causing it to crack and split behind her. Her black dress was soaked with her blood and it pooled around her in morbid little puddles.

It was clear whoever had done this had to be strong enough to so much as pierce her skin with such a blunt object, let alone with one blow. There weren't signs of a fight, not so much as a scratch or a bruise on her marble skin even though she had to have been facing her attacker. John had to guess that she had trusted him and he had surprised her somehow. He wouldn't voice these ideas, of course, since Sherlock would soon enough make the diagnosis of his own. Lestrade appeared to be growing more and more impatient by the second, but he didn't speak a word. John didn't blame him. Sherlock took a steady step away and stared.

"Well?" Lestrade finally questioned pointedly. Sherlock did even acknowledge him with a look, gloved fingers motioning to things that only he could see. Only when he parted his lips to speak did John really focus on the situation.

"She was drugged," he announced, turning with a swish of his coat to face the two older men. John arched a curious brow and Lestrade impatiently waited an explanation. One followed quickly.

"There's residue on the inside of the paper cup on her dresser. Her killer called her here, probably under the assumption to talk. Drugged her, and finished the job while she was weak. Check her phone records." Sherlock stepped towards the mirror, careful to avoid stepping on her or in any of her blood, and pointed to area on the mirror, just above the woman's shoulder. "There's a smudge here. Her killer wore gloves, but it should give you a proper hand size for reference. Her wrist has just finished healing from an accident," he continued, raising her limp appendage up gently by her wrist and turning her palm up.

"There's signs of breakage having been set. Her killer had to have had keys to the place, she would have been banned to prevent aggravating her injury. Check with the rest of the orchestra."

"That's it?" Lestrade scoffed. Someone was clearly in a bad mood. John unconsciously flinched his eyes closed at the sudden change. Sherlock only managed to prevent a scowl by the smallest amounts.

"Considering I just gave you everything you need to locate your killer, yes. 'That's it'." Sherlock wasn't interested in dealing with Lestrade's attitude. It was his own fault he was in a bad mood. The serial killer case he was working on would go so much easier if he'd just let Sherlock have a look, but he was still pretending as if it weren't that important. It was very clear that was a lie, if not only because the the mass of reporters and journalists that continued to demand answers. To give him the benefit of the doubt, Lestrade was doing a fantastic job of keeping Sherlock's nose out of it and in doing so, also a fantastic job of making John's home life hell. Lestrade and Sherlock shared a particularly brute few seconds of eye contact.

"Fine. You can leave."

"Can I?" Sherlock answered with feign surprise. "I was under the impression that I had to remain here until you told me otherwise." John lowered his head into his hand and sighed. He just wished Lestrade would give Sherlock the bloody case and end this before it got any worse.

"Holmes," Lestrade warned. "Leave." It certainly wasn't a suggestion, though Sherlock had been known to take a lot of things as suggestions. Luckily, for everyone involved, Sherlock puffed up his back, and straightened out his collar before waltzing away. John gave a small nod to detective inspector Lestrade before following after his childish roommate. There were plenty of cases for him on the website, but Sherlock was being very adamant about being let into this one. John wanted to say he didn't know why, but that would be a terrible lie. Sherlock was attracted to things that held his interest and no amount of pestering would get him to focus on anything other than the serial murders right now.

"You told him the truth, right?" John asked once they were in the safety of the cab, not that cabs were notoriously safe. Sherlock didn't look at him, but John couldn't take that one way or the other.

"Of course," Sherlock huffed back. John's eyes naturally fell on the soft curve of Sherlock's neck and the movements of it as he spoke.

"I don't want you 'forgetting' to tell him something about that poor girl's death just because you two are acting like children," he warned Sherlock carefully. There was no answer. Surprisingly, John had been hoping for one. He wasn't entirely sure, since no answer was usually better than a negative one, but he didn't dwell on it long. He was just glad this one had been quick. Sherlock might not have thought so, but John found it too close for comfort. Ever since Sherlock's three year disappearance, John had found that certain things made him far more uncomfortable than they should have. Nothing he would mention to anyone, of course, and nothing that would cause him to do anything about it, but it was a self fight that was particularly difficult at times.

What he found worse, however, was the lack of response. If Sherlock did not verbally respond, John found himself quickly and viciously distressed. Considering it was Sherlock, this happened more often than John was willing to admit it. He'd stopped seeing his therapist again, much to her chagrin, so John couldn't say why that was. He also couldn't say he cared much. Why it ever it was, he liked hearing Sherlock answer him. He liked Sherlock's voice. There was nothing wrong with that.

