Nicotine

Patches

Sherlock woke to a blank ceiling and a craving for a cigarette. He would not, however, smoke one. Today he was seeing John, before he left on his honeymoon. Sherlock didn't want John to think he had started smoking again because there was some sort of problem. Sherlock frowned to himself in an effort to surpress his thoughts. There wasn't a problem.

He got dressed and ready, and picked up his violin. John was coming at two, so Sherlock had nothing to do until then. It was eight. He threw himself on his armchair and plucked the strings, deep in thought. If you were going to assassinate Lestrade, what would be the best way to do it and remain undetected? He hummed a sonata whist pondering the best methods.

Reaching a satisfying conclusion, Sherlock began to play. He closed his eyes and stood in front of the window.

Violin sonata number 21 in E minor -Motzart, echoed through the building. The mood of the piece was heartbreakingly somber, Motzart having composed the piece after his mother died.

Sherlock played sad piece after piece for a good few hours, before playing the tune he himself had composed after the supposed death of Irene Adler. At this point Mrs Hudson entered the room.

"It's awfully nice to here you playing Sherlock, but could you play something a little happier, perhaps?" She asked as she set down a tea tray.

Sherlock ignored her and strode over to his music stand. He pulled out some sheet music from a drawer and started scribbling in the gaps between the staves, his own spidery notes drawn under the main tune. Often, he would pick up his violin and test a bar or two, before muttering to himself and deciding how to best replicate the sound.

Mrs Hudson craned her neck to see what he was doing. "Sherlock, what are you scribbling all over that?"

"I'm converting this piano piece into something that sounds just as good if not better on the violin." He said.

"Let's hear it then. Is it happy?" She said.

Sherlock obligingly lifted his bow and began to play. The piece was beautiful, full and meaningful, but not sad. Neither was it happy, but it came to an all too abrupt ending.

"I haven't got past the third line yet." He said coldly, turning back to the stand.

"That's lovely dear. What's it called?" She asked, clasping her hands together.

"Nefeli. By Ludovico Einaudi. Nefeli means clouds in Greek." Sherlock snapped, before pointedly ignoring her until she left.

When John arrived, Sherlock was still playing the violin.

"Hello, hi." Said John as he strode in. Sherlock gestured distractedly to John's old chair with his bow. John sat down.

"There's tea there, if you want it." Said Sherlock, walking over slowly. The tea tray that Mrs Hudson had left was untouched on the coffee table.

John leant forward. "It's stone cold." He commented, leaning back again.

"Hmmn." Said Sherlock, sitting down opposite John.

Sherlock tapped his knee anxiously. He had missed John, and they were best friends. So why was it so hard to fill the silence?

Sherlock poured himself a cup, and sipped it slowly.

"Got a case?" John asked, after a minute or two.

"Nothing on the website." Sherlock replied. The tea had completely cooled, John was right. It was disgusting. Sherlock replaced the cup in its saucer.

"How's...Mary?" Sherlock enquired.

"She's good, yeah, fine. We're all...fine." John said.

"Glad." Said Sherlock, but he wasn't.

"How are you?" Asked John awkwardly.

"As good as ever." Lied Sherlock.

Leaning forward, Sherlock placed the cold cup of tea back on the table. As he did so, his sleeve twitched up, revealing three nicotine patches. John saw them, but chose not to say anything. Sherlock jerked his hand back.

"Been composing?" Said John, in another effort to engage in a conversation. The music stand holding sheets of dotted scribbles was plain to see.

"Not quite." Said Sherlock. The silence pained him.

John nodded.

"Where are you going to aga-"

"Spain." Said John.

"Sex holiday." Sherlock stated.

"Honeymoon, damn it Sherlock." John said.

"Whatever." Sherlock waved his hand dismissively.

"Do you still blog?" Sherlock asked.

"Not really. What about?" John replied, the question rhetorical.

The silence continued.