A/N: In response to many reader requests, and in hopes of getting my wellspring to pass as drinking water again, here's the aftermath of the duet. (If you don't get it, reread chapter two.)

Practiced Cellist

First a squawk, as the strings below the bridge are suddenly tweaked and cry out in startled protest. Then a soft, sharp snap as the hairs catch on the fine tuners and many give way. Finally, a resonant clatter of wood on wood as fine rosewood meets floorboards. That, gentle reader, is the sound of a cello bow falling from an exhausted doctor's fingers as his body finally cries no more.

Such a sound I should never have thought to chronicle in such meticulous detail. By the time I had occasion to hear it, though, I had progressed to that stage of exhaustion where everything is meticulous detail. No larger concepts remained to bind together the flood of sense data: Fierce, twisting pain in my shoulder. The ghost of pressure against my left hand's fingertips after they dropped from the strings. Black hair and a grey dressing-gown. Curtain smells, tinged with a chemical reek. A disjointed, vaguely hallucinatory stream of syllables... my friend was speaking.

With an effort, I dragged myself back to the here and now, carefully fitting the sounds together. Ah. "Watson," he'd said, "are you all right?"

I managed a weary chuckle. "I think I've had enough music for one day."

"Are you sure? You've been doing beautifully since we started on the Corelli--"

Between piecing together his question and formulating my own response, my tired brain should have taken much longer to answer him than it actually did."Holmes, both my shoulders are afire; my eardrums, plus I dare say yours, are agreeing most vehemently with my shoulder; my fingers are made of lead; and our landlady has literally fled the premises, possibly along with the neighbors." Exhaustion and annoyance had my bull-pup yapping at the end of his leash. At least it hadn't broken loose. "I'm a doctor, not a practiced cellist. I assure you, old friend, I have had enough."

His gaze softened. "I suppose I'm lucky you haven't yet collapsed and crushed the poor instrument." Setting his violin aside, safely in its case, he crossed to take the cello from my nerveless arms.

I lay back limply, closing my eyes.

"Oh, and don't worry, old fellow," came his voice. "I'll wake you before you sleep the week away."