A/N: Still not British, a writer or a musician. I would enjoy any of the three, I think. Or even all three. -csf

IV.

Sunday, 4:18pm

A random number generator and a large pool of Londoners were used – and the chance element of the victim selection threw my incredibly talented friend for a loop. The murder weapon or device was new every time, as if someone had taken as a personal challenge to make the online shopping big retailers' wish lists a compilation of murder weapons. The sheer creativity, the lack of boundaries (whether in terms of means and opportunities or in terms of morals and stamina) thrilled Sherlock less than secretly. Sherlock has always morally abhorred violent murder for its excessive nature even if it deeply interests him, but the mental puzzles created are my friend's true raison d'être. And so I watched him pace around the room, his thundering orchestra loud and demanding bouncing back from the walls in his usual fashion.

I've got to say that at some point I was dozing off, from pure physical exhaustion. Even as I closed my eyes, Sherlock's proximity fed information for my brain to process in the form of intense auditory cues. Sherlock is always so intense.

I mean, surely, I'm not picking up music straight from my friend, right? No one ever heard of that.

As the hours dragged on, it became evident that not even The World's Only Consulting Detective could step ahead and protect the next victim. Not yet, at least. It became a grating patience game, where we waited for an alert on the next murder, and the possibility of a slip up from the Chandler twins; an incriminatory piece of evidence left behind, a hint on the next victim's identity that could fuel a race against time to save a life.

I could see how this case was wearing thin my friend's nerves. I closed my eyes and proceeded to listen to his woes, as his captive audience.

Then, all of a sudden, the noise all but ceased, as I felt a soft push against both my ears. I opened my eyes wide in shock, and took my hands up to feel the intrusion. Noise cancelling headphones. But how—?

Sherlock's smug and genuine smiles fighting each other across his honest face was all I needed to see to immediately tear down my defences. The blessed pause was all I needed, worn down from too many stimuli.

Sherlock's brilliancy is as strong as his care for this old soldier, and they shine in everything he does.

.

Sunday, 8:48pm

'John, wake up.'

Sherlock is kneeling by the sofa, his voice is gentle, and he has pulled away on of the headphones so his voice could permeate my sleepy brain. I'm not even half-bothered that his melody is also part of my alarm clock. Sherlock's melodic lines are always to my liking. Everything fell into place, like dating someone who you already feel so comfortable with.

I blink myself awake, slightly confused with my thoughts. I don't wish to date Sherlock – it's all fine if I did, but I don't, and he doesn't do relationships – and where did that come from?

Sherlock's tune changes, as sees the shadow flicker across my face, and he let's go of the headphones, letting them snap back over my ear and encase me in blank silence.

No sound, even though I'm staring right at the detective. I'm as good as normal when I have the noise cancelling headphones on. And, somehow, it feels now like I'm missing out on something, missing Sherlock's melodic monologues.

I get up, pulling out the headphones, and trying to smooth the permanent indentations left in my hair.

'What is it?' I demand to know.

Sherlock's gaze lingers on mine – the melody perhaps a bit sad, forlorn – and he states simply: 'The latest victim, it has been found. Do you wish to come?'

'Oh god, yes!'

.

Sunday, 9.15pm

It's good to return to the cases and the easy camaraderie with Sherlock.

We are still finding our footing in what we now have – I eavesdrop on his thoughts and feelings, but it's as if they came in a foreign language that I'm yet to learn to fully translate. The consulting detective doesn't seem to resent me for a new hearing frequency I cannot control, but, at times, I can feel him tense as if he suddenly feared that he has given himself away too much. Whatever emotion he thinks he experienced off him, I couldn't identify from the veritable orchestra of emotions that always envelops Sherlock's presence.

Speaking of which, one last big question to answer in my investigation on this hearing emotions malarky is how close by the subjects need to be. When it comes to the hospital's team, the cabbies, Mycroft, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson, they need to be at close range. 221B is my refuge and I can't hear the hundreds of melodies of passers-by beneath our windows, thankfully. So at first, I thought people needed to be in my line of sight, but the music persists even if I look away. So now I prefer to define it as within earshot – much more fitting as a definition anyway.

Sherlock is always the exception. If I go to the bathroom or up to my room, Sherlock's melodies are still echoing in the background of my consciousness, even if muted by the distance. But if he goes out to get the takeaway from our doorstep, I lose his music until he comes back up.

Lestrade, Mrs H, and other visitors don't have such a wide range, and their trail eclipses much closer as they leave. I don't know why Sherlock is always the exception, Sherlock is always special. I mean, Sherlock has always been loud and flamboyant on cue, but he can also be shy and reserved, yet his music has always the best reception. Is it a gained ability, from all the times trying to save the detective's skinny behind? Can trying to save a life create a universal auditory link between two people if one hits their noggin hard enough? I seriously doubt that. Another explanation must be at stake, something that is bringing my focus on Sherlock incredibly closer than other people. Perhaps it's what I already did. Sherlock's presence is all absorbing, whether on a solitary strop or a loud deduction rant to all Yarders, and over the years I have learned to find solace in his presence – never did I feel alone while we shared 221B.

I steel myself against a cabbie with bad rhythm, and how his music grates on my senses. Beside me, Sherlock just nudges me and hands me the noise cancelling headphones once more. I put them on gratefully.

