---
title: "Internet Killed the Video Star"
author: "Basser"
lang: en
id: "CRV-01"
series: "Can't Rewind Verse"
series_part: 1
fandom: "Sherlock (TV)"
rating: "Teen And Up Audiences"
warnings: ["No Archive Warnings Apply"]
words: 9328
chapters: 3
date: 2012-12-14
status: "complete"
written_by: human
summary: "The Yarders discover some old photographs while investigating a crime scene. \"Good lord, he was in a band.\""
---

# Internet Killed the Video Star

## Chapter 1

Following yet another row with Holmes, Sally found herself relegated to the distinctly uninspiring task of trawling through the victim's laptop for possible leads. The email and recent documents had all been useless- just the vapid conversations of a slightly chavvy photographer with a badly-concealed drug habit. Sally was clicking idly through the pictures folder now, which was enormous owing to the victim's profession. Photos of trees, parks, animals... she had to admit most of them were good, but boring. No possible leads and the latest picture was from over a month ago. She figured the more recent ones were still on the camera, which had disappeared along with the woman's body.

Sighing, Sally looked up from the screen and caught sight of Holmes haring around like usual, Watson and Lestrade watching him with identical bemused expressions as the freakishly tall man poked his head into spaces by the bookshelves and under tables and everywhere. She scoffed. What a lunatic. Turning her attention back to the laptop, Sally chose a random year from the collection of neatly catalogued photography folders and flicked through on slideshow mode.

The woman had to have been in her early twenties during the year these particular photos were dated. They were all shots of bars and uni kids and what looked like a friend's band. Sally scrolled through something like twenty candid shots of the backside of a tall boy with a guitar (*nice arse,* she found herself thinking idly) where the photographer had apparently been trying to get the lighting right. The musician had to have noticed her at some point and turned around, because the next shot was a closer frame of his scowling face and t-shirt clad torso. He had short, dark hair and the unnaturally dilated pupils of someone who spent a lot of time high. Prominent cheekbones stuck out starkly on a too-thin face, and he had his mouth open like he was about to say something scathing to the camera. Sally froze with her finger just about to hit the next button.

Was that...?

*No, definitely not*, she told herself. *Couldn't be*. Nevertheless, her gaze flicked up and found the 'consulting detective' in the other room. The only part of him currently visible were dark curls bobbing around near the television cabinet. Sally looked back down to the boy on the screen. The hair was exactly the same shade, just much shorter- barely long enough to start curling at the ends and get in his eyes. Eyes which, past the enormous pupils, were a slate grey-blue. She looked up at Holmes again, who had straightened up to his full height and was now staring around at the furniture like it owed him something. Eyes... yes, same indefinable shade. Last but not least, of course, those cheekbones. They seemed slightly less prominent now (*Watson must be force-feeding him*) but still...

*Alright no it's definitely him.*

Sally bit her lip with the realisation, not sure whether to be amused or horrified. On the one hand, Holmes had apparently once been a pissed-off kid with a coke habit and that was a terrifying thought. On the other, *they had pictures.* She decided that either way she should really let her boss know immediately.

"Um... sir?" she called quietly, gesturing Lestrade to come toward her. He said something along the lines of 'keep an eye on him' to Watson and ambled over.

"Yeah?" he asked. Sally said nothing, just pointed to the screen.

"What... wait, is that-?" Lestrade gaped, leaning over her shoulder to get a better look at the scowling boy in the photo. Like she'd done, he flicked his eyes from the computer to Holmes several times. "Are there any more?" he muttered after a moment, crouching down beside her.

"I'm not sure, found this one just now. It's from a folder marked '2005'," Sally said, and hit the right arrow key to advance the slideshow. The following shot was the same boy flipping off the camera, now with a lit cigarette in his mouth. Lestrade and Sally both snorted.

"Yeah, that's gotta be him," Lestrade muttered, smirking. "Early 20s I'd guess. Christ, he's thin. Looks like a skeleton."

"High on coke, obviously," Sally murmured back.

"Hmm, yeah. He was doing about five hits a day back when I met him," the DI replied, frowning at the memory. "What's he doing with a guitar, though?" He nodded to the guitar neck held loosely in the boy's left hand.

"Dunno."

Sally flipped through some more shots of a stage, the pub it was in and an interesting lighting fixture before she stopped on another photo. This time it was of the band she'd seen earlier, apparently in the middle of a performance on the pub's small stage. A well-built boy with curly brown hair was singing into a microphone, a short blonde girl to his right held an electric bass and behind them was an overweight boy with a crewcut playing the drums. To their left was... Holmes. On lead guitar.

"*What*," Sally said flatly. She desperately tried not to notice how good the gangly young man looked in loose jeans and a t-shirt, guitar hanging lazily from its shoulder strap as he fixed the audience with a bored stare. She glanced sidelong at her boss and saw Lestrade's expression stuck somewhere between flabbergasted and amused.

"Good lord, he was in a band," the man near cackled. After a second though his more responsible instincts kicked in, and he reached forward to click a few shots back to one of the closer frames of Holmes' face. "Sherlock, over here," he called. Sally huffed in annoyance. "We er... found something you'll be interested in."

Holmes looked highly dubious of that, but sauntered over regardless. Watson was closer however- having been loitering in the doorframe between the sitting room and kitchen- and reached them first. Sally watched the doctor's eyebrows climb to his hairline as soon as he caught sight of the laptop screen. Holmes appeared next to him a second later and froze at the sight of his own face.

