AN: Good morning to whoever is passing his/her own time to read this.

I sincerely hope that you're enjoying my little tale of our beloved idiots (because...aren't they just idiots? ;) ). Also: thank you to whoever stopped by and took 30 seconds of his/her own time to leave a comment! I love every single bit of it!

Thank you thank you!

John woke up at five a.m. in a pool of sweat under the duvet. He had dreamt about Sherlock. No. He had had a nightmare about Sherlock. A nightmare so dark and painful that even the remembrance of it, when he was finally fully awake, still sent shivers down his spine.

It had started as a normal dream, with John strolling in a park. Not a specific one, just a park. It was a sunny and hot day. Summer, then. It should've been a happy image, but there was literally nobody around him. He was walking alone in an endless park, on an endless path. He had started to sweat. It was too hot. There was no water. There was no escape. Then the park had changed. It got crowded. People walking to and fro. No, not people. Sherlock. Every person in it was Sherlock. Thin, transparent, akin to a ghost, covered in blood. Then it had changed again. It was night, the park was identical and different at the same time. He had heard a scream. Sherlock's scream. He had run, run, run looking for him everywhere. The more he had run, the more Sherlock had screamed. He had arrived too late. A pool of blood around the young man's dead body, his lifeless eyes fixed to the starless sky above. John's hands touched the slick blood.

John had woken up in that precise moment, suddenly conscious that it had just been a dream and yet not completely persuaded by his awareness. He got up from the bed with difficulty, his legs barely able to hold him upright like he had really run. The image of Sherlock's blood around his pale body followed him through the corridor, into the bathroom. It had been just a nightmare, John repeated to himself. A nightmare. That was all. He drank some water from the bathroom's sink and watched his reflection in the mirror. He was soaking in sweat. He needed a shower mainly because he needed its warm water to wash away the feeling of Sherlock's blood on his hands. He waited for the water to heat up, then put himself under the hot, welcomed stream.

It was like returning back to life. Rivers of water flowed like a cascade on his head, on his eyes, on his mouth. His muscles, still rigid from the dream, loosened. It was a blissful paradise in which there was nothing else except the warm sensation of water embracing him, lulling him, protecting him. He squeezed the shower gel on his hands, his scent instantly filling the air around. He remembered that he had bought the wrong one. It was vanilla scented and he rather hated vanilla. But in that moment, that sweetness was just as welcomed as the hot water pouring on him. He washed his hands harshly with it to be certain there was no blood on them. He stayed in the shower until the water started to become cold. Reluctantly he abandoned his safe refuge, put his bathrobe on and went to the kitchen.

He sat at the table, on the old creaking chair. So that day was the day, he realised in a flash. Monday. Mycroft Holmes (Sherlock's brother, he connected, since he was still finding it hard to believe that man to be Sherlock's brother) had told him that Sherlock would have come back to university on that precise day.

What would have happened? He hadn't even the strength to make hypothesis about the whole matter. He was just satisfied that Sherlock would be back. He was just content that he was alive. He was just grateful that his real life nightmare was finally coming to an end.

He distractedly grabbed a packet of biscuits and slowly began to eat them.

At half past six he was standing in front of his wardrobe. His clothes were in front of him and he hadn't got the slightest idea about what to put on. He was feeling like he was about to go to a very important appointment with a very important person. And, he had to admit, it was a rather correct deduction. Not that he wanted to impress Sherlock with his taste about clothes, but he wanted, for some unknown reason, to look good. He eventually chose blue jeans, a white shirt and a creamy jumper. He felt comfortable enough in them and they looked rather decent on him either. He felt almost proud of his appearance.

At seven thirty he was already at university, looking outside the window of his office. It was another cold and grey day of November, the light was soft and pale behind the clouds and there was a light slow breeze that made the last leaves fall from the trees.

Some students were already coming to the building walking briskly. Probably to warm themselves, thought John. Known and unknown faces moved in front of his eyes. That blonde girl of his course, that other tall guy he had seen many times in the corridors, that other pink haired lady with pink clothes. But he was looking for one single face. Sherlock's face. He studied every person, waited patiently, until his waiting was rewarded. At ten to eight he clearly saw a tall mass of black curls, emerging from the crowd around him. He was wearing his usual dark blue coat and his usual blue scarf. As always no one seemed to notice him, nor greet him. The young man walked into the building and John lost eye contact with him. He exhaled in relief. His nocturnal nightmare had just been a nightmare after all. Sherlock was there, back. He sighed in relief one more time.

