Chapter Text
By the time Sherlock arrived at Baker Street, the sun was almost gone. He sighed, staring at the windows where the curtains blocked his life from the public. Sherlock took out his key and opened the door, eyes drifting about. The wind had gotten stronger, the doorway swept, probably by Mrs. Hudson. The suddenly- CRACK.
Sherlock wrenched his hand away from the doorjamb. The wind had sucked the wooden door back into it's place, crushing Sherlock's fingers in the process. He clenched them tightly, and let the door close. No one was going to come after him, so as the lock clicked behind him Sherlock wrapped him fingers in a nearby scarf. Oh, the pain. The mind-numbing waves of pain that flew at him like ravens, overwhelming him until he succumbed. Sherlock grit his teeth, and staggered for the stairs.
"Shit." He whispered, slowly climbing up to the flat. He could hear sounds of yelling above, Mrs. Hudson and Victor had probably gotten into a fight. Again. Almost there. Sherlock reached for the doorknob, and walked into the kitchen. It was, as he presumed earlier, chaos.
"Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson scurried over, clenching at her knitting. "Victor won't stop! He's already- oh dear, what happened to your hand?" Her eyes filled with worry as she saw the blood- the skin had broken, but nevertheless, she grabbed the medical kit and searched for a splint. Victor was sitting on the floor in the living room, cackling at the ceiling. His eyes were ravenous, his smile insane. Victor Trevor was indeed in the final stage. Sherlock groaned inwardly, and walked over to the cupboard. If, and only if, he starts acting weird. It'll get him under control. Dr. Williams had prescribed. The injections were the worst thing Sherlock wanted to do right now, but there was no other choice. He strode over to Victor and pushed the needle into his arm. Victor groaned, and closed his eyes, sleeping peacefully. Mrs. Hudson sighed, rubbing her face.
"What happened?" Sherlock looked at her and threw away the syringe. She was tired, he knew this, but it couldn't wait. She sat down at the table, setting her knitting down next to her.
"It was fine at first. I came in, he didn't notice me. I covered him with a blanket, made some tea, and turned on the telly. It was about three when he recovered. He threw off the blanket, shattered the teacup that I had put next to him, and flew about the flat. I tried to make him eat some food, take his medicine, but he yelled at me and continued to run about the flat." Sherlock looked to where Mrs. Hudson had waved her arm, and there was the broken cup. He picked it up, and put the pieces in the trash. Mrs. Hudson resumed her story. "Well, I wouldn't take any of that, so I yelled back at him, and soon it was a full-blown argument. He was raving, he was crazy. He tried to hit me, but luckily I still had my needles with me and jabbed him in the thigh. That was about the time when Mycroft-"
"Mycroft was here? Mrs. Hudson, was it really that bad?" Mycroft never came, never. Not unless it was serious. Mrs. Hudson nodded sadly.
"Yes, dear. I'll just wrap that up, shall I?" Mrs. Hudson pulled out some gauzed, and bandaged Sherlocks' fingers. He hissed as she hit the sore spots, but otherwise didn't complain. "There we go."
"Thank you."
"Be careful. Anyway, when Mycroft was here, he managed to calm Victor down, but as soon as he left the craze went back in. He started shouting about things, terrible things. A couple times he mentioned some girl named Amelia, but besides that, he just raved. Before you got home, he was babbling about crows and ravens. He kept saying that they were pecking at him, that they were hurting him. And then you got home, and gibberish occurred."
"Dear God." Sherlock put his head in his hands. This was abnormal, it was far from normal. "I'm so sorry Mrs. Hudson."
"It's all right dear. This must be harder for you than me." She patted his knee consolingly, and he leaned back in his chair. Victor snored on the carpet, the threads fluttering as he exhaled.
"Are you okay? He didn't hit you, did he?"
"Oh now, Sherlock, don't underestimate me. I'm alright." She stood up, grabbing her knitting. "Dear, I'm going down but there's Chinese in the fridge under the eyeballs, and more of the pills in the cupboard. Be careful, now."