"Where did you get that?" he snapped, sounding startled and a little angry.

"Her laptop," Sally pointed out blandly, gesturing to the computer. Holmes glared at her.

"Is that *you*?" Watson broke in, turning his gaze to fix his partner with an incredulous stare. Holmes' eyes flicked from Watson's face to the screen and back as he opened his mouth, only to quickly shut it with a glower as he thought better of whatever he was going to say. He instead shoved past his assistant and leaned over Sally to get at the laptop.

"Oi!" she exclaimed, not at all pleased with her personal space being invaded by the Freak. He paid her no attention however and flipped rapidly forward through the slideshow viewer. Past the band on stage were various shots of the same young musicians in a shoddy backstage room, a closeup of the drummer talking to a supremely annoyed-looking Holmes, the singer hunched over a tattered notebook, and a few studio portraits of the blonde bassist. The very last image in the folder was a candid photo of a couple sitting side-by-side on a low wall. Sally realised with a start that the one with a lit cigarette dangling out of his mouth was Holmes. The other was a lean, athletic-looking boy with a light spattering of freckles and scruffy brown hair, wearing a school football shirt and fitted jeans. His mouth was open in a laugh as he reached out for the bottle of liquor being handed to him by his smirking companion. Sally noted their bodies were pressed much closer together than necessary in the wide space available. She felt her eyebrows lift as she shot Holmes a devious look.

"That your *boyfriend*?" she asked mockingly.

"At the time," Holmes muttered in a distracted voice. Sally balked, having expected a scathing retort or insult and absolutely not prepared to think of Holmes *dating*. She saw Watson crack a small smile and Lestrade grin wolfishly. Holmes withdrew abruptly from the computer (*leaving it on the shot of him and his ex, Sally saw with despair; good lord now she couldn't stop imagining the two of them snogging*) and rounded on Lestrade. He either didn't notice the lopsided smile on the DI's face or didn't care.

"You didn't tell me the victim had changed her name!" he barked impatiently.

"We didn't know," Lestrade replied, hands up in a placating gesture as his expression finally began to sober a bit. "Honestly, Sherlock we found out she was missing less than an hour ago. She's listed on the rent agreement as Ms. Gloria Harwood."

"Well her *real* name was Amanda Blake," Holmes insisted, grabbing at his hair. "Ugh! Mandy! Should have known from the wallpaper! Garish pattern, only a woman annoying as *her* could possibly stand it. Oh this widens the list of suspects *immensely*."

"Widens?" Watson interjected. "Shouldn't it narrow? If you knew her personally-"

"No, no, John! Weren't you listening!" Holmes burst out impatiently. "Amanda was the *most annoying person* I have ever met, which considering current company is impressive." He removed one hand from his untidy mop of hair to gesture vaguely in the direction of Anderson, who was working in the next room. Sally scowled. "Furthermore she was an avid photographer, as you can plainly see. Obviously took a photo she shouldn't have, explains the missing camera and why she was killed."

"You know we don't actually have proof she's dead yet," Lestrade put in helpfully. Holmes waved a hand dismissively.

"No, definitely dead. Far too much blood," he said without a hint of remorse. Sally rolled her eyes in disgust. Then accidentally caught sight of the photo of young Holmes and his (*distressingly good-looking*) boyfriend and found herself distracted again by unwanted images of snogging. How in the *hell* had Holmes even gotten a footballer interested in him?

"If it was a photo they wanted why didn't they just take the memory stick out of the camera? Why bother killing her?" Watson asked. He kept glancing at the image on the laptop with a strangely proud expression, like he was happy to know the Freak had once been human enough to date. Sally found it quite nauseating.

"That's it!" Holmes suddenly exclaimed, whipping around and grabbing Watson by the shoulders. "The perpetrator is a luddite! Older, probably late forties or early fifties, doesn't understand how digital cameras work but still fit enough to swing a crowbar. *That's* why he didn't take the laptop, wouldn't have known about backup files. He must have killed her because she knows who- oh! Yes, of course! Come along, John, we have to get to Brixton!"

Watson's face was a picture of amused confusion as he allowed the still-nattering detective to drag him off by the hand. The doctor shot an apologetic glance back at Sally and Lestrade.

"I'll, er... make sure he texts you," he offered with a helpless shrug.

"Sherlock, remember what I said about cornering suspects on your own!" the DI yelled after them exasperatedly. Holmes waved a dismissive hand over his shoulder and disappeared out the back entrance with his lackey in tow. Sally half expected Lestrade to give chase, but he just rolled his eyes and turned back to her instead.

"Donovan, I want every picture of Sherlock on a flashdrive. Wait, two flashdrives. Then I can hide one in case he tries to nick the other," her boss ordered. His voice sounded serious but his expression was coming scandalously close to gleeful. Sally found herself grinning too. As disconcerting as the Holmes-and-boyfriend photo was she couldn't deny the perverse pleasure in finding so much possible blackmail material.

She nodded her understanding, dug a pair of portable drives out of her police kit and set about copying everything she could find with Holmes' face in it (as well as the twenty-someodd shots of his rear, which she determinedly did not ogle). In total the haul was about fifty photos, most of which seemed to be from various band performances and the afterparties. The most scandalous shot she came across was of Holmes and his ex-boyfriend snogging (*which was every bit as hot as she'd imagined- no no no shut up, that's still the Freak you idiot!*) in the midst of a very crowded and noisy-looking pub. Both were clearly plastered. Holmes held a half-finished drink which was perilously close to spilling and his free hand gripped the bartop for stability as the unnamed footballer held his face in a sloppy kiss. They were grinning stupidly, probably laughing more than making out. Sally found herself thinking the scene would be heartbreakingly adorable if only it wasn't *Holmes*, of all people.