"Lestrade's going to let someone else die," Sherlock murmured with zero inflection. John wasn't entirely sure how to respond to that. Lestrade was perfectly competent in his job, but Sherlock was right. This was a matter of speed and that was one thing Sherlock would always trump Lestrade in. He hoped the DI knew something Sherlock didn't.

o-o-o

No. No. She didn't. She didn't understand. It for for her. She didn't have to be afraid! She didn't have to be afraid of me. I wouldn't let anyone hurt her. Not like her ex-boyfriend. That was it! I could prove I was helping her. I'd give her his eyes. He deserved it. He'd hit her! Someone like that couldn't be allowed to possess such a beautiful creature when all he would do is hurt her.

It was so much easier than Ms. Crowlie. He was looking to apologise to her. My love wasn't stupid enough to accept an apology from a monster, but I wouldn't let him put her in that position. I suggested he buy her a painting painted for her voice alone. He came right to my studio. Admittedly, my plan hadn't been completely solid. I didn't know what to do with the body afterwards. Fortunately, the incinerator came in useful for something.

I did my best with the eyes and the man at the post didn't notice anything wrong, so I assume I did everything right. I was careful to put them on ice, too, so they wouldn't rot on the way. I really hoped she'd like them. Furthermore, I hoped they would all understand now, it wasn't acceptable to hurt my love. She was protected.

o-o-o

Sherlock was right, of course. Two more days and another body showed up. This time, before it showed up in the paper, Lestrade showed up at their flat, reluctantly requesting Sherlock's help. Reluctantly was more than good enough, even if Sherlock didn't show it at the time. There were already four bodies and everyone at the theater was in frenzy over their lead opera singer being targeted. As John understood it, first the woman she was due to perform with in their leading act was killed, then her boyfriend's eyes were left in her flat, a stagehand was found dead and now, one of the security personnel hired to protect her was found hung on the stage. Of course the media was having a frenzy of it, demanding they catch this man and assure the singer's safety.

John could see their worry. He wasn't so sure Sherlock could, but that wasn't unusual.

"I hope you're happy now," John grumbled once Lestrade had gone. Sherlock turned toward him with bright eyes.

"Yes," he answered swiftly and sweetly. John didn't immediately make sense of even the simplest word. He could only focus on how ecstatic Sherlock sounded. The only reason he noticed the difference was because it was so bizarre to hear but not understand. Sherlock, sure enough, didn't notice anything weird in his excitement. John was doing pretty good at not showing everything on his face, he liked to think at least, so there was probably nothing for Sherlock to notice. He shook it off and took quick paces to catch up to Sherlock. As usual, Sherlock wasn't interested in being close habits with Lestrade and summoned a cab as easily as he always did. John was positive it was some sort of superpower.

"What are you thinking, then?" John asked pointedly. Sherlock smirked at him, complimenting him without actually needing to.

"She has an over affectionate fan," Sherlock informed him in a flood of words. He'd very clearly been waiting for someone to ask. John's tongue brushed over his lips.

"Mortson?" he questioned curiously.

"Yes Mortson," came the sharp, irrationally irritated response. That was fine. John usually wanted to strangle him. "He's not out to kill her."

"Are you sure?"

"Now that Lestrade has stopped trying to do this without me," Sherlock sniffed his complaint, "I will be." It wasn't a surprise that he knew more about the case than he should have. That was true about everything with Sherlock, though. John, without thinking, gave Sherlock more reason to talk.

"Mary Mortson has to have dozens of fans, though. How are you going to find just one?"

"It'll be the one killing people for her attention, John," Sherlock scolded him mildly. "He shouldn't be that hard to find."

"How do you know it's a he?" The words were just coming out on their own now. That was unusual.

"Statistically, men are more likely to commit violent crimes than women. It's also more likely a man is looking for Mortson's attention rather than a woman." Sherlock arched a brow at him. John clearly should have known that. He wasn't sure why he should have. Fortunately, no more questions arose. Sherlock would answer everything at the crime scene.

Fortunately for everyone involved, this case wasn't nearly as bad the the previous one. The man had been lowered from where he hung tangled in the draw lines and now lay limp on his back. Sherlock didn't seem too pleased that they had moved the body, but if he was upset, he didn't mention it. John could see the rope marks on the dead man's body where the harsh material had bit into his skin, leaving bruises and even spots of blood in some places. It looked like it could have been an accident, he could have simply fallen off the walk and into the ropes, but supposedly there was safety measures to prevent something like that. John would have hoped, at least.

