Orphan on Baker Street

Seventh: Duet

Mrs. Hudson and I sit at the small table in her small kitchen eating a big breakfast. She spoils me.

"By the way," she starts, after finishing her bite of toast, "I have a doctor's appointment to go to today. I'm not sure how long it will take, but I just thought you should know. Maybe you could help out Sherlock." Mrs. Hudson smiles at me. I nod, quickly trying to chew and swallow my eggs.

"I just might do that, Mrs. Hudson," I say. "Is there anything specifically wrong?"

"Oh, no, dear, no," she says as her head moves side to side. She wipes the corners of her mouth with a napkin and sets it on the plate. "Just a check up, really. And I think I may have to ask to get my joint medicine strengthened." Mrs. Hudson stands to put her plate in the sink.

"No, I got it," I say, standing quickly and taking the plate before she has a chance to even raise it at chest level. I give her a kind smile. "What time do you have to be there?"

"In about an hour or so," Mrs. Hudson says, trying to help me put dishes in the sink. Before she has a chance to, I've got my hand on two empty plates - one with toast crumbs, the other with a few traces of scrambled eggs - to put into the sink along with the ones we ate off of.

"Go get ready. Don't worry about these; I've got it," I tell her.

We smile in appreciation at each other. I feel like she does too much for me, which means I'll have to do too much for her. There needs to be balance or else I'll get stressed.

After doing the dishes and waving good bye to Mrs. Hudson, I head upstairs to the other flat. Halfway up the stairs, I stop myself. Now might be a good time to show off my beautiful violin to a certain detective. Quickly turning, I almost stumble, but I catch myself about 2 stairs down. A little more carefully, I go back into my flat, grab my violin case, and rush back up the stairs.

The door is cracked open, so I feel no need to knock. Plus, what's there to hide from me anyways - especially if I'll just find out about it later? That must be something that runs through Sherlock's mind...

Speaking of which, Sherlock sits in his chair beside the fireplace, sipping on what I guess is tea. He sets the mug down and glances over to me.

"Hello, Mickey," he says fondly. He wasn't faking it.

"Hello," I reply with a grin.

"Do you really think that your violin's better than mine?"

"Yep," I say happily, my grin still on my face. I close the door behind me before walking over to him.

"But do you think you can play better than me?" He eyes me suspiciously, scrutinizing his opponent.

"Maybe," I say, with intentions of a challenge.

"Well, then," Sherlock says, snatching his violin case up from beside the desk. At the same time, we unlock our violin cases. He pulls his shiny, honey colored wood violin from the red velvet that lines the inside of his case; I pull out my well polished, elegant blue violin from the worn red velvet, filled with dents and faded from use, which lines the inside of my own case.

We raise our violin's to our shoulders, and Sherlock glares at me.

"Pick a song. Any song; I know them all," he says hurriedly.

"Getting to Know You," I say bravely, setting the bow down on the strings readily.

"A little happy for my taste, but alright."

Sherlock sends me a wink before we both strike a note at the same time, it ringing out through the flat in perfect harmony. Our bows go back and forth along the strings, mixing together to encourage one another's performance. The tune's sweet and whimsical - basically the first 6 years of my life. When the keys start to get higher, I lean a bit, getting into it. And when the beautiful noise carries upwards like it's walking up the stairs, I sway a bit, going with the rhythm. Sherlock has his eyes closed, and I smirk. Is he really showing off? As we get closer to the end, I stand up straighter. Then my arm - and his - moves in a swift motion over and back across the strings once, creating a tune that's both simple and graceful at the same time.

Slowly, his eyes open, and he narrows them at me.

"You're good," Sherlock comments, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly in a smirk. "That was good," he says again.

"Mornin'," John says groggily from behind me. I jump slightly as I spin around, my black hair fanning out behind me. "Sorry," he says with a smile. Then John goes around the end of the table to the coffee pot.

"John," Sherlock starts before glancing over his shoulder out the window, then back at John. "It's 11 in the morning. What kept you in so late? Mary's already off to the daycare and work."

"Just enjoying it, is all," he says happily. It looks like he's a morning person.

"Don't be fooled," Sherlock says, staring over at me. "He's never like this. I haven't a clue wha- Did you have sex?"

"No," John says quickly, and a little too loudly. "No, I did not," he says with a quieter voice and a scowl.

Sherlock and I exchange glances and a smirk. "Alright, John," I say, casually putting my violin back into its case. "Whatever you say." He just laughs.

I set the violin case by the door, so when I leave I won't forget it. Then I go over to sit in the chair opposite of Sherlock.

"So," John begins, sitting at the cluttered desk against the wall. "What did you two find out yesterday? Lestrade mention anything new?" He opens up his laptop and signs in.

"No," Sherlock says. "However, I did manage to figure out what person was linking the victims. It was their therapist."

"Michael Watkins had a therapist?" John asks incredulously, turning his attention from the screen to Sherlock.

"Why does everyone find it so hard to believe that a drug addict," I emphasize the last two words, "has a therapist? Isn't that common?"

"No," Sherlock says again. "Most addicts have a support group and a sponsor of some sort; never really a therapist."

"Don't say never," I mutter, frowning at him.

"Why do you suddenly have a plethora of life advice for me?" Sherlock asks, keeping his eyes on me as he puts his violin in its case. I shrug simply and glance back over to John, who's typing away on a computer. He's opened up a search engine.

"As I was saying," Sherlock says, clearly annoyed. "Research the genealogy of Michael. Look specifically at his cousins. I reckon the therapist is one of them."

After a moment, Sherlock lets out a bored sigh and slides something from under his chair. He gestures for me to pull around a fold out table, so I do. Between us, on the small table, Sherlock unfolds a collapsible chess board. Quickly, the man sets up the board, making himself white.