"Oh god, that's precious," Lestrade suddenly broke in from behind her, laughing. He'd left earlier to coordinate the investigation while she moved files, and had turned up again just now with Anderson. Sally looked back and was relieved to see a faintly sick expression on her on-again-off-again lover's face at the sight of the laptop screen.

"Is that *Holmes?*" he sputtered, sounding horrified.

"Apparently he knew the victim years ago." Lestrade smirked. "And she was an *'avid photographer.'*"

"Videographer too, looks like," Sally put in, turning back to the computer to click on the folder she'd found a few minutes ago labelled 'VIDEOS'. "I haven't watched any of these yet but look at the thumbnail on this one here- it's the pub band."

"Oh good lord, play it," her boss ordered with a grin. She obligingly opened the file.

It was a shaky shot, but of decent quality. The girl must have had good equipment even before going professional. The scene was decently crowded for a dive bar and the audience seemed to be mostly uni kids with some older blokes scattered around. Up on the small stage the lead singer approached the microphone.

*"Hey, fellow shitheads!"* he bellowed into it. The room promptly exploded in cheers. Sally, Lestrade and Anderson's eyes were all fixed on the guitarist- Holmes. He looked utterly bored.

*"You lot ready for some noise!"* the singer yelled. The audience roared again. He looked to the side at his guitarist, who nodded once and plucked a string on his instrument. The note rang clearly through one of the speakers behind them. The bassist then followed suit, while the drummer fired off a quick roll. Apparently they were checking volume. After a pause the singer grinned and started tapping his foot, *"one, two, three, go!"* he counted.

Holmes started playing, body unnaturally still aside from a slight bobbing of his head and the rapid shifting of fingers. The bassist joined in a few bars later. She was much more enthusiastic in her movements, bouncing and swaying with the rhythm as her long blonde ponytail swung like a pendulum. Finally the drummer started up with a complicated intro pattern, and the singer's bold tenor rang out over the screaming crowd as he grabbed the mic stand dramatically.

The lyrics were hard to make out over the laptop's tinny speakers, but what few words Sally could catch were undeniably dirty. She saw Anderson's eyes widen out of the corner of her vision while Lestrade's grin just spread further.

Then suddenly the singer shifted sideways with the microphone stand, making room for backup vocals to come in on the chorus. Sally thought it would be the bassist. She nearly collapsed in shock when Holmes stepped forward instead. Behind her she heard Anderson mutter a *'dear lord'* and their boss laughing in delight.

The chorus was easier to make out than the rest of the song, being sung in the dual tones of the singer's tenor and Holmes' deep baritone.

*"You better run, run, run and tell someone*  
*You found a wishing well, the bottom of a barrel of a gun*  
*You better run, run, run and tell someone, tell someone-"*

"It's catchy!" Lestrade exclaimed. Sally grudgingly agreed. Holmes' harmony was decidedly unemotional but he wasn't a bad singer at all, and the sombre tone of his voice offset the more passionate lead nicely. The instrumentals were good too- strong beat and balanced chord progressions with a smooth bass line tying everything together. It wasn't the style of music Sally generally preferred but she found her head bobbing along regardless.

"I thought Holmes played the violin," Anderson muttered with a sour face.

"You know how he is, probably picked up guitar in a week and deleted it later to make room for bee facts," her boss replied with a flippant wave of his hand. "Donovan, get as many copies as you can. Put one on my iPod, even. We can't let him erase this."

"Should I send one to Dr. Watson?" Sally offered with a devious smirk.

Lestrade laughed. "*God* yes. But first see if there's more. We'll make him a playlist if we can."

Sally nodded and began to scroll through the video folder, scanning the thumbnails. It looked like at least the next dozen files were all band-related.

"Oh this is going to be *brilliant,*" she heard Lestrade mutter behind her.

"Which one should we watch, sir?" she asked.

Her boss grinned. "All of them."

## Chapter 2

Amanda Blake had been found dead in the Thames with a bashed-in skull and the strap of her very expensive camera wrapped around her neck. The camera itself was found buried in pieces in the garden of a middle-aged man in Brixton, who despite being clever enough to avoid leaving personal forensic evidence back at the murder scene had not realised that the memory stick was what actually held the photos and left it intact in the smashed casing. The pictures were easily recovered and showed him in passionate embrace with a much younger woman outside a motel. Sherlock had written it off as dull the moment they saw the upturned dirt in the man's flower patch.

"But how did you know he lived in Brixton?" John asked as they made their way back to Baker Street.

"Amanda's family still lives there, she would have had reason to return often seeing as how she wasn't financially independent," Sherlock drawled. Then, seeing John's puzzled expression he added, "there was a cheque to cover rent made out to her from her parents on the side table by the television."

"Oh," John said, trying to remember if he'd seen that or not. There had been so many bits of discarded paper and trash strewn around the victim's sitting room it had been hard to make heads or tails of anything. He quickly gave up and moved on.

"So the girl went home for a visit and saw this bloke with his mistress. Snapped a photo because... well, I guess that's what she liked to do? Take candid shots of couples?" John raised his eyebrows mischievously, glancing sideways as Sherlock's face twisted into a vaguely pained expression.