"Ms Mortson is absolutely terrified," Lestrade grunted after allowing Sherlock a few moments of silence. "Was this an accident?"

"No," Sherlock deadpanned instantly. Lestrade cursed under his breath. He just wanted one break, that was all. Sherlock turned his head upward, making a rather pretty picture against the open and empty theater if John did say so. Of course, he quickly reminded himself that this was a crime scene. He wasn't sure where his mind was lately, but it was becoming rather worrisome to John.

"The ropes he was tangled in weren't from the theater."

"The killer brought his own ropes?" Lestrade countered as suspiciously as ever. To his credit, it hadn't grown any worse. Lestrade trusted Sherlock just as much as he had before the incident with Moriarty. The same couldn't be said for everyone else.

"Yes. He was strangled to death by the ropes, but not by being hung," Sherlock plucked a piece of fiber from the dead man's neck wound. "The rope burns are tilted down."

"Wouldn't that mean his attacker was smaller than him?" John brows came together, bringing back their unnecessary discussion in the cab. The dead security man was huge, though, most of the population was smaller than him.

"Perhaps," Sherlock mused as he shoved the man onto his side and lifted his shirt up. "Or he was unconscious," he said with a smirk. The bruise on the man's back was less than clear, but it was still clearly there.

"Hey! No! This is a crime scene!" John glanced over his shoulder to the commotion at the back of the stage. Lestrade quickly moved to do something about the oncoming group of teens.

"Excuse me," their teacher sneered swiftly. "We were told Ms. Mortson would be seeing us today."

"Yeah. Then someone got murderer," the officer growled sharply. Almost at once, the little group of teens gasped and began to chatter excessively. John might not have been as quick on the pick up as Sherlock, but it was painfully clear they were blind kids. Lestrade did his best to remedy the situation.

"John," Sherlock touched his shoulder pointedly, catching John's attention. He made a motion with his head and with Lestrade busy, Sherlock headed for the catwalk. John had a really bad feeling about this, but he followed nonetheless. The height was eerie and the slim walkways only made it worse.

Please don't fall, Sherlock. John clung to the supports for dear life, glancing down to where the deadman was positioned. It was likely he would have died on impact, anyways. He wondered why the killer thought it was necessary to tangle him in the ropes, or strangle him for that matter. While Sherlock carelessly browsed the rig and lines, John watched the group down below. He couldn't hear anything, but it didn't seem as if Lestrade was going to catch any breaks any time soon. An elegant woman appeared beside him that John recognized as Mary Mortson, the opera house's lead and favorite singer. He knew her to be very beautiful, and though opera wasn't exactly in John's taste, she was a very lovely singer nonetheless.

Fortunately, she seemed to handle the situation twice as well as Lestrade. She led them away from the crime scene and out of his sight. He wondered how smart it was to continue to see people when they thought her life was in danger.

"John." He supposed a group of blind youth weren't exactly dangerous, though. "John?" John sighed pleasantly, unfocused and unphased. Lestrade was clearly confused to their sudden disappearance, at least for all of two seconds. He looked up knowingly and probably yelled at them, but his voice couldn't carry over the open space.

"John!" John jumped, nearly throwing himself off balance and turned to find Sherlock unusually close. He took a step back, out of Sherlock's breathing space and scowled at him.

"What's wrong with you?" John scolded angrily. "I could have fallen off!" Sherlock didn't answer, but instead searched John's face for something that clearly wasn't there. He clearly wasn't the only one feeling off lately. Sherlock turned delicately on the small path and stalked off again, fully expecting John to follow. He reluctantly did.

o-o-o

How could she have loved him? He was an awful abomination! I did her a favor. He would have hurt her again. He didn't appreciate her. He didn't love her like I do. I want to show her all the beauty she didn't even know she held. She'd love me if she just knew. I had to make her know. She said the stagehand made her uncomfortable and rightfully so. He was a creep, I know it. I heard him speak of her with those foul words; saying how he'd shag her any day of the week and bragging about having seen her undressed. He was disgusting. He would be next. I will admit, some of it is my own jealousy. Why should the scum of the earth be allowed to witness my love's beauty when I am not? It's not fair.

