All my life I've been living in the fast lane,

Can't slow down, I'm a rolling freight train.

One more time, gotta start all over,

Can't slow down I'm a lone red rover.

Sherlock couldn't sleep.

Truth be told, Sherlock could never sleep, but it had been worse recently. The sailboat that was formerly rocked him oh-so-gently into the tides of sleep had failed to pick him up at the harbor. He was stranded on the rocky shore, left with nothing to do but replay the day's events over and over in his mind; the images flashing through his head quicker than he could comprehend.

So many memories and so much anger and such a lack of... Something. Sherlock wasn't able to place it, but he felt the presence of its absence. It burned on his tongue like acid and slipped out of his fingers like water, but he was unable to grasp exactly what the hole inside of him was. However, he couldn't shake the nagging thought of "you aren't normal" that teased him behind closed doors. He felt it when he was with others now, too.

He stood quietly, careful not to make noise, so the boy on the opposite side of the room was not awakened by his clamor. He paused, watching John for a moment and holding his breath, before turning and making his way slowly across the hardwood floor as quietly as he possibly could manage. He wasn't sure where he was going, exactly, but he knew he wanted to be anywhere but this stuffy room.

He turned the brass knob and slowly peered into the desolate corridor, before tiptoeing out and shutting the door behindhim. Phew. He knew from experience that getting out without waking your roommate was the hardest part; even avoiding teachers was easy enough from this point on if you were clever.

Sherlock was not lacking in cleverness. He was a complete pompous arse, and he knew it (and if he didn't he was told by just about everyone on a regular basis anyway). He lacked any and all social skills, any friends he had previously believed that just maybe had he managed to make he chased away, but hell, he sure was clever. He'd known it since he was little, and it had been confirmed for the first time when he'd managed to get his hands on his Year 3 progress report.

The teacher was a sweet woman named Miss Daisy, who couldn't have been a day over twenty-five. She tried her best to tolerate Sherlock, holding fast the philosophy that all children could be moulded like clay. Sherlock genuinely liked her, so he tried his very best to be good. He liked her so much that he had to be honest with her: the day that she brought her boyfriend to class to introduce everyone to him, he had to let her know that he was obviously sleeping with someone else. She deserved to know. He didn't think telling her would hurt her.

Miss Daisy stopped trying to mold him after that. His progress report read:

Sherlock is a bright, clever student, who participates regularly in class (and corrects his fellow classmates more than he participates). However, he has a sharp tongue and can sometimes have a sour attitude that he needs to work on. Have a nice holiday!

So, Sherlock had no doubt in his mind that he was clever. But perhaps, he wondered, as he ascended the stairs into the music room, that a hyperactive mind was not always a blessing.

One stair after the other, he treaded softly until he reached the top. He peeked around the corner before swiftly moving down the hall- there was never anyone in this wing of the building anyway, but he always double checked. Once he reached to music room, there was no chance of teachers finding him; no one intentionally came into the room unless they really needed to.

He slipped through the doorway soundlessly, before breathing a sigh of relief into his sanctuary. The ceiling was high, the windows large and the room boasted fantastic acoustics, but the builders of the school had neglected to connect the room to the central heating and cooling, so the room was a iceberg during the winter and sauna during the summertime.

Perfect if you wanted to be alone.

Sherlock felt wall for the light-- most of the lights were burnt out, and the room was generally used during the day, so the sun came in through the windows anyway-- but one light shone in the corner. Sherlock didn't mind the dark.

He made his way to his lockbox and retrieved his violin. The instrument was cool to the touch, the wood kissing Sherlock's fingertips and the strings quivering in anticipation. It had been too long since he had last played.

He picked up his bow, straightening and positioning the violin underneath his chin. He tuned the violin quickly, and began to play a slow, mournful piece, the strings crying out and wailing as he coaxed them into a song. He lost himself to the music; pouring his heart and soul completely into it. There was no more hurt, no more memories, no more lost friends and empty hearts, nothing except for the music. As he finished, he vaguely noticed he was in a different part of the room as before, but he didn't recollect his feet taking him there.

He began to play again, this time a song he'd never done. It was raw and full of emotion, welling up from his soul onto the wooden body of his violin. He knew he'd never be able to reproduce it, as well as he tried to lock it away in his memory palace. He could never recreate the exact emotion at the exact time that caused him to play the song with the exact feeling that he did. As hard as he tried, he could never completely resurrect it.

Sherlock thought that, maybe, it was why he liked playing so much. In a world where everything was concrete and repeatable, music always changed. Even when he was a junkie; even when his peers taunted him mercilessly; even when the whole earth was burning and crashing around him; even when every other bad and painful thing hurled at him stayed exactly the same, the music was different.

He didn't like to talk about himself often-- feeling were weakness, so expressing the hurt bottled up inside of him was admitting that he was less than adequate. But Sherlock had a way of pouring the emotion into the instrument and letting it do the talking and the crying for him. He wouldn't admit it, but if he didn't do it, the cork would have popped and the glass would have shattered years earlier.

He played for hours- he didn't know how many, nor did he care. Well into the night, while all else was still, a single violin sang mournfully into the quiet, crying from a room while a boy danced within.

***

"Are you enjoying your new rooming assignment?"

John jumped twelve feet at the voice at his neck. If he hadn't been awake already at 7:30 AM, he certainly was now. "I... yes, I... I suppose I am. I think. Thank you...?" He replied absentmindedly, before finally looking up into the speaker's face.