"She was an unrepentant voyeur," the detective confirmed unhappily.

"That shot of you and your boyfriend *was* rather sweet though," John pointed out with a grin. Sherlock looked like he might be sick. "I thought Mycroft said you didn't date?"

"Mycroft has very little idea of what I did that year." Sherlock smirked a little, evidently relishing the rare gap in his brother's omnipotence.

"But surely he'd have noticed a *boyfriend,*" John pushed. "You two didn't exactly seem to be trying to hide it."

"Didn't have to, he wasn't looking," Sherlock replied offhandedly. "Back then my brother was content just knowing roughly where I was and whether I was dead or not. There was none of this absurd spying from the street corners." As he spoke the detective glared darkly at a nearby CCTV camera, which turned to follow them as if illustrating his point. John eyed it with a sort of wary resignation. His friend's brother *seriously* needed a hobby.

"But, wait," he suddenly spoke up again as another thought occurred to him, "Forget Mycroft, you're always saying you never had friends. Romantic partners *definitely* count as friends, Sherlock."

"A mutually beneficial arrangement does not necessarily imply friendship," Sherlock drawled, speaking with the same tone of voice he used when explaining a particularly obvious point of logic. He shot John a *'stop being so thick'* look for good measure.

John rolled his eyes. "You must have at least liked him a *little*."

"He was... occasionally tolerable," Sherlock conceded indifferently.

John snorted. "You're a right romantic, Sherlock."

"I do try."

They made their way into the flat, having walked back from the Chinese restaurant where John had managed to force his flatmate to eat some chow mein and half an eggroll.

"Tea?" John asked once they were up the stairs and hanging their coats.

"Lovely," Sherlock replied. He'd pulled off his suit jacket along with the overcoat- possibly accidentally, John couldn't tell- and the buttonup underneath was that odd shade of periwinkle John had come to associate with the detective forgetting to do laundry. As John made his way to the kitchen he heard his flatmate flop dramatically onto the couch with a gusty sigh.

When John returned to the sitting room he found Sherlock draped upside-down on the sofa- feet on the back with his head hanging off the edge of the cushions- using his phone to browse the internet in lieu of actually getting up to fetch a computer. John rolled his eyes and held out a mug of tea, which the detective accepted without a word and rested atop his stomach while he continued to scan whatever he was reading. John hoped the man would at least sit up properly before trying to drink, but said nothing for fear of giving Sherlock ideas for some kind of inverted tea sipping experiment.

His own mug in hand, John grabbed his laptop off the desk and settled into his armchair. He settled in for a quiet night of checking email and updating his blog while Sherlock worked through his post-case sulk. For several minutes the two men sat (or sprawled) in companionable silence, each busy with their own activities.

"Harry says hello," John muttered presently, because Harry had indeed written *'tell Sherly I said hi!'* at the end of her last email. Sherlock didn't respond, too absorbed in dung beetle facts or whatever he was reading. John was just moving on to his next unread mail when a notice popped up on his client alerting him to a new message from New Scotland Yard. It was from Donovan, and the title simply read 'PLAY THIS NOW'. He took a sip of his tea and obligingly opened the attached video file.

Instantly the room was filled with loud, garbled noise from his laptop speakers. The video was a shot of some pub, with a band on stage and a young man yelling into a microphone. John winced and turned the volume down to minimum. Sherlock's head popped up at the sudden commotion.

"What's that?" he asked.

"Dunno, Donovan sent it to me," John answered. The screeching of the audience had died down somewhat so John turned the volume up slightly as the band started playing.

*"I got a date, I'm a sword-swallowing whore  
 I'm burning up, I'm burning up so put some water on me..."*

John felt his eyebrows climb towards his hairline, and glanced up to see what Sherlock would make of this. The other man had frozen in place, face twisted in an almost comedic expression of shock. John blinked in surprise at the unexpected reaction and looked back down at the video, trying to figure out who was in it and why Sherlock would make that face. He'd been staring at the strangely familiar guitarist for maybe half a second before the penny finally dropped.

"Oh god it's you!" John exclaimed with a sharp bark of laughter. He remembered the photos from earlier that day and realised in an instant where Sally must have gotten the video.

"John! Give me that! Turn it off!" Sherlock burst up in a sudden flurry of movement and stepped over the coffee table towards John, who clutched the computer protectively to his chest.

"Not happening!" he yelled, laughing. He dodged as the detective made a lunge for him and jumped up from his armchair to scuttle to the other side of the room away from Sherlock, turning the volume up to maximum as he went. The song was just now getting to the chorus.

*"You better run, run, run and tell someone  
 You found a wishing well, the bottom of a barrel of a gun..."*

"Ha ha! This is brilliant!" John grinned and sidestepped another grab by Sherlock. "You're even singing!"

"That file is evidence in a murder investigation, it is not authorised for release to the public!" Sherlock snapped as he chased his flatmate around the coffee table.

"Come off it, we've been running around London collecting unauthorised information all day!"

John was getting a bit winded evading his longer-legged friend, but luckily the song was almost over. With less than a minute left on the player's progress bar he stopped dodging and let Sherlock catch him. The detective tackled him to the sofa, snatched the laptop from his hands and snapped the lid shut, cutting off the music. He fixed John with a fierce scowl.

"Don't *ever* play that again," he growled in his best 'terrifying sociopath' voice. The doctor just chuckled.

"I thought it was quite good," he quipped lightly, shoving his bony flatmate off his chest so he could sit up. Sherlock slid down to perch on the cushions next to him and gingerly opened the laptop again, only to grimace as the video resumed where it left off.

