A/N: ...Yeah, I couldn't resist posting another chapter; this film is so good! And, just to remind you all, I haven't read any of the Sherlock Holmes book(s) or watched the old TV Series, all characterisation is based on the 2009 film, starring Robert Downy Jr and Jude Law etc And italics represent a character's unspoken thoughts.

Chapter 1- A Concealed Wound

Three- precisely three- short, clean raps on the door caused Sherlock Holmes to wake from his normal light slumber. His head snapped up from his chest abruptly and he shifted himself in the armchair quickly (which he frequently dosed off in, instead of the bed) as Mrs Hudson called to him from behind the closed bedroom door:

"Mr Holmes! That's your breakfast ready!"

The man stretched but made not a sound, then stood up and realised the bow that he used before he fell asleep was still held loosely in his hands. But wait- he practically threw himself unto the floor, on all fours, his breathing now catching alarmingly in his throat. Where was the violin?

"Are you awake, Mr Holmes?"

Ah, better come up with some cutting retort or she'll suspect something's wrong...which it is. "No, I'm asleep, Mrs Hudson, thanks for checking," he shouted back to the middle aged woman. Bugger...not nearly sarcastic enough...

As suspected, Sherlock heard the shrewd reply of his "nanny" almost instantly. "Mr Holmes, what are you-"

And before he could stop her, the door was flung open, revealing Mrs Hudson with a most suspicious expression plastered on her face. The detective stiffened and tried his best to act as if randomly crawling around on the floor was a normal thing to do. For some reason, the woman saw through this (as she always did, which infuriated him to a small extent), sighed and said in a tone close to weariness, "Alright, sir...what have you lost?"

Holmes tried to laugh but the sound got stuck somewhere between his throat and lips, making it appear unnatural and strangled. "Nothing, nothing," he said hastily, standing up and brushing himself down rapidly. The fake smile that he forced himself to put on made his cheek bones ache to no end.

Mrs Hudson raised her eyebrows in a manner so similar to his own that he near burst out laughing properly. "Have it your way, sir," she replied. "But be downstairs soon; I did not slave in the kitchen all morning for your breakfast to go cold."

An unexpected twang of slight sympathy made itself known in Holmes' chest as Mrs Hudson dutifully turned and exited. This was soon replaced by a considerably more stronger emotion- and a much more unpleasant one. Fear radiated from him- not quite on the same scale as when he was sure Death had ensnared Watson during that explosion, but it was still so significant, so real, so haunting, so...

No, not under the armchair. Shuffle shuffle. Or there...perhaps here? Shuffle. No..think, Sherlock, think!

There was a low whining noise from behind him. "Gladstone!" he hissed, glancing over his shoulder, "Can't you see I'm...oh."

The dog stared at him with a most accusing look all while he held the sacred like instrument between his slobbering jaws. Relief seeping into him, Holmes gratefully held out a hand as Gladstone gently dropped the violin into it. Holmes inspected it immediately, scanning every curve in the mood with immense scrutiny and being "pleased" was such an obvious understatement, it was a crime. There was not a single scratch, not even the tiniest on the violin and, which was a miracle, absolutely no trace of his dog's saliva.

Sherlock Holmes looked up again at Gladstone and gave him a rare but affectionate pat on the head. "Good lad," he told him briefly , before practically running down the stairs, taking two at a time.

Watson, almost automatically, like he did with Mary, cleaned his plate and gave it to Mrs Hudson. The woman tutted but couldn't help smiling. "Now, Mr Watson-"

"Doctor!" Holmes corrected her quickly, still scraping a thick wad of bread in the remains of his cooked breakfast. He leant back in the chair casually, making the aging furniture groan in protest, one of Mrs Hudson's many pet hates and he knew it.

She only rolled her eyes, however, used to his "childlike antics" as she labelled them. She hadn't considered the fact that maybe Holmes' was showing how much he thought of her by being his usual, "pestering" self...but his mind was an enigma and dealing with such complex physicological matters was definitely not in her job description. "Doctor Watson, then. You're the guest, remember, not I."

And then, in a remarkable change of tone that made Watson feel like chuckling, she snapped at Sherlock Holmes, "Have you decided to finish any time soon?"

The man raised his hands in the way one would when cornered by an army of police men but still handed his empty plate to Mrs Hudson. "The food was...adequate," he drawled but his lips turned up at the corners as he said it.

Mrs Hudson made a huffing noise but made her way to the kitchen with the dishes, exiting the dining room.

Watson went to stand but stopped half way when he heard a familiar rustling noise in his trouser pocket. He then remembered the photograph that was heavily obscured by time still lay there and with a swift movement, he fished it out from his pocket. "Holmes?" he enquired, noticing he was still leaning back, relaxing in his chair.

"Mmm?"

"I just found this lying in a drawer last night." His friend rose his eyebrows in interest so he placed the photograph onto the table. For a space in time that was less than a second, he thought he saw Holmes stiffen but then again, it was probably a trick of the light or something. You never could be sure if you brushed shoulders with Sherlock Holmes.

"It's not of... great importance to me," Holmes said very slowly, pronouncing each word heavily. His expression remained neautral which always frustrated Watson.

"Do you want me to throw it away, then?" he probed further.

And suddenly, the doctor managed to get a severe flash arise in Holmes' eyes for all to brief a moment. "No," he replied surprisingly sharply.

Taken aback, but not deterred, Watson questioned, "Well, where do you want it?"

Holmes wasn't looking at him now, he was examining the tabletop was if it was the most amazing thing on the Earth. "Oh, I don't know Watson," he stated with a hard, cold edge to his voice, "Just don't throw it away."

Even though his being was burning with mere curiosity, Watson could sense something that had been...awoken in Holmes. The atomosphere had changed so dramatically in the last few minutes and the Doctor didn't like it in the slightest. Without a reply, he left the room, travelling back upstairs, but not before he had taken the photograph with him, not before he had quickly whisked it off the table.

Holmes still sat there, no longer smiling, no longer leaning back in his chair. He pinched the bridge of his noise uncomfortably and exhaled, trying to keep his calm "mask" from sliding off his face. Watson did not know it, but he had unintentionally opened an excrutiatingly painful wound that he had tried to conceal and hide, despite it not being healed.

It was going to take most of the detective's rapidly diminishing self control to cover it up once more.