Sherlock sat on the floor with the skull on his knees. He wanted to tell someone what had happened, but his only friend, already knew. He turned the empty eye sockets toward him.

"Victor likes me," he told the skull. "I don't know what will happen, but we plan...We're going to have adventures together. He's going to show me the Taj Mahal. Won't that be great? Don't know if you can come. There's probably some kind of law about taking human remains across national lines. You won't mind sitting in a box, will you? Better than sitting in the mud where I found you, isn't it, old boy? You don't mind me calling you old boy, do you? We're friends now aren't we?"

Then Sherlock's phone rang, and he dived across the floor to retrieve it from where it had fallen under the couch. "Hello!" he said.

"Sherlock, hello. How are you?"

"Fine, I'm good. Where are you?"

"Just arriving at my father's house. I've made arrangements to talk about the specifics of my new position on Monday. Do you think that I should tell my father about the job yet?"

"Are you going to tell him about us?"

"I think I'd better. He'll know something has changed the moment I walk into the house. You've made me so happy."

Sherlock touched his cheek to confirm that Victor had actually succeeded in making him blush over the phone. "You're right, your father will know something has changed as soon as he sees you. You might as well tell him everything."

"That's good. That's what I want to do. He'll be pleased. He never liked my decision to stay alone. He felt that it was somehow his fault. And, he'll be pleased that I'm with you. You know how much my father likes you don't you?"

"He only likes me because I'm your friend."

"No, Sherlock, you're wrong. My father told me once that he had never met a young man with so much promise. He thinks that you'll be famous someday, a great man. He told me so, and I know it must be true. You'll be the best at whatever you end up doing. You are a genius after all."

"And so are you."

"No need to lie to me. I'm not a genius. I'll never change the world, but you will. I know you will."

"I miss you," Sherlock said. Suddenly he felt it, a loss like hunger.

"I miss you too, Love. I'll be back in a couple of days. I just need to get Father settled, then I'll come back. I can't wait to see you. I can't wait to hold you again. I'm at the door. I'll call tonight to tell you what he says, good night, Beloved."

"Good night, Victor."

Sherlock put his hands in his hair and curled up tight. He was trying to hold in his feelings, but they kept spilling out. He was afraid that he would wake up and find that it was all a dream. Sleep was impossible, so he rose and picked up his violin.

He loved playing the violin. He could pour himself into the music and let it drain all of the emotion out of him. He decided on the first movement of Mendelssohn's Violin Concerto. He could hear the piano part in his head as he waited to begin. He struck his notes precisely at first and then with more freedom. He fell in love with the melodic line and stroked it smooth one moment staccato the next allowing his passion to be revealed.

Victor enjoyed his music. He had asked him once why he didn't perform in public. He had even gone so far as to offer him a chance to perform at the next church service, but he shook his head violently. He couldn't play in front of a crowd. Even from the first, his playing had been mostly for himself alone. It had started as a way to keep his overactive hands and mind busy. His mother also thought that it might help him with his mathematics. He had found that it was it was an incredible comfort simply to be able to make sounds that could express the reckless energy in the core of his soul. Sometimes playing music pierced his heart so deeply that he began to cry. He did not cry, but he played the notes with passion and agility until he reached the high note at the very end. Then he dropped his arms to his side holding the violin with only his chin and shoulder as he closed his eyes and let the feelings wash through him.

He opened his eyes then, and put his violin and bow carefully in his case. He was calmer now, but he knew that he would still be unable to sleep, so he showered, dressed, threw on his coat, and went out for a walk.

Victor wanted to see the world. Sherlock, however, would be content simply to know one part of the world well. Despite the years that he had lived here, he hadn't yet learned all there was to know about Cambridge. He was suddenly filled with a desire to know every part of the city. He felt that his days here were numbered, so he walked the streets trying to memorize everything about the place.

He had walked often in his lonely days without Victor. In his wanderings, he had traveled to dark back alleys and places that appealed to his sorrow. Now he walked beside the river Cam enjoying the beauty of the town on the very cusp of summer. He stopped to admire the Mathematical bridge, its straight lines creating a perfect arch as the water flowed below. There was a sweet susseration coming from the leaves of the nearby trees, and he was beginning to think that he might be able to catch a few hours sleep tonight when his phone rang. He saw Victor's name on the screen and smiled.

"Hello Victor," he said with a love softened voice.

In contrast, Victor's voice was crisp and direct as he said, "Sherlock, I'm in the hospital. My father has had a heart attack."