I don't own BBC Sherlock, they are the creative works of Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and of course the wonderful Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

Well, here is another of the new fics. I just hope that you enjoy it!

Reliving the Past

Chapter One

John shifted his backpack a little higher on his shoulder. Another day at school was over, he had to get home and change, he had rugby practice a little later and he needed to grab his gear before heading over to the fields. John sighed a little, his mother had loved coming to his games, but three years ago the cancer finally took her from him and his family, she had been fighting it for years, but had lost the battle. John walked up the garden path and pulled out his key and unlocked the front door.

"Dad!" he called out as he walked inside and shut the door.

The house was quiet, which was unusual, it was his dads day off from work, and had been for a while, as he liked to go and watch John at Rugby practice. Harry wouldn't be there, since she had moved out a couple of months ago. He dropped his bag on the floor and took off his coat as he then walked further into the house. John frowned as he looked around, things didn't seem right.

"Dad!" he called out again, wondering what was going on, normally his dad would have answer after the first call. He always liked to make sure that his kids were welcomed home, no mater how long they had been out of the house. John walked though to the living room and stopped, looking around, eyes wide.

The place had been trashed, pictures that had been hanging on the wall were now broken frames and their pictures scattered over the floor. John began to shake a little as he saw some blood splattered up the wall. He walked further into the room, "Dad," he called out softly, his voice beginning to shake. He was afraid of what he was going to see as he walked a little more into the room.

"Dad," he said with a broken sob. His dad was lying on the floor of the living room, a large pool of blood surrounded him and eyes glazed over in death were staring up at the ceiling. John rushed over and knelt down, he reached out and shook his dad's shoulder calling, "Dad, please, no."

John reached out a hand to try and find a pulse, "Dad," John sobbed as his head bowed and his eyes closed as tears began to fall.

XxXxX

"Dad," John called out softly as he shot up in bed. He looked around his room in Baker Street and sighed. He looked to his watch and saw the date, "Twenty years, twenty fucking years and I still don't have an answer as to who killed him," he muttered angrily, he had been tempted over the year that he had known Sherlock to ask him to look into it. He had set it aside as he didn't think Sherlock would want to.

John flipped the quilt off him and sat on the edge of the bed. He ran his hands over his face and sighed as he glanced to the time. It was too early to try and get back to sleep. Then again, with that dream, he knew he would have a hard time. The memory of finding his dad played on his mind all the time, but it was normally worse when it came closer to the anniversary of his murder.

John stood up and grabbed for his robe, it was a little chilly, but was beginning to warm up a little. He walked out of his room and down the stairs to the living room. He looked over to the sofa and saw Sherlock lying there once more. He rolled his eyes, wondering what had kept him up this time. They weren't working on a case at all, as they had only just finished one.

"Tea?" John asked as he headed towards the kitchen.

Sherlock was a little startled to hear John's voice as he had been half in his mind palace, "Yes, please," he replied.

John nodded his head as he filled the kettle and set up two mugs, humming in annoyance when he found a finger in one of them, "Wish you would keep the limbs and organs out of the mugs at least," he muttered as he shot a glance towards the living room.

"Hmm," Sherlock hummed, not giving John a hint if he would actually do it this time or not. John didn't believe he would, he had never listened to him before about it.

John finished making the tea and walked into the living room, handing one of the mugs over to Sherlock as he went over to his own chair and sat down. He put his mug on the side table and leaned back. He was still tired, but didn't think he would be able to sleep any time soon.

Sherlock watched his friend, he noted the old sweat that was on John's pale skin. There was an air of grief around him that Sherlock couldn't figure out where it was coming from. As far as Sherlock knew no one close to John had died recently. He sat up so he could see his friend better and reached for his mug and blew on the hot liquid before taking a tentative sip.

Sherlock put it down and stood up. He walked over to his desk, John opening his eyes and watching him. He picked up his Violin and bow and began to play one of the pieces that John seemed to relax better too. Sherlock had studied his friends habits when he played, noting which piece calmed and relaxed the other man.

Over the next hour Sherlock played piece after piece, only stopping to take a sip of his quickly cooling tea. He watched John as he began to relax and smile a little. Sherlock stopped playing and gave a little bow as John clapped softly.

"Thank you Sherlock," he smiled to him as Sherlock went over to the sofa and flopped down on it, sitting up to see his friend.

"Would you like to talk about what is bothering you?" he asked him finally. He had wanted to ask when he had first saw the other walk in. John had looked upset and grieved over something.

John shook his head, "No, not really Sherlock. Not this time. All I want to do is to forget this one. I know I never will, I know, but for now, I'd rather not go through it again," he told him, sighing deeply.

They sat in silence for a few moments until John got up once more to make them both some tea. He walked back in and handed one over to Sherlock before sitting down again. John was still slightly agitated. Sherlock wondered if it was because he had asked him.

"Would you like me to play again after I have drank my tea?" he asked John, as he looked to the man, observing him.

John blinked a few times, his mind had been elsewhere. He smiled to Sherlock for a moment as he thought over, "I wouldn't mind. But if you don't want to that's fine," he answered him.

Sherlock smiled and nodded, "I don't mind. It is not often that I have a captive audience. I do love to play for those that appreciate it."

John chuckled a little, a smile making its way onto his face, "You know Mrs Hudson would love nothing more than to sit in here and listen to you, and I would as well."

Sherlock smiled back, "I know, but it isn't often that I can do so, we do have The Work after all."

John nodded his head, "I know."

The two went silence once more as Sherlock drank his tea as soon as it was cool enough for him to do so without burning his tongue. "Well," he said as he stood up, "I hope you enjoy these ones," he told John as he went over to his desk and picked up his violin and bow once more. Testing the strings for a second he took a breath and began to play.

John sat there watching as Sherlock began to sway with the music he was playing. It was always a pleasure to watch him play. Sherlock tended to get lost in the music after a while. A small smile would appear on his face, not the fake one he would often show, but a true one. The man would forget that people were around him. John began to relax himself as he watched the slightly swaying man as he went from piece to piece.

Sherlock opened his eyes after a while and smiled when he saw that John had fallen asleep in the chair. He stopped playing, putting the violin away. He went over to the sofa and grabbed the blanket from it and settled over the older man. He took the mugs out and then went back to the sofa, settling down to watch over his friend and to make sure that nothing else would bother him in the couple of hours he had left to sleep before it was morning.

Well, I hope you have enjoyed the first of 32 chapters.