All throughout dinner was a silent ordeal, Sherlock sat almost shamefully at his place at the table while Mycroft sliced their rolls in half with their old bread knife, dividing the tomatoes and rolls among the two of them and beginning to eat. In the absence of silence Sherlock's mind wandered back to John, thinking about that boy and feeling once more that ever present drumming in his heart, the ringing in his ears, the smile that threatened to emerge on his lips. Oh he didn't know what friendship was like, but if it was like this every time then he would surely seek out other boys to be friends with. It was a wondrous feeling, so amazing in fact that he hastened to avoid it for the time being, he couldn't be caught smiling in silence in his brother's presence. So Sherlock took to distracting himself, collecting the crumbs from where Mycroft had cut the bread and gathering them into a little pile, whistling for Merlin who was now perched on Sherlock's bedpost with his head in his wing. As if it knew what was waiting for it the bird took flight eagerly, flying towards the table and landing right before the pile of crumbs that Sherlock had collected for him.
"That's such a curious animal." Mycroft decided almost sternly, pulling his food as far as he could away from the bird as it hopped around and ate innocently. "It could have all sorts of diseases, it really shouldn't be seated on our table."
"He's fine, and if not I'll be happy to give him a bath." Sherlock teased.
"Well yes, if you could manage that would give me a bit more peace of mind." Mycroft agreed, evidently not noticing Sherlock's little joke.
"He seems to like me." Sherlock admitted with a grin.
"Oh does he buy you lunch as well?" Mycroft teased, making Sherlock frown unnoticed at him.
"I don't know why you're treating this as some sort of joke." Sherlock snapped.
"I'm not joking; I do think it's good for you to have a friend. I'm just nervous, that's all. You know how I worry about you Sherlock." Mycroft pointed out.
"Yes I know. I'll be fine Mycroft, I'll be fine." Sherlock assured with a smile.
"I can only pray that's true." Mycroft breathed, bowing his head almost mournfully as he finished off his dinner and rose to his feet. When Sherlock was finished with his dinner (and Merlin was done pecking at the remains) he stepped outside with his violin, feeling quite in the mood to play. Mycroft didn't let him play inside; claiming that the music was always too loud for him, and yet Sherlock knew he secretly enjoyed it through the walls. Outside in the back they had a little wooden bench, overlooking the small field on which their hut was built, filled in the spring with wondrous wildflowers flowers. Tonight the flowers were closed in the dying sunlight, however the colors were still noticeable in the orange horizon and they were beautiful enough to put a smile on his face. Merlin was out as well, flying about the field. Sherlock wasn't sure if the bird would return, and for a moment he direly wished it would, for it was a good companion to have about the house when John was absent. He had two friends now; it was an astounding number for a Holmes, especially since Mycroft had set the bar almost pathetically low. Sherlock set his violin on his shoulder and took a deep breath, thoughts of John Watson on his mind and gorgeous spells on his lips, joy in his head and the scent of wildflowers overwhelming him as he pressed the bow finally to the strings. Out came a beautiful note, the beginning of a beautiful song that would develop itself in his playing, he had never learned any formal pieces and yet he simply played what he saw fit, the music always flowed to accompany his mood. Tonight it was a beautiful melody, the musical equivalent to his heart dancing and lurching about his chest, the sound of the feeling the smile of John Watson gave him, the expression of delight itself, the chorus of their voices intermingling into one! The beautiful John Watson. And suddenly something sprung from the music, a blue figure, a small butterfly composed entirely of light, fluttering its wings in glee and getting carried around by the currents of the notes that were now tangible in the air. Sherlock watched them in astonishment, watching as from his bow strings the music notes erupted in an ever constant flow, sometimes sprouting more butterflies, sometimes birds, the notes and the creatures surrounding him and enveloping him in a soft blue light, a beautiful light. Merlin had returned and was flying about with the blue birds, interweaving throughout the streams of music notes and chirping along to the beautiful sound that was rushing from the instrument. And then suddenly Sherlock wasn't alone, suddenly there was a boy, a boy composed entirely