"You're not suggesting we go in and apprehend the man are you?" I asked my companion, as we stood at the steps to Halliday's private hotel.

"That may not be necessary. Just keep your wits about you, and unloosen that top button."

"My what?"

Sherlock was charging through the door like a madman before I could answer. He had cast away his jacket, leaving it on the steps of the hotel. I ran after the loon, praying that he knew what he was doing. I found him at the front desk, his shirt screwed up, his hair a mess and his cuffs pulled up.

"Hey lady. Do you know where Mr Stangerson is? Mum said he needs to get his arse… sorry, bum back home."

She looked out of sorts, obviously surprised by Sherlock's performance.

"Umm… Mr Stangerson? Who are you?"

"He's our dad. They had a row again and when he does that he runs off to a hotel to 'cool off'. Do you know what room he's in? Oi, Johnny! I found the lady!"

I rushed up to him, trying to fit into the situation as best as I could.

"Does she know where he is!? Mum's going mad at home. She's text me three times already!"

"Then answer her, you muppet! Sorry, we really need to find him before she throws another fit."

"Right, right… he's on the third floor. If you would follow me."

"Cheers, lady."

And like that, we were being led towards his room.

"Well played, you are a natural, Watson." Sherlock whispered into my ear.

"Isn't this against protocol?" I asked.

"Probably, but a strong performance can leave even a professional in the dark on what to do."

It clearly wasn't a busy time for the hotel. Most guests were probably resting on the Sunday, or out in the city. The woman leading us took a few glances at the cane I was holding. Sherlock acted as soon as he noticed.

"He'll go nuts when he finds out you scratched his cane, Johnny!"

"It wasn't me!" I said back, doing my best not to blow cover.

The corridors grew tighter as we drew in on our destination. The middle floors seemed smaller than the ones below. The outside of the hotel didn't give off this shape at all. I half expected the place to turn into a house of horrors. Giving the fact that a murderer could well have been inside, my nerves were getting worse.

When we reached the right room, the sight outside was enough to startle the receptionist.

"Most interesting." Sherlock dropped the act and made his way slowly towards the door.

"Is that… blood?" I whispered.

A pool of liquid crimson was flowing from under the door, and it was fresh.

"The key if you will, I believe the man inside is quite hurt." Sherlock requested without a hint of worry.

The receptionist fuddled around with a set of keys on her belt. Once she had found the right one, the door was quickly opened. Inside, the room was dark and the curtain was drawn. My ears were filled with the sound of the woman screaming. Right next to us was a man dressed in a smart suit, a knife plunged through his heart.

"Dead. Our investigation however…"

Sherlock scanned the room in a flash and drew the curtains.

"…not so much!"

He swung his legs out of the window and onto the balcony outside. I hurried over to catch the sight that called Sherlock to action.

"Down there." Sherlock pointed.

The assailant was making a run for it. A tan jacket and hat was covering his identity. Sherlock began climbing down the fire escape that snaked the side of the building.

"Go left, John!"

I followed suit. Once we had our feet firmly back on the ground, we split up. I soon found myself back on the streets and continued to sprint along the pedestrian path. I pushed my way through the afternoon rush, desperate to get ahead to cut the attacker off. As I did so, I was sent crashing into a couple with their arms locked. My father's cane went flying as it escaped my grip. I watched on with wide eyes as the cane rolled into the street. I turned towards where the alleyway met the road, and then to my father's prized possession. I was paralyzed by the swift moment of indecision.

I made a choice. Being as mindful as I could, I dodged between the busy traffic. Thank God London is a busy city or I would have been killed. I received more than one horn to get out of the way regardless. I didn't care, I just had to reach the cane before it could be crushed. Scooping it up in my arms, I reached the opposite side of the street. I was just in time to spot our runner reach a taxi. Sherlock was sprinting behind at a surprising speed, but he was too late. As the taxi veered off in the other direction, Sherlock took out his phone and snapped a quick picture.

What had I done? I'd let a murderer escape, for the carved wood in my hands. I didn't want to cross the street. I didn't want to face up to it. Instead, I focused on the cane, checking it for breaks or scratches.

"Where were you, John!?" Sherlock was next to me before I knew it.

"I dropped… I couldn't…"

"That was our chance! Now he could be God knows where!"

I watched my roommate circle back on himself on the pathway, his fingers darting through his hair in frustration.

"It isn't over yet," He said calmly, allowing his arms to full to his side. "We need to get back up there. No doubt the receptionist has already called the police."

Sherlock had shut off his anger in moments. I watched him cross the street, leaving me alone to think. I lent against the chained fence behind me, feeling every bit as stupid as I had back at the apartment. The cane was alright, but it was little relief knowing what I had done. I must have looked like a bumbling idiot.

After a while, I led myself across the road, wondering what Sherlock's reaction would be the next time he saw me. I sat on the steps of the hotel. The same thoughts that had continued to pester me at night returned. I let the past hold on, because I was scared to let it go. I had to protect it, prove to it that I was worthy of the future my Dad had sacrificed. Only I could do that, I thought. My father would live on.

"John?"

I heard Lestrade's voice. Curious. I hadn't heard the sirens.

"Let me guess. Sherlock is inside isn't he?" The detective said.

"It's like you know him." I said half-heartedly.

"No one really knows him."

