John's rescheduled date with Jeanette never happened. John found out it was because she 'sort of had a boyfriend', but that her interest in John had been genuine. So, instead of the plans he had spent all day anticipating, John made tea and curled into his chair with a blanket and found a book of moderate interest from the shelf by the fireplace to read. Sherlock was set at the desk, tapping his fingers against his tablet, and creating a harmonious piano sound that, though quiet from where John was sitting, was soothing, though nowhere near as soothing as the violin he was most accustomed to hearing.

Just as John was finding the tempo and the pattern in the melody, it stopped, and Sherlock turned toward him, quite abruptly.

"John, would you like to go to the cinema?" he asked

John put his book down in his lap, and looked up at Sherlock "You hate the cinema."

"That was your plan though, wasn't it; with Jeanette?"

"Well, yes, but its okay, you're composing; I'm reading."

"I compose constantly, and you're reading a book about brain slices."

"It's interesting." John said in a miserable attempt of defending his words.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. He stood from his chair, and held his hand down in front of John. "Come on, let's go."

John looked at it for a moment, and then looked up at Sherlock, an expectant smile on his face as he waited as patiently as he could for John to take his hand.

Sherlock was much like a child at the cinema. John wasn't sure if he found that surprising or not, but he did find it amusing. John paid for their tickets, and he also paid for the popcorn, chocolate raisins, licorice, and large lemonade Sherlock insisted on having. They found seats in the center of the room, and positioned themselves in the center of the row as well. John watched Sherlock eyes spark when the lights started to dim, and the trailers played.

He didn't see him watch much television; the occasional movie night at Mary's (where he would complain about the plots or bombard everyone with facts about the score), and he watched the news, and tolerated the crap John watched after a long day, but the idea of Sherlock at the cinema, of being excited by the images on the screen threw John for a very pleasant loop.

In the darkness, they remained quiet. Sherlock offered John a taste of each of his treats, (except for the chocolate covered raisins-he kept those for himself.), and a drink of his lemonade. It was nice it was comfortable; it felt like something they had been doing together for years, though it was actually the first time.

"The score was amazing." Sherlock said as he and John left the theatre, and blinked their eyes into the bright lobby lights. Sherlock dropped his trash in the bin, and walked through the door John held open.

"I suppose you were able to pick out all the intricacies of it, yes? "

"Heavy use of oboe; that's an oft neglected wind instrument. There's generally only one or two in a well-equipped band or orchestra; I only have one, but he had at least seven, and two bassoons!"

John laughed. "What is it like to have all that knowledge inside your head? And I don't just mean the music, but everything else you know. All those science books you have on the shelf; a professor of mine once told me that if you know science then you know everything there is to know about life."

"He's quite right."

They had walked three blocks, and neither had yet flagged down one of the taxis that passed them by. John usually left that to Sherlock; they always stopped for him, like magic, but Sherlock had his hands shoved into the pockets of his coat, and they were walking close to one another without touching.

"I started music much older than most who take it up professionally do. I was eight, whereas Victor, for example, has been playing since he was three. I thought that I was going to grow up and be a scientist. I had all sorts of chemistry sets, and I dabbled in the autopsy of small animals I should happen to find dead in the garden, like frogs and field mice. I enjoyed looking at the world in an objective, logical way; I still do, but then something happened that I-which my science couldn't make sense of."

Sherlock lost his words for a moment; looked off into the distance like he was trying to find something there. John kept pace with his friend, kept his hands clasped casually behind his back, and said nothing; just waited until Sherlock was ready to start again, or ready to let it go if he didn't want to tell john anymore. It wouldn't be the first time that Sherlock left him hanging with only half the facts about his life.

"My mum bought me my first violin then." Shock continued his eyes back to the sidewalk in front of him, and his body less tense. "She had an instructor come three times a week, and I was made to practice every night. I didn't like it at first; I thought it made a terrible sound, and it took time away from my experiments. But, it turned out that I was quite good at it, and I started wanting to be better, and better until I was the best.

I was playing pieces that violinists who had been playing for decades couldn't play by the time I was twelve, I was composing my own concertos by fifteen, and my first symphony when I was seventeen; I got a scholarship to the conservatory.

It wasn't just that I was good at it; I did-I do love the music. On paper, a composition is neat and orderly. No matter how many notes your put into a measure, how daring you choose to be with your range and your key, there are rules to be followed, and you can hear it in your head as you go, but it isn't real; not until you play it. When I play, when I conduct, when I listen; I'm feeling rather than seeing; not just the notes, but everything from my whole entire life. John, you can't imagine what it is I feel, and it's quite possibly the only time I ever feel anything at all."

John didn't know what to say to Sherlock. How could he say anything to that kind of admission from a man who was so guarded and so cold most of the time?

"What was it that happened?" John asked.

Sherlock stopped walking; causing John to pass him by before he realized Sherlock was no longer moving. John turned around to look at him; serene and yet sad.

"My dog died." He said with a calm and serious face, and then turned away to step out into the street and hail a cab to stop for them.

John took a moment to let Sherlock's words sink in, not sure if he was saddened by them, or if he was amused. He still hadn't figured it out by the time they had silently rode back home, had their tea and settled back into the domestic intricacies of their life.