Chapter 21 - Music is the mirror to the soul

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As the duo walked back to Baker Street in the dark streets, they said nothing. Y/n was thankful for the cool air freshening her still burning cheeks and mind. The silence wasn't a disturbing one, rather soothing and contemplative. Sherlock and her walked in a measured and calm manner, their steps being one of the few sounds in those sleeping London streets. The familiar plaque announcing their street reflected under the dull glow of the golden orbs mixed with the shimmerous beauty of the moon, for once not hidden by the usual clouds.

Just like every other time, except when Mycroft visited and had to be a perfectionnist with a stick up his ass, the knocker to 221 was twisted. Sherlock opened the black door that still smelt of fresh paint, having been refreshed a few days ago before letting themselves in. 

As soon as John heard the door downstairs close shut, he bounded out of his armchair to meet them. In the stairs, Y/n and Sherlock trundled, their faces devoid of anything, as if tonight had been an evening just like any other.

"Where were you guys? I almost called the police!", exclaimed John incredibly worried. He knew blatantly well that Sherlock had this knack of getting himself into dangerous situations yet not feel worried or affected by those in the slightest. Sometimes, one could even think he enjoyed those death-defying acts.

"Pool party with Moriarty.", Y/n shrugged. She stayed on the landing, signalling that she was going to head on up afterwards. She was tired, frazed, somehow a little lustful and confused. She needed sleep as sleep was the remedy to all things she found. 

John didn't take her humour as well as she did and immediately started to show his concern over the two of them, "Oh my gosh are you alright, Y/n? Sherlock?"

Neither of them said a word, like children being caught by their parents in a dangerous act. Although, it was probably the lack of sleep from both parties as well as the confusion that made them so silent. 

"I need to sleep.", mumbled Y/n, rubbing her tired eyes. John simply nodded and let Sherlock through into the flat. 

"Good night.", he waved to her as she slowly ascended the steps back up to 221c and to her soft bed. 

. 。・゜✭・.・✫゜・。.

Originally, Y/n had softly stepped downstairs to meet with Sherlock concerning everything that had taken place the night before. But she arrived, the soft melody of a violin hung in the air as he played with such a charming beauty to it. It was the melody of heart, him trying to understand and put everything in place in his mind. 

She wanted to join him. 

No-one else was in, Mrs Hudson had gone out with some old friends and John was with Sarah, yet again. Y/n crept back up the stairs to her flat, leaving the door open to quicly grab what she came for. In her room, stored in a drawer was the black box containing her silver flute. The mouth of the flute had little cravings on it of intricate small flowers. It felt cold to the touch and its keys had their cloying familiarity. She played a note to warm up and awaken the instrument, air rushing through to produce an A. Once she was happy with it, she tip-toed down and carefully pushed the door that led to the kitchen open. From inside, she could see him stand with his swishing blue silk nightgown as he played, face turned to the window and basked in the glow of morning light. 

Sadly, as Y/n stepped forward one of the floorboards creaked, startling the young detective who instantly turned to see the source of the noise with irritation. Instead of Mrs Hudson or John was Y/n, in sweats holding her flute and looking at him with I've-been-caught eyes. 

"It's rude to stare.", he mumbled, placing the wooden instrument back under his chin and lifting the bow again. 

"I was not staring.", she countered indignantly as she entered the living room where Sherlock was. When she looked around, she wasn't surprised that books lay open, papers littered the table and dust was starting to show on the mantelpiece where his faithful skull was displayed.

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