He was just as easy. It appeared that murder was far easier than people made it out to believe. If one held the reason and stomach for it, no one was any the wiser. This one there wasn't even the need for any blood. I couldn't say I liked the texture of blood, but if it was for her, I would gladly stomach it. He had severe allergies, which was easy enough to find out when they spoke so loudly as if no one was listening. All I had to do was get a hold of a wasp. That part, I have to admit, wasn't nearly as easy as everything else was, but a few lies and the man across the hall gave me a hand. I told him I wanted to listen to the noise while I painted. He didn't question me. I'm not entirely sure if it was because I was an artist, or because I was blind.

All I had to do then was get the wasp into the hollow post that anyone would easily mistake for my walking stick. Like the others, he had no qualms with being alone with me. When we were alone under the stage, I stung him with the wasp. His throat closed up first, which made it much easier for him not be heard. The message would come through eventually, right? She would love me. She would thank me! She had to.

o-o-o

"Bye bye, now." Mary Mortson had a much softer voice off stage. She politely touched each of the youth's hands as they left, giving them fond little goodbyes one by one. Sherlock waited for the last of them to leave before approaching her.

"Ms. Mortson," he greeted as if he were the kindest man in the world. John glanced to him out the corner of his eyes, but didn't bother warning him. Sherlock wouldn't listen anyways. "I'm Sherlock Holmes-"

"I know," she smiled. "I requested your help. I've heard very good things about you." Sherlock forced a smile that rarely looked false but nearly always was. John worriedly awaited his plan. He didn't know why Sherlock was being so nice, but it couldn't possibly be for any good reason. Then again, very little of what Sherlock did was for a good reason.

"What did the security man do to you?" Sherlock didn't even hesitate. Mary flinched.

"I-" she began nervously, "It was an accident."

"Liar." And like a well made mask, Sherlock's entire act dropped out of the floor. Mary worried her lip slightly between her teeth, pastel eyes turning between the two of them nervously. She turned away, taking long strides into her dressing room. Sherlock followed and John closed the door behind them. He wasn't entirely sure what this was about nor what it had to do with the case, but he really hoped Sherlock wasn't going to make her cry. He'd done it before. "I hardly see how someone can threaten death on 'accident'."

"There was a misunderstanding, Mr. Holmes. Louise would have apologised," Mary promised. Sherlock didn't bother with her clear error.

"What about the stage hand."

"Maurice was a doll. He'd never done anything. Well," she hesitated," he walked in on me while I was changing one night. I thought he'd been peeping, but he explained it was an accident and everything was fine."

"And your boyfriend."

"We broke up because," again, she stalled a moment too long. "He hit me. But it was a one time thing! And he felt really, really bad about it. That's why we were getting back together. Clarrisa never did anything, though."

"She was due to replace you," Sherlock assured her. Mary's thin lips parted to answer, but she didn't. She hadn't known. "Do you get fan mail, Ms. Mortson?" The new information Sherlock had given her left her askew and unsure. It took her a few moments to bring herself back to the topic. She nodded.

"Y-yes. I do. You don't- one of my fans could have done this?" She sounded more disappointed that one of her fans would do such a thing rather than terrified of it.

"Unless it was you," came the far too real answer. Mary placed her fingers over her mouth. John took a cautious step forward, worried she would faint and hurt herself.

"Am I a suspect?" she dared to ask, looking to Sherlock with the panicked eyes.

"No," Sherlock answered without missing a beat. "Not yet. Do you save your letters?"

"I- yes. I do. I'll- go get them for you," Mary forced a sad smile and turned away from them. Her shoulders slumped a little and she sighed with displeasure. It was clear that her 'fan' wasn't making her nearly as happy as he thought he was. While her back was turned, Sherlock examined her little dresser, searching out something specific and finding something else completely. Cautiously, he picked the colourless envelope from between the mirror and the oak base.

"What's that?" Mary questioned. Sherlock glanced toward John momentarily before further examining the parchment. There was no writing on the front but he held a distinct scent of paint and ink. The back was simply folded closed and carefully, he opened it as if it were the most fragile thing in the world. Fortunately, it was only a letter inside, as Sherlock had assumed. This fan wasn't trying to kill Ms. Mortson after all. It was printed on crisp white paper.

"Dear Mary, I overheard what the despicable excuse for a man threatened you with and I could not allow him to get away with it. I'm sorry you had to go through that. If I could only show you, I'd never let any harm come to you. You'd be surprised what I am capable of. I'll protect you my sweet princess, even when your voice is gone. Quote." Sherlock read with little inflection. Mary placed a hand on her throat, her fear evident in her eyes.