Mycroft. John gulped.

"Why do you ask?" John became suddenly defensive at the intrusion. Sherlock had only talked about Mycroft once, and his words were cold and callous. John could only imagine why he appeared to loathe his brother so much.

"Come into my office, please." Mycroft smiled thinly- a cold, calculating smile as he gestured John into his office. He was increasingly better mannered than his younger counterpart, but he still held that air of sheer intelligence and cunning that made John all the more uncomfortable. "Please, sit."

John did so silently.

"I suspect my brother hasn't spoken fondly of me, yes?"

John nodded slowly, his lips pursed, still unsure of what to think.

Mycroft sighed slightly, shifting his weight so he was leaning on the handle of a black umbrella he carried in his right hand. "He hates to hold any sort of brotherly compassion for me," he scrunched his nose in distaste, "but realistically, I do care about him."

"Why does he... dislike you so much? I think that he called you his..."

"Enemy?"

"That's the one."

Mycroft raised his eyebrows and shook his head. "We bickered quite a lot as children, as children do... but Sherlock has always held me in contempt since I left him with our parents to go to college. I, of course, was very busy, but Sherlock seems to think that I intentionally neglected him. He had a rather difficult home life after I was gone."

"Yes?"

"Our father, Siger, had an affair, and our parents got a divorce. Sherlock really looked up to Siger as a child, so when he learned about the affair, it crushed him."

John remained silent. The air was thick with tension as Mycroft's eyes bored into him, obviously awaiting some sort of response that John was unable to give. When he didn't say anything, Mycroft cleared his throat.

"I'm concerned about Sherlock. I know that he's been recieving... well, rather incriminating evidence."

"How did you-"

"I have my ways. As I was saying," he continued with some force, "I would be willing to pay you to keep a good eye on my little brother. As unaffected as he may appear to you by the pictures and the threats, I assure you, he is more worried than he lets on."

"I don't want your money, Mr. Holmes," John spat. "Sherlock has confided in me very little, but from what he has, I've gathered that I may very well be the only thing close to a friend that he has ever had. He trusts me to some extent, which is something I have not seen him extend to Molly or Greg. I don't want to ruin that with your payment." John stood and began to leave.

"Very well, John. But please, don't hesitate to talk to me if you change your mind." Mycroft bowed his head slightly. "Good day."

John shuffled angrily out of the office-- I can't believe he'd offer me money I don't want to be paid to be Sherlock's friend who the bloody hell does he think he is-- and nearly face-planted into none other than Sherlock himself. Sherlock leaped out of the way, and nodded at John in a greeting. "You look angry. Talking to my brother?"

"Did you bloody deduce that from the look on my face?"

Sherlock's eyes smiled. "I suppose so, but the fact that you were coming out of his office was a rather tell-tale sign."

"Piss off."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows and smiled slightly. "Did Mycroft offer to pay you to spy on me, then?"

"Yes."

"Did you say yes?"

"No, of course not."

"Pity. We could have shared the pay."

John managed a small laugh and finally raised his scowling eyes from the floor to look at Sherlock's face. His eyes were sunken in and he had huge black bags under them and he looked as though he hadn't slept or eaten in weeks. "You look like a zombie."

"Thank you," Sherlock replied dryly. They were silent for a moment, before Sherlock added with some hesitation, "I suppose I'm just worried."

"You? I thought you didn't get worried."

"I'm still human, John, though I don't care to admit it. Just because I--" he cut off, reformulating whatever he was going to say in his head. "Anyway, yes, I'm concerned because I don't see any motive whatsoever behind Moriarty's attacks. And I certainly can't imagine that he took those pictures, that seems too pedestrian of a job for him..." Sherlock trailed off, and his stomach growled audibly.

"You want to go get something to eat?" John nodded in the direction of the cafeteria.

Sherlock shook his head. "Not hungry. I'll get a coffee, however, if you're willing. Speedy's?"

"The cafe by the dorms?"

"That would be the one." Sherlock gave John the smallest of smiles as they made their way down to the shop. That smile made John all the more glad that he'd refused Mycroft's offer. As long as he was truly friends with Sherlock of his own accord, that's what really mattered.

A/N: Hey nerds.

So.

Someone new is going to be in the next chapter.

I very very very vaguely hinted at it.

Three guesses who.

ehehehehee

He/she/they may be working somewhat with Moriarty.

Taking pictures, perhaps?

ehehehhe

ANYWAY, thanks to Imagine Dragons (who I quoted at the beginning) and their lovely song Polaroid for some very very very light inspiration for this chapter. I don't know, it just kind of set the angsty mood for this chapter.

Who am I kidding, all of my chapters are angsty.

But creds to Imagine Dragons. Also creds to BBC for giving me half of the ammo in this chapter (especially the Mycroft scene. Most of that was taken straight from the TV show. Sweet.)

buT SORRY if this chappie was a touch boring. I just felt like I needed to get some character development in before I moved on with the story.

Any questions/comments/concerns? Or suggestions for anything you want to see? COMMENT OR LEAVE ME A MESSAGE! I'll always try to answer!

OH ALSO THANKS TO WATTPAD FOR PUTTING ME ON THEIR SHERLOCK READING LIST. ALSO THANK YOU TO YOU GUYS FOR GETTING ME TO 100 READS LAST NIGHT YAY YAY YAY. ALSO THANKS FOR VOTING AND YOU CAN VOTE FOR THIS CHAPTER TOO IF YOU WANT ;)

peace out, nerds.