At a quarter to ten John was pacing nervously in the still empty classroom waiting for the students to arrive. No, wrong. Waiting for Sherlock to walk through the door. Waiting for him to sit at his usual place. Waiting for his familiar face to look outside the window for the whole time, completely uninterested in John's words. John shrugged his shoulders. He couldn't care less. All he cared about was Sherlock to be there, safe, distant from the pool of blood he had seen him in during the night.

He picked up his phone and looked at Sherlock's last message.

I thought you had deleted my number.

He smiled and waited for the last five minutes to pass.

When the students started flowing in the classroom, John stretched his neck above their heads to catch a glimpse of black curls. Nothing. Maybe he had somehow missed him in the confusion of hair he was looking at. Yet, as all the students finally sat at their places, he noticed that the spot in the last row was still empty. He felt a lump in his throat and in his stomach. Why wasn't Sherlock there?

He passed two hours explaining the phosphines, without really being focused on it. He didn't even know how he managed to end the lesson without turning it in a complete utter mess. He exited from the classroom desperate for some air. He thus started to walk through the corridors trying to answer his question: why hadn't Sherlock attended his lesson? He had clearly seen him entering the building and it hadn't been his mind playing with him. So where was he now? He kept on walking until he reached a section of the university building he had never been in before. There were abandoned classrooms and a sense of old lingering in the dusty environment. Everything mutely spoke of distant times.

He imagined a violin melody echoing through that place, saturating the air around him. A sweet, yet powerful ensemble of notes slightly flowing as a summer breeze. It took him some more breaths to realise that the sound of it was a reality and it wasn't just his own fantasy. It was there, coming from a classroom at the end of the corridor. Whoever was playing, it was doing it which such mastery, such virtuosity that John thought he had never heard something even vaguely similar. Drawn by it like a bee to the most scented flower of a garden, he walked in a state of trance towards the source of those notes. He imagined an old man, like the place itself, moving his long, lean fingers on the strings. He arrived at the door panting hard, as if every step had been an effort, as if the music was slowly substituting the oxygen of the whole planet. He leaned his back on the door, not wanting to disturb the musician, dropping his head back, lost in the perpetual stream of the symphony. It shifted from being light and carefree to being deep and melancholic, from being high like a bird's flight over the top of a mountain to being low as the deepest pit of hell, from being painted white to being painted black. Every note seemed to have a life of its own. They danced in front of John's eyes, embraced him, echoed through his body. John became part of the melody itself, until he couldn't distinguish anymore where he was, who he was. There existed only the notes and John. Nothing else. Whoever was playing was doing miracles. John had his eyes closed, lost in amazement, full with every feeling he had ever felt. He had tears at the corner of his eyes, he sensed them. But they weren't either tears of joy or sorrow. They were tears of complete fulfilment, they were tears of emotions lost and found, hidden and blatant. All this thanks to that violin player.

He couldn't stand it anymore, he needed to know who such a talent was. As the melody changed one more time, John plucked his courage up and entered the room. He slowly opened the door, eyes closed, fearing that the person would have disappeared if he had opened them. When he reopened them, it took him two seconds to readjust to the light, even if it was the cold grey one of November.

And then John saw everything. The black silhouette of the musician backlit by the windows behind him, his fingers racing fast on the strings, his right elbow perfectly angular, his right hand holding the bow strongly and gently at the same time. A cascade of black curls falling softly on the wood, marble-white skin contrasting with the mahogany of the sound box, eyes closed, completely dedicated at what he was doing, his forehead slightly contracted, but serene. The white sleeves of his shirt rolled up till the elbows, showing the muscles and the tendons of his forearms moving accordingly to the melody played. Sherlock Holmes.

He could see his focus in every note he played, the dedication he was putting into every little movement.

The music changed once again. It became dark, mysterious and warm. It remembered John Watson of his nights under the starry sky of Afghanistan at first, then it remembered him of rainy days of spring when the birds sang in their nest to claim the sun back, then it brought him over a mountain's valley where the wind made the flowers' stems dance. It was a sweet sensation, that not only embraced him, but engulfed him, struck him, left him wanting for more. For he wanted more and more of it, until it would break him apart, until he would become just music himself.