*"I'm burning up I'm burning u-"*

"Ugh!" Sherlock closed the media player with as much vehemence as he could imbue in a single click and glared viciously at the email from Donovan. "If I find this on YouTube I am going to have Mycroft destroy the entire infrastructure of the internet."

"My blog's on the internet," John pointed out with a frown.

"All the better," Sherlock replied tetchily. He deleted the email before John could do anything about it, then handed the computer back.

"What makes you think Mycroft will agree to help you anyway? He'd probably be happy to find out what you were up to. Fill the gaps, so to speak." John relaxed into the couch and resumed checking the rest of his emails. He quickly hid the alert for a message from Lestrade with the title *'Photos - don't let him delete!'* and glanced up to make sure Sherlock hadn't seen. The detective was glaring at some point in the middle distance, arms crossed over his thin chest like a pouting child. His hair was mussed from running around, making him look about twelve. John resisted the urge to smile indulgently.

"If Mycroft tries to argue I will publish every single embarrassing moment of his childhood to as many websites as possible until he has no other choice but to assist me," Sherlock huffed and looked down at John. "I will start... with the baby photos."

"God no," John said with a bemused smirk.

"Yes. And following from there the ones where he's too fat for his primary school uniform," Sherlock glowered at John's email client and John laughed at the mental image of a chubby little Mycroft twirling a miniature umbrella.

The two of them sat in companionable silence for a few minutes while John checked his blog and Sherlock sulked. Finally John closed the laptop and looked over at Sherlock.

"I don't see why you're so embarrassed, it was a pretty good band," he said. Sherlock didn't respond, so he continued with, "I didn't even know you played guitar."

"Learned in less than a week; it's a boring, unsophisticated instrument," Sherlock snapped, arms still crossed. "And the band was not *'good',* it was dreadful. Generic structure, pointless lyrics. I hated it."

"Why'd you play, then?" John asked.

"Devin gave me a discount on cocaine for helping out."

John wrinkled his nose in displeasure. He supposed he really should have known it had something to do with drugs. "Devin?" he asked instead, hoping to avoid the more obvious subject.

"The drummer," the detective clarified, then continued; "he had a brother who smuggled narcotics for a living." Sherlock's face had darkened considerably, and he brought his legs up to his chest as he glared out at the room. "They were not good people, John. That band was just an excuse to get as many impressionable idiots in a room as possible so the dealers could pass out samples and create more clients."

John balked, remembering seeing a few older men milling around in the audience and in the backgrounds of photos. He'd had a vague idea they were older siblings or music enthusiasts- it hadn't even crossed his mind there would be drug dealers at a pub. He glanced at Sherlock and hesitated only a moment before putting a hand on the man's tense shoulder.

"Hey, if it bothers you we'll just tell Lestrade to delete it, yeah?" he offered. Sherlock shot him a dark look.

"As if the others would pass up the opportunity for ridicule," he spat bitterly. "The entire Yard's seen that video by now, John. And the photos. Delete that email by the way, I saw it on your alert queue," he added with a nod to the laptop.

John bit back a sigh- of *course* Sherlock saw- and opened his computer to comply. His flatmate watched him with a look halfway between a pout and a scowl.

"There, see? It's gone," John angled the screen towards his friend and Sherlock nodded once, then looked away. The doctor thought about getting up to go back to his armchair, but decided it was probably better for him to remain next to his friend. Talking about ex-lovers didn't appear to have opened any of Sherlock's old wounds, but the band certainly had, and the irascible man seemed to handle emotions somewhat better whilst in proximity to John.

"Should have deleted everything back at the crime scene," the detective grumbled to himself. Then, more loudly: "Bloody Amanda and her *bloody* camera!"

"Sherlock, it's honestly not that bad," John said, trying to placate the younger man. "Nobody's going to think less of you for-"

"I don't care what people *think*, John!" Sherlock interrupted churlishly, fixing him with a glare.

"No? What's this all about, then?" John set the laptop on the coffee table and turned to regard the sulking man beside him. Sherlock shifted his attention to scowling at everything that wasn't his flatmate. Tense silence stretched like a wall between them for several minutes.

Finally, just when John was beginning to lose hope of getting any sort of answer out of his moody companion, Sherlock spoke.

"It's an unpleasant period to remember," he uttered tersely. He shot John a brief calculating glance- probably deciding if he should elaborate or not- and shifted to lean his head back against the sofa with hands pressed together between his knees. John recognised this as one of his friend's many 'thinking poses' and carefully kept his mouth shut.

It was a few seconds before Sherlock continued. "John you must understand, I was a very different person back then," he explained. "I *lived* for cocaine. Didn't matter what I had to do to get it. Whether it was playing in a ridiculous band, or-" Sherlock's teeth clicked as he snapped his mouth shut on whatever he'd been about to say. After a slight pause he added more quietly; "Well... suffice to say I was not the most well-adjusted of individuals."

"Glad that's changed then," John muttered sarcastically before he could stop himself. The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched up in a wry grin, eyes glancing at the bullet holes in the wall behind them.

"Fair point," he conceded. "Still, I no longer endeavour to spend every waking moment in a haze of liquor and stimulants. That's got to be some improvement."

John *hmm'*d in agreement. "Could definitely be worse, I'll give you that." Sherlock smiled.