"Is he-"

"I don't believe so, Ms. Mortson. I believe he misspoke and means you no ill intentions," Sherlock promised.

"We won't let any harm come to you," John assured her with a delicate smile. She glanced to him with a small nod, thanking him for his attempt at comfort.

"We'll take this with the rest to compare." Sherlock folded the letter carefully back into its envelope. Mary nodded in agreement.

"Of course. Is there - anything I can do?"

"Make a list of people who have wronged you, even in the slightest of ways," he instructed readily.

"If that'll help."

o-o-o

"I'll fucking kill you, you bitch!" It clearly wasn't getting through their thick skulls. I just wanted to talk to her, to let her know that she didn't have to be scared. She didn't have to get the police involved! I was only trying to help! Instead I get to hear that stupid security guard yelling at her. Now I had to kill him, too. They were making this so much harder than they needed. I didn't even get to talk to her that day because of him. I followed him up to the catwalk and threw myself on his back. He was bigger than I thought he was, but it didn't matter much. In such a small area, he didn't have very many places to go and even fewer ways to get me off. I held onto his throat until he dropped. Thinking back, I see how this could have been potentially dangerous. I suppose I made a bad choice out of rage.

Once he was unconscious and limber, it was much easier to wrap a bit of rope around his neck and pull until he was dead. At least, I think he was dead. I wasn't too sure, so I pushed him off the catwalk just to be sure. I didn't intend for him to get caught in the ropes, but I certainly wasn't complaining. It put him on show for everyone to know. Now they had to understand that I was there to help. At least, Mary would understand.

o-o-o

John couldn't believe she kept all of her fan letters. He couldn't even estimate the amount they had come back to the flat with, but he was pretty sure the answer was 'too damn many'. Fortunately, there was some sort of organization. Rather, Mary had bagged them up by the month. They couldn't rule out anything yet which meant they were to spend the entire night comparing every letter to the one Sherlock had found. It had started with taking turns reading the letter out loud, but apparently John was terrible at it. He wasn't sure what he was doing differently from Sherlock, but he wasn't exactly going to argue his case, either.

"You've changed my life and my family's life. I don't know how to thank you- No."

"I don't know. That sounds very creepy," John murmured. His mind had mostly fled, though. It was late, he was tired and this was very inactive work. Sherlock's voice drifted in and out of his mind, though, which was the only thing keeping him awake at this point. It was so lovely, he wasn't sure why he'd never noticed before.

"No. This isn't our killer. He's smart," Sherlock mused, pacing the paper filled room with sharp steps and turns. "There is a reason he didn't use his own hand,"

"Because someone would recognize it?" John offered, sinking back in the couch and drawing his arm over his eyes.

"Possibly, but he is completely enamored with Ms. Mortson. He wants her to know who he is-"

"How do you, uh, figure that, exactly?"

"He's doing things for her benefit. These are his gifts to her, John. He wouldn't be doing this unless he wanted her attention," Sherlock insisted louder than he really needed to. John could understand that, sure. "He is so infatuated by her that the idea of getting caught is beyond him, so why would he not use his own hand to write her letters?"

"Maybe he can't?" John offered, though he honestly was past the point of being helpful. He was tired and Sherlock's voice was only putting him further to sleep.

"Don't be stupid," Sherlock scoffed. "Why would he be able to type but not write?" John could only shrug minutely, having no real answer. "But," Sherlock began slowly again. John watched him rustled through the letters, the look of pure excitement painted over his features. He came back up with two sheets of paper.

"What if he was blind?" Sherlock smiled. John didn't follow, but he waited for the explanation. "This letter this written in braille. This one is not. They're both written by one of those blind students."

"How could you possibly tell that?" John insisted.

"Their names, obviously. They introduced themselves when they arrived. If we eliminate the handwritten letters and focus on the typed ones, and furthermore, focus on the ones on thick stationary made for a braille writer, then we can narrow it down," he spent several minutes going through the excess of papers and came up with a handful matching his new criteria. He brushed the rest out of the way and pinned them to the wall.

"We are left with; Eli Brook, Oswin Vrach, Peter Stark, Kira Hayley, Annette Banks."

