A/N: Hello, dearies. I am incredibly sorry for not updating in such a long time! I moved into my apartment and school started back up and life caught up with me. You know how it goes. But am still all grateful for you all! Even though I haven't posted, you are still leaving me reviews and adding me to your alert lists. I was absolutely tickled pink by the review from darkestfear. I squirmed so hard in my seat!

I've been having a lot of late nights from school work and such so I haven't been able to think about this story quite as much. I'm not sure what I think about this chapter-at least the end of it-so don't hesitate to let me know if it's horrible or if you love it or somewhere in between!

As always, search YouTube for the music I mention. It'll let everything make so much sense!

Disclaimer: I created Anna.

With what he'd felt the other night and after his talk with Mycroft, Sherlock felt hesitant to return to Anna's flat. He really wasn't sure if he could trust himself; it all seemed like new territory, anyways. And like Mycroft said, sentiment is for idiots. Although John never failed to remind him when he made a complete ass of himself, Sherlock would never go that far.

Sherlock had gotten a few more invitations from Anna over to her flat to play again. However, he'd chosen to ignore them. He was focused on this new case, after all. Or perhaps that's only what he told himself.

Honestly, the past few weeks started to take a toll on him. Sherlock's mind was growing wary and a little muddied. It was still hard to concentrate and he found that headaches were becoming a nightly function. His back and shoulders were constantly tight and he wasn't entirely sure what do to about it. So he usually ignored it.

Then there was one night when John came up to him. Sherlock was sitting at their table, reading his computer screen. He was doing a little research for a set of clues he was following. His shoulders hunched a little and a twang tightened in his back—been bothering him for weeks, really.

"Sherlock?" John appeared at his side.

Sherlock replied with a grumble.

"I've a quick question for you."

Again, Sherlock simply replied with a discernable grumble and a nod.

"Well, Lisa is having a hard time now and—"

"You want me out of the way tonight." Sherlock glanced away from the computer and up to John's face. He seemed almost guilty.

"Um… well, yes."

Sherlock rolled his shoulders back and sat up straighter. He gave a slight nod. "Fine."

"Sherlock, are you sure? I know it's the middle of a case and—"

"Yes." He tried to give a bob of his head with his small smile but the pain in his back started to shoot upward. "I'll try my best, John."

He then picked up his phone and sent a message to The Cellist.

Still free to play?

This time when Sherlock came to Anna's flat, she'd been expecting him. There was no surprise and she had been properly prepared. Her clothes were daily causal wear, but by a light perfume of coffee and chips, she'd just gotten off of work. The odds around the flat had been put back in their rightful place and the couch and chair had been pushed to the side to accommodate more for more playing room.

"Hey there, Stranger." Anna had welcomed him in.

Sherlock only nodded to her slightly and walked in, dropping his case down and getting out his instrument.

"Sherlock, is everything alright?" His senses must be dulled as Anna appeared right by his side, her dark eyes examining his face.

"Yes, I'm fine." He tried to giver her an assuring smile but he knew it didn't work. Anna gave him a weary glance over before grabbing for her cello. "Something light tonight, perhaps?"

Sherlock set down his bow and handed her sheet music that had been tucked away under his arms. Anna grabbed it and set it on her stand. She began flipping through it.

"Hm," She flipped through to the end of the piece. "I've never played this one before. Ravel. Nice choice, though. Let's try it then." Anna gave Sherlock a quick smile.

He only nodded and tucked the bout of his violin under his chin. The muscles in his left shoulder protested and tightened up but he chose to ignore it anyways. Sherlock waited as Anna started the piece.

Her part was low, dreary, and heavy. As he closed his eyes, counting the beat internally, it reminded him of a rainy day. Many people associate rain with melancholy but there is always the potential for beauty in it. Even Sherlock could admit to that.

When it was his chance to join in, Sherlock continued to ignore the shooting pain that traveled through his arm up towards his fingertips.