"I'll be alright. Thanks. Goodnight, Mrs. Hudson."
"Goodnight, Sherlock." She toddled out, closing the door behind her. Sherlock waited until he heard her shut the door, then sighed. He took off his coat, and picked Victor up from the floor. He was so very light, the chemo had completely lost him of any weight. That, with the cocaine, made Victor as light as a feather. Just a shell of a man. Sherlock walked down the hall with Victor, and set him down on the bed. Victor stirred, but he was still asleep and didn't move when Sherlock pulled the covers over him.
He shut the door, grabbed some blankets from the shelf, and made a bed on the couch. Sherlock didn't bother with the food, he wasn't hungry. He needed a case, and thank God that tomorrow was Sunday. Sherlock sighed, and began to change into pajamas. His pocket crinkled, and he pulled out a scrap of paper. It was from a napkin, but John's phone number was still legible. His eyes lit up. He grabbed his phone, and furiously punched in John's number.
John, it's Sherlock. I know you know all about Victor, so let me get a few things straight.
1. I prefer to text.
2. His cancer is making him intolerable.
3. I think something bigger is wrong.
My flat, tomorrow, nine am. He won't let me look at him, but he might let someone else.
The address is 221b Baker Street.
-SH
He sent the message, and finished undressing. One shower later, and Sherlock still didn't feel better. He brushed his teeth, shut off the lights in the flat, and turned on the telly. Almost automatically the movie came on, and soon the people began to sing.
"Do you hear the people sing? Singing the song of angry men. It is the music of the people who will not be slaves again!" Enjolras sang gallantly, before Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Feuilly joined in. Sherlock began to slowly relax, pondering about the unusual visit at the park.
John Watson. My name is John Watson, I work with you at the hospital.
How did he not realize that? John Watson, they had almost every shift together. They even had a class or two together at Oxford. He was on the rugby team, always hanging out with Kevin Holder. Of course, Kevin always talked about Sherlock behind his back; it was one of the reasons Sherlock was bullied so much there. If only they knew. Sherlock cursed himself, how could he forget that? Enjolras had rode away on the carriage, but then the movie shut off. Sherlock groaned. Mrs. Hudson didn't record all of it, unfortunately. Oh well. Sherlock glanced at his phone, and saw that John had replied.
I can make it.
John.
Well good for that. Hopefully Victor would at his cocktail appointment by then, and Sherlock could explain everything to John then. Sherlock sighed, and climbed onto the couch, shutting off the lamp beside him. He shivered, it was cold and the quilt didn't give him much warmth. Baker Street was dark, and it took a while for Sherlock's eyes to adjust. Slowly, the shapes appeared. The armchairs. The fireplace. The coat stand. And slowly, Sherlock drifted into slumber.
But who said it was peaceful?
It was dark, and there were ravens. It was a weird dream, and out-of-body experience. Sherlock looked to his left, and saw the little boy, his dark curls glinting in the afternoon sun. Sherlock was little, he was a child. No older then seven, no younger than five. And yet, the smoking gun in his hand suggested otherwise. Older Sherlock swerved around him, watching him carefully. Younger Sherlock was frightened, he was scared. He kept turning around, and kept firing off the hill. They were on a golden hill, as Sherlock noted, grass up to his knees. As for younger Sherlock, the grass reached his stomach.
"William!" A woman ran out, her long silver hair fanning out behind her in the wind. Young Sherlock dropped the gun and ran towards her. She swept him up in one move, clutching him against her chest. Sherlock ran over, gazing at the woman. She had been dead for a long time, but that didn't mean that she wasn't here. Young Sherlock grasped her dress, a long corn-flower blue color that was separated with a cream colored apron. She consoled him, her eyes scanning the skies as she stroked his curls. The sky was red, a fiery, bloodred. And the ravens were cast out on it, black spot against a curtain of red. The woman gasped, and ran to the house. The gun was forgotten in the wheat, blue cornflowers the same color as her dress growing taller than trees, blocking the house from view. Sherlock understood now, they're protecting the house.
