AN: A bit of filler before the next chapter, where John has a look through Sherlock's criminal record. Thought of it whilst listening to Moonlight Sonata, I advise reading whilst listening to it :)


Poor Sherlock. I was only scratching the surface when I said he was alone. Imagine being ignored throughout your youth so much that you put up defensive barriers that big. No wonder he's unsociable, he's had no experience. He grew up either being insulted or left alone.

And by the way Mycroft spoke, It seemed like he attempted suicide in University. It's odd, he puts up this big act most of the time, but sometimes a comment will be said, and then... something will break through. You can see it behind his eyes, a moment of surprise and then sadness, over in half a second and invisible to the casual observer. Oh god. Poor Sherlock.

The most surreal thing happened this morning, It was pitch black and about four AM. I woke up shockingly early, I have no idea why. That wasn't the strange thing though, it was what happened when I went downstairs.

I heard music the second I opened my bedroom door. It was a single violin. Sherlock. He was beautifully and perfectly playing Moonlight Sonata, and it was the saddest thing I have ever heard. I padded towards the living room, where he had opened all of the windows and blinds; it was freezing cold and the only source of light was the moon, giving everything an eerily silver glow. Sherlock was standing in front of the open window facing outward, eyes closed and drinking in the melancholic tones. They melted into my ears like warm honey and stirred the strangest feeling in my chest. I leant against the window frame and just wondered at the oddly beautiful sight before me.

I closed my eyes and just listened, imagined champagne and footsteps, shined shoes echoing on marbled floors, silk and gloves. My head swayed from side to side in time with the strings, catching every last note as it spun through the air. I was lost in a forest of soft and sweet music, gliding through the trees, feet barely grazing the uneven ground. When the last note ended, Sherlock merely stood there, violin at his chin, for a minute or two. I continued to say nothing, all the while wondering if this was some preposterous dream I was having. Finally, he placed the violin on the desk beside him, it now becoming camouflaged in the mass of papers, books and general souvenirs picked up from one of our exploits through London.

Without turning around, he simply said, "When did you come in?"

"A few minutes ago."

"Did I wake you?"

"I don't know, It was probably the temperature though." I yawned and crossed the room to join him at his side. "Why don't you close the bloody windows?"

"I like the cold, it's... numbing."

"Yeah, numbing to the point of pneumonia. It's January, Sherlock."

"Your point being?"

"We don't open the windows in the day, let alone when the sun's down. You'll catch your death."

He turned his head to face mine and smiled. "Have it your way, then." When he spoke, his breath danced out in front of him, mingling with mine. I carefully closed the window to my left and drew the curtain around it. Sherlock did the same, albeit more forcefully.

"John."

"Mmm."

"This is pointless, I can't see you anymore."

"Well..." I said, pointedly. "There's this brilliant new thing called a light switch, If you stepped out of the 1880s, you'd know about it." I flicked the switch and we were both bathed in a soft orangey glow. It casted shadows over the walls, and made both of our faces look blemishless to the point of photoshop. He looked ethereal. As if Sherlock was a mind reader, he gave a half smile and said, "Who needs candlelight. Tea?"