John's phone buzzed for the 14th time in his pocket that afternoon. The funeral was horrible. He hadn't wanted to go back to a flat where there was no Sherlock, so he decided that a walk through London was a good idea. That was five hours ago. His hand was sore from holding the cane and both his shoulder and legs were stiff.

He thought that he could escape in between the buildings and people (escape the Fall and the silence and the gun that was waiting for him at home).

He was wrong.

One could only hide in London if that one was Sherlock Holmes. John Watson had walked into a trap and couldn't make his way out of it. He wasn't relieved when the next buzz of his phone was accompanied with a black car inching its way next to him. Instead of climbing into that chamber, he walked into the nearest shop. All that was needed, he thought, to go with the jingle of the bell, was the sound of rain against the shop window.

"Good evening, sir. Is there anything I can help you with?"

John did a quick scan of the shop and spoke to the young woman behind the counter. "I don't think so, right now. Thank you."

She smiled before going back to her computer.

John walked further into the store, one that was dedicated to a vast array of instruments, before stopping in front of the violins. He felt the now constant pain and heartache give a bit of a throb at the familiar instruments. There wasn't even a reaction when he looked at the price tags. He did, however, take out his phone when it buzzed again.

Whatever you decide will be paid for.

- MH

The offer also includes lessons.

- MH

John pocketed the phone again and limped to the counter. "On second thought, do you think you could point me in the right direction for a violin?"

"Of course!" She smiled brightly. "Now, are you picking one out for yourself or someone else? If they're a beginner, we also provide lessons during the week."

John felt a ghost of a smile and listened attentively to every syllable that was spoken to him. After all, this was more or less a tribute to Sherlock. He couldn't disappoint him in death.

Six months later and John could play without making anyone in the general vicinity want to cut off their ears. Another two months and John dropped lessons altogether and started on playing what was in Sherlock's binder.

John knew that this couldn't be a permanent solution, no matter how well it worked when there was music. Because when John played, he could pretend, just for a little while, that all was good. For as long as his bow was being pulled across his strings, he could pretend that he still wanted to live. He could pretend that he wasn't empty, that he wasn't lacking empathy. Just for bursts of time, he could pretend that he was okay.

John woke up, breathing hard, and tears already falling down his face. He stumbled out of bed to his violin and readied the bow. He blinked furiously several times to no avail. He thought, fuck it, and played, eyesight be damned. He played and played and played and hoped for the impossible. Maybe, just maybe, he thought, if he played hard enough, well enough, put enough emotions into it, one of two things will happen. Either Sherlock comes back or the emotions stay with the music long after the last note has faded.

The problem with emotions leaving with the music is that he'd have none left to love Sherlock Holmes, and that is a nightmare unto itself.

Three years after the Fall, after that fateful day of walking into a music shop, and this is where John finds himself. After sleepless nights and bleeding, aching, fingers and tear-crusted eyes, and John is here.

John is back home, at 221B Baker St, lying in bed with one Sherlock Holmes, after a violin duet, and John had never felt so whole or so alive.

A/N:

Thank you for reading! Hope you enjoyed! Reviews and favs give me life. :)