When John heard the door of 221b open, finally, he jumped up to welcome Sherlock home. When the detective actually crossed into the flat, John changed his mind, seeing that the detective was busy thinking. He sighed softly to himself and prepared for a long night of either violin music or strange banging noises against the walls.

As predicted, Sherlock went straight to his violin after hanging up his coat and scarf. He began with a simple scale, which transcended into a melancholy song that made John want to cry. The song seemed to stretch on, and at one point, John began to wonder if the song was an actual song, or if Sherlock was improvising every note. Even when the sun descended past the buildings across the street, casting a shadow through the windows of 221b, even when Mrs. Hudson turned off the lights downstairs, even when John's head began to loll and drop to his chest, even when he began to snore softly from his chair, still Sherlock's despondent tune sounded throughout the flat.

When John woke up the next morning, Sherlock had stopped playing, but had obviously not slept; his hair was wild and frizzy, his clothes were wrinkled, and he was sitting in his chair across from John, eyes closed, fingers steepled.

John stood from his chair, groaning as his back protested and his neck creaked, in order to put the kettle on. From the kitchen, he watched Sherlock, the pale face stone and unmoving. His eyes, however, flittered back and forth, scanning the mind palace, ordering brain cells about, pushing the curtain of sleep back every so often. John could literally see the gears in Sherlock's indescribable and incomprehensible head turning, squeaking, groaning with inhuman effort to keep up with the lightning-fast neutrons firing back and forth, banging against the side of his head and back, keeping the mental capacities alive and working.

Cup of tea in hand, John retired upstairs to his own room, stretching his neck and arms and sitting down on the side of the bed. He had left his phone on his bedside table the evening before, and now he checked his messages. One message was from Mike Stamford, one from Harry, one from Mary, his new girlfriend.

Mary was nice. She had come to work at the surgery where John had worked a few months before Sherlock had returned from who knows where. She and John had immediately clicked, going out to dinner after their shifts, grabbing a coffee beforehand, even bringing lunch to one another when one of them couldn't get away from work for long enough to snag some chips from the restaurant next door. Sherlock hadn't been introduced to her yet, and frankly, John was scared to see the day come when Sherlock Holmes met Mary Morstan. They were both so headstrong and independent, the only difference being that Mary was nice.

John decided on a shower and a change of clothes and headed to the bathroom to do so. When he came out, hair soaked and spiked in different directions, he felt refreshed and awake. He didn't have work that day, so he opted for a good book instead. He stepped down the stairs and into the sitting room, where Sherlock was still hard at work, inert, in his armchair.

John scanned the bookshelves around the fireplace and picked up a book on medical history. Boring, yet still intriguing to a doctor. He sat in his chair again and opened to the first of hundreds of pages.

Not a single word was exchanged, not a sound was made, save for the occasional rustle of paper as John flipped the pages in his book. Sherlock sat, frozen, in the same place he had been the entire day, and when John finished the textbook, he looked up, amazed at the statue-like composure of his flatmate and the lack of need to use the loo or eat anything.

John furrowed his brow and waved his hand in front of Sherlock's face. He hadn't expected a reply, but when Sherlock lowered his hands just slightly and murmured, "John, don't do that. I'm not dead," John jumped a little and muttered an apology before sitting back in his chair. His stomach rumbled and he looked at the clock: 5:44. He should probably get something to eat.

After searching through bare cupboards, John decided just to go order take-out. He needed to get out of the flat for a little bit after all. He pulled on his black jacket and glanced at Sherlock again, just to check that he was still there and dormant. There was no telling what the detective might do while he was gone…


A/N: I sincerely apologize for the late posting. As you all know, first week of school can be incredibly busy, so I wasn't able to update on Friday or Saturday, but here you are! Enjoy, and I promise this time the next chapter will be up Friday. Reviews are much appreciated!

Disclaimer: All credit goes to Moftiss, and Benedict, and Martin, and all of the cast, and of course, Nyah86Productions.