"Grandmary, watch out for the rocks!" Young Sherlock cried, as her bare feet tripped on a few loose stones. She cursed, then ran faster. The ravens were getting closer, and yet Sherlock was stuck in the field, watching his grandmother and his younger self be locked in the house. Grandmary locked Younger Sherlock inside, then ran out again, motioning to Sherlock.
"Come on!" Sherlock stood where he was for a moment, until she rolled her eyes and grabbed his arm. "William, come on! 'E buirds will be e're soon!" Her French accent cut away the English when she was scared or angry, and Sherlock ran with her to the house. The cornflowers were huge, and they were a wall. She leapt over the stone fence surrounding the cottage. Sherlock followed, realizing he was only in a suit, casual as it is, but nonetheless a suit. They were inside the house, and Grandmary locked the door again. His younger self was no where to be found.
Grandmary sighed, and sat on the armchair in the middle of the room. Sherlock looked out from the pale curtains, until his hand was smacked by the old woman. Her eyes were scared, but when she pulled him away, her arms were strong.
"William, do not look outside." She had regained her English composure. "The birds will come, and the sun will fall." She pulled Sherlock down to her height, and suddenly, he was six years old again, listening to a fairy tale. "The birds will come," She repeated, "And the sun will fall. Get to know the sun well."
Grandmary stood up, and turned off the light. Sherlock looked around, he was in his bedroom in the cottage. All was silent for a second, and then a crash. A shriek, and thundering footsteps were heard. Sherlock stood up in his bed, and silently slid off. He peeked out by the door, and men with guns were in the house. He saw Grandmary, her hands up, against the sink. She saw him, her eyes were wide.
"Hide, William! Hide, and whatever you do, don't come out for me!" She screamed, turning around in a swift motion and grabbing something from the cupboard. Sherlock's eyes widened, it was the gun from earlier. Still smoking. "Hide!"
And Sherlock hid, under the bed, trying not to breathe, less they hear him. He had locked his door, he had dragged his chair under the handle. Gunshots were heard, screams, and then silence. Sherlock held his breath, ignoring the dust around him. Footsteps thundered up the stairs, and stopped outside of the bedroom. Someone knocked thrice, and then kicked down the door. Big men with black boots and guns ran in, pulling him from out under the bed. Sherlock had screamed, fingernails clawing at the wooden floors, but as he was held up, the men didn't recognize him, he saw it in their eyes. They ran out in unison, leaving him on the floorboards. Sherlock ran down to the kitchen, and there was blackness. He screamed again and the blackness turned around, eyes like fire.
"The birds will come," It whispered, reaching out to Sherlock. "And the sun will fall." It touched his forehead, and slowly he began to fade. "Get. To. Know. The. Sun. Well."
And then there was nothing.
Sherlock woke up, breathing heavily. There was sweat on his pillow, there was sweat his forehead. Sunlight broke through the curtains, and he slowly shuffled out of bed. A recurring nightmare, and one he always hated. He headed to the bathroom, and locked the door behind him.
His face was a mess, salty tracks leading down from his eyes, which were puffy and red. His hair a mess, but that was normal. Sherlock took a deep breath, and splashed water on his face. He was still groggy, but at least he was awake. Sherlock brushed his teeth and combed his hair, all the while studying his eyes. Then he made breakfast, and checked on Victor.
Victor was sleeping, but sunlight had drifted in. It danced across his forehead, making his pale skin look a little bit brighter. Sherlock breathed out happily, glad that he was still alive. Victor mumbled and turned over, scratching his back. Oh, he was awake.
"Victor, wake up. You have to do cocktails today." Sherlock said, a bit loudly. He pulled Victor over and tapped his face again. Victor coughed and swatted his face.
"Go'way Sherlock." He mumbled, closing his eyes. But Sherlock rolled his eyes and started poking him. Victor looked up, he was not amused.
