A/N: I've been having too much fun with a long silly plot. And thus a fictional week comes to an end and disbelief no longer needs suspending, thanks. -csf


VIII.

Wednesday, 11:50pm

We're in a spooky horror film warehouse and, of course, Sherlock tries to separate. Nah, mate, I can hear the accompanying soundtrack, it does not end well for the good looking but naïve at heart character, I'm not letting you out of my sight anytime soon.

'Sherlock!' I hiss his name, threateningly. One glance at me and he recognises me as a possessive sidekick.

'Come along, John!' he urges, impatiently, but this time he doesn't run off ahead.

Baby steps; Sherlock is learning. Last time I ended up banging my head down hard to save him from being shot.

I pinpointed the two men's location to an old cupboard at the corner of a wide production area – several rows of sewing machines abandoned mid production, old fabric and thread spools littering the floor, rotting where the rain filters in from the damaged roof. Boxes and boxes of buttons line a side wall between narrow and tall industrial windows. We proceed with caution, careful where we track and how exposed we are. My gun in hand, I keep a tight eye on any movement – given that my hearing is highly compromised.

'I'll lure them out, John. You shoot them.'

He doesn't give me nearly enough time to comprehend his words as he shoots off, crouched to make himself hidden by the towering machinery, down the lengthy row.

'Damn it, no! Come back here!' Immediately I try to follow him – thus granting his selfless act null and void – but he must have anticipated that, for I'm nearly floored by an onslaught of irrational happiness, that makes me stumble on my own feet and fall back onto my knees. The short burst of glee, a coded weapon to delay me, is made entirely of Sherlock's happy thoughts, and I grit my teeth through it, holding fast to my sanity. Then comes desperate sadness, nonsensical anger and delirious happiness again.

In turn, Sherlock keeps shooting quickfire emotions my way, debilitating my progress. I take my hands up to my head, clamping down hard over my ears, to no avail. The music comes from within, after all.

Cursing my best friend for the low blow, I'm forced to watch him hike up an old iron staircase, rusty but still solid, his pounding steps attracting the bad guys attention. Finally he stops blasting me with faked emotions in the form of mismatched emotional soundtracks. I take a quick deep breath and trail my gun on the targets. They duck and I miss.

'Damn it, Sherlock!' I shout loudly, as I huddle back behind the sewing machines. My hands are shacking still. Sherlock's violent onslaught of auditory stimuli left me shaky, cold sweat running down my back. It was so intense that it nearly deafened me.

I wonder if he ever understood his mistake, for he blessedly cuts it out. I try to focus on him again, check if he's okay. His main melody is intense and vibrant, the rhythm unfaltering, so I assume that he keeps healthy.

My outburst of anger seems to have turned the two sombre melodies to me. Oh, nice, I'm the bait once again. See, Sherlock? All is back to normal!

Sherlock, meanwhile, has been left unsupervised. Big mistake. First things first into his devil-may-care plan, he comes to my rescue. Using a rusty pair of scissors wrapped in a strip of old fabric, he stabs the top of the tall velvet curtains that drape at the back of the warehouse. Then he jumps. The ripping fabric slowing down his fall – always a fall, huh, Sherlock? – and quickly returns to the ground floor and to my side.

'John? Did I harm you?' he asks immediately, guilt all over his face and his melody.

I dismiss it with a loose gesture, but I'm still shaky on my feet and as I fire some aimless shots, keeping them at bay.

A bit pointless to shoot without seeing the target clearly, we both know, and the gun will run out of bullets at some point…

'I did some spying. They've got a lot of backup guns, John, and extra ammunition. They are well stocked for a shoot off.'

And we are sitting ducks, he could have easily added. Angry as I am about Sherlock's solo mission, it is vital intel he brings back. Now we just need a good plan; cue in Sherlock Holmes. This is what he does.

Sherlock stoops the more as they fire back, lowering himself by a pile of discarded fabric. He brushes soft fingers over it and identifies: 'Tweed, good quality, likely three decades old.'

'Sherlock, this is not the time to make mental notes to enhance your wardrobe, you look fine as it is!'

He smirks – and his melody preens. Vain git. 'Not that. When was the last time you heard of a tweed suit sewing industry in London, John?'

Ugh, never. Who could afford this in London?

'Small scale, then. Some designer, involved in London fashion week and the like.'

'Good, you're thinking now,' he patronises me. Sherlock, this is really not the time? 'If you were to kill someone with that prompt, how would you do it, John?'

My god, his melody doesn't even falter. He's absolutely serious about this? 'It's hardly the time for your pastime, Sherlock!'

'It's always the time to plan a nice murder when you're me, John. Forget the nice melodies and the sweet tingly feeling you get from my deductions. This is who I am. Can you handle the gore, the gothic, the chaos?'

I roll my eyes, de-escalating the situation. 'Of course I can. Haven't I proven that already as your flatmate? Have I tried to change you any further than when you are being incredibly reckless with health and safety or not taking good enough care of yourself? Have I ever told you to put your skull away or not to place your hydrochloric and sulfuric acids in with the vinegar and other salad dressings? Did I even say anything about—'

I'm cut short. He heard something, I could read it off him.

'The answer is aniline dyes, John. Used to dye fabric in the olden days, rarely used nowadays unless for very small samples of fabric, because they are essentially toxic poisons. However, if you have enough quantity, you can also use a different property of these dyes, John.'

