It's amazing how much the temperature can change in just a few hours. The chilly air had turned a tad humid and the temperature nothing less than tepid. Maybe it only felt like this because of the nonstop rush from the bus stop to my home. I wouldn't allow myself to slow down, although my knee was persistent in doing so.

I keep murmuring damn under my breath, fumbling with my keys to get the door unlocked. My head was a blur as was my heart beat, my lungs trembling with each breath from the relentless run. I get inside and sprint up the stairs, being able to do nothing but hold my breath on the way up. I open the door to my room, the hinges creaking with the ferocity of the movement. I scan the room and then step over to my dresser, picking up the leather wallet, the material softened by the numerous other times it had been held. I take a moment to collect my thoughts and take as many deep breaths as possible to get the blood flowing to my brain again. I pick up the case to my guitar with the time-worn instrument inside and was down the stairs as quickly as I'd been up.

"Mum!" I call, swinging my head back and forth, pacing around the living room in search of her. "Mum!"

It was common knowledge that my father would be at work, or perhaps job hunting, one of the two, and my mother would be home. There was a great possibility that she'd gone out to get groceries, in which case she wouldn't have taken the car anyway. Hell, the car had only been used in the past few years to help transport ourselves to our new homes, and the most recent time it'd hardly been able to start up from the neglect.

"Okay, okay John, calm down, it's all fine, just think." But it was no use, I couldn't bring my brain to conjure a feasible nor intelligible thought.

"What are you shouting for, John?" Harriet comes down the stairs, rubbing the sleep and booze out of her eyes, her hair a disheveled mess. "Another creepy crawly in your room, perhaps?" She made no point in her inflection that she was making a joke, stoicism filling her whole.

I ignore the pass and ask, "I need to go somewhere, do you know where Mum is? I need the car."

She blinks a couple times and swipes a lock of hair out of her face. "I think she went to the store. Don't worry, Johnny, I can take you where you need to go." Her arms drop feebly to her side and she squints her eyes as though there was something on my face. Lazily, she closes her eyes and asks, "Where was it you needed to go?"

"The music store. And thanks, Harry, but no thanks, I don't feel like being in the car with you when you get pulled over for a DUI."

She shrugged. "Suit yourself," she replies and makes her way back upstairs to be a recluse.

I check my watch; it was already 15:47, he'd be expecting me in less than a quarter hour. I can feel the warmth drop from my face, why did I make a promise I knew I couldn't keep? I knew I didn't have strings, I knew I didn't have transportation, why did I promise Sherlock I could meet up with him this afternoon?

Slowly, I hit my head against the wall, being consistent and refusing to stop, probably disrupting Harry's attempt to nap in the process. Vaguely, hardly noticeably, I hear a knock blend in with the banging of my head, so subtle I thought it had just been my imagination. I had two options; either open the door and no one be there, risking myself look awkward to myself and any passer-by, or I could leave the door unanswered while there was someone actually knocking and risk being rude. I think it over for a moment and then cease my head hitting; I couldn't risk being rude.

I open the water-rotted door to reveal the kind and calm face of Mycroft. An initial feeling of shock passed by quickly as I remembered the familial relationship.

"Good afternoon, John, are you ready to go?" He asks leisurely.

I look around quickly, my heart starting. I grab the guitar case and walk out the door with him. I didn't think that Sherlock was poor, but I wasn't expecting the sleek, black car that looked unnatural in the bleak driveway. What surprised me even more than the high-class vehicle was the unprecedented trust I had for this family. Without a second thought I'd walked out the door with a different brother than expected, but a Holmes nonetheless.

"Sherlock thinks that it's impudent to have a license, he doesn't see the point in having to have a piece of plastic to prove he is capable of something." Mycroft opens the back door of the car for me and smiles. "But we can't have him on the road with no papers, can we?" I step in and he leaves for the front for me to close the door on my own.

I'd never been in a car this nice, the leather was soft yet firm, giving off the notion that it was a new car, except there was no new-car smell that usually accompanies vehicles that look this spruced up. Everything seemed to have its own individual gleam, making it a little overwhelming, but still amazing to look at. All of this must be cleaned on a regular basis to keep it so nice. I smiled to myself a little. No wonder Sherlock was so amazing at the violin, he sure as Hell had the money to pay for the lessons. Then it strikes me, Sherlock isn't even in the car.

