Sherlock was always working. He rarely slept or even stopped playing for any length of time. Once he was sawing the bow so vigorously that he broke a string which flew up and scratched him on the chin. John stopped him then, and he bandaged it. He checked his hands and wrists, sitting him down in a chair as he wrapped them. Sherlock's knees kept jumping in time even as he submitted to this attention and as soon as John allowed him, he jumped up, changed his string, and began the piece again.

Sometimes Sherlock would repeat the same section over and over and over. He might change it a tiny bit, then he would stop while he wrote it down, before starting the process again. John considered earplugs, but decided instead to go outside. He went for a walk down the cow trail until he got to the gate. Then he checked the post.

The letter box contained a brown envelope that revealed itself to be full of music paper, an advertisement for a store grand opening in the nearby town, and a small note addressed simply, John. He opened the envelope to find a white card with a phone number on it, and a message that said:

"If you need anything at all. -MH"

John placed the card in his back pocket, but not before transferring the number to his wallet. He returned to find Sherlock going over Irene's song again.

"What did he say?" Sherlock asked moments after John entered the cabin and placed the music paper on the table.

"Who?"

"You know who, John."

"How did you know? By the length of my steps?"

"John, you are many things, but you are not good at keeping secrets. I can see by your brow that you had resolved not to tell me about the card that I can clearly see wedged in your back pocket. That the card is from Mycroft is obvious because no one else knows the mailing address, as you so clearly told me when you arrived. Focus John. How will you ever become a detective without learning to pay attention?"

"Oh, do you still want me to become a detective? I thought that we were retired?"

"I haven't decided yet. I do have this to accomplish first, but I am not quite old enough to resolve to leave the world forever. Like I said, life in the country can be so boring sometimes."

"Bored with me already?"

Sherlock lowered his bow. "No John, never."

"Good."

"So, what did Mycroft say?"

"He just said to call if I needed anything."

Sherlock frowned and put the violin under his chin. "Meddling tit. Whatever you do, don't call him. He probably just wants to check up on me, or worse, he wants me to do some of his dirty work again."

"Oh, Sherlock. Don't be so hard on your brother."

"Why not, John? There was a time after my return when you would have cheered if I punched him out."

"I'm not saying that I still wouldn't. He is still an interfering git, but he does love you, and we need every ally we have now."

"John, must you speak of politics. You're becoming as tedious as Anderson. Stop thinking. You're putting me off my composing."

"Sorry," John said holding up his hand. "I'll just go do a bit of reading, shall I."

.

John walked past Sherlock and on into the bedroom. He sat at the desk looking at the trees outside of the window, before pulling out Sherlock's laptop. There were so many stories that he had never told about their time together. Some were too sensitive, but some were simply too complex to describe in a blog post. Reading back over his early entries now, John was upset at how poor his writing was. He wanted a chance to make it better, to improve the stories so that people could understand what Sherlock had accomplished, what Sherlock's life meant to the world. He resolved to start at the beginning, and tell what it was like to meet Sherlock. To explain how lost he was before he met the man who had saved his life so many times and in so many ways.

He began to write.

A Study in Pink

By John H. Watson

I took my degree as a Doctor of Medicine and then entered the course prescribed for doctors who would enter the Army. Having completed my studies there, I was attached to the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers stationed in Afghanistan.

After some time in service, I was struck in the shoulder by an Afghani bullet which shattered the bone and grazed the subclavian artery. I was removed to a hospital at Peshiwar where I was overtaken with a severe fever and almost died. When I came to myself, I was so weak and emaciated that the medical board resolved, against my wishes, to discharge me of my duty and send me back to Britain.

I stayed for a time in an ugly bedsit used for the transition of former soldiers, and for a time I led a comfortless, meaningless existence. Then, one day while I was walking through the park, I met an old friend, Dr. Mike Stamford, who introduced me to the man who would change my life.

He stopped, and read it over again. It seemed harsh and plain, and at the same time overly romantic. Even so, just remembering that time made John feel uncomfortable. What if he hadn't gone out that day. What if he had not met Mike in the park. Then his life would have been so different, what little there was left of it before he finally decided to use the gun that he had illegally purchased. He closed his eyes wanting and yet not wanting to go back to that time again just so that he could get a glimpse of Sherlock as a young man: Tall, arrogant, unmarred by the trials that would ultimately make him into the man that he had become.