"What? Isn't this how you wake up?"
"You're a piece of shit, Sherlock."
"Well that's nice." Sherlock walked out, putting the kettle on. He glanced at the clock, John should be there in about forty-five minutes. Great just enough time. Sherlock walked back into the bedroom, where Victor had climbed out and put on pants.
"Victor do you need me to drive you or should I call a cab?"
"Just a cab." Still grumpy.
"Alright." Sherlock dialed, his fingers still very sore, and a cab was scheduled to be there twenty minutes later. Victor managed to get on a shirt and combed his hair, which was amazing. By then, the tea and eggs were done. By done, I mean lightly burnt. The tea was scalding, but this was normal because in all of the universe, how could one believe that Sherlock Holmes could cook? Of course, he was marvelous at other things, but was still a novice at cooking for humans. Victor didn't complain, however, and a few minutes later the cab arrived.
"Sherlock I swept the front. Aren't you proud of me?" Victor giggled, trying to grab at Sherlock's arm.
"Yes, yes, not really, catch your cab. I'll see you later." Sherlock hurried him out the door, making sure that his scarf was on correctly. He turned on the stove, and slammed the kettle on.
And that was it. Sherlock sighed, dressing himself in his regular clothes. His hair was fine, but he made the bed and cleaned the room. It was tedious, a few years ago he would've just left it. Sherlock opened the curtains, squinting at the light. Little bird bones were shattered on the windowsill, bleached white by the light. The desk was still broken, piled high with case reports, medical reports, and basically any type of report. Oh, and the bookshelf. Eight feet high and covered with leather bounds, paper bounds, hard covered, pamphlets. A jar full of origami stars stood underneath the nightstand. Books were in columns all around the room, making it look messier than it was. But he wouldn't move the books. J.R.R. Tolkien, Brian Jaques, C.S. Lewis, J.K. Rowling, Victor Hugo, Emily Dickinson, Charles Dickens, and so many others.
Sherlock tried (unsuccessfully) to shut a drawer in the desk, but it wouldn't move. He sighed, moving the chair away and crouching underneath to look. He laid down on his back, staring up at the gnarled wood. It was dark, the desk shoved in a corner. Even though it was underneath a window, a dark and heavy curtain was nailed over. Sherlock squinted, trying to figure out the cause without hurting his fingers, barely brushing at the edge of the drawer. There was a bit of paper stuck there. Sherlock furrowed his brow and began to dig at it gingerly with his finger nails. Something was keeping it in place -beeswax? Shards of the wax fell on his face, until-suddenly- TAP TAP TAP.
Sherlock bolted up, hitting his head. He groaned, and scooted out from under the desk. He stood up and walked to the living room and peered out of the windows. Someone was below. Oh. John. Sherlock glanced at the clock on the mantlepiece, it was nine exactly. He moved away from the window and let the curtain fall back. Then he turned on his heel and walked to the door, intending to get it for John when something unexpected happened instead.
Mrs. Hudson.
"Oh, dear, you've got the wrong place. I'm sorry." He could hear her all the way down there. Sherlock froze, a footstep from the door.
"I was told to meet here at nine by-" John was stuttering, the poor bloke. Sherlock opened the door a hairsbreadth, peering down at Mrs. Hudsons' back. He could see John, who was wearing a black jacket with leather shoulders. Subtle.
"Dear, no one ever comes visiting here. Are you with the doctors?" She said suddenly, her voice perking up. Sherlock saw that she had a ladle, soup for lunch?
"What? No-well-I go to St. Barts, is that what you mean?" Oh, the agony. Sherlock closed his eyes for a second, and then, sighing, opened the door a bit wider.
"Dear, I mean with Victor! Aren't you here for him?"
"Mrs. Hudson, shut up." Sherlock muttered quietly. He'd never go out there.
"No, well, yes, but-"
"What is it? Speak up!" She was holding the ladle up, she was going to threaten him.
