A/N: Summertime. -csf


V.

Sunday, 10:55pm

Noise cancelling headphones now on, I am kneeling on the drive by the side of the house, arranging the recycling bin's contents on the tarmac, for Sherlock. I think he's still around. He gave me his instructions and left in another of his triumphant flurries of activity. "All the best stalkers know that the easiest way to get all info on someone is to go through their recycling bin, John!" he assured me. In his line of work, Sherlock Holmes deals with all sorts.

The Chandler brothers are perhaps modern Britain's most ruthless murderers, a tandem team of murder and mayhem powered by psychopathy. Unlike most killers, they don't revel in being present for their victims last breath, they are happy to set off destruction from afar and – as Sherlock uncovered – perhaps a financial compensation for the trouble. Serial killers for hire, no wonder Sherlock brought up dearly departed Jim Moriarty.

Just as Sherlock returned to the living, sometimes I fear Moriarty is clawing his way back from a grave, half of his skull missing. Other times I realise there is no point in fearing a ghost, when the living spectre of Moriarty is still among us.

I put aside a carton sleeve from a microwavable meal for one and grab the instructions manual for an electric saw, reaching the end of the pile. Just as if by magic, Sherlock materialises next to me; of course, only now the tedious task is done. One sweeping glance at the organised contents of the bin and he swoops down to my level, shuffling things around. He stops abruptly, grabs me by the elbow, and pulls me away from the recyclables to find the detective inspector.

What he doesn't prepare me for is the onslaught of dopamine and serotonin that powers up the elated, triumphant, exquisitely unique music bursting forth from the successful detective, a climatic achievement, a union with the very fabric of the universe, and it makes my knees go weak, and I stumble. Sherlock immediately focuses onto me, shifting his melody with the deep bass of guilt from dragging me by sheer genius not so long after I left the hospital. I can't bear to tell my friend that we're not walking too fast, nor is it the late hour.

It's the intense beauty and harmony of Sherlock Holmes solving a case. Never in a million years did I suspect it to be so vibrant, so amazing… so addictive.

Hell, if I were the detective, I'd never be ready to give this up either. A natural high of the finest quality. I'm still a bit groggy, while Sherlock holds me up by the shoulders and tries to inspect something in my eyes. I give him a reassuring smile, it comes out silly.

Finally, it must click for him – judging by the extra endorphin-filled melody input we share – for he gives me a cheeky smirk and mutters something defensive about what it must be like to not be him, to not be saddled by genius.

I take a deeper breath and steel myself to my new life.

.

Monday, 02.03am

'You got all that from a meal for one and an electric saw?' I smile, in awe. My friend's expression remains aloof, but his music strands all preen in smugness.

'The meal is a proof of advanced planning of the wife's death with only one dinner catered for, and the saw was used to lower the bathtub's height, causing the wife to stumble out as she miscalculated the distance to the bathmat. Habit is a dangerous thing. She grasped forward, disturbing the curling iron on the stand next to the tub, and it fell in. Then, the lights went out all over the house, curtain closed, the end. That's how it actually happened.'

'Amazing,' I whisper, concealing a deep bone shiver. Even as a repeat of a major deduction, Sherlock's melodies twirl and burst into beautiful compositions, and it feels oddly akin to reliving Sherlock's success thrill - without any of the hard work.

Apart from bin hunting, that was dull hard work.

The three of us are at a pub joint, decompressing after the horrific scene and the elusive Chandler Twins masterminded murder. The place is mostly empty, given the late hour, and the owner and a couple of other patrons have muted, background melodies of their own.

Greg persists: 'I'll have the delivery package dusted for prints, and run a background check on the company and the delivery person, but— attributing a guilty verdict to someone sending unsolicited parcels to bad husbands is not a crime contemplated by law. We can pin the husband with involuntary manslaughter for the sawed bathtub trick, but little more. We can't build a case on twins being consulted over handyman murders and providing the goods free of charge. If they exchanged payment in cash or through the offshore company, we've got no case.'

Sherlock shakes his head. 'Leave it with me, I'll catch them,' he promises darkly.

I can hear the consulting detective's solo act music and it's dark and full of responsibility. It does not make a comfortable playlist.

Not on my watch. 'I'll help, Sherlock. You are not alone on this.'

His melodic call for action softens somewhat at that, and something new yet vaguely familiar emerges in the score. A chord that I would name as our friendship; deep, resounding, balanced.

Greasy fries arrive at the table for sharing, preceded by a jaunty harmonica jingle that didn't quite blend well with my friend's tunes. The owner soon moves away, taking his song with him.

Is it possible that all extras in my story have boring jingles for their melodies? Or am I just not so attuned to their melodies?

I watch the owner move to the back, and his song fades away.

Wonder what a murderer sounds like, crosses my mind before I can filter it. Is their individual music tainted by their acts? Does it change their melody? Does it taint it with something dark and—

Heck, I killed in the war. Under orders and under siege, but still. I wonder what I would sound like. Maybe Sherlock, with his incredible violin and musical talent, would be too disgusted by my melody? "I'm sorry, John, but I just can't abide by your horrible cacophony of the clarinet you clearly cannot play no matter what you tell others and the death cries of—"

'John!'