They sat in silence again, companionable this time, as each fell to his own thoughts. After awhile John glanced over at Sherlock. He was sitting in a half-curled slouch, hair still mussed from their romp and a reflective expression on his pale face as he studied the cracks in the plaster above them. He looked so young. Seeing him like this made it hard to believe he'd ever been so much as a teenager, let alone some desperate uni kid doing unspeakable things for a hit of cocaine.

Words from a case months ago suddenly came unbidden to the front of John's mind: Sebastian Wilkes smirking, saying *'we all hated him'* in that arrogant voice as Sherlock's eyes darted away in silent hurt. John frowned.

"Did you start doing drugs at uni?" he asked, breaking the silence. He hoped his friend hadn't already decided to shut down verbally for the day. If they were going to have this kind of discussion John would really prefer it happened all at once, not fragmented and scattered over weeks in their usual manner.

Sherlock thankfully still appeared to be in a talking mood. He made a vague affirmative noise.

"Mycroft's spies kept distracting me from coursework," he said in a bored voice. "Needed a way to focus."

John's eyes widened momentarily, wondering if Mycroft knew about his part in driving his younger brother to addiction. Sherlock glanced sidelong at him and caught the look.

"Of *course* he knows," he drawled, deducing his flatmate's train of thought from his expression.

"Did he ever apologise?" John asked. He thought he might be beginning to understand some of the motivation behind the brothers' 'childish feud'.

Sherlock scoffed. "If kidnapping someone and trapping them in a rehabilitation facility for three months without a word of contact counts as an apology, then yes of course."

"He *kidnapped* you?"

"Well I wasn't about to go willingly."

John shook his head in disbelief. Next to the Holmes brothers he and his sister were practically best mates.

"No contact?"

"Not even a letter. Too busy running the world to waste valuable time talking to his disappointment of a sibling, I expect." Sherlock was trying to keep his tone light, but his voice had gone low and bitter. This was obviously a sore subject.

John made a disgusted noise at the elder Holmes' behaviour. "No wonder you hate him," he muttered.

"Indeed." Sherlock sunk lower into the couch and rested his feet on the coffee table as he glowered at the ceiling. "He also... let Father find out," he added in a low murmur.

John's face pulled into a gentle wince of sympathy. "And your dad wasn't the understanding type, I'm guessing."

"He disowned me," Sherlock confirmed flatly.

John grimaced.

"You didn't relapse, did you?" he asked, dreading the answer.

"You saw the photos, John. Did that man look sober to you?"

John felt his heart sink. "Those were... *after* the-?"

"After rehab, yes." Sherlock nodded. "Without a trust fund there was no way to continue at Oxford, so I decided my time would be better spent pursuing... other interests. It wasn't all bad of course; street life turned out to be very exciting," he added blandly, as if dropping out of university to become a homeless addict had just been another of his madcap bids to escape boredom. John tried to keep the pitying expression off his face.

John desperately wanted to ask his friend to elaborate, but Sherlock's demeanour was quickly growing maudlin. He cast about for something slightly less bleak.

"So how'd you end up in a band, then?" he asked lightly, hoping that tale would be a little more cheerful. Sherlock had, after all, managed to find a boyfriend by that point. And acquaintances. Surely things had gotten better.

Sherlock turned his head and regarded his flatmate carefully. John stared right back.

"Do you really want to know, John?"

"Yes," the doctor replied without hesitation.

"... Why?" Sherlock sounded genuinely curious. And maybe a little confused. Like he still wasn't used to people being interested in his life beyond the deductive capabilities. John felt his expression soften.

"Because I want to know more about my friend," he explained patiently. Sherlock's eyes brightened like they always did at John's use of the word 'friend'. The doctor continued- "I've told you stories about my time in the army, haven't I? Turnabout's fair play."

Sherlock seemed to consider this for a moment. Then abruptly he sprang up from his slouched position to sit cross-legged on the cushion facing John. He brought his hands up fingertip-to-fingertip below his chin- another 'thinking pose'.

"It's not a happy story, John," he warned. One last chance to back out.

John didn't bite. "That's fine."

Sherlock took a deep breath, eyes falling gently closed. He began to speak.

"It started at the end of my first year..."

## Chapter 3

Sally stared at the computer screen in front of her, wrinkling her nose in displeasure as the grainy video shot blurred out of focus a few times. Ugh she hated when the files did this - gave her bloody migraine. Finally the picture sharpened up, the fuzz of distorted audio smoothing out to recognisable sounds. She pressed the headphones tighter over her ears and leant in close as a voice filtered through.

"Where the bleedin' hell's the... christ, buggerin' piece a... ah, there!"

Thick cockney accent, a young man muttering to himself in concentration. Sally furrowed her brows and watched as the shot of what appeared to be an old, rickety pub table panned swiftly upwards along a brick wall. It focused briefly on the freckled cheeks of some grinning bloke, then blurred with motion again and finally settled on a skinny teenager wearing a dark blue hoodie. The boy was seated on a scuffed wooden chair with his feet up on a dilapidated pub table beside him, eyes glued to his own fingers as they plucked idle notes from a chocolate-brown guitar resting against his stomach.

*It's Holmes*, Sally realised with a triumphant smirk. *Finally!*

She'd been trawling through the video files from that homicide case with the dead photographer for bloody *ages* now, on the hunt for more scandalous information concerning their ever-aggravating consulting detective. Whenever she had a few moments of free time - could justify wasting police resources snooping through a closed case - she'd be watching file after banal file looking for his face. Because there *had* to be more videos of the 'great detective' playing in that ridiculous pub band on here. Ones he hadn't managed to delete when he'd hacked into their evidence database last month.