"I'm with-"
"Ah, John. Nice to see you." Sherlock found himself opening the door and walking downstairs. Mrs. Hudson gaped for a second but recovered herself quickly. She bristled angrily.
"Sherlock Holmes! You could've come down here before!" She waved the ladle at him threateningly, fire in her eyes.
"Mrs. Hudson-"
"You darn boy! You could've told me you had company! I would've made biscuits!" Mrs. Hudson waved the ladle around, scarily close to Sherlocks' nose, while John looked around in confusion. To an outsider, it would've been rather interesting. Mrs. Hudson stepped closer to Sherlock, while he backed against the wall.
"Mrs. Hudson, I-"
"Sherlock, tell me when you have company!" She swerved over to John, waving the ladle around half-mindedly. "This young man was blabbering for ages! Come down here sooner, young man, or I'll tell Mycroft, and then the fat will really be in the fire!"
"MRS. HUDSON!" Sherlock bellowed, trying to talk above the radio from her flat, the outside noises, and the whistling kettle from his own flat. She jumped a bit, but then chuckled at Sherlock and headed back into 221A.
"Dear, just tell me if you're here to see Sherlock. I'll be up around two!" She called to John, then switching to Sherlock. Her door closed with a click behind her, and John stood around awkwardly. Sherlock glanced John for a second, then down at his shoes. You could hear a pin drop. John cleared his throat.
"I-I can go, if it's a bad time…" HIs voice trailed off as Sherlock started rolling his eyes sarcastically. John gave a nervous laugh.
"Nah, it's okay. I'm surprised you even decided to come, most people think I'm insane or a freak. Come on, there's tea upstairs." Sherlock started to walk upstairs, and after a few seconds, John followed.
"Sherlock, is Victor here?"
"No, he left a while ago for his cocktails."
"Cocktails? He shouldn't be drinking."
"Cocktails are slang for chemo therapy. There's a coat rack by the doorway." They had reached the top, Sherlock walking in casually while John took off his coat and stared in wonder at his flat.
It was a work of art, a mix of Victorian-era culture with modern furniture. A desk sat by the floor-to-ceiling windows covered by long drapes, which a music stand was perched precariously onto a stack of textbooks next to it. John didn't recognize the piece. While the desk itself was covered in papers surrounding a laptop, the walls were covered with bookshelves. Above the said desk was a bison skull wearing modern headphones. A grey leather couch was to his right by the doorway, a coffee table in front of it. To his left was a brass coatrack, and by the fireplace were two chairs facing each other, a matching grey leather and classic red armchair with a stand next to it. The Union Jack was embroidered upon a pillow. The mantle itself was cluttered with what looked like to be a collection of birds and bats, while a human skull stood above it. John had to register that twice.
"Oh, just make yourself comfortable." Sherlock called over his shoulder. He was in the kitchen, taking a kettle of a gas stove. "Tea?"
"Yes, please." John sat down on the red armchair, setting his backpack down by his feet. Sherlock threw a cup to him and it landed on the opposite armchair. John turned around, looking questionably at Sherlock. "What the hell?"
"I though you'd catch it. My mistake." Sherlock shrugged, as if this was no big deal. John gaped.
"This is how-"
"Yes." Sherlock sat down in the armchair where it landed and handed the cup to John. John looked as though he was about to say something, but thought the better of it. He cleared his throat.
"What happened to your hand?"
"The front door decided to be nuisance." Sherlock poured himself a cup.
"Is it properly dressed?" John reached out for his hand, while another reached into his pocket.
"Mrs. Hudson wrapped it as well as she could."
"Can I see it?" Sherlock hadn't given John his hand yet.
"Why?" He was suspicious, and with good reason.
"Sherlock, I'm a Doctor. Or I will be, soon. Just let me look at it."
"Fine." Sherlock gave John his hand. John looked it over, eyes focused on the slender, pale fingers wrapped in thick gauze. Sherlock grimaced slightly as John turned his hand over. John rolled his eyes at the movement, and pulled some more gauze and a small case of alcoholic wipes from his pocket.
