~xXx~

Later that evening found Sherlock furiously plucking at the strings of his new violin. He'd thrown aside his bow a good while ago seeing as it impeded his poor posture and his arm had been growing sore. That, and the sharp sting of the strings as they dug into the pads of his fingers aided in stimulating the rhythm of his mind, and right now he needed as much stimulation as he could get.

His experiments on Sylvia's letter from Moriarty had been disappointing at best. He'd found out little of what he'd wanted to know—only that the letter was at least ten years old and that the ink had been a special homemade blend, which therefore made it untraceable. The rest of it had been as blank as a fresh coat of paint. Too blank in fact. No fingerprints. No DNA samples. Nothing. Which at least served in telling him that the letter had not been placed in the file by Sylvia—no normal citizen knew how to remove such things, much less took the time to do so. So that only left option number two: the puppet.

This was less than encouraging.

If Moriarty's henchman was giving him the clues, then Sherlock could be rest assured that he would only be receiving the kind of information Moriarty wanted him to receive. Of course, because this was the puppet and not the master, there was a higher chance that an error would be made, but Sherlock didn't dare allow himself hope. After all, Moriarty wasn't prone to trusting people, which meant that this man—whoever he was—wasn't ordinary.

Sherlock moved his fingers along the neck of his violin, thrumming the A string and listening to the note ripple through the air. He'd been over Moriarty's letter a thousand times in his head, but even so he found the words scrolling before his eyes once more. The obvious: one: Sylvia had known someone—a male someone—that had to be sent somewhere. Two: Sylvia, apparently, had the power to do this, or at least lend some form of encouragement. But who Moriarty wanted and for what purpose, Sherlock simply couldn't deduce. Was that what he was supposed to figure out—who this unnamed male was? Impossible. Doctors impacted thousands of people over the course of their careers. How was the he supposed to figure out which one was the one Moriarty had wanted?

I've just got one.

The detective nearly growled. And there it was again, pulling at his consciousness like a fish caught on a hook. He set aside his violin and laid back in his chair. He'd been resisting these thoughts for too long today, and they were beginning to build up. Best to keep the flow steady so as not to break the dam. He'd hit a temporary dead end with Sylvia anyway—he supposed he could devote a few minutes to his issue with John.

Right then, the look. The moments. He mentally sifted away the sands of Sylvia's death and Moriarty's mystery and pulled John into the forefront of his mind. The doctor's face flashed before his eyes, so Sherlock shut them, forcing the image into blackness. He took a deep breath and blew it back out again.

The Blind Banker—that was what John had titled their next big case in his blog. The one he'd posted on March 28th. Sherlock felt the corners of his mouth twitch downwards. That case had taken place only a week or so after their dinner at Angelo's—it was as good a place as any to start.

The moments. Find the moments.

Didn't notice I'd gone out then? I went to see about a job at that surgery.

Ah, right. That was when he'd met Sarah. Sherlock snorted—he'd never cared for her. She was too soft for John, and she'd made him sleep on the sofa. Not that Sherlock was an expert on relationships, but he was pretty sure that qualified Sarah as a bad companion. And what more, she—no, stay focused.

Fast forward.

Sherlock, what are you—he was cupping either side of John's face, and they were spinning while—No.

Fast forward.

I'm not Sherlock Holmes!

Fast forward.

Sebastian—he said he knew you.

Pause. Sherlock's brow tightened as his fingers came together just beneath his nose, his breath warming them as he exhaled.

Zoom in.

He hadn't noticed this moment before—it had seemed so dull to him at the time. They'd been out at a pub, because apparently John felt Sherlock owed him for nearly getting he and Sarah killed and had decided that his comeuppance would be a 'night out on the town'. It hadn't been too severe of a punishment, he supposed. John had been drinking, as he often liked to do on weekends, and really it had seemed so very ordinary. But now…

Play.

"That guy from the bank—Sebastian—he said he knew you from Uni. So you went to college, then?" John asked, sipping off the last of his third pint. They were seated in a crammed, dark corner at a local pub just down the street from their flat. It was a quaint sort of place, but had the unfortunate habit of being quite crowded on Saturday nights. They had been lucky to find a table. "How old were you when you went? Thirteen? Fourteen?"

"Of course not," Sherlock replied, not really paying attention. His time at university wasn't a topic he much cared to discuss. "Mum didn't think it was proper for Mycroft and me to surpass everyone so quickly—didn't want the neighbors to talk. Ever the slave to propriety, our mother. She kept us both in secondary school until we were eighteen—much to the dismay of our teachers."

"Your teachers?"

"Yes. They seemed to be under the impression that I tormented them constantly."

John smirked. "Imagine that."

"It's hardly my fault I knew the subject matter better than they did."

"Oh, right, of course." John nodded, his lips doing that strange pursing thing they sometimes did when he was trying not to laugh. Sherlock spared him a quick glare before returning to his crowd watching. He was currently amusing himself by trying to figure out the profession of every person taller than 5'7 in the bar—the shorter ones were too hard to see accurately. "So where did you finally end up going then?"

"Cambridge, obviously."

"Obviously. And what did you get your degree in?"

"I didn't."

John's brows came together. "Didn't what?"

"Get a degree."

"You didn't—you didn't get a degree?"

"Why would I have? I took the classes I needed to get the information I wanted. Everything else was useless. Irrelevant."

John goggled. "But, after doing all of that work…didn't you want one?"

Sherlock turned to look at him, somewhat annoyed that he'd been interrupted in the middle of deciphering whether man #22's left hand qualified him as an exterminator or firefighter. "Are you going to continue asking me questions all night? I don't think that was mentioned when I agreed to come here with you."

Shock bloomed across John's cheeks before his expression finally settled into stone. "We live together, Sherlock—am I not supposed to try to get to know you better?"

