The sound of the violin used to be a comfort to John. When he heard Sherlock playing it at one, two, three, even four o'clock in the morning, it served as a reminder to him that he was no longer sleeping in a cardboard box on the street. But that was then, and this is now.
After two weeks of being woken up, consistently, every night, he had had enough. John got out of bed and wrapped his nightgown around his body. He walked to his bedroom door and flung it open, then headed down the stairs—nearly tripping over Phree in the process—and into the living room.
"What," he said, using every ounce of discipline in him to stay calm, "are you doing playing that thing at three in the morning?"
Sherlock was staring out the window, his bony cheek resting against his violin. His slim body was enveloped in his navy robe, although John could see that he was wearing jeans underneath it. Sherlock muttered something that that actually came out as more of a grunt.
"What?" John hissed impatiently.
Sherlock flung around and dropped his violin and bow into his chair. "BORED!"
His bellowing made John jump. "Jesus," he said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Sherlock, when people are bored, they don't play violin at three in the morning. At least, decent people, who care about their roommates getting enough sleep, don't. Can't you do something quiet?"
Sherlock sank down into John's chair and let out a very loud, exaggerated, child-like moan, before looking up at John and sneering. "Like what?"
"Oh well I don't know," John said sarcastically. "Maybe try this neat little thing called reading. Or, if that doesn't work for you, you could do your experiments. Go over your old cases. Take a bath, drink some tea, play with the cat, do your laundry, or maybe even try to sleep."
"You play with her. She's your cat."
"You're a child," John snapped, annoyed as hell at his roommate. "A selfish, immature, bratty child." He bent down and picked up Phree, who had started to rub against his bare legs. As soon as he turned his back to Sherlock to return to his room, the detective picked up his violin and resumed playing. John resisted the urge to turn around and break the instrument in half.
He knew his time in the army had changed him. He was more independent and more confident than he had been before enlisting. That confidence, of course, had been taken down a few notches when living on the streets, but living with Sherlock was helping him to build it back up. He was beginning to remember—with Sherlock's subtle help—how intelligent he was, how kind, how successful. If anything, being homeless had, in the long run, helped him. The survival skills he learned in the army were put to use and perfected. He had learned to stand up for himself. He had learned to not care what opinions others formed about him. He had learned to value everything, no matter how small or insignificant it seemed.
All annoyances aside, he valued Sherlock. Immensely. The man seemed so robotic, cold and calculating, but he had a soft side that, John thought, only he saw. He cared about Mrs. Hudson, and even his brother to a degree, but he didn't like those people. He didn't seek out their company or care if they thought he was a bastard, but with John it was different. If John slept in abnormally late, Sherlock would come in and wake him up, making up some pathetic excuse. One day, John had gone out job hunting. He left early in the morning, before Sherlock was awake, and didn't return until late afternoon. Sherlock texted him every half hour with such various messages as "when will you be home?" or "I'm hungry, come make me breakfast/lunch/dinner", whatever the case may be. John knew it was because he wanted his company. If John were mad at him, Sherlock would swallow his pride and make him a cup of tea.
They had been roommates, formally, for two weeks. Phree had made herself at home immediately. Sherlock probably hadn't realized, John thought with a chuckle, that when John moved in, he was actually getting two roommates, not one. She adored Sherlock. She slept had slept on his chest every night, until he started sleeping with his bedroom door closed for the sole purpose of keeping her out of his room. Too bad a door wasn't enough to keep Sherlock out of my room, John thought to himself. That man can pick any lock known to man.
Breakfast was simple, eggs and toast. As John had predicted, Sherlock had prepared him a cup of tea. The conversation was sparse, but John did manage to get Sherlock to discuss the topic of religion. Of course Sherlock thought the very idea of a man sitting up in the clouds and judging mankind was ridiculous, as did John to some extent. While serving in the army, John had met a man that followed the Buddhist faith. As he discussed Buddhism with his flat mate, he found himself thinking more and more that it may be a path he desired to follow. After all, he was already well versed in living on the minimum, and he knew full well about the fact that suffering exists in the world. Eventually Sherlock got tired of talking about what he called "utter nonsense", so John changed the topic.
"What are you doing today, then? Any plans?"
Sherlock merely picked at his food, not taking a single bite. Without looking up at John, he moaned, "Plans? What are plans? It's been so long since I've had any that I must have forgotten."
"There are things to do, you know."
The detective rolled his eyes and looked up at John with a frown. "No, there's not. If there were a case, Lestrade would have-"
"I meant besides cases, Sherlock. Why don't you go to the cinema? You need to get out, get some fresh air and exercise. It would be good for you."
"Ugh!" Sherlock groaned as he pushed his untouched plate away, then stood up and began pacing, grabbing at random objects and inspecting them before dropping them carelessly back where they came from. "Dull, boring, predictable! I can predict the endings, always predict the endings!"
"Why don't you see Lestrade? I'm sure he could give you some normal, not exceedingly difficult cases to work on."
"And that's different than the cinema how?"
"Well you could come job hunting with me, but I don't think you would—"
A knock at the door stopped John mid-sentence. Sherlock, who was busy dusting off the skull on the mantle, said, "Answer it, would you?"
Obediently, John did so. An elderly man and woman, bundled up in heavy coats, boots, scarves, and gloves, stared back at him. John didn't recognize them.
"Um…hello. Can I help you with something?"
The man nodded. "Yes, Mr. Holmes. My name is Michael Moore. This is—"
John held his hand up. "Oh, um, wait. I'm not Sherlock. Please, come in though, he's right in here."
He stood aside, holding the door open for the couple. They both had gray hair and John guessed their age to be in the early sixties. "Sherlock. You have guests."
Sherlock didn't respond immediately, which didn't surprise John in the slightest. He finished dusting off the skull before turning and giving the couple a flash of a smile.
"Yes, Mr. Moore. How can I help you? Please, do sit down."
The man and woman sat down, the man in John's chair and the woman in Sherlock's. "Yes, my name is Moore. Michael Moore. This is Lily. She's my—"
"Your wife," Sherlock interrupted. "You've been married for over forty years. You flew here from America this morning, Georgia, to be precise. You're here to consult me on what I can only assume to be the disappearance of a child. Tell me all the details, no matter how insignificant."
Michael and Lily stared at Sherlock with wide eyes. "How do you—"
"Your rings. They match, and they have always been through a lot of wear and tear over the years. You've never thought about replacing them, apparently. Your accents give you away as American, and the particular dialect reveals that you live in Georgia. You both are tanned, which only happens in the southern states this time of year—and even then, it's a challenge to accomplish—but people your age do not go to tanning booths, so it must be natural. You have one suitcase, which you left in the hallway. I heard you dragging it up the steps. The fact that two people could fit their belongings into one suitcase means that you're not intending to stay any longer than you have to, and the fact that you came to see me means that you aren't in London for pleasure."
"But, our missing daughter-"
"Was an assumption, a good one though. There are few things that would make one go through the cost and hassle of air travel unless it was a last resort for a very dire situation, and a missing child, I imagine, is one that would put any parent in a fix. When did she go missing?"
"Two weeks ago."
John, who had pulled on his jacket, felt a slight sinking in his heart when he heard how long the couple's daughter had been gone. While he was moving in with Sherlock and beginning a new chapter in his life, these people had lost their child. He began to walk towards the door when Sherlock called after him.
"John?"
John stopped and turned around. "What?"
"Where are you going?"
"…Job hunting, remember? Besides, I don't want to be in the way."
Sherlock shook his head and beckoned for John to come back into the room. "No. Stay. I'd be lost without my Buddhist."