"Sorry if this stings." John unwrapped the gauze, none to gently, and redressed the broken fingers. He cleaned the area where the skin had broken (particularly on the knuckles), and then wrapped up his hand. As soon as he was done, Sherlock pulled his hand back quickly, and put his hand in his pocket.
"Thanks." Sherlock sipped his tea with his other hand, while John put the gauze and wipes back in his pocket. "Do you always keep those around?"
"Sometimes. Is that yours?" John motioned to the violin propped in the corner, next to a music stand. The sheet upon it looked hand-written, cursive words marking the edge of the paper.
"Hmm? Oh, yes. Play anything yourself? Besides rugby." Sherlocks' eyes had flickered over to the violin for a second, before returning to John.
"Uh, I learned the clarinet in primary. Other than that, not really. And, well you know about the rugby. How is that, I've never seen you at a game." John looked quizzically at Sherlock, crossing his ankles.
"Everyone knows you're in rugby." Sherlock shifted. Don't tell him about the deductions. Don't want him to think that you're a freak.
"Really? I only joined the team last week."
"Oh yes. Popular source of gossip." More lying.
"You, in gossip? Ha, that's something I've never thought of." John gave a short laugh. Sherlock didn't, leaving John to stop seconds later.
"Well, I get around." Sherlock switched topics. "Anyway. You're in a different class for neurology, and I wanted to get a second opinion on Victor. Professor Williams can be ever misleading."
"Oh. Right. That's…that's why I came…. Well, do you have a file on him?"
"Kitchen table." Sherlock got up from the armchair, and walked stiffly over to the table. The manilla file was right next to the hydrochloric acid, and luckily hadn't been burned. He walked back over, grabbing a biscuit and taking a bite. John reached out for the file.
"Oh." He said, looking through it with a curious expression. Sherlock said nothing, trying to keep his face impassive. John's brow became steadily more furrowed as he continued reading the report. "Sherlock, there are way more tests on this page than an average cancer patient should have."
"I know." Sherlock examined his bruised fingernails, bits of sunlight drifting in from the curtains. John looked up briefly.
"Did you order the extra tests?"
"No, a physician at the lab said he'd do extra for free. They'd inject Victor with this serum to light up the infected parts of the brain, and then take the MRI. I didn't think it'd be necessary, but Victor insisted."
"Hm."
"Funny, that the physician didn't charge us. But I looked at the lab report and it seemed as though the drug hadn't been approved yet, experimental." Sherlock frowned, remembering the mans insistence of the injection.
"Yeah, probably." John closed the report and folded his hands in his lap.
"Well?"
"Well, Victor is emitting some very strange symptoms. If something else caused the symptoms, then we'd have an explanation, but the only external substance that I could think to cause this would be a hardcore drug, like cocaine or heroine."
"Is that so." Sherlock pretended to be interested in his nails once more to avoid looking at John.
"Yeah. And the bruises will fade, y'know." John motioned to Sherlock's hand. Sherlock flushed, glancing at John.
"Yes, I know." Silence.
"Does Victor do drugs?" The words escaped John's mouth before he knew what he had said. Sherlock froze for a second, and then fluidly rose from the armchair.
"Why were you at the memorial?" He called over his shoulder, walking into the kitchen and turning off the stove.
"Paying debts." John turned around in his chair to face Sherlock, noticing how his broken fingers brushed over a black sketchbook. He got up from his chair and walked over to Sherlock, leaning on the wall.
"Okay." Sherlock didn't turn to face John when he went over.
"This yours?" John motioned to the black sketchbook. Sherlock turned, glancing at the sketchbook, before snatching it and putting it in a cupboard.
"Yes. And no, you cannot see."
"Alright." John glanced at the clock by another door, probably leading to Sherlock's bedroom. It was almost ten. Under the clock was a small shelf, and on the shelf were jars filled with paper stars of every color and size. John smiled to himself, remembering how many times his sister had made those when he was a kid. "Why where you at the memorial?"