"Another question. I see. I'm going to assume that means the answer to mine is a definite yes."

Grimacing, John drained the last dregs of his beer and set the mug back down on the table. He stared down at it for a long moment, his fingers making patterns out of the condensation that now wetted the sides. "It just feels strange. We've lived together for—what—two months now? And I still feel like I don't know a thing about you. Not the common things people know at least."

"You know how I like my tea," Sherlock offered. "That's fairly common, I'd say."

John glanced up at him through a veil of pale lashes. "I suppose." There was a long beat of silence. "Would you prefer it if I didn't ask you questions?"

"Doesn't really make a difference what I prefer—you're going to ask me anyway."

"Not if you really don't want me to."

"Oh, maybe you won't ask me now, but sooner or later that itch will begin to tickle you again and then we'll have to start this process all over. Might as well get it out of the way—rip the band-aid off all in one go, as they say."

"Jesus, Sherlock!" John slammed his mug down on the table, and as the glass clanged against the wood, several tables around them went suddenly quiet, their occupants' heads all turning in unison. John reddened, his head ducking ever so slightly as he muttered his apologies to the surrounding crowd. Sherlock merely stared at him, strangely perplexed by the violence of the other man's outburst. He didn't look angry per-say, but there was a deep wrinkle between his brows, and his jaw was set in a hard line. After the crowd's chatter had picked back up a bit, John turned back towards him, and Sherlock found himself pinned to the seat of his chair by the emotion raging in those deep blue eyes.

"Is that really all I am to you still?" John hissed. "Just a bandage you have to rip off? Just someone you have to satiate so he doesn't bother you all the time with his boring questions? God, I thought—" He cut off abruptly, shaking his head and moving his piercing gaze back to the table.

Once freed from John's stare, Sherlock found himself leaning forward, as if he could follow the feeling that had left him. "You thought what?" And this part had been a little odd—the fact that he had actually been curious about what John was thinking and feeling. The fact that, in that moment, the puzzle in front of him actually seemed like one worth solving.

John shook his head again. "I don't know."

"John." Sherlock leaned in even further. They were close now—so close that he could smell the light scent of his own shampoo in John's hair, indicating that the doctor had once again forgotten to buy his normal brand at the market.

"For God's sake, I don't—" John looked up at him and the words seemed to fall off his tongue. He seemed startled to find Sherlock so close, but he didn't pull back. Instead he took in a deep breath and let it back out in one shuddering wave, and Sherlock felt its wet heat warm the skin of his lips and cheeks. "I thought that I mattered," he finished weakly.

"Don't be ridiculous, John. Of course you matter. I've told you that I need an assistant to—"

"Not like that," John interjected, and Sherlock found it intriguing that he could feel the other man's words as he spoke them. "Not like a dog matters to its owner, Sherlock. I meant like how two people matter to each other—their thoughts, their interests, what they like, what they don't like, where the bloody hell they went to Uni! I know you already know all that stuff about me. Hell, you probably knew it within the first ten seconds of meeting me, but did you ever once consider the fact that I might want to know those things about you too?"

"I'm flattered," Sherlock said, smiling slightly, "that you think I could know all that about you in ten seconds."

John snorted. "You don't understand a bloody word of what I'm trying to say, do you." He laughed then, a sharp barking sound with no hint of mirth. "I'm going to get another pint." Pushing his chair back, the doctor made to stand, but Sherlock caught his arm and pulled him back down. Sherlock didn't know why he'd done that exactly, but it had seemed important at the time. He'd needed John to grasp what he'd meant.

John's sweater was thick, but Sherlock could still feel his muscles bunching, army instinct overcoming the knowledge that he was in a safe environment. But Sherlock didn't let go. "You give yourself too little credit, John," he said slowly, willing the other man to understand. "I know that I'm not exactly the easiest person to get on with—not that I much care, mind you, but even so it's made having a companion of any form rather difficult. John, besides my family, you've stayed with me," Sherlock paused, gathering a quick mental calculation, "one month and thirteen days longer than any other person ever has. You don't try to smother my gift, and talking to you…with you…helps me. You don't realize how important that makes you. You're invaluable to me." For once, Sherlock wished he could hear how his words sounded to other people. He knew what they meant to him—they meant that he needed John, that the other man had somehow wheedled his way into becoming necessary. Sherlock had never had someone who was necessary to him before. Not like this.

"I—say that again."

Sherlock blinked. "You give yourself—"

"No, not all of it. Just the last thing. Just the last thing you said."

The detective could feel, even though the thickness of the sweater, that John was trembling. Sherlock's fingers tightened even further, aching to feel the beat of a pulse. "You're invaluable to me."

John closed his eyes, his mouth pulling down into a peculiar sort of frown, like he was concentrating particularly hard on something. "Right." He nodded once, his eyes opening once more. "Right. I'm going to go get that pint. Want anything?"

Sherlock released him, the muscles in his hand throbbing unpleasantly as he pulled it back to his side. "Nothing for me, thanks."

"I'll bring you some water."

For once, Sherlock didn't argue.

John turned to go and—there! There it was again: that look. The look.

Pause. Zoom in.

The physicality of it was different this time: pupils slightly dilated, skin flushed, respiratory elevated, but more than likely all of those were side effects from the alcohol. The expression however, that part was the same. Sherlock could see it, from the tilt of his head to the curve of his throat. Why was it that this particular look made Sherlock's heart hurt like some silly little school gir—school. School! Sherlock leapt to his feet, rushing to his coat rack.

Sylvia had been a residential professor, so who did she know? Students! Moriarty had been after one of her students. Obvious! Obvious! Who was the one person he knew who would have been a student at St. Bart's at the time she would've been a professor?

John.