With the ease of a well practiced musician, his fingers bounced on the fingerboard with ease and his bow smoothly traveled across all of the strings. As his hand slip up higher on the ebony fingerboard, so his breathing seemed to grow deeper.

Sherlock noticed Anna's eyes had closed and her head began to droop down with each heavy brushstroke against the strings she took. Her feet began to rock back and forth.

Then, he and The Cellist reached a climax in the piece and Sherlock was leaning forward almost onto his toes. The cello grumbled into its lowest tone and Sherlock replied by digging into his own string and a bitter growl came out.

His fingers soon started to tingle. Still he ignored it.

Then, the two of them were back in the beginning melody. It was the calm after a terrible storm, a dream after a violent nightmare.

Sherlock began to stand up straighter, Anna also sitting up in a regular and straight position. He could see The Cellist watching him, his body naturally sending out signals to slow down the piece: body swaying, calmer breathing, and small nods and bobs of his upper torso.

Once more, he closed his eyes, this time as his bow dragged across the string to sound the final long ending note.

Sherlock quickly brought the instrument down and set it in the case. He then rolled his shoulders back, cracked his fingers, and groaned—much louder than he would've liked.

"Are you okay, Sherlock?" He could hear the endpin of the cello being drawn within to the wooden body.

"I'm fine. It's nothing." His back was still turned to her and he rolled his left shoulder in its socket. The underlying muscle tensed up more at the strain and he tried to stop himself from wincing.

Anna had walked around to his side and Sherlock knew that he was being observed.

"Sherlock, do you ever stretch?"

"What?"

"Do you ever stretch? Before you play. After you play. Do you stretch?"

"No." He didn't need to think about this answer. It was never a habit he picked up, really.

"That's why you're in so much pain, you idiot!" Anna took Sherlock by the wrist and lead him towards her couch. "Sit down."

He didn't have the energy to put up resistance but when she disappeared behind him, Sherlock's senses began to prick up again.

Then her hands came to his shoulders and the hairs on his neck stood on end while sparks shot to his brain. "What are you doing!"

Sherlock tried to stand up but she grabbed him by the shoulders and sat him abruptly back down. Then, her strong fingers began to knead into his flesh, working deep into the muscle and tissue.

The pain almost immediately began to subside and Sherlock let himself sink further into his seat.

"Stretching warms up the muscle and prevents injury." Anna's fingers treated his shoulders like bread dough and gradually made their way to the base of his neck, toying with the small hairs there.

"Hm," was all Sherlock felt the need to reply.

"And you should do it every day, else you want to feel like this all the time."

If he always got treated like this, who cares?

Sherlock chastised himself. Again, his brother was proving to be right. No. Just little slips in his thought process here and there, is all it was.

"Where else do you hurt?"

Sherlock's head had fallen against the back of the sofa and it felt like it required all of his energy to bring it back up. "Fingers and wrists." His left hand came up for a brief moment and then it fell back onto his lap.

Again his alerts were peaked when Anna came around and kneeled at his feet to take his hand in her own. Tingling shots were running through his fingers. Sherlock wasn't used to people touching him and he wasn't quite sure what to think of it. However, he knew it wasn't an unwelcomed feeling.

"Tell me more." She rubbed her thumbs in his palm.

"Fingers go numb when I play. Wrist is in pain."

Then Anna's head fell a little. "Sherlock, you should probably see a doctor about this."

"I'll mention it to John, I suppose." The right corner of his mouth rose and he rolled his eyes a little.

"This is serious!" Anna slapped at his calf. "You could have tendinitis. For a musician, that's a serious matter. Sometimes, it's completely debilitating."

Sherlock's mouth flattened.

"We shouldn't be playing as much, I suppose."

Although he didn't outwardly show it, Sherlock was unhappy about that.

Shortly thereafter, Sherlock returned to 221B and walked past John and his date who were sitting on the sofa, and into his bedroom. He sat down on his bed and stared out the window. When he then rolled his shoulders back, a thought occurred to him: there was no tension in his shoulders for the first time in weeks.

He had slept well that night.

So. There it is. I'll try to update soon everyone!