Sherlock didn't say a word to me as the investigation began. I couldn't make up my mind on whether that was a good thing or not. The whole situation made me uncomfortable, so I sat to the side on one of the hotel's intricately carved chairs and let the whole thing unfold without my input.

I had been right about the victim. The knife had punctured the heart, causing him to die almost instantly. In the man's suit pocket was his wallet with I.D belonging to a Doctor Joseph Stangerson.

"And Gregson thought he was on the right trail, bah!" Lestrade roared.

Sherlock's eye movements were slower than usual. He didn't have the smile that took over his face like an excited hunter in the thick of it. Instead he looked sombre. I kept my mouth shut.

As Sherlock explored the man's wallet, his eyes were suddenly filled with realization.

"Now, where have I seen this woman before?"

He took out a photograph, its corners creased.

"That's the same woman from the picture in Enoch Drebber's wallet!" Lestrade announced.

"Two doctors cross the Atlantic and end up dead in London. Apart from their profession, nothing connects them, except for this woman… and a wedding ring."

Sherlock had found his spring again. I was somewhat relieved, but I kept quiet all the same.

"Did you find anything else out about the victim's marital status!?" Sherlock shouted in a rush.

"No, he wasn't married from what we could tell."

I caught a glimpse of the photograph in Lestrade's hand. It was of a wedding.

"This woman could very well be the final link we need. Look at the bride you see in the photograph, and the groom. It's Stangerson. Clearly this is not a happy marriage. No woman would have such a look of fear on what is meant to be the happiest day of her life." Sherlock began his deduction.

"She could be nervous. I remember my wedding-"

"Yes thank you, shut up," Sherlock cut Lestrade off. "The face isn't enough to give it away alone, but her arm is limp and his grip is vice like - you can see the way her skin flexes under his fingers. She was pushed into this marriage against her will. No doubt the ring belonged to her."

"And somehow it came into Drebber's possession?" Lestrade deduced.

"No. It came to the killer. But why was Drebber a victim? What brought him into the fold?"

Sherlock paced the room again and again.

"Lestrade, find the identity of this woman and discover if she was suffering from any illness."

Sherlock pushed his way through the police force and left the room.

"Where are you going now!?" Lestrade called after him.

"Why, I have my studies to crack on with. Come along, Watson."

Again I felt like a dog at his beck and call. We left the detectives to their work.

"That was…" Again I was blown away.

"Impressive? Thought provoking? Unnecessary?"

That last word was a dig, it had to be.

"You blame me, don't you? Well don't, because I blame myself! I know a killer's on the loose because I was too weak! I always am, alright! Is that what you want me to say?"

"Yes!" Sherlock shouted back.

I replied with silence. I hadn't expected such a cold response, and then he hit me with something even worse.

"John… You aren't alright, are you?"

Another statement, made into a question to force me to face it. I let my eyes fall to the cane in my hand.

"I'm fine Sherlock… just don't."

"There are people who can help. You don't have to walk through it alone."

"Stop it!"

I ran past him. The hotel became a blur as I made my way down each floor without thinking. There I was again, heading away from everything behind me. How dare he… I hated him at first, until I caught sight of the flashing lights outside the front lobby. Police cars were parked in a row right outside the hotel. This isn't the world I had expected to find after leaving my past behind. It was a chance to become someone different, and maybe come to terms with things. I was wrong. I couldn't do it anymore.

I'd hailed a cab, and left it all behind again. Sherlock would make his own way back, and I wouldn't say a word to him. I barely processed what little he did say as I sat in the living room at Baker Street. The room fell into complete silence. Had he given up or accepted how things were? I didn't care. The cane rested against the chair beside me, and my thoughts continued to prattle on, locking me into them.

It was dark by the time life returned to the room. I never did do any studying that day.

"Curious time."

I blinked sharply and dared to glance at him. Sherlock lent against the fireplace. His breath smelled of cigarette smoke. He was looking over the features of the clock on the mantel piece.

"We do have our similarities after all."

I watched him as he removed the clock's backing and re-inserted its batteries. He tinkered with its mechanisms as he looked back at me. He knew exactly how much to turn it for the right time, as if he had done it a thousand times.

"We aren't similar. I'm nothing like you." I answered gruffly.

"I have often found myself at odds with the thoughts that manifest up here," he tapped his temple. "Utter silence is hard to achieve in London. Clocks though, they are easy to silence. But as much as you want it to, it won't stop time, or reverse its effects."

"It wasn't time that… Just shut up." I interrupted, tired of his speeches.

He approached the couch on the other end of the room, one slow step at a time. I was getting used to music filling the room, but that night it was very different. The erratic notes from Sherlock's mind had gone, replaced with something that pulled me in. Slow, methodical, he played every note of his violin with such professionalism. I let him play on, unable to interrupt. He was telling the tale of a tragedy, and with each smooth movement of his bow, I remembered.

He was in tune with it all. Happiness turned to confusion, then sadness, then anger. One moment I could see a pair of eyes, then all that was left was a coffin, lowered to its final resting place. It seemed impossible it could be anything other than the box in front of me. To think what lied within, I couldn't do it. I was unable to fathom how Sherlock's melody could invoke the feeling in me that it did. Maybe I was wrong after all. Perhaps his playing was placing my thoughts in tune instead.

For the first time, I let someone see my tears. That was all it was. No sobbing, no look of pain, just flowing tears as I rested my head against my hand and let the music consume me.