I'm a doctor, I know this. They are flammable. This old? May even be explosive. But how—

A sharp movement behind us and I turn. They have guns, about to fire, from across the warehouse room. Behind them, a bundle of aniline red gallon drums. And we are about to find out if they are empty, I guess.

I check my gun, only one bullet left. What if I miss? I gaze at Sherlock, a question in my eyes. All his melodies align into one assured decision. He even goes as far as to verbalise it for me: 'Just drop it, John. You're John Watson, not one else can do this, but you.'

I end up firing first. One of the twins laughs at me, my aim, Sherlock is already pulling me down. He knows better, my aim is never off unless he messes with me. The bullet pierces the drums and ricochets, setting off sparks. The unstable chemical builds up pressure catastrophically fast and ignites in a massive explosion that throws Sherlock and I back a couple of meters through the sheers force of the air blast.

Pain ricochets inside my head too. Sound is oozy and light flickers for me alone. Next thing I know, I'm being hoisted in a fireman's lift and carried outside, away from the building toxic fumes.

'John? John! Can you hear me?'

I come back to violently, all at once. I'm gingerly propped sat up against a brick wall and Sherlock is cradling my head gently between is shaking hands.

'Come on, John, talk to me. Tell me you can hear me, there are things I need to tell you without the stupid noise cancelling headphones.'

I smile crookedly. 'You're making me wait to hear it, mate, it had better be worth it.'

He chuckles, relieved. Behind him, the warehouse is up in flames. I find that I don't really care if the Chandler Twins have been rescued in time. I know that either way their nightmare delivery scheme is over.

.

Thursday, 2:13pm

I fell asleep tangled up in a blanket on the sofa, face and hair smudged by smoke and debris. Now awake, at once I panic over Sherlock until I find him curled up in his armchair, typing lazily in his laptop. I don't think he's noticed that I woke up.

I can't quite hear his melodies on account of the loud ringing in my ears, a more common side-effect of a powerful explosion blast. I find Sherlock's missing symphony a lonesome feeling, and I burrow deeper into my blanket cocoon. This makes my flatmate notice me. He hastily puts away the laptop and approaches with a caution and care that one would give a precious yet fragile thing.

'John?'

I nod, cautiously.

'How are you feeling? I think you hit your head again. Lestrade wanted you to go to the hospital, but I knew you'd refuse, so I just kidnapped you and brought you straight to 221B, but you've been asleep a very long time now, John.'

I groan, experimentally.

'Am alright, I think. Bit of a ringing in my ears, but I can hear you. Well, not all of you. Not the music, I mean.'

'Oh.' Is that disappointment I see flashing in his face? Without the extra cues, I seem to be rusty in Sherlock-reading.

'We always knew it could go away,' I remind him. He nods, his face a study in masking.

"You-who!" Mrs Hudson trines her usual call. DI Lestrade is with her. 'John, what have you gone and done to yourself again, young man? It really can't be all that good for you if you keep choosing to hit your head, dear!'

'Who said it was a choice?' I protest. She openly ignores that.

Lestrade comes to take a seat in my armchair, studying the both of us, while Mrs H busies herself with the mandatory tea.

'Well, I guess that's over. No more paid overtime. Back to regular unpaid overtime, and I'm not gonna complain. The Chandler Twins were a nasty pair of psychopaths.'

'Not the only thing that might be over,' I say, pointing to my head in lieu of an actual explanation. The seasoned police inspector doesn't miss the clue.

'Oh, that's a good thing, no? It was bound to drive you insane after a while, John.'

'Yes, I guess. Feels odd, though. Empty.' Lonely.

'Turn the radio on, then.'

Sherlock cuts in, pretending to give all his attention to the skull on the mantlepiece: 'I can finally finish that monography on gunpowder gradients in fireworks without risking you further hearing damage, John.'

'No,' I refuse, at once incensed, 'no gunpowder experiments, you promised after that last time, you promised me!'

Mrs Hudson joins us at last, tutting away about the state of her kitchen's ceiling tiles from the last time Sherlock got his hands on gunpowder. Lestrade makes a scene of not listening, tucking his badge under the Union Jack cushion. I smile, enjoying our crazy dysfunctional family.

.

Thursday, 11:00pm

'Are you comfortable, John?'

I start at the soft question, quite unfairly. Sherlock has only ever been kind this week, from my first concussion and throughout a difficult case. His care a complete travesty of the sociopath moniker he tried to give himself when we met.

'I'm alright. It's… odd. Less tiring, but also…' I stop to ponder my words, try to choose the right ones. 'Makes me feel like I lost a connection with you, Lestrade, Mrs H.'

He hums, pondering my words. After all, there is nothing he can tell me that hasn't already crossed my mind.

Yet he surprises me one more time, when he finally speaks, in a soft tone of voice: 'I can try to compensate for what you lost, John. I can give you my spirits in another way,' he adds, mysteriously, before he reaches out for his violin. Cradling it, he raises the bow, and introduces: 'This unfinished piece is simply called "John". I trust you can tell what I meant to tell you when you hear it.' And he lowers the bow and lets it vibrate exquisitely over taunt strings while I listen with my full attention.

I feel like the world centres in on 221B Baker Street and I hear Sherlock's inner monologues with an entire new language learnt for this. One day, he'll be ready to share it in his own words. Until then, this musical composition feels incredibly intimate and sincere. Together, he can teach me how to answer back in this private musical language of ours.

.