Granted, of course, she couldn't really prove it had been Holmes who'd done that... but considering the only photos that'd disappeared had been the ones with *his face* in them Sally figured the culprit pretty damned obvious. Lestrade hadn't seemed too concerned about it when she'd brought the security breach to his attention. He'd been more amused than anything, like he fully expected Holmes to both engage in and get away scot free with that sort of behaviour. Sally loved her boss, she really did, but *god* he could be such a doormat.

Lacking any better option she'd eventually decided the most she could do was make sure at least *something* survived. (Preferably something stupidly embarrassing she could put on YouTube.) Down at the end of the list on their network copy of the laptop's hard drive contents there'd been a load of un-sorted files, just random things lacking a place in the woman's otherwise meticulously organised system. Sally'd figured Holmes hadn't gone through every single one of those. Certainly not the videos, at least. Would take too long, and Holmes was impatient - he'd just focus on photos, leave the rest. Maybe. Was worth a shot anyway.

And oh good lord, but she'd been *right.*

"You actually nicked Mandy's camera?" the absurdly young-looking version of Holmes on the screen said, his deep *(though not quite as deep as Sally was accustomed to - how old was he here, then? late teens? early twenties?)* voice sounding utterly bored. He glanced up toward the boy hidden behind the lens frame and raised an eyebrow.

"Y'said I couldn't do it so I went an' bleedin' *did*, y'prat." The holder of the camera seemed to have been in the midst of sitting down in a chair as he spoke - the picture bounced and skittered around before finally settling on a close-in shot of Holmes' unimpressed face.

"You just politely asked her if you could borrow it, didn't you?" he replied in a flat monotone. A disgruntled sputtering noise drifted from behind the frame.

"Wh- *no*, you arse! I *nicked* it, fuck's sake. Y'think I can't steal a damn camera..."

Holmes half-shrugged, looking back down to his instrument. Sounds of someone fiddling with settings on the lenses buffeted Sally's ears for a moment, before the shot zoomed out to take in a wider view of Holmes. Pale hands wandering over the neck of his guitar, feet on the tabletop off to the left of the frame with the rest of his body leaning idly back in his chair. Between the dirty trainers and short mop of messy, unkempt hair he looked strangely... human. Like a shiftless runaway, just some lost kid off the streets. Not at all his usual statuesque persona.

"I think you're too chickenshit to risk Charley kicking your arse when his girlfriend finds out who lifted her expensive equipment."

Sally raised her eyebrows in surprise, which swiftly morphed to delight. Hearing Holmes swear so casually, good lord. The victorious smirk of discovery had yet to leave her face - not a pub band performance, this, but nearly every bit as good as one. Teenage Holmes being a precious little rebel? Calling people 'chickenshit', of all things? Really? *Adorable.* Where'd he even picked up a phrase like that?

An arm appeared suddenly in-frame *(it seemed the camera was resting on the tabletop in front of whomever had been operating it, now, because the shot remained steady despite his movement)* and unsuccessfully tried to smack Holmes upside the head. Holmes dodged easily, stuck his tongue out like a child, and the man who'd stolen the camera huffed in annoyance. Muffled sounds of a chair screeching across wood drifted through Sally's headphones. Then out of nowhere the young freckled bloke she'd only seen in a brief flash earlier was sitting right up next to Holmes in the midst of the frame.

"Oi, Mandy, I nicked yer camera an' I ain't sayin' sorry!" the boy announced firmly into the screen. Beside him Holmes rolled his eyes.

"You're filming yourself confessing to a petty crime, you moron."

"Also Sherly's high t'shit on coke!" the other added in his chipper cockney quip. He turned and grinned as Holmes abruptly glared at him. "There, aye? Now I'll be done up on thievery an' you'll get yer arse a drugs offence."

"You're a fucki-"

"Anyways!" the boy continued, cutting Holmes' rude invective off. "Y'said if I lifted the camera you'd do th'song, 'member? Deal's a deal, mate."

"I have no idea what you're on about," Holmes retorted airily as he shifted his gaze back down to the guitar. He set himself to plucking out a series of semi-random notes and seemed to have decided to ignore his companion.

The freckled bloke shoved Holmes lightly in the arm, frowning. "Oi, don't be a fuckhead. Y'don't forget shit y'said two bleedin' hours ago."

"I'm *high to shit* on coke, according to you. Why shouldn't I forget what I said two hours ago?" Holmes smirked very slightly to himself as his fingers flitted around some sort of little concerto-sounding melody. "I mean really I've probably got brain damage by now, haven't I? Muddled in the head."

"Y'ain't got brain damage," the other replied in flat exasperation.

Holmes blinked over at him, feigning a look of confusion. "Hang on... what was your name again?"

With a gusty huff of a sigh the cockney boy leant sideways and grabbed Holmes' face in a quick kiss. Sally's eyebrows shot straight up towards her hair in shocked delight. She snickered into her hand and hoped to hell none of her colleagues would choose this moment to ask what she was watching. Because oh *lord*, that was right, wasn't it? The freckle-faced kid had been young Holmes' *boyfriend.* She'd forgotten that sordid detail in the time since she'd last looked through these files. And apparently he'd been *cockney?* Holmes had dated some vaguely chavvy little working-class criminal? Beautiful. Completely, sodding *beautiful*.

