It was cold and sunny. It was a Monday. The light poured through the window of room 31 Ward C which stood slightly open. The droplets of recent rain cast shadows on the empty bed as they tracked a wet path down the glass. The window opened out onto a grey concrete courtyard, above the weed strewn slabs of stone something curious was attracting the attention of a few patients. Anyone who happened to turn their gaze to the roof of the Queen Elizabeth Hospital at precisely 9:26am on that particular Monday would have seen a tall, lithe young man expertly scaling the walls of the old building and imagined, quite incorrectly, that they were hallucinating. They might fancy that they saw that the man was dressed in hospital garments, but wore over them a long, smart dark grey coat which billowed dramatically around his form as he ascended to the roof. His hair might be messy and dishevelled; they would see, more than once and on frequent occasions, his hold slip as he clawed the guttering. No one would believe them.
Sherlock Holmes scrabbled blindly at the loose terracotta roof tiles, heaving his body up and letting it fall against the parapet. He raised a steady hand to his face, brushing a stray lock of hair from his creased brow. He held in the other hand his beloved instrument, nestled snugly against his forearm. With the grace of a jaguar he pranced along the fold of the roof, dancing an arrogant quickstep against the bright and cloudless sky. Once he found himself at the edge of the roof he dropped his legs down and drew his violin to the smooth curve of his chin. He ran the bow against the strings and they resounded with a delicate, haunting soprano. Swift fingers alternated between notes with the elegance of a Cormorant gliding over the crest of a wave.
John Watson and Irene Adler raised their heads in unison at the tempestuous melody echoing around the decrepit building of the hospital. Irene didn't hesitate. She marched up to the double doors and forced them open abusively. John stared at his flatmate silhouetted against the sky in dumb awe, Sherlock was serenading the sunrise. He reached Sherlock's room just as Irene was hoisting herself out of his line of sight from the window onto the ledge above. "What the hell are you doing?" He exclaimed, thrusting his head into the open air to glare at her disappearing form. "When you can't beat 'em..." she threw back over her shoulder, pressing the toe of her shoes into the gaps among the brick work for leverage. John couldn't quite believe it himself, but soon there he was, edging his way up the wall in quiet resignation. "Join 'em." He muttered bitterly.
Heavy clouds coasted across the sky, born on the force of the wind high up in the atmosphere, arriving and departing quickly in a fast-forwarded motion. John approached his friend as Irene pinched the back of Sherlock's neck gently to get his attention, seating herself on the slant of the roof. He smiled broadly, playing an upbeat little tune to make her laugh. Sweat had beaded on Sherlock's forehead, it was clear that playing the violin was giving him pain, but he moved onwards into the song nonetheless. His lips were taught and bloodless, pressed tight against his teeth. Sherlock's face was strained; he was endeavouring to fulfil his passion for music through his agony. John laid a hand on Sherlock's shoulder and squeezed it in a friendly manner, before taking a seat on the opposite side. John looked down, the drop was dizzying, and he swayed a little before Sherlock caught his arm to avoid him pitching over the side. Sherlock laid the violin over his knees and put each of his arms tentatively around their backs, circling Irene's waist and letting his fingers curl around John's elbow. These were the two people he needed right now, the only two people in the world that would sit with him on the edge of a roof and wouldn't ask questions. They put up with his every indiscretion and frequent moments of insanity. He'd take a bullet for each of them, for John, he already had. The world needed more people like John and Irene.