THREE
the violin
It was common for Sherlock to play his violin when he was thinking. He sometimes even composed or began to memorize pieces quite late in the evening, while John was trying to sleep. Those were generally soothing and actually helped John fall asleep faster.
However, John awoke at two in the morning to Sherlock playing some high-pitched and very loud aria on that bloody violin. It's a wonder that the whole street isn't awake, John thought, grumpily getting up and tying his dressing gown around him, prepared to go downstairs and make Sherlock shut up.
He walked down the stairs and paused surprisedly at the sight.
Sherlock usually wore an expression of vague content, or at most, mild annoyance while playing the violin. It was his preferred drug of choice for calm (or, at least, the only one John would allow). He also claimed that he thought better while playing the violin.
But the face of Sherlock Holmes, was, undoubtedly, the most intense and frustrated one that John had ever seen. He seemed to be venting, pouring out all his anger and discontent (perhaps at the case?) into his violin music.
The music swelled, grew louder and louder and finally culminated in one, drawn out note. John looked on worriedly. On the outside, Sherlock had seemed nothing except mildly annoyed with this impossible case. On the inside, though, it was clear that he was simmering with fury and anger, perhaps not at Moriarty but at himself, for not knowing. Not knowing who or what Moriarty had turned into a weapon. And perhaps a little fear shown through, in that intensity in which he had abandoned himself to the music. Fear for himself? Fear for his career? What did Sherlock fear?
John resolved to make Moriarty pay for Sherlock's fear.
Sherlock walked to the couch and flopped down.
His playing hadn't helped a bit. He was still frustrated, tired, and incredibly annoyed. This case didn't make sense. He'd wracked his mind palace, going through all the closets and the crannies, even entering the wing he'd swore he'd never go in again.
Nothing.
Was he slipping? He knew he was cleverer than Moriarty, knew it, but then how could Moriarty keep outsmarting him? How?
Worst of all, he kept feeling shivers down his spine, like someone was watching him. Cameras, perhaps? He wouldn't put it past Moriarty.
But he felt as if it was a presence, almost like a ghost, (if he believed in ghosts, which he didn't. Highly illogical. People die and that's that.)
He'd never mention it to John, though. John didn't need to bear his problems. He had enough of his own without Sherlock's as well.
Sherlock could do it.
At least, he hoped he could.
A/N
Hey, all! Sorry for the short chapter. And I know, you want some telepathic butt-kicking from Alana. It's coming, I promise. Please review and make my day! Thanks. :D