A/N: Warning - a bit of a long plot.

Disclaimer - still not British or a writer. -csf

II.

Saturday, 9:40pm

'Brain damage?!' Sherlock's defence is laden with outrage at the concept I put forth. In deference to my state and brain overexertion, the consulting detective has convinced me to take the sofa and a blanket, and he's got the tall lamp lit with a warm orange glow that mingles peacefully with the flickering of the dying embers in the fireplace. Sherlock has placed himself in the tranquil scene, monitoring me from the desk, where he's spread my academic textbooks from medical school and a laptop. The bluish glow from the laptop screen where he conducts his research highlights the sharp planes of his face and the concern creases at the corner of his angular eyes.

'We must ponder all scenarios,' I counter.

'You are not brain damaged, John! I would not have a brain damaged blogger!'

Not for the first time, I don't fully know if Sherlock is being purposefully crass to redirect me by means of anger. That music becomes slightly louder, more frantic, fast paced, panicked.

'A bit not good,' I say patiently, and wait for my friend to readjust his behaviour. Which he does, looking sheepish. And his melody throbs with a deep bass, like a pounding headache. I flinch at the idea that I may soon have to sit through another of my friend's mad ravings as he rallies against London and the lack of gentleman criminals to engage him in a battle of wits. Must sound like when he's torturing his violin to annoy his brother, I gather with a further flinch.

'You misunderstood me, John. I would not turn away a brain damaged John Watson, I am rarely an ignorant. I will, however, assure you that I would never look at you and think of you as damaged.'

'Oh.'

'Except where your taste in jumpers is concerned, that is,' he adds for good measure.

I chuckle, and the melody explodes in beautifully twirled chords that remind me of a radiant sunshine day when you are a child rolling around on the grass, not a care in the world.

Then I feel a bit embarrassed by my association; only, I'd swear I can see the grass fields echoed in my friend's green eyes. His eyes have rounded, looking softer, calmer, more soothed. I must remember that this has been a great shock to Sherlock too.

'You should rest.'

'I'm good for another couple of nights and you have just been released from hospital against the wishes of your doctor. I should watch over you, which I can do easily as I find a cure for your curious malady, John. Multitasking is a habit with me, do remember this when you blog about this strange malady of yours for a British medical journal.'

'Sherlock, the patient can't write an article about himself!'

'He can't? I suppose I'll have to publish it myself. I've got some known aliases to choose from; Sigerson, Scott, Charlotte, Sherrinford… The other aliases can peer-review the article, and so can you, John, if you insist.'

I let his chuckles mingle so beautifully with the joyous chords stretching between us, and close my eyes to fully appreciate the richness in this strange new way of life. I don't notice that I'm dozing off – product of a lingering concussion for sure – until I am startled by the doorbell. It's loud, sharp, metallic and very assuredly outside my head. As Sherlock flies off his seat to go disparage at whomever is at the door downstairs, I am left contemplating how I knew the doorbell wasn't another intrusive sound. I can still tell between what a product of my warped brain is and what are external stimulus, thank goodness. Could be awkward(er) if not.

Footsteps – also external – climb up the stairs, and I recognise both my flatmate's and DI Lestrade's, he's a good friend. Before they come inside, I focus hard on the orchestra currently playing in my head. There's Sherlock – his haunting melody is ever present – and there is a new line present that I am now getting acquainted with for the first time. Brain, meet Greg Lestrade. Reliable, not too old, cynical yet mischievous, and a good heart. Is that cello?

Not for the first time, I wish I had my best friend's years of music training.

In fact, it must be painful for Sherlock not to be able to plug some headphones into my head and hear what I hear, make sense of it with his incredibly vast knowledge of music.

'John, Sherlock says I can visit,' is Lestrade's straightforward open gambit. With his open smile he mocks our friend's mother hen protection, and with his music he studies me with meticulous attention. Sherlock would give Greg more credit, if only he could hear him like I do.

'Yeah, Sherlock has all but volunteered to be my physician, mate. Have you come for our statements?'

'Later,' Greg dismisses easily, taking an unabashed seat on the coffee table and scrutinising my face with intensity. I submit, knowing by experience that it's faster this way. He's not about to find anything new in my face anyway.

