John woke up with a start. For a moment he believed it because of a nightmare; they occur often enough that he'd almost forgotten what a nice dream was. He's seen too much- enough for a lifetime. And he didn't want any more, but he had no choice as to what came to him in dreams.

After a moment his phone gave out another round of high-pitched beeping and he realized that it was that which woke him up. Groaning and running his hand across his eyes, he grabbed the offending machine.

ONE NEW MESSAGE:

Let's have dinner.

The short message was followed by an address and time. John sighed as he looked at the sender.

MYCROFT HOLMES.

One of the few men that John truly hated. Even three years after Mycroft's brother jumped off a rooftop and shattered John's life, he still held a grudge against the other man. Partly because he felt him guilty of causing Sherlock to jump, and partly because he brought up too many memories.

John debated in his head whether or not to go. It probably wouldn't turn out too well for either of them if he did. Rereading the message, he thought inexplicably of Irene Adler. He shook his head. Irene may be able to fake her death, but Sherlock couldn't. John was watching as he stepped off the roof, falling hard and fast, before crashing down with enough force to bust his own body open. John saw everything. He saw him, his intelligent eyes empty, blood slipping across the pavement, lifeless, completely- he shook off the memories with a sigh.

In that moment, John knew he would go, though he had no real, proper reason why.


That night, he sat at the restaurant, still awaiting Mycroft. The place was fancier than he was accustomed to, and he hoped to God that Mycroft would be paying, the wine he was drinking was the cheapest option, but still about the same amount he had in his wallet.

Mycroft's late. He's never late, punctual to a point, he is. Or was. I suppose you have to be if you're running the British Empire. But if he is not here in the next five minutes, I'm leaving. That infernal band is driving me insane.

The band was playing a fast paced and upbeat piece, which wasn't bad sounding at all. Apart from the fact that it was all the played the entire time John was there. It finally reached the point where he could stand it no longer.

"Excuse me, do you take requests or play anything besides that one tune?" he asked the lead man.

"Sorry sir, this is the request."

"Fantastic," John replied sarcastically, slinking back to his table and downing more wine.

If he's not here in five minutes I'm leaving.

Yeah, right. That's what you said fifteen minutes ago.

He sighed loudly and finished his glass, wondering if it would be improper to ask for something stronger.

Suddenly, the music stopped its infinite loop, and John nearly grinned in relief. Then the violins started the next tune, which John recognized from its first few opening chords.

A tale man silhouetted against a window, violin tucked into his chin. Self written mourning music. A dominatrix who faked her death. Long white fingers wrapped around a bow. Black curly hair just brushing the edge of a violin as its haunting tune resonated across a small flat.

Sherlock's song for Irene.

No.

John paled instantly and shot up from his table, and walked determinedly to the musicians. They will stop, they have to stop, I'm not breaking down in front of these people.

"Play something else. Anything else. Please, just not that one."

"Sorry, like I told you earlier, requests were booked early."

"Please. I'm begging you. Not that."

"It was requested," the lead musician replied, though there was pity in his eyes.

"Who? Who requested it?" Who knows about it other than me?

"A friend of mine. And a friend of yours too, Doctor Watson."

"How- how do you know my name? What friend?" John was growing paler and paler with each moment. The music surrounding him and the information coming from the musician was beginning to be too much for him.

The musician smiled. "You'll find out soon enough. He should be here any moment now." John was trembling at this point. "He did leave a message for you," the musician said, and handed John a small slip of paper.

There was someone standing behind John, he could feel it. He couldn't bring himself to turn around yet. He turned to the paper in his hand instead.

He recognized the handwriting instantly. Even with just six words, he could tell.

I'M NOT DEAD. LET'S HAVE DINNER.

Sherlock.

"Hello, John."


A/N: HOW ABOUT THE S3 TRAILER?! This story was fun to write. I might do another chapter that continues directly after this, I might not. Anyway, Thanks for reading and please review!