"Uh, Mycroft-" I begin, but he cuts me off with a smile and a statement.

"John, Sherlock told me to pick these up for you." He hands back several packs of strings of varying widths and metals. I decide not to ask questions and just give Mycroft my thanks.

The car ride is a little awkward due to the silence, or at least it was for me, Mycroft seemed to be an even bigger enigma than Sherlock, I'd never seen him show any other emotion than content. The quiet car ride came to an end fifteen minutes after leaving my home, pulling up to a quaint, two-story home that looked just as new as the car we'd driven in. It looked as though it'd just been built, there was no sign of wood rotting or paint peeling and the shingles were perfect, no sign of water-wear. I started to feel nauseous realizing how out-of-place I was with my worn out jumper and patched up jeans in a place so sleek and precise.

I get out of the car and remove my case carefully, afraid to scuff up any part of the car. I can feel the blood from my face fall as I realize that my shoes had left a small imprint of dirt in the carpet. I couldn't bring myself to figure out why I was freaking out so much.

Mycroft opened the front door for me and I thanked him quickly, rubbing my feet off on the mat outside before entering. The door opened up to an atrium like room, the only clutter I could spot being a few scattered books on the coffee table. I praised God he hadn't come to my home.

"Sherlock will be in his room upstairs, third door on the right." Mycroft said. I felt stupid that I'd forgotten that he was even there, he had been standing there watching me ogle at his house without a word.

"Thank you." I say. It seemed to be the only thing I could say. I walk up the stairs stiffly and follow his directions to the third door on the right. I instinctively reach for the door knob and stop and remind myself to knock.

I rap a few times on the door and a wait a moment to see if there'd be a response before lightly calling, "Sherlock?"

I hear shuffling in the room and a small grumble. "Come in," he calls.

I open the door to a room that resembled a sty. Papers were strewn across the stained carpet as well as were tacked up on the wall. Beakers littered his desk and his test tube rack was holding more than it was built for. The curtains were drawn and the only light was coming from the lamp emanating from under the microscope that made it's home in the center of his desk, surrounded by studies and pencils. This was far from what I was expecting and my eyebrow arched responsively.

"Hello," I say, propping my case against my body.

"Hello," he says, sitting nonchalantly in a swivel chair, brushing his hair back with his spindly fingers. He rolled across the room and picked up his violin case. He opened it up and removed a packet of cigarettes where the rosin should've been stored.

He patted it with the palm of his hand and while offering one to me said, "You don't smoke."

I furrowed my eyebrows. "No, I don't."

He kept his eyes on me for a moment and then stored them back away, "Neither do I."

Uncomfortable remaining stationary, I remove my guitar and begin to restring, careful while removing the old strings so that they wouldn't snap and strike me in the face. After all was ready, we both remained awkwardly still, waiting for the other to begin.

Without warning, Sherlock picks up his violin and draws the first bow. I wait one measure, and then another, afraid to ruin what he'd begun. I closed my eyes, choked down my fear, and strummed, easily and fluidly, fitting the soft tune he was creating. His eyes were mostly closed, but I could barely see through his slits that he was watching me. It was then that I noticed that he was beginning to transition into a completely different song and my fingers fumbled as I tried to change with him. After a couple of measures, everything got sorted out and our melody filled the room. I don't think I'd ever felt so comfortable and at ease, like the worries and stress of school and football slipped off and were masked by the music.

I don't know how long we went on, I was slumped against his wall and my fingers were beginning to get numb from the consistency. I watched as Sherlock began to slow down and his sounds muted. We came to what felt like a premature close, but an end nonetheless.

He set his violin and bow aside and held his head in the hammock of his hands, eyes closed and face relaxed. My arms remained draped over the body of my guitar and I examined the blisters on the tips of my fingers and smiled.

He opened his eyes and looked at an area near me.

"John," he said.

"What?"

"Percy."

"What?" Who the Hell was 'Percy'?

"Rat."