of blue, a beautiful boy standing before him with a smile that was the meaning for all of this. Sherlock smiled at him, continuing his playing slower, more gently. The music began to become less of a dance and more of a serenade, and suddenly while Sherlock drew the bow across the instrument he stared at John Watson, longing in his eyes, desire in his heart... He was starting to see it now, clearer, suddenly whatever this was, it was making sense. Sherlock was becoming short of breath and yet the light figure was coming closer, the music was now so slow and so gentle that it was beginning to make the creatures still, the notes floated lazily off into the night sky to join the stars while the birds and the butterflies landed about the bushes and the grasses below. Merlin perched on the bench, the sole witness to John's blue likeness approaching Sherlock quietly, his steps making no mark on the grass as he drew closer, a soft smile on his face, his hair glowing gold despite his blue tint. Sherlock kept on playing, knowing that it was the music and his own feelings that were giving life to this magnificent scene. And as the music picked up John started closer, and suddenly he veered so close that Sherlock felt the need to lean back, except he didn't, he couldn't bring himself to. He didn't want to. The figure stepped in, its blue hand taking Sherlock's face so gently in its touch, he couldn't feel anything and yet he knew it was there, he knew that this music was displaying what he wanted, what he felt. It was being played quite literally from the heart. And then it grew slow again, and for a moment Sherlock's only movement was playing the violin, for even his lungs failed to inflate while those blue eyes were fixed on his. And then the blue tinted figure leaned in closer, and Sherlock could've sworn...he could've sworn! That he had felt John's lips as they were placed ever so gently on his own. With a screech of the violin the figures vanished, and Sherlock was left in the darkness, the darkness he had begun with, his violin falling ever so clammily from his trembling fingers with the memory and the distant feeling of John, of his coming closer. So was this what he wanted or was this all just...romanticized? Sherlock heaved in deep breaths, feeling as though he had been holding his breath for as long as the piece had been performed, nervous because he didn't know. 

 Sherlock couldn't sleep, despite his trying to. He lay awake on his bed and listened to the sounds of the night, the bats as they swooped and screeched, the tree branches as they creaked in the wind and the window panes as they trembled from the slightest breeze. He was awake with fear, and yet despite his childhood fears of what was around him in the darkness he was suddenly scared of what was inside of him in the darkness. He was afraid of what his brain was daring enough to conjure up when he knew no one would notice, when Mycroft was fast asleep and unknowing on the other side of the room, hidden from Sherlock by two curtains and an impenetrable layer of darkness. Even Merlin was asleep, and yet Sherlock couldn't prevent himself from staring out into the dark, seeing something staring back at him, seeing that tint of blue? The very idea of what had happened tonight, knowing full well that no one except himself had willed it to be so, those imaginations had spawned from this brain and they had been put to life by his magic, by his music. John had been there, he had been close, he had kissed him... But what did that mean, why would Sherlock ever put such a thing to life, why would his brain think of something so heinous? He wasn't in love with John, he's never been in love with anyone and certainly he knew that it was impossible. But then again, people don't just kiss people because they're in love, right? Sherlock tried to think, there had to be other good reasons to give someone a quick peck? Excitement maybe, or pride? Like a grandmother getting too affectionate while saying hello? If this were any other case Sherlock may have been able to convince himself it was a kiss purely because of grandmotherly or friendly love, however this was from his own mind, from his own heart! He'd have to be a fool if he could convince himself his deepest desire was to have John as a grandma. But no, it couldn't be romantic, it couldn't possibly be that. Sherlock knew that if he fell in love with someone of his own gender he would make himself even more of a criminal, for that was yet another reason that people were hanged around here. Oh but that was a much rarer case, no one dared to be a homosexual, no one even thought about it purely because it was just so...so out there! So uncommon! Most people didn't look at their new friends and