Watson stared into the fire, unmoving, nearly unblinking. He hadn't moved in hours.

Holmes stared at Watson, perturbed. Watson was rarely still without a book in his hand, and never for so long.

"What's on your mind?" he finally asked.

Watson's brow furrowed, but he made no reply, too deep in his thoughts, and a trickle of worry wormed its way into Holmes' mind. The semi-recent incident involving a broken beaker and Watson's negative reaction was still fresh, and he had no wish to repeat that.

"Watson?"

Watson made a noise of acknowledgment but kept his gaze on the fire.

"Watson, are you with me?"

"Hmm?" Watson glanced over as Holmes' question registered. "Oh, I'm fine, Holmes." He looked back into the fire.

Holmes frowned in both worry and contemplation. "What's on your mind?" he asked.

Watson sighed but didn't look up. "Nothing, Holmes. Don't worry about it."

Holmes let the silence stretch, keeping his gaze on Watson, who seemed to realize this despite his focus never leaving the fire.

"Deduce it, if it matters that much to you," he said in a pretense of irritation. "You always said I was easy to read."

Holmes easily saw through the irritation Watson tried to project, but he let it go.

"You have not displayed anything in hours." Holmes strove to keep his voice steady as he sought the words to make Watson talk. "What is wrong? Usually you would be reading on a night like this."

Holmes frowned again as that registered. When was the last time Watson had read a book? Or opened a journal?

Watson's gaze flicked to the bookshelf before returning to the fire as he shrugged. "Nothing sounded interesting."

"Are you alright?"

"Of course."

His words did not match his tone, a tone which Holmes recognized. It was a tone he himself used when caught in a Black Mood, and it unnerved him to hear it from his friend.

"Can I help?"

Watson glanced towards the door before returning to the fire, as if contemplating retreating to his room.

"I'm fine, Holmes."

Holmes sat back in his chair, recognizing the warning to stop talking. He wanted to help, not push the doctor from the room. If Watson didn't want to talk, Holmes could understand that.

He would just have to find some other way to help.

He walked across the room, finding his violin case near his desk and opening it. As he rosined the bow and picked up the violin, Watson made no indication he was even aware of Holmes' movements, but he startled at the first note.

Holmes pretended not to notice, writing it off as Watson having been lost in thought, and continued playing, first random notes, then moving into improvised songs in the hopes the music would soothe Watson's mood as it had his own so many times.

It seemed to do the opposite, however. Watson had startled at the first note, then never relaxed, the tension in his shoulders visible from across the room. As Holmes began improvising a tune, he spotted Watson's fingers twitch. Immediately, Watson got up and left the room, his clenched fist doing nothing to hide the fact that he'd just fingered an E minor.

Holmes put down the violin—he had been wanting to help, not chase the doctor from the room—but the damage had been done. Watson made his way up the stairs, and a moment later Holmes heard the creak of springs as Watson sat on the bed.

Knowing the music easily carried through the ceiling into Watson's room and unwilling to cause further discomfort, he put the violin away as he considered Watson's reaction.

He had discovered Watson's musical ability a few months prior, but failed to understand how that factored into the doctor's low mood. Watson's thoughts hadn't been on music originally; the way he had startled at the first note showed that well enough.

So what would kindle that kind of a reaction from one who loved music more than sleep? There had been many nights over the years that Watson had interrupted one of Holmes' midnight solos only to take a seat and listen instead of demanding Holmes stop playing.

Holmes remembered how he himself would often play just to focus on something outside his own thoughts, and wondered if that had something to do with it.

He knew Watson had been an experienced player before his shoulder wound. To reach that level of experience required many hours of practice, which indicated Watson had dearly loved his instrument. If he had loved to play so much, it made sense, then, that Watson had used his instrument the same way Holmes frequently used his—as a distraction, or a comfort. Holmes remembered his own darker moods during his travels, when he had been unable to play, and how much worse they had been without the instrument to ground him. Without his music, the black had seemed blacker still, and the low even lower, and he understood. Watson's missing instrument may not have caused his low mood that day, but when Holmes had begun playing the violin, it had only reminded Watson of his own loss instead of soothing him.

Holmes would begin searching music shops in the morning, after he confirmed Watson had eaten breakfast.

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