Sherlock stuttered for a moment, then closed his mouth abruptly, glancing at John. "Reasons."
John sat down at the kitchen table, shoving away more manilla files along with discarded coffee cups and the occasional fork. "Why don't you ever answer my questions?"
"Because fuck you, that's why." Sherlock reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. John was being annoying. And he was never good at comebacks, so "because fuck you" would have to work. John chuckled lightly, tapping his fingers on the table.
"I now know why you're top in the class."
"You don't, but it's nice of you to pretend like you do." Sherlock was typing, the keys clicking away.
"Well haha, but someday I'll figure it out." John had stopped tapping.
"I'd like to see you try." Sherlock glanced up from the phone screen, smirking ever so slightly. There was silence for a moment, until Johns' phone beeped.
Hey mate.
Listen, I need a favor. I don't know where you are, but meet me at Jill's in ten.
Hurry up, i'm getting impatient.
Kev.
John glanced at the phone quickly. He didn't want to go to Jills', but Kevin was known to get angry easily. And he didn't want more bruises than necessary. Sherlock peered over, looking quizzically at John. John sighed, looking back at him in a defeated sort of way.
"Sorry."
"It's Kevin Holding, isn't it." It wasn't a question.
"…Yeah. Really, really, really sorry about this, Sherlock. I wanted to stay longer and help you out with Victor but, well, Kevin gets angered easily, and the last time-"
"It's okay. Tomorrow is class, so we can talk then." Sherlock forced a smile.
"Sure thing." John smiled back, looking wistfully at the living room. "You have a really nice flat."
"Someone owes me a favour." Sherlock grimaced, while John shuffled into his coat. He took his time, as Sherlock noted, but eventually managed to get on his shoes and scarf.
"Well, see you tomorrow, Sherlock."
"See ya." John smiled again, and then walked out of the flat. One step at a time, until he opened the first door, and then shut it. Sherlock frowned slightly, he didn't open the second one. But then, a couple seconds later, someone opened the door twice, and shut it twice, the last one a heavy thud, the last one the front door. Sherlock leaped over the armchair to the window and shoved it open.
"Hey JOHN!" He yelled, into the street. John was right below him, walking down by Speedy's.
"WHAT?" John yelled back, squinting up into Baker Street.
"NEED A RIDE TOMORROW?"
"SURE."
"SEE YOU THEN."
"BUT YOU DON'T KNOW WHERE I-"
"I SAID, SEE YOU THEN." Silence for a second.
"SEE YOU THEN." And he continued to walk away, head bent in the tormenting snow. Sherlock closed the window, grinning to himself. He sat back on his armchair, smiling a bit in a way that was rare nowadays.
Sherlock Holmes rarely smiled.
And yet, ten o'clock on a snowy Sunday, and he had plans for the first time in a month. Mrs. Hudson tottered up the stairs and stopped but the doorframe.
"Making friends?"
"Maybe." Sherlock grabbed his violin and plucked a few strings. C, G, B. C, G, B, A, E, F, B,,, C.
"That's wonderful, dear! The music too, but I'm glad you're making friends."
"Mrs. Hudson, you are not my mother."
"I'm not your housekeeper either, dearie, and yet 90% of the time it's me who cleans this house. So I have my rights to act like one."
"Very well."
"I'll be up around two." She tottered downstairs, while Sherlock played a few more notes, then deciding to work on his piece.
"And try not to shatter the windows again!" Mrs. Hudson yelled from downstairs. Sherlock smirked, and began to play.
Hello! Link to video, just a little thing that I thought Sherlock might compose. Of sorts. Well, of course he would't be playing this now that somebody else composed it, but a girl can dream.
this is a bit about the reichenbach fall, but don't focus on the images. i like the violin, and thats what i imagined Sherlock playing. stop crying, dearies, and it'll be okay.
it's called Anna by Gunnar Medson, if you want to know.