John was woken by the sweetly painful, measured harmony of the violin drifting up to him through the floorboards.

He opened his eyes to near complete darkness, but he was instinctively aware of the room around him. It was still nighttime—probably sometime around early morning.

Much too early for Sherlock to be playing his violin.

He lay there for several minutes, just listening to the sound of cheerful melancholy in the dark.

John finally groaned and sat up, dragging himself out of bed and padding out into the hall and down the steps. The lights were almost all off in the living room, save for one reading lamp that cast the room in a dim jumble of warm electric glow, angular shadows, and cool moonlight.

Sherlock stood by the window, silhouetted against the glass with his violin tucked under his chin. He didn't stop playing as John came in, but turned toward him just slightly as if to indicate that he was aware of his presence.

John cleared his throat. "Sherlock? It's late. What the hell are you doing?"

Only after the closing notes had slid off the strings of his violin and faded into the night did Sherlock finally decide to reply. "I'm thinking. Composing helps me think."

"Can't you think another time? Maybe, you know, when the sun is up?"

"I've been thinking about what to do for our dear Mr. Anonymous." Sherlock spoke as if he'd decided not to hear him. "I've come up with quite a few ideas, almost none of which would work for him, because he's just so unusual."

"O…oh? Like what?"

Sherlock turned and rested the violin on the table, casually cleaning the bow and taking his sweet time in answering. "I thought perhaps if he were kinder, people might like him more. But of course, the problem with that is that he can't be. I don't suppose he knows how. And anyway, he doesn't need people to like him because he's so self-sufficient. Or at least, that's what he thinks. I wonder if he's beginning to doubt that, too."

"…Sherlock?"

"He probably holds a lot of resentment for the treatment he received in his youth. Perhaps if he could just figure out how to delete those memories, he could go on with his life. But then, he wouldn't have much memory left, would he?" Sherlock scoffed carelessly and laid the bow next to the violin, turning back to John. "It would free up a lot of hard drive space, though."

"What are you—"

"What am I getting at? What does it sound like? I'm explaining the possible solutions to his problem. I don't suppose you've found any more information on him? No, you haven't, and that's fine because I don't need it. I already know that he's desperate, ineffective, damaged beyond repair, obviously heartless, and pathetically hollow."

"No he's not! Sherlock—he's just—it's just that—"

Sherlock tilted his head. "Just that what? Is there something you'd like to add to your story? Perhaps something about how innocent and victimized he is? Because that would be rubbish, and you and I both know that. Don't push the envelope, Mr. Anonymous."

John opened his mouth, but no words came out, so he shut it again. Sherlock's steady gaze was on him, and he found he didn't know where to look.

"You… er… you figured it out…? That I'd…"

He rolled his eyes, taking a seat in the armchair. "'Figured out' implies that there was a point at which I didn't know."

"Oh. Oh… so you… um… But you… I mean… you didn't…"

"I didn't say anything? Didn't let on that I knew? No, of course not. Much too interesting, getting an unbiased opinion. Although… I can't say I'm not surprised by what I found. Still, I stand by what I said then. It's cold fact, and that's the way the world works."

John swallowed. "You mean… about how… 'he' doesn't matter?"

"Mm hmm. Do you have any idea how big the universe is, John?"

"No, but I don't think you do, either."

"True. But my point is that in such a vast vacuum of human life, just one person really doesn't make any measurable difference at all. Doting mothers might tell their children that everyone's important, that everyone can change the world—" He shook his head in irritation. "But that sort of heroism doesn't exist in the real world. And even if it did, I wouldn't be capable of it."

"Sherlock… listen. When we first met, I was going to a therapist twice a week, and I walked with a cane. Then I moved in here, and… well, I don't do either of those things anymore."

"Yes? You're addicted to the adrenaline rush that comes with the game. If it wasn't me and cases, it might be police work or, hell, even sky diving. You'd find a way."

"No. No, you git. That's not what I'm getting at, and no I wouldn't 'find a way,' because that's not the only thing that saved me. I'm not just here because it's exciting."

Sherlock frowned, slightly puzzled. "No?"

"Hell, it's too early for this…" He took a deep breath. "No. I'm still here because you're my best friend, honestly, and I know you need me. And that's alright, because… maybe I need you, too. You helped me get my life back to normal—well, 'normal'—and I don't think I could have done that otherwise. So if you're saying that you're not important, or that you don't make a difference, then you're also saying that any difference you've made for me doesn't matter. Is that what you mean?"

The detective was quiet for a long time, and John could feel his eyes on him from the shadows.

"…No. It's not."

"Even if heroes don't exist, you're still the closest to one I've found, personally."

"I… what?"

"And I know I'm not much of one, but if I can make any difference for you, too, then that would be great. You're my friend. That's what friends do."

After a long moment of silence, Sherlock spoke carefully. "You have. More than I ever could."