Chapter One

Before him, I lay alone in my bed, wide-eyed, staring into the ceiling, bored with the necessity to sleep, to be ordinary like everyone else who lies still and breathing at night. Mostly, I was kept awake by my mind, my mind that screamed and whispered observations and deductions to me, always. Cases tormented me at night, unsolvable ones, until finally my mind and I understood; my only pleasure on those nights was in waking up Lestrade and all of Scotland Yard. I was not kind when my mind took me over, which was nearly always. It didn't let me sleep, let me eat until I had solved things. Now that John's here, though, my mind and I are on better terms. I'm not it's hostage anymore.

Sometimes, when I had the flat to myself, I would wake and pace and practice adagios in place of thinking; the bow was my friend when I had no case to ponder, no reason to sleep. No stimulus. Mrs. Hudson would come twittering into the flat, all flapping hands and scolding.

"Now really, Sherlock, it's one o' clock in the morning, and an old lady needs her rest. Driving me to tears with that violin of yours, playing at all hours…"

But I would know she hadn't been sleeping.

Eyes bloodshot, though not wet anymore – her cheeks, though, a little half-dried tear next to a liver spot just beneath her right eye. Sleeves are wet – she's wiped them away and doesn't want me to know, just like her. She's been crying and stopped – five minutes ago? Three and half, yes. And her knees – she's been kneeling, praying – yes, still clasping her hands under her chin – crying and praying. Dull, dull woman.

"Dreadfully sorry, Mrs. Hudson," I would say in my most apologetic voice, and she would smile. "You know how terrible I am at sleeping and things."

"You'll be the death of me, playing concertos at God-knows-when in the morning," she would sigh, but she didn't mean it. "Go to bed."

"I'll try my very hardest, Mrs. Hudson. Goodnight." And I would close the door, lock it, and hear her creaking down the stairs.

Then I'd leave through the window and run. I'd run from nothing. I liked to do it, in the dark, through alleyways, up fire escapes, on rooftops, over and under shadows, almost conversing with the city's dark crags, the asphalt. Home by morning. Alone again.