A/N: This is just an idea that popped into my head and wouldn't leave me alone! So I'm just getting out of my system. :)Don't be afraid to visit me on tumblr: morethanyourpast. If you have any suggestions for me, I'd gladly take them. This is all just for fun, really.

I should say I am not British by any means but I've tried my best to not seem horribly American...Also, any of the pieces I mention in here, I'd listen to. Because they're beautiful! I love me some Bach!

Anyways, I don't own anything but my little character, The Cellist. Sorry if it's OOC for you. I try my hardest to keep it in character!

The two gentlemen at 221B Baker St. had just finished wrapping up the end ties of a case; it was a double homicide, the wife and the lover in cahoots to inherit the life insurance. Really, easy work.

John finished typing up the summary on his blog, which the hit counter was still increasing at a rapid rate, and Sherlock resumed his wide legged slouch in one of the chairs. His head was held by one hand while the other absently rolled against the leather arm of his seat.

Really, times like this felt nice for John. It was a sense of normalcy and ever since he'd moved in with his new flat mate, he hadn't experienced much of that.

John closed his laptop shut and pick up the handle of his mug. Closing his eyes, he took a long drink, letting the warm drink sooth his throat.

He looked out the window, down into the street.

"Looks like we have a new neighbor."

There was a small moving van parked across from their window and the carriers were going into the building adjacent.

The only response he'd received from Sherlock was a disinterested grumble of syllables, just as much as he'd expected. And that was as far as their conversation about the new neighbor continued, until about a week later.

Sherlock had been given another case. This time it was an 'accident'; the victim had been attacked by an animal but it was no accident. The act of it was clearly well thought out and strictly planned.

"Isn't it obvious?" Sherlock had asked the group on the crime scene.

He would.

Now, the two of them were back in their flat. John was trying to find anything edible in their fridge, past the jar of pickled fingers, and Sherlock was brooding—thinking—in his chair. From outside their building, a melody sprang up and twirled. It was a cello. The soft sound rose up and sang.

It was different from the normal sounds of their street and, for John, someone else playing a stringed instrument was quite refreshing.

Sherlock then stood up, gave a quick glance out the window, and then retreated into his bedroom without saying a word.

John paid no particular attention; by this point, he was familiar with Sherlock's strange mannerisms and no longer felt the need to question them.

He ducked his head back into the fridge, moved aside the jar of fingers, and found an orange.

While this hadn't exactly been a verbal conversation, there was conversation in all of their actions. If John had been better at picking up on these things, he'd have noticed. Sherlock did.

John had a five' o'clock shadow and a pair of blue trainers. His jumper was for comfort, not to impress. He'd come out of his room around noon, looking for food. He'd shuffled about.

Whether it had happened yet or not, John and his most recent girlfriend—Sherlock could never keep track of them—were going to break up. Maybe it did happen? If John had already told him, he didn't remember; it wasn't important information.

Undoubtedly, John was staying in tonight.

If John could observe Sherlock, he'd see this: his toes were twitching inside his shoes, a habit that he'd never picked up, not even while thinking; his eyes did not keep in one place but were distracted and bounced off the objects in front of him; at the beginning of the cello playing it's tune, Sherlock's ear had picked up a little—a sign of recognition. Bach. Cello Suite No. 1, first movement. Overly played.

The conclusion being Sherlock could not concentrate, which is a rarity in itself.

That would explain why he'd gotten up to close their window before receding into the darkness of his own room.

Another day later in the week, the two of them had quickly finished the next case. Like often, it was rather easy for Sherlock.

The opening in their schedule left the two of them back in their flat. Actually, it left Sherlock in the flat.

John had picked up the position at the clinic. It appears they'd given him a second chance, which left Sherlock to sit in the flat alone.

The day was inching by and the clock on his phone seemed to mock Sherlock, as did the yellow smiley face on their wall. Surely he couldn't go that far again; Mrs. Hudson would have a fit.

Sherlock let his head fall back against the chair and he groaned.

Then, the cello started playing again.

That, too, mocked him.

One of the Bach cello suites—No 1, second movement.

Sherlock got up, his dressing gown falling loosely around his pajamas, and opened one of the windows wider to stick his head out. From where their flat was located in the building mixed with the acoustics of the street, it was hard to pinpoint the exact source of music.

He climbed back into the window and ran out his front door. On the bottom landing, he rushed past Mrs. Hudson.

"Sherlock, where are you going? You're in your bathrobe, it's indecent."

He ignored her protest and stood out on the front sidewalk. His dark brows furrowed and he closed his eyes, trying to ignore the rest of life around him to solely focus on the sound of the cello.

Sherlock could feel each sweeping motion of the grit on the bow hair across the gutted strings with each intentional swaying phrase. The natural breaths spiked anticipation and the rubato* eased into the piece.

The low sound bounced off of the brick walls of the street and Sherlock waded through the muddiness of it all.

Based off the projection, wind speed, clarity—

"Sherlock, what are you doing?" John was standing next to him. "You look crazy."

He looked to a few passers-by and noticed the questioning looks he was receiving.

"Nothing. Just thinking."

The melody died out but Sherlock was close to finding it.

It was on third floor, across the street.

*Rubato: An important characteristic of the Romantic period. It is a style where the strict tempo is temporarily abandoned for a more emotional tone.

A/N: I know Bach isn't from the romantic period but you still do plenty of rubato in it!