Just a short introduction: I first posted this on AO3 but a lot of my friends don't use it so I'm posting it here too. I hope you like it! I very much encourage any reviews you have, good or bad (as long as they're not outright insulting) as they will help me with future works!

DISCLAIMER: I do not own the Sherlock Holmes canon, any of its related TV, film and stage productions, the BBC or any characters taken from the canon. All words are my own but I claim no rights. Copyright belongs to respective owners. This applies to the whole story here (10 chapters).

Also there's Johnlock hinted to throughout and eventually kissing. So if you don't like, please read one of the many other fanfictions available.

John stepped through the front door of 221B Baker Street and trudged up the stairs sluggishly, glancing at his watch as he did so. Eight o'clock. It was fairly early compared to the usual sort of time that John would arrive back on a Friday, but the residents of Marylebone apparently didn't have as many rashes or fevers that day, so John had been able to leave early from the small doctor's surgery where he had taken up work as a general practitioner.

John gave a quick glance around the flat as he entered. He wasn't really sure why. It always looked the same. The cup of tea that Mrs Hudson had left for John grew cold on the side, forgotten as it often was - it wasn't that John had lost his liking for tea; it was just that he didn't really see the point of it. Newspapers reporting a recent banking scandal were scattered over the floor (the interest in the mystery of Sherlock Holmes seemed to have evaporated almost as quickly as the faith people used to hold in him) and the dust from the mantelpiece swirled around the room after the door opened before settling back into place. Everything was how it was when John left. Everything was how it would be.

John sighed and crossed the room, lowering himself into the chair in which he spent most of his evenings since Sherlock's death. John's life and memories now seemed to be divided into three sections in his mind: before Sherlock, John's time with Sherlock, and the aftermath of his death. The first of these and the latter weren't really of any importance, but then the in-between was just a muddled bundle of memories and wishes, unsaid thoughts and unattained desires. Although it pained him to give in, John knew that he had to attempt to cope now; Sherlock was hardly going to walk through the door, coat flowing behind him, no matter how many times John wished for it. This was his life now.

In the 8 months following Sherlock's suicide – although John could never fully tell himself that Sherlock willingly threw himself from the top of St Bart's – John's life lost almost all direction it ever had before. Mrs Hudson still brought him tea each morning, bustling around the flat in a chirpy voice (John supposed she was trying to animate him a little), but his other friends had drifted away. Lestrade showed willing to begin with but eventually became too busy at work to burden himself with John's apparent hopeless depression. Molly, given her due, had tried hard, often popping round in the first few weeks with kind words and DVDs, but each time she had been met with John's blank and directionless stares and mumbles, so it wasn't a surprise that she rarely came any more.

John had tried to get back to normal. He had tried. But each time he had to fake a smile or nod at the condolences of those who hadn't spoken to him before since Sherlock's death, he just felt hollow and useless. That was why, each Friday night like this one, John simply let the world go about its business whilst he sat inside the flat.

This particular Friday evening appeared to be just as all of the others preceding it. John threw a ready meal into the oven, set the timer, and then sunk back down in his chair, picking up the book that he happened to be reading at the time, The Lost World by an author named Arthur Conan Doyle. It was one of Sherlock's books: Sherlock had simply left John everything which he knew he should have been more enthusiastic about, but it wasn't as if he was going to use the money or get rid of any of his things. When Sherlock had been living, his possessions had basically been John's anyway so it didn't make much of a difference. John had made his way through about a fifth of the books that Sherlock owned, none of them leaving a particular imprint on his brain. John had just reached chapter five of the book when there was a knock at the door.

"John," Mrs Hudson's bright tone sounded from outside the door, "A man has just arrived with a package for you. He says you have to sign for it. Shall I let him in?"

A package? At eight o'clock on a Friday night?

Despite John's wariness, he gave a nod to Mrs Hudson and she went to retrieve the visitor. He had no idea what it could be; he hadn't ordered anything to be delivered and he couldn't think of anyone who was close enough to him bother sending anything. He took his gun from the drawer and stored it down the side of the sofa, realising it could've been one of Sherlock's old "friends" come to visit, then strode to the door and pulled it open in time to see a relatively well-dressed delivery man approaching whilst Mrs Hudson poked her head curiously up the stairs.

"Package for a Dr John Watson," said the man, who was dressed in a thick cotton jacket and held a helmet in his free hand, "Special delivery. You'll need to sign, if that's alright."

He handed John the rectangular shaped parcel - about an inch thick, wrapped in a black paper and labelled with a printed sticker – and reached into his jacket pocket for the small clipboard he was carrying. John put the package on the table by the door, signing on the clipboard.

"Will you be here to get the next gift next Friday week?" asked the man, and John looked bemused.
"There's another one?"

"Eight, I'm told, including this one," he replied, "One a week. So, are you alright to get it?"

"Yes. Thanks." The man nodded in reply and turned to leave. "Wait," John called, "Can you tell me who sent this?"

The man simply smiled and shook his head, leaving John staring at him with a baffled look upon his face. When the man had descended the stairs and Mrs Hudson shut the front door, John quickly turned back into his flat and picked up the parcel, tearing off the packaging with such vigour that little shreds of paper flew over the room in his haste as he threw the wrappings to the ground.

John looked down at his hands. In them, he held a black, smooth, leather book with a golden border around the front cover. With curious fingers, he opened it.

Inside, there lay a single sheet of paper, delicate and white with music notes written on in elegant calligraphy. Music. It was music.

With trembling fingers, John touched the page and tried to work out the tune in his head. He had never learnt to sight read, so after desperately attempting to hum some sort of tune to match the notes written on the page, he gave up with sigh, lifting the page to examine the other side. As he did so, a folded note of old-style parchment slipped out. Unfolding it, he took in the words.

To make your life tuneful again.

The words were scrawled in handwriting that John didn't recognise, but even so his eyes reread the 6 words over and over, trying to grasp some clue of who, whoever, would send him something like this. Nothing got delivered to John anymore except bills and letters from the council. The ruddy "Thinking of You" cards had stopped arriving a good few months ago and he hadn't ordered anything online for ages – in fact he'd lost his taste for the internet altogether, other than the times when he'd go onto Sherlock's website and stare at it dully for hours at a time. Who would bother sending him something like this?

Quite frankly, John had no idea. All he knew was that he had to listen to this piece of music as soon as he possibly could.