Ten minutes later and we arrive at the crime scene. As we are entering the building, Sherlock taps my elbow, asking for my attention. I remove the headphones – noise and dissonant music all around nearly knock me off my feet – and he just tells me:

'The cabbie had stomach cramps. What did pain sound like?'

'Distressing,' I comment, letting surprise sink in. He hums and instructs me to put the headphones back on with a tilt of his head.

No need, I've clenched my jaw against the onslaught of dissonant melodies and focus really hard on the one melody I can always recognise from my friend – rich, deep, warm. I vow to learn to block away all others if I have to.

The ever-constant music filling my mind and translating Sherlock's emotions does not seem to be the only aftermath effect of what we went through in our last case. I can sense Sherlock's reticence in allowing my full participation, he still worries I'm not fully recovered to be out on cases again. If I didn't know that from experience, the worried undertones of his melodic lines leave no doubt about his feelings on the matter. But he also knows I am a man of action, cooping me up inside 221B any further would likely be more detrimental than allowing me one first taste of freedom in visiting an active crime scene under the watchful eye of Scotland Yard.

'Inspector,' Sherlock greets stiffly as soon as we come closer to the blue and white delimitation tape around a suburban house.

'Sherlock. Hiya John, are you sure you're okay for this?' I nod briefly, recognising the cello drifting tune of Greg Lestrade. So far, so good. He prompts us inside, kindly directing most of the forensics team to take a break and exit the scene for my benefit. The house is suspended in artificial darkness, and only portable flood lights illuminate the scene, giving it a horror movie vibe.

In the tiled bathroom floor, waiting to be placed in a body bag, is a middle-aged woman electrocuted by curling irons plugged in to the mains, one foot still dangling from the edge of the bathtub where the soapy water swirls murkily.

And no, dead people don't have a melody to them. Much like in every other way, they can't communicate further, unless perhaps Sherlock Holmes himself shows up at their crime scene and finds them a voice.

I look at Lestrade, his music is a bit lethargic, tired; clearly it's been a long week, and he's just been saddled with hunting Chandler Twins as a priority, like all the other Yarders. They are hoping to contain knowledge from the public with a quick apprehension of the murderous brothers. On the other hand, Sherlock is vibrating in barely contained energy, a motor revving to go at the start of a race. His melodic lines are all edgy, ragged, intense, giving the whole "Sherlock symphony" almost a desperate quality.

'Husband found her when the electrical switch short-circuited. He got her out of the tub and tried CPR, but too late. He finally called the Met Police, and you know how we told all operators to ask for suspicious package deliveries in the last 24 hours? Well, the wife had got the hair curling irons there. Brand new, in a sealed box. She thought the sister had sent her to test a hairdo for their other sister's upcoming wedding. I've talked to both sisters; they were adamant that they didn't send the package to the victim.'

Sherlock swoops over the dead woman's body, intensely scrutinising every stretch mark and mole. As his focus pinpoints on the victim and any evidence he can find on her and the scene, his music strands tune in tighter, all playing the same strained melody.

'Secretary, a bit of a drinker, never had children, boring life,' he deduces.

'Can you give us more than that?' Lestrade asks, in a grainy coffee voice.

'It's the Chandler Twins, Lestrade, as you well suspect. Dust the package for prints, but I suspect you will only find the wife's. It was a gift too good to be true.'

'Yeah, she still took it. Don't say no to a freebie, I guess.'

'Analyse the curling irons, I bet you they were tampered with, in order to give her a small electrostatic shock, that made her drop them in the bathtub full of water.' Sherlock raises the dead woman's hand and manoeuvres it so that we can see her reddened fingertips.

'How could anyone know she'd take the curling irons to the bathroom? Seems like a silly thing to do, no?'

Sherlock gets up with the flexibility of a kitten and immediately points out the lingerie hanging from the towel rack. 'She needed to keep those garments a surprise, she wanted to woo her boring husband in their boring wedding. A bit of excitement. I bet you they sent the lingerie too.'

'The Chandler Twins?' With an afterthought, DI Lestrade looks all around in the tiny bathroom as if expecting to find a concealed camera. His music is awed; Sherlock's is triumphant, proud.

'Good, you're starting to think, Lestrade! But no, the twins are not voyeuristic, their excitement comes from planning the artistic deaths.'

'Yeah, but what made her drop the curling irons in the tub? How could they possibly make that happen? How did they know she wouldn't have emptied it first?'

Sherlock's symphony grows ever stronger, epic, heroic, brilliant. It's amazing to absorb his brain's work in audible chunks, and I nearly sway in the spot. Nothing, nothing, could convince me to place on my noise cancelling headphones now.

'Oh, this is brilliant, I haven't had this much fun since Jim! Interrogate the husband, Lestrade. Someone reported the victim's precise habits, someone arranged for the right night for a delivery. This isn't random after all – shame that – it's murder for hire with the option for home delivery!'

I shiver at the elated, triumphant pinnacle of Sherlock's symphony. Not for the first time, I am both mesmerised and horrified for his absolute joy at a crime scene.

But with Sherlock Holmes it's not death as an end, it's death as a mental exercise that excites him. And I wouldn't change him, even if I could.

'Where are the bins kept?' he asks the inspector, in full seriousness.

.

TBC