And all of a sudden the melody changed one more time. And all of a sudden John wanted to kiss Sherlock. His heart echoed with the sound coming out from the instrument, from Sherlock's fingers. Every fibre of his muscles became perfectly aligned with the tremble of the strings under Sherlock's touch. As the young man was eventually playing him instead of that violin. He wanted to kiss him. He wanted it so badly that his whole body ached at the idea. He wanted to steal the notes that the other man had inside by kissing him, by touching Sherlock's soul with his body. He wanted to be physically part of the melody. He imagined their lips meeting, Sherlock with the violin still in his hands, him sucking out that symphony from the young man's mouth, making himself a part of it, drowning endlessly into it.

Without realising it, John had slowly approached to Sherlock and now he was few centimetres away from him, still flowing in the stream of notes.

Then the melody ceased and silence fell. John felt like he had been flung to the ground from another dimension. He was breathing heavily and the idea of him kissing Sherlock, as he had just imagined to do, struck him like a lightning in the clear blue sky. When he realised it, he felt like he was torn between slapping himself at the thought or go along with it. He struggled to keep himself under control.

Sherlock was still standing with his eyes closed, John could see his chest going up and down under the shirt. He was short of breath like John and seemed lost in his own world.

John, that in the meanwhile was slowly regaining his control over his body, looked at him. No wounds, not evident ones at least. He exhaled deeply.

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at him in that precise moment. He felt naked under the gaze of the other man's aquamarine eyes, he felt naked because that play had freed him from his skin. He was just soul in front of the young man, an open, limpid soul.

The desire of kissing him had soothed, but not completely disappeared and he scolded himself for being still thinking about it now. Because he was completely sure that Sherlock was reading it on his face. John smiled, trying to find the right words to praise Sherlock for his beautiful, amazing violin skills. But Sherlock didn't smile back. He stared at John with freezing cold eyes.

John couldn't help but feeling somehow broken inside as Sherlock spoke in a flat tone.

"Good morning, professor Watson."

John's stomach twisted at 'professor Watson', his smile disappearing from his face. He had expected Sherlock to be a bit different, but he had also wished that he had been wrong. He found that he almost had no strength to answer that.

"Good morning, Sherlock.", he managed to mutter.

It sounded so strange, him calling the other man 'Sherlock' and the young man calling him 'professor Watson'. But it sounded strange mainly because it had passed more than two weeks since he had last pronounced it. Nevertheless, Sherlock didn't complain for being called by his first name and kept on staring at John. They stayed still and silent for a time that became indefinite, the John found the courage to speak his mind.

"That was…amazing. Utterly brilliant. Really."

He had actually no words to express how that journey through the notes had been and those which had just slipped out of his mouth didn't even remotely match with the things that John was still feeling inside.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and slightly smiled, without much conviction, but it was a smile nevertheless. John felt a bit warmer.

"Thank you."

For some other endless seconds, no other words were spoken. They just stayed still a few centimetres away, waiting for something to happen, for the other person in the room to speak first. And again it was John's turn to break the silence.

"You didn't attend my lesson."

He couldn't quite figure it out how that had come out from his mouth. He wasn't even thinking anymore about that!

"No.", was the calm, dry answer.

"Why?", asked John abruptly, both wanting and not wanting to know the answer.

Mainly because he didn't know the possible answer at all.

Sherlock looked at him, but said nothing for a while. It seemed to John that time had frozen in that instant.

"Because", Sherlock eventually spoke "I had no will."

Those words hurt John. He didn't know why, but they hurt. Sherlock had always come to his lessons. John felt helpless in front of the young man. He plucked all his courage up and abruptly changed the topic of the conversation, trying to remain as impassive as possible.

"How", he sighed at the foolishness of the question "are you?"

Sherlock gave him a puzzled look, but mechanically answered:

"Fine."

John cleared his throat.

"Good. Nice to know."

He felt rather embarrassed, his cheeks turning slightly pink.

"Were you on a case?", he continued.

"Sort of."

It looked like he was answering by following a scheme of pre-arranged answers. Like he had already known John's questions in his mind. Nevertheless, Sherlock looked like he didn't want to carry on with the conversation anymore. He gently placed his violin and the bow in the velvety case, rolled his sleeves back to the wrists, took his coat and scarf, put them on and walked to the door. John stayed motionless in the same spot, watching Sherlock's graceful way of walking through the room, following every movement of his curls in the air, internally wanting to bury his hands into them.

When Sherlock reached the threshold, he didn't turn to John, but said:

"Goodbye, John."

That 'John' made John's heart jump in his chest, it warmed him deeply, it pulled the strings of his own body's symphony one more time. For the notes Sherlock had played were still an echo around his heart, unwilling to let it go.

"Goodbye, Sherlock.", was his rather melancholic answer.