A/N: Thanks to TheGirlWhoImagined, sneakysnakes, and 88dragon06 for the wonderful reviews! And thanks to those who've added me to their alerts. When I get these notifications, I pretty much pee my pants. Really, you've no idea who happy they make me. It lets me know I'm writing something that's at least okay.

Anyways, enjoy! I'll try to publish again before the end of the week so stay tuned!...get it? Cuz it's The Cellist. And you tune it? Never mind.

I don't own anything but Anna and Darlene. :)

Both John and The Cellist—Anna, Sherlock reminded himself—returned to the two chairs they had previously been sitting in and Sherlock sat centered on the couch. The two chatted over tea and Sherlock mostly sat quiet and observed.

Anna had already mentioned she'd been out of the conservatory, a degree in Cello Performance with a slue of minors—composition and art. This was clear to Sherlock, as there was nothing scientific about her.

The only other woman Sherlock could properly compare her to is Molly and she was entirely scientific and proper; her hair had usually been pulled tightly away from her face with no loose strands; her clothes chosen for comfort and functionality but not necessarily for style; nails always trimmed short and clean; finally, Molly was always organized, as her profession demanded of her.

However, this Anna was quite different from this type. Her hair, still slightly damp from a fresh shower, started to dry in soft waves that hung past her shoulders; she'd put on a white shirt and patterned skirt, which a few black cat hairs clung onto, along with a pair of simple flats; earrings dangled down by her jaw and a silver chain around the neck flashed when the light hit it right. It was nothing too flashy but it was current with the time's fashion and showed she cared what they thought of her. She had made an effort before she came to visit.

"Studied abroad a semester at Berkley in Boston…..," Sherlock heard her say to John.

Her wrist brace was off and it showed a faint strip of white skin—possibly a watch or bracelet. When her hands came to settle in her lap, there was also a small strip of white skin on her left ring finger. So there it was. Her secret?

Recently engaged and broke it off? Recently divorced?

And then it dawned on him.

She'd come back from abroad, back to her daily life at home. Only it wasn't the same; he'd changed. He'd moved on with another woman and that's why she'd moved on her own.

"If you ever need help with anything, don't be afraid to ask. Right Sherlock?"

"What—oh, yes." John drew him away from his observation.

The Cellist turned her attention over to Sherlock with a petite smile.

"Sherlock? Why didn't you come introduce yourself at my flat? I mean, those notes were interesting and all but…well, I don't understand." Anna gave out a small laugh.

"Wasn't worth my time." He blatantly stated. He then picked up his teacup and looked at the loose leaves on the bottom.

"Um….oh…," Anna eyes shifted downward and Johns eyebrows went up high. His mouth gaped like a fish before an awkward silence settled in.

"Well." John was still wide eyed and Sherlock still sat unperturbed. "Who's for more tea? Something stronger?"

Anna had left a few hours earlier and Sherlock continued on with his life; nothing changed. He lay on the couch, computer on his lap. He'd had the free time so he'd chosen to invest it in updating his blog. He wanted to put his findings up on the fertilizer.

John, however, was different. When Anna left, he'd even walked her down to the front door. When he came back, John kept shooting over strange looks. A few times, it seemed he was ready to voice his thoughts but then decided against it and then returned to whatever he was doing.

Finally, Sherlock had enough of watching him flounder in his turmoil.

"What is it, John?" He turned his head away from the computer screen.

"Couldn't you not be yourself for just a few hours?" His arms flew to his side.

"Why would I be?"

"Anna is a very nice woman and she could have been a friend. I'll tell you what, you leave a hell of a first impression."

"You of all people know that, John." Sherlock's brow wrinkled. "Was it something I said?"

"You told her she wasn't worth your time." John rolled his eyes and plopped into his own chair. "That's not exactly the best way to get to know anyone." John picked up the newspaper and began reading the front page.

Sherlock laid his head back.

Did it really matter to him if they ever bothered talking again?

Not particularly, no. To be frank, he'd found their conversation to be a little dull. It was much more stimulating to play music with her.

Ah! Perhaps that would mend it a little.

Sherlock got up and grabbed his violin from the case. He tightened the bow, slowly and methodically added a fresh coat of rosin onto the hair and placed the wooden body onto his left shoulder.

Meditation from Thais, by a French composer, came to his mind and his fingers simply went. Almost mindlessly, he played. He'd played the piece so many times it came out with ease.

Somewhat, he'd hoped that The Cellist—Anna, he chastised himself again—would see it as an invitation. Or an apology. Or maybe she'd find in to be an insult. However she decided to interpret it, Sherlock just wanted to keep playing music with her. He'd just started finding a way to ease his boredom and he wasn't ready to give that up yet.

It had been almost an hour after he finished the piece and Sherlock kept listening for any sound coming from across the street.

There was nothing and was driving him insane.

The room had grown dark, John had already left for his room, and Sherlock stared at the wall. The violin still rested in his lap and his fingers absentmindedly plucked at an old tune.

His mobile vibrated in his pocket.

That was a lovely piece, though, it doesn't fit you.—Anna

Why's that?—SH

It's far too sweet.—Anna

Bitterness? Or perhaps she found a backbone and found a little sass of her own.

And what would be better?—SH

Something Russian. Perhaps Bartok's Romanian Folk Dances.—Anna

Sherlock thought a minute.

Bartok isn't Russian.—SH

I know that. Still suits you, though.—Anna

Sherlock had never heard the piece before so he searched it on YouTube. She was right. It was heavy and dark. In some parts it growled while other parts it was dainty and barely audible.

Good choice.—SH

Anna was working one day at the café, about a week after she and Sherlock had last spoken. It had been a busy morning; the rain outside was bringing everyone in. Once it slowed down, Anna and the other woman she worked with, Darlene, were wiping down the counters in back.

"Hey Anna. That man that comes in here—the one with the long coat. Do you talk with him much?"

Anna put a stack of dishes in their place.

"Sometimes. Why?"

"I'd stay away from him if I were you, dear."

Stopping what she was doing, Anna placed a hand on her hip.

"I've heard things about him. He's not the rights sorts. He's just….He's not normal, Anna. He's always after trouble."

Just then, Sherlock and John walked in and had already taken their normal seat. Darlene was already on her way out to them with a couple of menus and Anna reached for her purse in the corner.

She pulled out a green booklet she'd been saving for the right moment and this seemed like the best opportunity.

Darlene came back to the waitress' station to hand over their order to the cook.

"Darlene, could you give this to him?" The older woman gave her a strange look as she poured coffee. "Please."

Darlene snatched it away and tucked it under her arm. "Don't say I didn't warn you," She said before returning out front.

Anna was supposed to be washing dishes in back but she couldn't resist watching their expressions as Darlene gave Sherlock the booklet.

"Was told to give this to you." She could hear Darlene explain.

Sherlock took a drink from his coffee and gave a soft smile as his eyes bounced over the green front page. Anna hoped it was from the note she'd left him:

I promise it's worth your time.