'Sherlock said you're hearing things, mate.'

I groan. He would, wouldn't he? I'm about to tell off my idiot flatmate when I notice his melody is greatly subdued, slow paced, mournful as a lonely violin solo. He's sad, concerned, about my condition. Then I look over to Greg once more and his melody is stronger now he's so close to me, and it's picking up tense pitches over his cello complexity. Together they blast an intense soundtrack to my evening, and it grates my nerves. But I'm John Watson, a very good doctor and soldier.

'I'm not mad yet, Greg. But I seem to be tuned in to 221B FM right now. It's like I can pick up different people in the room, I hear their presence as music. And, by the way, you two are amazingly well-synced and a great double act. Your melodies go very well together. Greg, do you play any instrument in real life, by any chance? If you don't oppose to doing some busking in the park between cases…'

Greg's mouth twitches in a barely contained smile. Sherlock rolls his eyes, but his music is merrier than ever.

'So what are you hearing?'

'Like I said, melodies. They change, according to the room's mood.' The secret is out now, I guess.

Sherlock demandingly hands me some score paper from his violin stand. I notice the first page has some of his own creation on the first third, that he has just now hastily scratched out to make way for mine.

'Ugh, I don't think I can write it. It's too fast, and yours, Sherlock, it's just too complex.'

Greg squints. 'I'm not complex?'

I shrug. 'He's Sherlock. What d'you expect?'

'I suppose… What do you mean by fast? The rhythm?'

'No. It… It changes. Evolves. Like emotions.' I said it now.

Sherlock starts pacing the room. I can tell he's irritated by the resonance and discordance it brings to the overall melody.

'I don't abide emotions, John, they are abhorrent to me.'

'Tell that to your broadcasting, Mr BBC Proms.'

Again, a flicker of amusement abates his mood somewhat. I never noticed he enjoyed my quips, I assumed he merely tolerated them.

Greg interrupts, genuinely curious – there are childlike innocence tones in his melody now: 'Does it ever turn itself off? At least when you sleep?'

'Oh, yeah, so far it's silent when I sleep. Although that might change as I get used to this new reality, it might start featuring in my dreams too.'

'Is it just one continuous song?'

'Oh no, it stops for applause or until someone else places a dime in the jukebox!' I rebut, sarcastic. Then I scrub my face, feeling guilty at Greg's clearly heightened notes. 'Sorry, sorry, I'm still getting used to this new thing and I lashed out. It's not songs on the radio, Greg. It's one continuous melody for each person.' Except for Sherlock, who is an orchestra, I could have added.

'Is there any of it something you recognise or heard before?'

'Like the Psycho's shower curtain scene? No, thank goodness none of that yet.'

'Don't know,' Greg picks up on the humour, 'could be useful if it foretold of assassins and other stuff to come.'

'So far, it seems to be only responsive to what I could probably tell anyway. I'll keep you informed if it changes.'

'See that you keep us both informed… And, meanwhile, seeing that you say that we sound nice, I'm going to go ahead and order some Thai food delivery. I don't want to wear you out, John, but you must be bored stiff by now.'

Greg has got a point. Along with our landlady, Mrs Hudson, Greg is probably one of the people who know me best in London, after Sherlock Holmes.

'John…' Sherlock intervenes, with a pregnant pause.

I look him in the eyes. His melody is intense, vibrant, beautiful. He's got an idea. 'Go on…'

'I should call on Mrs Hudson, and Molly, and more people you get along with. People who will have nice music. I want to see if you can still tell us apart.'

I'm still pondering it, I really am, when Greg gets up and severely riled up with our mad investigator. 'This is John we're talking about, Sherlock. Promise me you won't experiment with John!'

He blinks, bites his lip, awkward and his melody skips a beat or two, faltering.

'I would never knowingly harm John', he settles for.

I look down on the score paper in my hands, wondering how will I keep Sherlock's insatiable thirst for knowledge satisfied. For the first time, I wonder if I should have kept my auditory hallucinations a secret. Probably. My future is in my consulting detective and mad scientist friend. What could possibly go wrong?

.

TBC