John nodded off after that, unable to keep his eyes open for much longer after that. Not that Sherlock stopped talking to him, or that he stopped invading his thoughts in any way whatsoever. That wasn't exactly a bad thing, he supposed. Sherlock whispered sweetly in his ear as he had managed to do before.

"No one else has signed 'quote'," he murmured slowly, quietly against the skin behind his ear. John's skin twitched.

"Quote," Sherlock repeated, long fingers sliding down his collar and under his shirt with spreading warmth that quickly churned into a blazing, unbearable heat. "Quote," he whispered again, lips firm against John's pulse. His fingers wandered further, kneading against his crotch in a very un-Sherlock like way. John grabbed at the rough fabric of Sherlock's coat, unable to make anything over than over affectionate, needy throats of pleasure. He'd never thought of his flatmate like this before, not seriously at least. He'd never taken himself seriously anyways. It was Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes! He didn't do things like this. John didn't want him to do things like this!

"Why quote?" he asked and John struggled to care. "Quote what?" All John wanted at the moment was for Sherlock to touch him more.

"John." John could feel his heart in his chest, beating far faster and harder than should be physically possibly. It didn't even feel like it was in his chest, but creeping up his throat with violent pace and blinding sensation. "John?" Sherlock's hand slipped into his pants, cupping his hot, hard prick in his pale hand. John's pleasure was only amplified by the increasingly closer, louder sound of Sherlock's voice. He didn't think it could get any closer from the the whisper in his ear. He was so close.

"John!" John awoke with a start, jerking his head up with sudden confusion and mild panic. He flinched against the light coming into the room, immediately being assured it was morning and seconds later being assured Sherlock was still awake.

"Good, you're awake," Sherlock murmured nonchalantly. John glared at him. Well yeah, he was awake now. He pushed himself into a sitting position and ran a hand through his hair. Sherlock looked over him almost pointedly before John took note of his situation. John cleared his throat abruptly.

"Uh, well," he tried not to stutter. "I'm going to go take a shower." Though it was fairly obvious that he he was going to take care of his perfectly normal morning erection. Sherlock scoffed half a scoff, clearly burdened by John's body and the natural reactions of it.

"Hurry up," Sherlock insisted. "I found the letter."

o-o-o

Finally, Mary was paying attention to me.

"Hello. You- come to all my shows, don't you?" she spoke to me softly, her voice brilliantly sweet and soft. I was speechless. She'd never spoken to be personally before. It was utterly amazing. After a few moments, I realized I hadn't said anything and felt my face heat up.

"Y-yes! I mean- I try to. I like to- listen to you when I paint," I admitted as gently and nonthreatening as possible. She didn't even notice. Did she know it was me? That I was helping her? She didn't. That was okay. Everything was okay. She was talking to me. I hurried to retrieve my pad of paintings, nervously handing it over. She took it and for the slightest second, our hands touched. I could hear her flip though it, examining each page slowly and calmly. She was actually looking at my paintings.

"These are beautiful," she said and I nearly had a heart attack right there. "These are- based on my voice, aren't they?"

"Yes! They are!" I answered eagerly and happily. She honestly liked them. I couldn't believe it. "I have lots of them. You're just, such a inspiration. Your voice is beautiful."

"What does that mean to you?" Mary asked rather suddenly and again, I had no idea what to say. No one had ever asked me that before. I'd thought about it, of course, thought of what I would say but it didn't happen the way I planned. "Sorry," she said needlessly. "It's simply that- you're blind and more often than not, when people call me beautiful, it's my face and not my voice." Mary was pretty then. I'd heard so before, but the very idea that she thought she was pretty was just brilliant. I couldn't think of any other adjectives at the moment.

"It's fine. It's great! I- beautiful is- it's the smell of rain in the country, the little sound of the rumble before thunder. It's the feel of the sun on your skin and cotton on your face. It's the fear of trying something new and the brilliance of enjoying it. It's receiving when wanting and giving while needing. Completely incomparable to any one thing while simultaneously managing to be grasped in a single word, though the best way to say it is without words." I smiled, unable to help it. She didn't say anything and for a moment, I was worried I had said too much or not enough.

"Mary?" I asked worriedly.

"Sorry!" Mary answered with a pitch. Was she crying? "I don't know what to say."

"Oh," I prevent my relieved sigh. With things well on my side, I managed to offer up a suggestion. "My studio isn't far from here. Would you- like to see it? I have some acrylics, and watercolours and-"

"That would be lovely," Mary agreed. I could hear her smile.