fantasize about kissing them, it wasn't normal and surely Sherlock couldn't allow himself to veer even more into abnormality. It wasn't what he wanted; he had to tell himself that, he had to repeat it to himself over and over in his head until he believed it. John was nothing to him, barely even a friend, he's known him for all of two days and he surely wasn't going to fall in love that quickly. He barely even knew the kid, and so falling in love was borderline ridiculous in this stage. He couldn't, he shouldn't...he won't. Sherlock's heart was under lock and key from this moment on, he would give his brother no more reason to worry. When morning arrived Sherlock pretended not to be exhausted, and yet even as he forced himself out of his bed he felt like collapsing back into the warm mess of blankets. Merlin was let to sleep with his head in his wing, chirping ever so softly as if snoring, while Sherlock was forced to stagger to the breakfast table. There was barely any food, merely some crusts of bread long since gone stale; however he didn't complain, he knew better than to. The brothers sprinkled sugar onto the bread to make it into some sort of makeshift breakfast desert, and when they were finished their stomachs still growled. However they went their separate ways in the house, changing behind their curtains into their work clothes and trying to keep their eyes open long enough to get themselves going while none but a simply oil lamp lit their way. Merlin finally woke, chirping annoyingly as if wondering where his breakfast was. Sherlock could only laugh, however when he was done pulling on his clothes he went to the table and collected more crumbs for his little friend. Merlin was watching him quietly, almost as if wondering why Sherlock was so afraid. He had been there to witness last night's events; however the bird seemed supportive if anything. He had liked John when they first met, and it would seem that he had a good idea of who was good and who was bad, considering his attack of Inspector Trevor. 

"Don't you look at me like that." Sherlock scolded, holding out the crumbs to the bird lazily. Merlin pecked softly from his hand, and when finally Sherlock grew bored of outstretching his palm he set the pile down on the floor while he sat on his bed and pulled on his worn leather shoes.
"It's odd to hear you talking over there, but I imagine it's to the bird?" Mycroft guessed from afar. He was tying his tie in the mirror; for he always needed to watch himself and make sure he wasn't doing it up crookedly.
"No it's my imaginary friend." Sherlock snapped.
"Well it might as well be, you know the bird won't talk back." Mycroft pointed out.
"That's sometimes a good thing." Sherlock decided with a shrug, to which of course Mycroft couldn't argue. When they were all finished with their morning routine they started off down the road, the money tin emptied and the tent tucked safely under Sherlock's arm. Merlin was flying a bit above them, stopping on the dirt road and pecking at things that looked tempting in the dust, like bugs and seeds and whatnot. Sherlock didn't mind his wandering, probably because he knew that Merlin would return faithfully to him.
"So are you going to see him again then? The um...the judge's son?" Mycroft wondered with a casual glance over at Sherlock, as if this was a perfectly innocent thing to ask. Sherlock simply shrugged, and truthfully he didn't know the answer. Today could go any which way, partially depending on if John found him and partially if Sherlock wanted to be found. The idea of seeing John again after such an ordeal with the violin, well he was afraid of what he might do or say. Obviously he wouldn't dare hint at what he had put into action; however he was worried that a small glance at John's lips or a loss of breath at an inopportune time would give him away. For now it wasn't love that was making him upset, it was fear. He didn't want to be found guilty of emotions he may or may not be feeling, but now that the idea was in his head he felt somehow even guiltier than if he knew them to be there for sure.
"Oh I don't know, I suppose it depends on if he wants to see me or not." Sherlock admitted.
"I think he will. Do you want to see him?" Mycroft wondered in a rather high pitched tone, as if he asked that question all while knowing it would make the answer even more uncomfortable for them both.
"I wouldn't mind seeing him, no. But then again my heart wouldn't break if he was absent." Sherlock admitted with a shrug. Mycroft nodded, clearing his throat before walking on.
"Your heart." He murmured to himself; however Sherlock looked at him accusingly.
"Stop muttering Mycroft." Sherlock snapped. Mycroft chuckled and continued on in silence for some time.
