A/N: I had this idea four months ago. I hope this overcooked plot makes enough sense. -csf

I.

Friday, 00:39am

'Hurry up, John! They are getting away! We can't let them get away!' The angry words cut the thick atmosphere among the dark walls and ominous shadows as we ran.

Give over, Sherlock; it wasn't me missing the bad guys for being three seconds late out of the shortcut around the warehouse, mate! Your big genius head is slowing you down? Need to reboot your transport, put a drop of lubricant in your hinges?

'I can tell what you're thinking, John!' the breathless detective barked in my direction, ominously.

Don't eavesdrop to my thoughts if you can't handle the heat!

I smirked in his direction. Just a microscopic distraction, a minute derailment in my attention that should have never been consequential in any other pursuit. Except that this wasn't an ordinary criminal chase. I should have known better.

Just one flicker, one fraction of a second, and I missed the start of a fleeting movement overhead. Too late, I spotted him. Perched on a warehouse beam was a dark cladded figure, shotgun in hand. I didn't have to trace the shotgun's line of sight to know it was trailed on Sherlock. Heck, anywhere he goes, Sherlock is the centre of attention, a magnetic pole attracting every last zing of attention from anyone in the vicinity. I knew it was too late even as I jumped my friend, desperately trying to force him away from the line of fire. I may have shouted his name, a caution, or some foreign cry of war; whatever I did, it was all stemming from instinct in a beautifully choreographed response. My gun was out, my aim was trailed on the target and a couple of successive bullets rang across the warehouse in response to the shotgun, just before I latched onto Sherlock. Resolute force impacted stationary object and coupled together, following the normal laws of physics to our impending downfall. I didn't feel Sherlock struggle against my tight grip; too surprised, perhaps too trusting. As I crashed my shoulder against the hard ground, still forcefully wrapped around my friend as an angry octopus, it wasn't just the sharp impact against the concrete floor that made me feel breathless and lightheaded. My head rebounded with a dull sound and my body immediately gave in to shutdown procedures. I could still feel the warm steel gun slip from my cold fingers' weak grasp. Unconsciousness descended as dark curtains at the end of the play.

.

Friday, 10:57am

At first there is a steady thumping as my heartbeats reverberate inside my tender skull. It is followed by the sloshing sound of blood pulsating through my veins. The rush of fabric as I breathe mechanically, drugged-up slurred inhalations and exhalations in turn. I push down on those sounds, feeling nauseous and overly sensitive. Then a consistent beep, electronic and far too noisy, repeating each heartbeat, becomes more audible, as I take in my surroundings. The life stat machine persists, divulging my body's signals to the world. Even before fully awake, I know that I have been admitted to a hospital. Ugh, predictable.

Boring. My thoughts wander to my friend – is he alright? Did I save him? The beeping speeds up beside me.

I can hear someone else breathing in the room. Someone breathing shallowly, hitching ever so slightly on deeper intakes, as if in discomfort or pain. I wish I could sooth that someone, they look like they should go lay down and get some rest. Instead, their exhalations become broken, sharp, intent on communicating some hidden message. I don't know what they say, words can't fit into my sore brain.

No, not quite sore. My brain feels stuffed with perhaps that aftereffect of pain and inflammation from when you have a really bad migraine and finally the meds kick in and the world forms into a fishbowl shape and sounds are weird and muffled and mysterious for a while yet. Decoding takes a big effort and I allow myself to drift a while longer, just under the surface, evading reality.

Touch is like a starburst of too many stimuli, suddenly inserted into my consciousness. The bedsheets are harsh cotton, there is a crease under my shoulder, and it feels like it is trying to cut deep into my skin. Most of all, the back of my hand itches where the IV is held in place by a piece of tape. I want to scratch it, and I try to move, but my movements are still too sluggish and uncoordinated. A warm weight is a solid lifeline as it envelops my hand in his. I know he's here. Instinct. And as if in proof of identity, that someone breathing in the room leans forward and smooths the bedsheet under my shoulder. He reads my mind in whatever plane of consciousness I float still.

Finally, my hearing seems to find the right setting, like a radio being tunned into the correct frequency. I finally distinguish Sherlock's voice, calling my name gently, in a soft whisper.

I blink my eyes open, insistently, trying to dispel the lingering confusion. A generic hospital room comes into some focus.

He swipes a thumb across the back of my hand, never letting go, as a reward for my effort. I gaze sideways, where I know he will be, and give him my best doctor Watson's reassuring smile. He is going to be alright.

We are both going to be alright.

Now, if only someone would turn down the sad music in the hospital room?

.

Saturday, 11:03am

'What do you mean, you can't hear any music?'

'John, let's just wait for the MRI scan results. Thanks to your generous action of saving my life, your head suffered a violent impact against concrete last night—'

I stop paying attention, I don't need Sherlock to tell me what is wrong with me. Hell, he already lived inside my head, needs he narrate my daily life too?

'John, you're not listening to me.'

