John and Mike were out day drinking; there wasn't really any special occasion, but they decided to use "because it's Wednesday, and we still have half of a week to get to the weekend" as their excuse. Just as they were getting deep into their conversation about women and absurd medical practices, Mike got a phone call from their friend Molly.

Molly had been attending Bart's with them for a short while until she decided to audition for a music school somewhere in London. He couldn't recall the name. Almost immediately she was recruited by a fellow student to be his accompanist. The only thing John had heard about him was that he could play the violin, and he was more than a bit full of himself about it, which was already enough to make John dislike him.

"Molly? What's wrong?"

John perked up. "Oh, did that arse of a violinist do something? I'll kill him myself."

"Just try to stay calm, keep ice on that wrist, John and I are on our way," Mike said, before he hit the end button on his phone and stuffed it into his pocket. He and John immediately went outside and hailed a cab.

"Royal Academy of Music, please," Mike blurted out as they clamored into the back of the cab.

"What's wrong with her wrist?" John asked once they were inside.

"Had a fall, she thinks she may have broken it. Can't move it at all," he said, adjusting himself in the seat. "She wants you to take a look at it to see whether or not she needs to go to the hospital."

"Why not you? You go to Bart's too."

"She wants the doctor-in-training who has good marks in his classes."

John laughed. "Noted."

John was silent for a moment. "God, Royal Academy of Music, huh" he sneered. "Makes that arse sound even more uptight than he already is."

Mike couldn't help his laugh. "Well, remember mate, Molly goes there too. So, they aren't all bad."

John didn't look convinced. "Perhaps not. Or perhaps Molly is the only one there who isn't an uptight arse."

In about 15 minutes they arrived at the academy. It took them a few minutes to find where Molly and her violinist had been practicing, but with the help of Molly's directions through text, they eventually found the right room. They were immediately bombarded by a frantic Molly. John took her hand gently into his and examined her wrist. It definitely looked like it could be broken.

"What exactly happened?" Mike asked as John observed her hand, noting intense bruising around the wrist.

Molly gritted her teeth as John examined the wrist. "I slipped on something backstage, perhaps a stray sheet of music. I fell forward and my right hand landed on the floor a little further back than where it needed to be to catch my fall. So…I more or less fell on it, and my wrist feels like it's snapped right in two."

John gave Molly a worried look. "You should definitely go see a doctor. If it is broken, you want to get it set and casted as soon as possible."

"She can't," came the deep voice of a stranger that he already knew. "I need her for rehearsal."

John felt nauseated at the sheer ignorance. "Yeah, well, she needs her hand to play, so I think that takes priority," John snapped back without turning to face the man who was speaking to him. "She's going to see a doctor. Mike, take her to Bart's, would you?"

"You're going to stay here?" Mike asked, not even trying to mask his confusion. "With him?"

"I'm going to get a cab back to our flat," John said, hesitant. He gave a sideways glance at the piano that sat across the room. "I want you to take her to the hospital."

"Alright," Mike said, giving John a knowing grin. "C'mon, Molly. We'll get you fixed up."

Once they'd left the room, John turned and walked towards the piano. He refused to acknowledge the violinist's presence.

"She is quite the klutz, isn't she?" Sherlock said after only a few moments.

"That's not necessary, mate," John said, taking a seat at the piano bench. It felt he was sitting down to tea with an old friend, so they could catch up with each other.

"She should have been more careful. She should know well that stray sheets of music get dropped back there all of the time."

"Well, everyone makes mistakes. I'm sure even you do, mister perfect."

"Well, you don't seem to like me very much," Sherlock said, a snobbish air about his voice. "Why did you stay behind?"

John didn't answer. Instead, he brought his hands to hover above the keys.

"Do you mind if I play a bit?" he asked, not really caring for what the violinist's answer was going to be.

"Sure, go ahead. Maurice Ravel's Scarbo is over there somewhere I believe, if you want to try something impossible."

"Played it."

John heard the deeper silence fall between them. It was a surprised silence, like when one discovers a plot twist in their favorite show on the telly.

"What?"

"I've played it twice at least, I may be a bit rusty with it, but it is far from impossible."

John finally looked up to see the face of this stranger. Unfortunately, he wasn't wearing as much surprise as John had been secretly hoping. Sherlock had dark, brown curls framing his face, and he was wearing a black suit, as though he were currently performing. He held his violin delicately in one hand, and his bow in the other. He had a tall, lanky figure, and the air surrounding him was fogged with his sense of superiority. It made John want to throw up.

Before John could play more than a few measures, he got a call from Mike. Bart's was a lot closer than he'd thought; they were fast on their feet too this evening.

"Hey, Mike. How's Molly?"

"Wrist is broken. Not bad, but broken. Doctor says she won't be able to play piano again until it is fully healed, because the strain on the muscles wouldn't be beneficial, plus it could cause complications with how the bones heal."

John's heart sank. Poor Molly. "How long is that going to be?"

"A couple of months, he thinks. But he won't know for sure until later. He says two to three months at most, though, so it won't be too long of a wait."

"So, his royal highness here is going to have to find himself a replacement pianist until then, yeah?"

John heard an annoyed sigh come from somewhere across the room. "His royal highness does have a name, you know," he snapped. John couldn't help his sense of accomplishment.

"I guess so... are, are you still at the concert hall with him?"

"Not with him," John said, disgusted. "With the piano."

Mike gave a slight chuckle. "Don't stay there too long, mate. See you back at the flat. We're almost done here."

"Alright, tell Molly I said take care."

The call ended, and John dropped his phone into his lap.

"Molly was the best of the accompanists available..." Sherlock whispered to himself, looking stressed. "I'll never be able to find someone as talented as her..."

John decided to tune him out and focus solely on the piano in front of him. His hands pressed into the keys, and the song almost seemed to play itself in front of him. John completely lost himself.