It was late one night, that John found himself following the sound of violin music to a familiar locked door. He reaches out to knock but instead, after a pause, lets his hand fall to his side, expression unreadable. The truth of the matter was that John was scared; he was frightened to close the space between their two lonely hearts. Distance is good. Distance is safe, he finds himself thinking. John had become a master at running. Not physically, no, instead he ran from his feelings: The feelings so tangled with fractured memories of Sherlock that an imperfect portrait lived there.

Lowering himself to the ground, John leaned against the solid door, pressing his ear against the key hole and listening to the haunting melody coming from within. Sherlock was composing again, he realises with a small smile. The new song brought memories of rainy days to mind. Letting his eyelids fall closed, he slowly drifts into sleep.

Sherlock's eyes were closed also, but in concentration rather than sleep. His slender fingers gripped the bow tightly as it glided over the violin's strings. The melody was cut short as he opens his eyes, curious. He tilts his head, puzzled, as the sound of a quiet snore reached his ears. Moving to the door, he rests his hand on the door handle, listening closely. Surely that wasn- John. Sherlock kneeled before the door, hands pressed against the wood. He tastes a salty flavour upon his lips only to discover tears were falling from his blue eyes. 'Why am I crying? I /never/ cry.' He thinks, confusion clouding his thoughts, even though in his heart, it was crystal clear.

A locked door was not the only thing separating the two lonely boys. A delicate spider web of connections between them, made up of feelings and thoughts of each other, occupied the space as well.

"Goodnight, John Watson."