His Favorite Melody

You Ask, I Tell

Melody sat in the couch in 221B, thumbing through a book as she listened to Sherlock play violin. It had been a bit more than a week since the case with the cabbie, and she had been coming round the flat every day. John was sitting in his chair, typing away on his laptop. Melody gazed up at Sherlock, who was wearing a dressing gown over a dress shirt, and some trousers. He played his instrument with grace and fluidity, as though the bow was an extension of his arm. He was facing the window, looking out at the hustle and bustle of the street below.

John looked up with sudden intrigue, glancing over at Melody. "How did you and Sherlock meet?" He asked the woman.

Sherlock suddenly stopped playing, and looked at Melody, who was now frowning slightly, a small crease formed between her brows. Her gaze was fixed upon the table in front of her.

"John- "Sherlock started, knowing that this conversation would lead down a dark path, if not an uncomfortable one at least.

"No, no. It's fine, Sherlock." She assured. She looked up at him and smiled gently. "If John wants to know, I don't mind. After all, he's going to find out eventually."

John looked slightly confused- an expression which only grew when Sherlock put down his instrument and took a few large steps towards the couch. He sat beside Melody, close enough for their arms to press together, a detail which did not go unnoticed by John.

Melody took a deep breath and leaned into Sherlock's touch. "As I'm sure you know, Sherlock assisted in the case that got my father executed. John, my father was a terrible man. It started when I was about seven, I suppose. At least, that's when I started to notice it.

See, my dad ran a drug cartel. We had all kinds of stuff coming through our house, cocaine, meth, marijuana, you name it. Dad tended to sample the product. When he was high, it was like he was a different person. He got angry. He would yell at mum and hit her. One day, I got in the way, and I caught a beating for it. But he left mum alone. I started getting in the way as often as I could, just so mum wouldn't have bruises and broken bones anymore. This went on for years, and we moved around to avoid too much suspicion."

Sherlock reached for her hand and squeezed it in a comforting manner. He knew this wasn't easy, and he could hear her voice becoming thick with discomfort and sadness. She closed her eyes and squeezed his hand back to let him know that she was alright. She looked up at John and continued.

"One day, he got carried away, and put me in the hospital. Unfortunately, I wasn't a child anymore, so it was up to me to press charges. Of course, if I did that, things would only get worse for me. A few years later, he got busted for smuggling drugs. But that wasn't enough to warrant a death sentence. That's where Sherlock came in. He uncovered stuff that mum and I had no idea about. Stuff that made my skin crawl. As Sherlock uncovered those things, he also shed light on our home life. He was there one day when I broke down, and he helped me realize how strong I was for making it through what I did.

After the trial, he helped my mother and I move back to London. We kept in touch, and even worked together on occasion, when he needed a second eye on things. That started about a year ago, and He's been stuck with me ever since." She said, laying her head on his shoulder. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her into his side.

John looked on in shock at the story she had told. "So, when your mother said that your father...and that's why when we shout..." he said, his brain slowly processing all the information. His eyes widened as everything finally hit. "Melody, I'm so sorry." He began apologizing.

"Don't be, John. I'm here now, and I'm safe. That's what matters." She assured him. "I still have the occasional fright, as you've seen, but I'm better." She promised.

As John went back to his computer, she looked up at Sherlock, who was currently looking at her with a glimmer of something in his eyes. Was it emotion? No, of course not. Sherlock didn't show weakness like emotions. "Thank you." She whispered.

"You did that all on your own." He reminded.

"Yeah, but you're here for me, and that's what counts. You could have just let me go through that on my own, but instead you came and comforted me. And for that, I thank you." She whispered.

She kissed his cheek, then got up and walked to the kitchen. A few moments later, Sherlock heard the water running, and the cabinets being opened and closed. She was making tea, something she always did after she was forced to go through something unpleasant. Sherlock simply stood and crossed over to his violin. He picked up the instrument and bow and began playing Moonlight Sonata by Beethoven. He heard the kettle whistle and listened as she made three cups of tea. Each one made for a specific person. She carefully walked in, holding all three drinks in her hand.

The first, she set beside John as he worked diligently. He thanked her and took a sip, sighing in delight at the hint of cinnamon and orange she had added. The second, she sat to the side for herself. She knew that Sherlock was not overly fond of honey and ginger, but she happened to enjoy the mixture. The final cup, she walked over to Sherlock and placed it on the table beside him. It gave off the distinct scent of lemon but was sweetened with just a touch of sugar. She smiled at the song he was playing and listened as she moved away. She retrieved her cuppa, and sat in Sherlock's chair, listening as he played what just happened to be her favorite song- Moonlight Sonata by Beethoven.