I think I am going to be sick. Maybe it was too much so soon after a severe concussion after all.

.

Monday, 06:34am

'You should sleep, John.'

I shake my head, stubbornly. 'Am fine,' I lie blatantly. Sat on the sofa, staring ahead into the deep abyss of the dark corners inside the fireplace, I haven't moved a muscle in a couple of hours.

Sherlock's melody is familiar, but a bit tense and not very clear. That old static is back.

I don't blame him, I wouldn't want to broadcast to me either. Not right now. Not when—

I lower my head to my hands. I can't stop thinking if my song is tainted by all the things I have done in the past. All for good cause, they said, but it's not them who carry the ghosts within them.

'I see nothing, John. Your MRI scan looks perfectly ordinary.'

Hm? I look up. Oh, right. Sherlock has hacked into the hospital records, from my laptop. I concur, nothing out of the ordinary can be seen. I knew that already.

'Was it the pub owner? You reacted badly after he visited our table.'

I shake my head, no, before he can plot misguided revenge on the pub owner. As far as I know he was never a killer. He didn't sound like one, at least. But do I really believe I would recognise what a killer sounds like if I heard their personal melody? B sharp and you're it? Clearly it can't be that simple... How can I find out?

'Then you do know what set this off, John,' Sherlock persists. His melody is tense, annoying – he's irritated by not getting it, not getting me.

I nod, and talk for the first time in a few hours, startling him: 'Yes, I set this off. I need to find out if I can hear a murderer.'

The consulting detective blinks exceedingly – his melodies all out of whack, juxtaposing and competing with one another. I deduce he's utterly baffled by what I just implied. That I can be a murder detector of sorts.

'Oh, is that all you need?' he finally settles on. 'Get your coat and headphones on, we're going to Piccadilly Circus.'

'What?' I protest, but he's no longer listening. I know, because his melody has smoothed itself out.

Sherlock Holmes is a man of solutions.

.

Monday, 07:23am

It's with trepidation that I take off the noise cancelling headphones – and it all hits me like a truck. The melodies, the songs, the dissonant sounds; a whole jumble of auditory cues that passers/by cannot help but to emit. I flinch and burrow deeper in my jacket for a couple of long moments. It helps that Sherlock keeps very close to me, effectively blocking the majority of the noise dissonance with his steady stringed melodies. I take a deeper breath and open my eyes to the scene. We are sat at one of the fountain's edge.

'Young man with soya milk latte, he's a student with debts and does adult private shows online. Does he sound different?'

'Not really, no.'

'Rubbish collector man, hardworking and a parent of five, no six. Twins, again! How does he sound?'

'A bit like an old guitar, to be honest.'

'Office worker woman, late, insufferable boss, likely to be planning his demise for the three years she has been working at a dead-end job. Does she sound different?'

'No, but if she hasn't killed anyone yet…'

'She never will. Strong moral principle, she will however steal small office stationery items until she quits her job.'

'How do you know that?'

'I don't, but it's highly likely.'

'So, no murderers around?'

'Give it time, John. You always tell me off for being impatient when I'm the one calling out for murderers…' His main melody flourishes at that, amused.

'Just say it if you spot one in this place.'

'Okay, I spot one.'

'I can't hear anything different. Are you sure?'

'Of course, I'm sure!'

'And you are not making this up?'

'John, do I ever?'

'And it's not me?'

I know it as soon as the words like my wretched mouth; I spoke in haste, I revealed myself. Shit, now Sherlock knows. I make a move to grab those noise cancelling headphones in a spineless retreat from having to hear my best friend's true feelings about me, when the first chords filter through. And they are sad, resigned, but full of faith, and care, and – god forbid – resounding affection, and not at all the accusatory nightmare I expected it to be.

'John…' he exhales, utterly at a loss for words. Luckily, he doesn't need words right now. I can hear his very honest emotions, unfiltered, as they leach from him. 'John,' he repeats, more forcefully. 'There's the killer you wanted to eavesdrop on, with the black straight coffee. Tell me what he sounds like.'

I look on over and force my attention to latch on the strange man. His melody is heavy, repetitive, overall unpleasant.

'How do you know he's a killer?'

'Prison tattoo symbols on the hand with which he golds the coffee cup. What does he sound like, John?' he pressures me.

'Not all that nice. Guilty, saddled with something dark.' I gulp drily.

'Well, that's not what John Watson sounds like.'

'How would you know?' I whisper between us.

He reaches deep into his jacket pocket and brings out a much folded piece of score paper. I can't read it by sight, but I can tell it's composed for some orchestra and full of victorious arches and thrills. Finally I notice the title. It reads, simply, "John". This is for sure Sherlock's handwriting.

When has he composed this? Why would he? Is Sherlock telling me that, in his own way, he can hear the melodies in me too?

The accomplished musician snaps the piece of paper from my hands too quickly, and refuses to let me have it again. 'It's not yet complete, John. It does not yet represent you in your entirety. I will give this to you when you no longer surprise me with new facets, and I have you completely figured out. Which, of course, I fear may never happen.'

I look on over to Sherlock in absolute admiration, and Sherlock's beautiful music bursts forth so loudly it could deafen me.

.

TBC