'Not anymore, no,' I admit tiredly.

'Is the music really loud?' he asks, a touch of vulnerability and fear as he inspect me with clear green eyes. As he visits my thoughts now, he can't hear that music I talk about. It's a barrier between us.

I feel guilt at once. 'Not really loud, no.'

'I have heard of tinnitus, of course. A temporary or permanent condition of a constant ringing in one's ears. Perhaps what you are experiencing is a strange form of tinnitus, John, derived from your concussion.'

I ponder that for a couple of seconds. With it, I ponder the suspenseful chords of the wordless music. I find it hard to describe, and also hard to concentrate on. As if it lessened every time I tried to better hear it to describe it. But, overall, I have experienced enough to know that it shifts naturally during the day. Sometimes it is blissful (Sherlock was trying to distract me by bringing up one of our old cases), other times sad (I had curled up to sleep, I don't know what my friend was doing), tense (the MRI was scheduled, the doctor and Sherlock insisted), elated (after a hearty breakfast Sherlock smuggled in, and no nausea brought it back up – a small success), and other more complex blends of emotions that shift and morph into one another. This constant shape-shifting music, I cannot describe it as the music played by a known instrument, although if I had to pin it down, I would liken it most to a string instrument, as it flows and reverberates with a warmth that reminds me of a concert piano at a grand theatre or Sherlock's violin in our 221B home.

'I'm sure it's a temporary side-effect, Sherlock. But, seriously, what are you still doing here? You need to go home and get some rest. Have a shower and a meal. Come pick me up when they release me later, alright?'

He chuckles as if he could never envision leaving – and his chuckles melt beautifully with the upbeat turn of the melody in my head. I'm amazed at the fresh intake of joy that washes over my defective brain from the combined stimulus.

As I'm wondering why he'd experience joy from my sage advice alone, I hear him mutter under his breath: 'Same old John, you never change.'

I soak in the nicely harmonious chords, let them influence my own train of thought, ease the soreness lingering in my body. Maybe my day is getting better. If I'm to be brain-haunted by my life's soundtrack, let it be a nice, positive rom-com or light comedy (not physical comedy, please).

'Sherlock, what is going to happen to the shooter?'

Surprise fleets across his features, but he remains light-hearted as he assures me: 'His headache is the more permanent type, seeing you shot him through the skull and the other shot mercifully severed his jugular. Justice has been done, John. No more killings and the innocent victims he preyed upon are now free.'

'I hit him? Seriously?'

'Completely out of instinct from what I could tell, John.'

Are there triumphant undertones in the melody separating us? Takes me a couple of seconds to realise he's proud of me. I would have completely missed it if going by his aloof expression alone.

Is my brain attuned to Sherlock FM? Am I picking up on subtle signals of his restrained emotions and amplifying them through imaginary music?

Ugh, sure seems like it.

This might get a bit awkward. The genius demands his privacy. He won't like it if I am internally broadcasting a concerto based on his emotions.

'John, what is it? You have gone paler. Should I call a nurse?'

A new strand of agitation, nothing but a repetitive suspended note, fast beating and overlapping the gentle music ensemble, spoiling it now. As a small woodland creature fearing for its life from imminent danger. I groan under the assault of the different dissonant sounds now, pressing my eyes shut tight. Jazz has nothing on this ensemble right now.

I bet; Sherlock's emotions are always so disorganised.

Could it be my rising panic instead? Tainting Sherlock's beautiful and intricate melodies?

I hear him by the door, trying to get the attention of a nurse without shouting, so to not aggravate my headache. It's only as he leaves the room to thunderously chase a medical professional that the music threads suddenly snap, all but one, and this one feels blissfully steady and calming. The sound of Sherlock. Lingering as a sonorous aftertaste.

I breathe deeper. I may yet survive my newly found superpowers, if only I learn to tame and command them.

Sherlock returns with a team of doctors and nurses, and the chaotic orchestra explodes in my head at once, making me whimper under the onslaught. I thought it was just Sherlock's melody; why am I picking up everybody else's emotional soundtracks too?

'Tell them to go away,' I grunt, in agony now.

Sherlock never doubts my plead. Either seeing me as the most competent medical expert in the room, or acknowledging that I alone know what is going on inside my head right now, he forces all the team out in one swift go. 'Just a drill. Well done. Back to work. Be quicker next time.'

The noise – because it was just blanket noise with so many melody strands in the room – dies down and only Sherlock's rich warm tones remain. I'm starting to recognise my friend's melodies. They are varied and yet they have a commonality to them. Like different tracks on the same album, they can be told apart from one another album and from some stranger's tune as well.

Funny, the nurses that tended to my IV before seemed to have only one melody line. But Sherlock, he is brilliant and untamed, he is full of symphonies.

I smile a watery sile to my friend and plead: 'I want to go home now.'

I can hear the tension drumming the lines of my friend's comforting melody, but he won't deny me this small grace.

'I can get you there within the hour, John.'

.

TBC