Author's Note: And, home from London! Amazing trip, that, and completely worth every minute, so thanks all for being patient with me here. :)

Part II

Sherlock was playing again the following morning, and John was still debating whether he should bring the subject up as he came down the stairs and into the sitting rom. He couldn't help but notice that the melody had at least made some progress over the course of the night, though whether or not this was a good thing remained up in the air.

He crossed over to the desk without saying anything, feeling Mrs Hudson circle around behind him as he reached for his jacket. It seemed to him that both their gazes settled onto the plate on the desk at the same moment—untouched, John noted with a quiet exhalation—and he exchanged a quick glance with the landlady that assured him she, too, was more than a little worried.

One look was all it took to know that he hadn't been the only one listening to the violin last night, and John could read his own expression mirrored in hers: What do we do?—and, more importantly: Is there anything we can do?

But neither John nor Mrs Hudson tended to give up easily, and thought it might not do any good at all, they both made the necessary attempt.

"Lovely tune, Sherlock," Mrs Hudson remarked offhand as Sherlock's bow dropped and he turned to make a notation on the music stand nearby. She had removed the uneaten food from the desk and now bustled into the kitchen with it—still pretending to be only their landlady, going about her tasks without a fuss this time, encouraging Sherlock to think she was only a question in the background and yet all the while probing gently for answers. "Haven't heard that one before."

John was searching his friend's face for any sign of response, but there was none—only a pale mask of neutrality that was far too perfect to be convincing. He cleared his throat. "Composing?"

He tried to smile, at the very end, but couldn't manage because he was faking it, that light, casual tone. It was a one-word question, but he wondered if Sherlock was too distracted, too caught up in his own emotional confusion, to hear what else was behind it—the Are you okay? and I know you're not and Please, just talk to me, just say something. He wasn't sure if he was relieved or more concerned when he did get a reply.

"Helps me to think."

Four words, in an almost complete monotone, and distinctly lacking the definitive emphasis at the end to indicate the usual Thinking; do not disturb attitude that Sherlock so often got. In fact, had it been anyone else, the response would have been considered civil and completely inoffensive, and John heard a warning tone go off in his head. This was very, very wrong.

He stared at the mirror for a few moments as he straightened his jacket, still stupidly trying to act as if nothing was wrong, and then wondering why he even bothered when Sherlock didn't even care enough to notice. They still hadn't gotten anywhere; he was going to have to be more direct. So he cleared his throat, fixed his eyes carefully on the floor, and pushed on, "What're you thinking about?"

For about a half a second, he thought he'd hit a dead end again—but then Sherlock whirled around, with a sudden sharpness that took him completely by surprise, the bow clunking carelessly from the violin strings as both objects were very nearly dropped onto the armchair nearby. John had the fleeting impression that some sort of intervention might be necessary, but then—

"The count on your blog," Sherlock said sharply, the words quick and intent as he pointed accusingly toward John's laptop, "is still stuck at one thousand eight hundred and ninety-five."

John blinked, frowned, and blinked again. What the bloody hell...?

"Er, yeah," he said aloud, playing along because honestly, what else was he supposed to do? "It's faulty; can't seem to fix it."

But Sherlock clearly seemed to think otherwise, thought he was on to something. "Faulty," he repeated, with the air of someone noting the word merely for the record-keeping and not because it had any actual value, "or you've been hacked and it's a message."

John felt his insides sink a little at the pure intentness with which Sherlock said it, and part of him wanted very seriously to knock away the camera phone that was now being lifted between the detective's pale hands. He knew, he just knew, that this could not end well—that there was little chance that Irene Adler would have gone to this much trouble ins such an indirect way—but it was already too late to head his friend off now. He watched in silence as Sherlock punched four digits into the lock screen of the phone, and though he couldn't quite see which ones, he knew that they were.

1-8-9-5—

WRONG.

Jaw clenched, Sherlock's eyes flicked upward again, his expression hardening into a wall of false indifference. "Just faulty."

And I could've told you that, John thought, still trying to pretend for Sherlock's sake that he didn't understand what was going on in his friend's head, but with each passing minute he was finding himself more and more at a loss as to what he could do here. What he needed was for Sherlock to stop blocking him out, but that would mean admitting confusion and emotion and helplessness, and God forbid that any of those should sit hand-in-hand with the great consulting detective. Talk about keeping up appearances.

Only—it wasn't really working. They were spilling out of the cracks now, all those things, through the pale features and the unsteady hands and the untouched food and the barely-confident tones of the violin, and John could see them.

"Right," he said softly. "Right."

And he turned away—but not before Sherlock did.