the fuck do you think you’re doing?’ I snapped, loud enough to be heard over the fiddling.
With a calm that could have tested a saint’s patience, Sherlock finished the sequence of notes bouncing about, lowered the bow and turned to look at me, violin still tucked under his chin.
‘I’m playing the violin.’
‘No shit.’
‘You said some violin play wouldn’t wake you up.’
‘That was before you started playing bloody Beethoven.’
‘John, please.’ He lowered the violin, too. ‘That wasn’t Beethoven. I was playing the capriccio from Stravinsky’s violin concer–’
‘I honestly don’t care, Sherlock. Play the fiddle at night if it makes you happy, but please play something that will not raise the dead. Or me, for that matter.’
‘Like what?’
‘I don’t know. You’re the musician. Play something pretty.’
‘Pretty.’ He made a face. ‘Pretty is boring.’
‘Soothing, then. Play me a lullaby. Think of something to serenade me back to sleep.’
He opened his mouth as if to say something, but I turned and padded back to my bedroom, unwilling to start an argument about music in the middle of the night. I crawled back into bed and pulled the blanket up.
It was silent for a couple of minutes and I was beginning to doze off when Sherlock started playing again.
I groaned and was just about to get up when – wait, I knew that piece. It was an old Welsh lullaby my Gran used to sing to me when I was a little boy. How could Sherlock possibly–? Nonsense. It had to be coincidence. No way Sherlock could know about Gran. I’d never spoken about her to him. Or had I?
Whatever. The song was lovely, Sherlock played it well, and the old magic worked as it had all these years ago. I was asleep within moments.
CHAPTER SIX
My night ended with the buzzing of my mobile phone. I reached for it, hoping it was not the surgery. I was not in the mood for an early morning emergency, but it wasn’t work.
Halabi, K was calling.
‘Salaam, my brother,’ I said and rubbed a hand across my face. ‘Why are you calling in the middle of the night? Or are you in a different time zone?’
‘Heathrow. On the way to Dubai, then off to Hong Kong.’ Karim’s voice was typically gruff. I grinned. Not only did my London born- and-bred friend never waste time on niceties, early morning conversations ranked high among the top five things he hated.
‘London time, then. Are you waking me up to share your travel plans?’
He grunted. ‘I’m ringing in to ask if you want to meet for a pint when I get back.’
‘Sure,’ I said. ‘And when would that be?’
‘How about Wednesday next week?’
‘Sounds good, I think.’
‘You think?’
‘Well, my schedule isn’t as fully booked as yours. Unless I’m stuck at the operating table my evenings are fairly flexible.’
He snorted. ‘Must be hard, being a doctor.’
‘It helps pay the rent.’
‘That dump’s not worth the rent you pay.’
‘Ah, but I’ve moved to Baker Street. Remember I asked you to help but you were conveniently sent on a business trip?’
‘That’s right, you moved. I was working on the Indian transaction then, wasn’t I?’
‘No idea.’
‘No, I think it was the Korean deal. Bad timing, in any case. So, Marylebone, eh?’ He whistled. ‘Have you gone private with your work then?’
‘No, still the same practice.’
‘Won the lottery?’
‘Flat-share.’
‘I see. Cute flatmate?’
‘Mhm,’ I responded evasively.
‘John, my brother, it really is about time we meet. Wednesday it is. Around 7pm?’
‘Affirmative.’
‘The Broken Drum?’
‘Where else?’
‘Excellent. Next week then, inshallah.’
‘Inshallah indeed. Make sure you set yourself a reminder, yeah?’
He laughed and disconnected. I yawned, put the phone back on the bedside table, switched off the alarm clock that would go off any minute, and got up. After brushing my teeth I walked over to one of the living room windows, opened it, and looked outside. The sky was clear, and the air was fresh and crisp. Perfect for a morning run. I went back into my bedroom to change, then fetched my running shoes.
‘Morning, John.’
Sherlock stood at the top of his chicken ladder and peered down at where I was going through my playlists, trying to make up my mind about which one to listen to.
‘Morning, Sherlock.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘For a run. Care to join me?’
He scratched his head. ‘Regent’s Park?’
‘Why not. The lakeside loop is just right. You up for it?’
‘Give me three minutes.’
‘You may have four. I’ll do some stretching in the meantime.’
He joined me a few minutes later, wearing a pair of loose trousers and a faded Ramones shirt that either was child-sized or had suffered in the washing machine. It looked good on him, actually, bringing out his lean frame to full advantage. He bounced on his soles, did a number of squats and then bent over with his long legs spread wide and touched his palms to the floor.
Naturally I chose that exact moment to look up from what I was doing and damn near lost my balance.
‘Careful, John!’ He placed a steadying hand on my arm. ‘What are you doing?’
Looking at your arse, Sherlock.
‘Nothing to worry about,’ I said, somewhat hastily. ‘Wasn’t paying attention for a moment. Let’s go.’
His
