Quick little note here. Just saying, I always listen to music when I write, and I found a nice violin song that I think sort of 'fits' the beginning of this chapter. I tried to link a youtube video for it, but not sure if it worked. Just a suggestion. :)

Anyway, thanks for reading! Here's chapter five!

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In the week following their return from Fiji, things with Sherlock had gone from bad to worse. He hadn't left the flat in the past few days, despite the fact that Lestrade had called for him several times. John had only seen him eat once, and that was just a single biscuit a few days ago. He had gotten even thinner, even after John thought he couldn't lose any more weight. He hated seeing his best friend in such a way, but he had no idea what to do to help him.

Every night John could hear Sherlock playing his violin downstairs, and every night he listened as the songs he played grew sadder and sadder in nature. One night as John lay awake in bed, wondering just what could be wrong with Sherlock, he felt his stomach begin to rumble. He checked the time on his digital clock that sat on his bedside table: 1 am. It was the perfect time for a late night snack.

John grabbed the first house coat he saw and threw it on as he descended the stairs. When he reached the living room he saw Sherlock standing by one of the windows, playing away on his violin. John decided not to interrupt him, and went into the kitchen. After searching in several cabinets and cupboards he found a package of biscuits and grabbed those. He walked out into the living room and sat down in his armchair. He ate silently while he looked up at Sherlock who, despite the fact that he was standing less than five feet away, seemed to not have noticed John yet, or so John thought.

"What are you doing up?" Sherlock asked.

"I could ask you the same thing," John said in reply. Neither of them spoke again for a while.

"I couldn't sleep," Sherlock said softly. John took the time to look over Sherlock's disheveled appearance. His hair was a mess, falling in messy waves away from his crown, covering his face partially as he looked down at the instrument he was holding. He was wearing a plain white t-shirt and a pair of grey sweatpants, as well as a wrinkled blue robe. It was the first time John had seen Sherlock in over twenty four hours, as Sherlock had spent all of yesterday in his bedroom. He was a mess, but John said nothing about his appearance and went to throw the empty package away. He stood in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room for a moment watching Sherlock at the window, unsure if he should leave him be or try and talk to him.

"Goodnight John," he heard. Sherlock was still facing the window, still playing, his head turned downward. The thought crossed John's mind for a moment to go to Sherlock and attempt to console him, but he knew it would be useless. Whatever problem Sherlock was going through was obviously too big to tackle tonight. He sighed to himself and a dull ache made its presence known inside his chest as he turned to go up the stairs.

"Goodnight Sherlock."

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It had taken John a while to fall back asleep the previous night. He had laid awake in his bed for quite some time listening to the sound of Sherlock's violin from downstairs. Every now and again the music would stop for a few seconds, then pick back up from where it had left off. John figured he was composing something in an attempt to soothe himself. He remembered Sherlock telling him once that composing music was a sort of escape for him. When he wanted to keep his mind busy he played something that had already been written. When he wanted his mind clear he focused it on creating new music. However, John couldn't help but notice how incredibly melancholy the tune sounded, full of longing and despair. He hadn't known a simple instrument could evoke such emotions, but there he was, nearly brought to tears by the sad sound of Sherlock's violin. He wasn’t sure which hurt more: the dejected and forlorn sound of the music he was hearing, or the fact that Sherlock was the one creating this depressing melody. He just hoped everything would be okay in the morning.

When he woke up, just a few hours later, the entire flat was silent. After he had a shower and got himself dressed, John went downstairs to see if there was anything in the kitchen he could turn into breakfast.

While he stood in the kitchen John took a glance into the living room, and saw a figure sitting in his armchair. Even in the darkness he could see the curly hair that undoubtedly belonged to Sherlock and smiled. Sherlock's arm was draped over the armrest, the bow of the violin laying on the ground nearby. It looked like Sherlock had played himself to sleep.

From that point on John made sure to be extra quiet as to not wake Sherlock. He had been doing good until he reached for his cup of steaming hot tea and dropped it after realizing just how hot the cup was as a result of the tea it contained. The cup crashed to the floor and several profanities escaped from John's lips. He heard movement in the living room and looked to see that Sherlock had awaken. He rolled his eyes and groaned internally at having waken him up. That was probably the only sleep Sherlock had had in days, and John had ruined it with his stupid tea cup.

Seconds later a sleepy Sherlock stumbled into the kitchen holding his violin in his left hand, scratching the back of his head with his right. He looked at John, then down at the broken cup and tea on the floor. He looked back up at John with a blank expression on his face then turned and walked back out. John picked up the pieces of the cup and threw them away, and as he was cleaning up the spilled tea he heard Sherlock playing his violin again. The tune he was now playing sounded happier than the one he'd been playing earlier that night/morning, though not by much. John hoped that meant he was at least in a slightly better mood. Perhaps the few hours of sleep had done him well.

John poured himself a new cup of tea, and held it with a firm grip as he walked to his chair and sat down. Sherlock was standing at the window, facing him, eyes on his violin as he played. John took a sip of his tea and watched him while he played. His long, slender fingers handled the instrument with a certain elegance John had never seen before. There was a look of pure concentration on Sherlock's face, as if his life depended on him playing this song right. His eyes briefly met John's and the corner of his mouth turned upward slightly. John smiled back, glad to see that his friend was feeling better.

When John got up to wash his cup out Sherlock's phone started ringing. John could only make out bits and pieces of Sherlock's end of the conversation, but he could hear Sherlock denying the person's request, whatever it was.

A few minutes later Sherlock walked into the kitchen, phone in hand, and stood next to John who was leaning against one of the counters. Their arms brushed together, and John could've sworn he felt goose bumps appear underneath the sleeve of his jumper. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, so their arms wouldn't touch, and tried to shake off the weird feeling he got from the contact. Sherlock turned and looked down at him, slightly confused, but he just smiled up at him innocently.

Sherlock smiled back at him, and John found himself glancing down at Sherlock's lips quite often in the five seconds they spent staring at each other. The right corner of Sherlock's mouth tugged up a bit more, and when John looked up into Sherlock's eyes he was giving him the same look he had when he was drunk in their hotel room in Fiji. John's lips parted slightly, and Sherlock's gaze only intensified. John's eyes flicked back down to Sherlock's lips as he subconsciously leaned in until their faces were barely an inch apart.

Suddenly there was a loud clanging sound, and John froze in place. Sherlock's eyes grew slightly and he suddenly stooped to the floor. John looked down while Sherlock picked up his phone, then let out a breath and took a step back. Sherlock cleared his throat while he checked his phone for any cracks or scratches, and John walked out of the kitchen. He began pacing back and forth, while he tried to figure out what had just happened.

John took a seat in his armchair and searched for a newspaper to read. He heard a door slam somewhere else in the flat, and guessed it was Sherlock going into his room. He guessed it was for the better. He wasn't sure if he could handle seeing him after whatever that was that had just taken place in the kitchen.