A/N: Please don't be angry with me. I'm exhausted and this one came out before concluding any other plot. -csf


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Hauntingly beautiful music travels across the stairwell as I close shut 221 Baker Street's front door. Welcoming me home, enveloping me in comfortable familiarity, shielding me from a gruelling day at the surgery, and a double shift that felt endless. The music inspires me, fills me with the promise of what is the other side of my double life; the one dominated by Sherlock Holmes' all-encompassing atmosphere of danger, adventure and righting wrongs. My escape. The homely place of refuge for a soldier who lives life on the run from himself. This rich violin composition of my friend's making brings me home.

Sometimes I wonder who he plays the violin for. Whomever the lost love or unreachable ideal is, that person must be precious to Sherlock, and he keeps them a well-kept secret from me. I tried asking the artist, of course. And tried cajoling the truth out of my best friend, to no avail. A slight blush spreading across the pale, angular cheeks, and silence. A flutter of dark eyelashes over light grey near translucent orbs, and Sherlock will divert his gaze away, letting it wander around the room. Talking feelings has never been easy for Sherlock, what with the historical pressure from his idolised older brother to believe that emotions are weaknesses.

The taunt bow over the violin strings, the only permitted outlet to my ascetic friend's inner feelings; a soliloquy in an untranslated language. I hear the melodies, nod and partake in the moment, but do not possess the musician's words to understand its final meanings. Still, like all music, it too evokes emotions in me. So I phantom that, as I arrived to find Sherlock playing by the window with his back towards me and the darkening streets outside framing his Pepper's ghost imprint in the glass, Sherlock is greeting my return nonetheless, in a wordless way, as the music loses an edge of frantic abuse of high pitches and takes a plunge towards harmony, with lower, solid, stabilising bases.

I'm no musician, I can't explain it. At times like these, I phantom Sherlock is taking me into this world of sounds and muted language.

But why would he? Likely he's just thought of a nice, fortifying cup of tea. I'd composed the full ode to tea myself.

'Had a nice day, mate? New clients?' I ask from the kitchen. As I expected, no reply follows. The violin drifts on, changing its tune along his own mysterious explorations of pitch and frequency.

Sometimes I wonder if attributing an expression of feelings to Sherlock's music is a self-prophesizing fallacy. Maybe the scientist is just exploring the rhythmic balance and sway of longitudinal waves and vibrations being carried by air particles. Then I remember that silence is hardly ever detached from emotions when it comes to my mad friend.

I bring a fragrant cup of tea and set it on the table next to the detective. I fancy his eyes follow me as I move away, and his elegant bow sways backwards and forwards in a timely insertion of a "thank you" into the melody he plays. He's still looking at me as I take a tired seat in the red armchair by the empty fireplace. I sigh deeply, closing my eyes, and let go of the world outside 221B. Sherlock's soliloquy turns nostalgic and slow, the low reverberating cadences releasing the tension from my achy muscles in the neck, my headache seems to loosen up.

After a couple of minutes the world loses sense and I fall into an exhausted sleep, a nice cup of tea going to waste.

I wake up to a violent start some undetermined time later, to find Sherlock kneeling beside my left ankle and a blanket draped loosely over my lap.

'Sherl...?' I mumble.

He snaps to attention as his mercurial eyes pin me down.

'It's gone cold here,' he mentions. Finally I realise he's fixing some logs onto the hearth, to light up a cosy fire for us.

No wonder he feels cold, his hair is damp at the collar of his favourite dressing gown. Doesn't take a world class detective to know he's fresh out of the shower.

As I restlessly readjust in my seat, a stab of pain reminds me that my bummed shoulder disagrees with napping in the armchair. Doesn't take a certified doctor to make sense of that one.

'I'm sorry I fell asleep earlier,' I say, rubbing my shoulder absently. 'You were playing so well.'

He looks briskly away, reminding me this topic is taboo somehow.

'I play all the time, John. You know all my compositions.'

'You never repeat yourself, never the same tune.'

'Nonsense. I just tweak them slightly.'

I readjust again, holding my breath under my words.

'Whomever they are about, whomever you may have lost or you feel you can't reach, they are incredibly lucky, Sherlock,' I say, as I force myself up from the flattened cushions. Immediately he springs to his feet - far too effortlessly and elegantly for a man his age - to help me stabilise as I wobble on account of my shoulder being connected to my back, neck and ribs. 'Ngh...'

'John,' he exhales softly, worriedly.

'I'm fine,' I huff. 'Morbidly obese old man came in as a patient to the surgery and had the syncope in the waiting room.'

'How inconsiderate,' Sherlock comments offhandedly. 'John, do you seriously remain adamant that you must singlehandedly save London's entire population from death and ailments?'

I squint, confused, at my friend. 'Doctors frown at leaving collapsed patients on the surgery floor,' I say bitingly. 'Makes for a bad calling card.'

'Naturally. And you were the only physician in attendance.'

'What? No, of course, if I wasn't the only one there!'

'Perhaps consider some team effort the next time, John,' he snaps at me, making me cringe. Yeah, match point for Sherlock Holmes. 'Your painkillers, John?'

'I don't need painkillers,' I spat at once.

'The old man died, then,' Sherlock deduces.

'His heart had stopped. That's how he collapsed. Heart attack.'

'You rolled him over and administered CPR.'

'In vain, yes.'

'It inflamed your shoulder, John. You need painkillers.'

'I beg to differ.'

'No need to beg, John.'

'I'm the doctor here, Sherlock!'

'It's not ethical to diagnose yourself, John.'

'Call the papers - breaking news: Sherlock Holmes is defending ethics now!'

'John...' he stops short, his grey eyes turned the tinge of wild green forests immersed in deep fog. Reminds me of the wild landscapes of Canada from when I was stationed there. 'John, you did what you could to save the man's life. Self-flagellation does not become you.'

I nearly gasp, indignant, and force myself out of his grasp.

'I'm fine. I'll just sleep it off. I'm off to bed. Goodnight, Sherlock.'

He never replies to my goodnight wishes, resorting to that earlier mutism. In fact, he takes up the violin again. A lonely tune follows me up the steps. Soon I'm taking refuge in my bedroom, shrugging off the uncomfortable work clothes. Sherlock's melody turns pensive and sorrowful. I feel a bit guilty for having been so gruff to Sherlock, he only meant well and we both know the genius isn't highly accomplished in social skills. The way he read my day and slapped my losses back in my face really got me triggered. Some lives I can save, others are failures are carry deep inside. Someone has to. That old man had no family left.

I smother my face on the bed sheet and mattress, too exhausted to snuggle into the duvet. Sherlock's violin lament fades into the levels of heroism and victory. The bastard is being manipulative now. I wish he'd go back to thinking of Irene Adler, or whoever it is, that his violin pines for so beautifully.

As if reading my mind, Sherlock does just that. He elongates solid, strong, hero notes and weaves in adventure and victory in higher pitches drawn out as a call to be let in. As I fall asleep, the two influences mingle into a perfect balance, the elemental universal state of equilibrium reached. I let the contentment and peace drifting through the floorboards lull me to a peaceful sleep.

In one last coherent thought, I realise that although I cannot speak Sherlock's musician's language, I can translate it.

And I hope that Sherlock, the genius he is, can read my language too, wrapped up in fragrant tea cups and deflagrated gunpowder.

Sherlock and I speak better without words.

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