John had fallen asleep leaning up against Sherlock's turntables. The room was dark, John had been up for more than twenty-four hours, and the sounds coming from DJ Sherlock's soundtrack were not the sounds of a party from the 21st century. Or the 20th century, or the 19th century, maybe 18th century was right, but 17th century, John had a feeling was more accurate. The sound system screeched and jolted John from his slumber. Looking around the empty dancefloor, John hissed.

"What are you doing?"

"Educating." Sherlock waved his hands back and forth.

"You can't play that crap here, Sherlock. You're going to bore people to death." John stood up. Sherlock snapped his head to look at John.

"It isn't crap. It's Handel's seventh etude in F minor."

"You're just lucky this discotheque is empty right now. If there were any customers, they'd cry." John squinted at the clock. "It's not usually empty at two-thirty."

Sherlock shrugged. "I think people were feeling rather tired today. They all left within minutes of you stepping down. It was an amazing phenomenon."

"Sherlock, you have to play something reasonable. Sherlock? Are you listening to me?" Handel's etude crescendoed. John stared out over the empty dance floor. He went down to the bar and had a drink with the bartender.

The next night was John's turn. Dressed in a button-down plaid shirt and a pair of ripped jeans he blasted a lovely mix of New Wave, hip-hop and dubstep. Sherlock sat in the corner, arms crossed, looking displeased.

"Filth." He said. He stuffed his fingers in his ears and snarled. John shrugged, gesturing

"I get the customers, Sherlock."

"I will not sacrifice my musical expertise for the whims of the populace John, is that okay?" Sherlock crossed his arms. John swung around.

"No, no, it's not okay!" John leaned towards him. "You don't understand do you? This can't be a functioning discotheque half the time, we'll lose our customers."

"Why don't we post a schedule?" Sherlock stood up and stalked off. John stared after him.

The next day, a notice was posted on the door. It read

"DJ Sherlock will be djaying tonight. If you don't like it go away and invite some more tasteful people. The idiot John will be back tomorrow."

The discotheque was empty at eleven. Sherlock frowned. He took off his headphones and marched over to the telephone.

"Yes, yes, I think they will enjoy it immensely. No don't invite those ones they'll complain its not live. Yes. Of course. Okay. Do me a favor and invite a news crew too." Sherlock dropped the receiver back into its bed and rubbed his hands together, resuming his place as the lord of classical music.

"Who was that?" John asked. Sherlock glanced at him.

"You will see."

Within fifteen minutes, vans started piling up in the parking lot, bearing the label, "Sunnyville Retirement Homes." John gaped as the dance floor filled with waltzes. Within ten minutes, it was packed. Sherlock grinned. A news van pulled up.

"All thanks to the marvelous human being Sherlock Holmes, the elderly of our nation our being provided with entertainment. It is remarkable that such a young man would do such a kind thing." A blonde news reporter wiped away a genuine tear. "What do you have to say about it?" She stuffed the microphone in an old man's face.

"This here is good stuff it is. Just like when I was younger, my grandmother would play it. Learned it on the piano too. Gooood stuff. Though I think this version of Vivaldi's somewhat different from my day."

"And what do you have to say about it?" The reporter gave John a dirty look.

"Well, I...I mean...What the-" She snatched the microphone away, flipping her hair. John turned to Sherlock. Sherlock flashed him a wad full of cash. John's eyes widened. Sherlock shrugged.

That night, they were watching the playback of the news report. In the middle of an interview with an ex-cat lady, there was a newsflash.

"Infamous Russian gangster, Nikolay Ivanov has just broken out of where he was being held at Pentonville prison. Police suspect that he was given a code of sorts somehow through tonight's media." Sherlock jumped up and turned off the television. John stared.

"Hang on a sec, I wanted to see. Something about a code, I wonder how anyone could have transmitted a-hang on. Sherlock?" John looked around.

Sherlock was counting the notes in his wallet while speaking into his cellphone.

"Sounds great Nikolka. Any time. Sorry it took so long, the BBC is awfully difficult to break into with Vivaldi." He saw John staring at him. He hunched over his cellphone and money and slunk into the back room.