John decided to check his blog. He rarely read it since he had stopped writing it long ago. His last entry said that he was stopping posts for the foreseeable future. He read the messages below the post. Most were asking him to continue, but one read...

Don't forget to bring home catfood.

Mary March 15

John jumped to his feet, looking around nervously, before digging his phone out of his medical bag where he had hidden it. There was no way that he could call while in the house. Sherlock had the ears of a Doberman. Spying his gardening gloves on the windowsill, he shoved the phone into his front breast pocket, and then did up his coat. He shut down the laptop and left the room, walking past Sherlock with the gloves in his hand. He left through the back door walking toward the garden shed, not knowing if he was fooling Sherlock who, although he had his eyes closed, probably knew what he was doing by the guilty sound of his hand on the door.

When he was out of sight of the cottage, he walked long strides down the path ending up on the hill where Sherlock had begun to build a base for his bee hive. John opened his phone then and called Mary.

"John?"

"Mary, you said it was an emergency. What's wrong?"

"John, where are you?"

"I told you. I'm with Sherlock."

"Well come back home at once."

"What's wrong?"

"What's wrong is people are asking me where you've gone, and I don't even know. Gone to visit a sick friend works for about a week, after that it becomes suspicious."

"You said that it was important. Why did you call me for something so trivial?"

"Trivial? It's difficult raising three kids with two parents, yet you left me here to fend for myself. Recital season is coming, and the baby is still so young. William misses you. He keeps asking when you are coming back, and I don't know what to say."

"I'm busy. It will be a while yet."

"John, listen to me. I know that you missed Sherlock, but you have a family now. You have responsibilities."

"Yes, about that."

"Oh God, John! You didn't let him convince you to run away with him did you? I know that you could never resist that man, but I want you home now! I don't care how good the sex is."

"Mary, It's not like that. I'm not..."

"I know. You're not gay. I've heard it enough times, but that doesn't mean that you wouldn't let that man vivisect you if he asked. You are completely obsessed, but life with him is a fantasy, John. You know how Sherlock is. He's not the kind of person who can truly love another."

"And you are? Look, Mary, I've made my choice. I want to be with Sherlock."

"You come back right now, or I swear, I'll make it so that you won't be able to."

"Christ Mary! Do you always have to do this? Force me into the shape that you want and just assume that I'll take it. You knew the score when you met me. You knew, and yet you got me to marry you..."

"You are the one who asked me to marry you, John, and I said yes. Don't have selective memory now after all of our time together."

"I asked Mary Morston to marry me, not you."

The line went silent.

"John, I don't want to have this conversation over the phone. Come home and we'll talk."

"No. Not now. We will talk, eventually, but not now. I can't leave him now."

"I'll give you a week. Then ..."

"Then what?"

"Goodbye John."

The line went dead. John closed the phone and put it back into his pocket before putting his hand to his forehead. He walked back to the cabin, got some water and an aspirin and lay down in his bed.

.

Sherlock entered soon after. "What did she say?"

He turned his head to look, but didn't even bother to ask him how he knew. "Nothing of importance. She told me to come home."

"So are you going?"

John rolled onto his side to better see Sherlock. He was perched on his bed with his arms wrapped around his knees, his lower lip trapped by his upper teeth as he bit. "No. I'm not leaving."

Sherlock nodded twice quickly and then rocked a bit on the bed. John sat up and walked across to sit beside him. He ran his hand up and down Sherlock's backbone caressing the spinous process of his vertebrae.

"Sherlock. Don't worry. Everything will work out fine."

Sherlock smirked and his face transformed into the half-scowl that he gave when he heard an obvious lie. John was astonished at how open Sherlock was when they were alone together. So often he performed or hid his true feelings, but now he was showing even his doubts. John smiled and placed a hand on his cheek. Sherlock stared back with wary, curious eyes. Then John leaned forward and hugged him. His forehead on Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock moved one hand around his back, but didn't know what to do with the other one. It flailed awkwardly until Sherlock placed it on John's forearm and patted it briefly. John started to giggle. Then he pulled down Sherlock's head and kissed his forehead.

"Go finish that symphony Sherlock. I'm going to take a nap."

"You know that you hate napping in the middle of the day, John."

"I'll manage. Go."

Sherlock rose awkwardly to his feet then and walked to the door looking back once before leaving. John moved across to his bed then, and went to sleep.