"I heard you tossing and turning last night, couldn't sleep I imagine?" Mycroft wondered.
"No I um, I had a bit of a stomach ache." Sherlock admitted nervously. Mycroft nodded, knowing full well that was a lie, but accepting it easier than he might accept the truth.
"That's a shame. If you're still sick you can always just..."
"No I'm fine." Sherlock said pointedly. Mycroft nodded and dropped the subject immediately. Sherlock knew what his brother was thinking, and it made him all the more nervous since he knew that whatever was on Mycroft's mind was most likely the correct assumption. When finally they arrived at the market place Sherlock was relieved to find a much better spot than the day before. Thankfully the accordion player was absent from where they left him, which of course could mean one of many things. Sherlock was going to go with the idea that he had simply awoken and taken his instrument and money home with him, however that might be the only good option in a pool of a great many other tragedies. Mycroft helped Sherlock set up near the town square, putting up the tent and looking around at all the other beggars as they got situated.
"Have a good day Sherlock, get as much as you can. I'll be here to help you tomorrow, but today you're on your own." Mycroft muttered, looking somewhat apprehensive about leaving his brother this morning, almost as if something was still lingering on his mind. Merlin was sitting atop the tent and singing loudly, however it was very nice to hear and Sherlock was sure that it put smiles on people's faces.
"I'll be fine Mycroft, now you go and work, and I'll be here when you get back." Sherlock promised. Mycroft nodded, however he lingered ever more.
"Alright, and if that boy comes around know not to tell him anything, and if Inspector Trevor makes a reappearance get to the market, in public. I don't want you alone with him anymore." Mycroft said sternly.
"He won't hurt me Mycroft, he wouldn't dare." Sherlock insisted with a frown. Mycroft sighed heavily, looking around again as if looking for that telling police hat above what little crowd there was at this hour.
"Yes I know, but that's not what I'm worried about." He murmured, almost to himself. With that Mycroft finally blinked, as if realizing that he had somewhere better to be, and with a quick farewell to his brother he dashed off in the direction of the shoemaker's, running very awkwardly as his briefcase flung about in his hand. Sherlock smiled minutely, almost as if he thought his brother was still around to witness it, before going inside and sitting down in the dirt. He whistled for Merlin to join him, and as if on cue the bird rushed in through the mouth of the tent and landed on his knee.
"Why are you so loyal?" Sherlock asked quietly, stroking the bird's head with his finger while Merlin cooed. The answer was still a mystery, and yet it was yet another thing that Sherlock didn't understand yet accepted all the same. He asked himself the same question, for he was almost in the same position as Merlin was now. He was growing increasingly loyal to John, a boy he barely knew, he was coming when called, eating food out of his hand... Sherlock just let his head dip with a sad smile, wondering what on earth he had amounted to in these past couple of days. The day was long, for there weren't as many people out and about during the day. Of course Sherlock collected small crowds every time he put on a show, and since it was a Friday and everyone was in a good mood he collected a fair amount of money come lunch time, however Sherlock had made a point of sitting outside of his tent and watching the passerby, trying to spot that one golden head out of the rest of the flocks of irrelevant market goers. As time ticked by Sherlock found himself trying to remember when he had seen John before, the first time had been somewhere around sundown, while yesterday he had been in the market almost purposely, around lunch time as if he knew that Sherlock would be there to. So it was just a matter of when he would get the time to escape, and if his tutor would even allow him to leave during lunch again today. Half of Sherlock wanted to see him as early as possible, and yet the other half wished that John would at least wait until after lunch time. He knew that John would be generous again, and it was a bit degrading to take advantage of someone like that. Now of course any rational person would be jumping all over the idea of a free lunch, however Sherlock was realist enough to realize that he did in fact have enough money in his tin now for a meager lunch, and to use John once more to get something more extravagant would be simply wrong. And yet he waited, and he watched ever anxiously, hoping beyond anything that he might spot John amongst the crowd.