"You're an arsehole," the unnamed-boyfriend announced matter-of-factly as he drew back from the kiss. He added a short pat on the cheek and smiled for the glare shot his way.

"So what does that make you, an emotional masochist?" Holmes asked in a bland drawl.

The other boy blinked. "A what?"

"Good christ your vocabulary's shit."

"Yeah get fucked, mate," the cockney kid replied with a light roll of his eyes. He turned back towards the camera and reached out with one hand to reposition it a bit, re-centring the frame so they were both equally in the shot. "Alright, then! Here's what we're on about-"

"Who the hell are you talking to?" Holmes cut in, grumbling. His companion ignored him.

"So a couple hours back we was talkin' bout the best way to go stealin' shit when Sherly said, an' I quote: *'if you manage to nick Mandy's camera I'll play that entire idiotic song of yours on film'*-"

"Was that supposed to sound like my accent?"

"- an' now he's tryin' to pretend like he don't remember sayin' that, but he bleedin' *does* cause he remembers fuckin' everythin', so now since I went an' nicked the camera he's gotta do the bloody song."

"Good luck making me."

The cockney boy smirked somewhat wickedly into the frame. "... and if he *don't* do it then I'm gonna start repeatin' every dumbarse thing he said th'other night when I got 'im stoned t'hell and we-"

Holmes' eyes suddenly widened - he scrambled to shove himself forward in his chair and clapped a hand over the other man's mouth. His boyfriend laughed, pushing him off.

"Oh not too keen on that'un, aye?"

"You're a fucking *extortionist*," Holmes snapped, his glare gone furious, a faint flush to his cheeks. The other boy just laughed again.

"Hey like I said, mate: deal's a deal."

Holmes held his gaze for a moment more, then finally flopped back in his chair with a gusty, put-upon sigh. Beside him his friend grinned in triumph.

"... I don't remember the notes," Holmes muttered unhappily.

"Figure 'em out."

Another furious glare (met by a sweet, guileless smile) and with a petulant grumble Holmes raised his hands to the guitar once more. Experimentally he played a short snippet of some tune, looking for the correct tones. After a few seconds he seemed to catch on to whatever he was doing and plucked out a more confident melody.

"Is that it?"

"Yep."

The freckled boy was grinning ear-to-ear now, having leant back in his own chair to put his feet up on something (a chair, presumably) just out-of-frame. He tucked one hand into his jeans pockets, the other bent at a strangely awkward angle over his stomach, and nudged Holmes with his shoulder.

"Come on, then, get on with it. I know y'remember how it goes."

"Extortionist," Holmes muttered again. Regardless of his irritated tone he did, indeed, begin to play. A few bars of some lilting, repetitive tune flowed from the instrument.

And then, to Sally's profound, utter shock... he started *singing.*

It was in a low, almost sulky-sounding baritone, with the words not particularly loud. But they were definitely *lyrics*. And they were definitely being *sung*. Sally's mouth fell open.

*"Please, remember me, happily*

The smirk which had been locked in a semi-permanent state on Sally's face ever since discovering this file seemed to have found itself thoroughly erased by the melody now drifting through her headphones. Hurriedly she pressed the plastic muffs firmly over her ears once more, leant forward as she tried in vain to catch all the words. They seemed to slip through her memory the instant she heard them, nothing but a flowing cascade of poetry. What meaning she could catch between the startling (if somewhat hesitantly quiet) emotional undertones was all wistful recollection and... a sort of plea? A repeating request for remembrance? God, what song was this?

On the screen Holmes' boyfriend seemed to be having similar difficulties to Sally's - at least where keeping his amused expression in place was concerned. His features had softened into a fond, sad smile as he watched the other man play. Holmes was too busy keeping an eye on the position of his fingers to notice.

... well, this definitely wasn't a *short* song, Sally noted dimly around perhaps the two minute mark. Strangely repetitive, too, though the lyrics kept on changing. She found herself somewhat unwillingly impressed with Holmes' ability to remember the order of so many varied lines. Ugh, but... but then that was just like him, wasn't it? Sodding *freak*, rubbing his smarts in everyone's faces, even as a punk teenager he'd still been showing off...

She found her internal vitriol lacking in much of its usual venom. Mostly because she'd just gone and made the mistake of watching Holmes' face - his glare had morphed into something far less annoyed over the course of the impromptu little performance, now resembling a look of concentration more than anything. He seemed to have forgotten about his own adamant refusal to play and had moved on to actually singing with something approaching genuine *feeling*, whilst his guitar accompaniment became more firmly established. It was surreal to watch. Like a proper musician doing a show.

On the other side of the frame the freckled bloke had begun to silently mouth along with the lyrics, a smile on his face... though, Sally noted, his eyes had turned downcast. Holmes glanced up at the man and abruptly the song quieted back down to a more uncertain plucking of notes, a hesitant voice. His expression went sort of oddly questioning as he studied his friend. Looking *worried*, almost.

His companion looked up, then smiled and jerked his shoulder towards the camera. A gentle reminder that they were on film, apparently. Holmes blinked over, seemed to roll his eyes at the lens, then returned his focus to his instrument. The tempo sped up noticeably for what turned out to be the final few lines.

*"My dear, and if I make*  
*The pearly gates*  
*I'll do my best to make a drawing*  
*Of god and lucifer, a boy and girl*  
*An angel kissing on a sinner*  
*A monkey and a man*  
*A marching band*  
*All around a frightened trapeze swinger..."*

With a matter-of-fact plucking of the last notes he trailed off. A few beats of silence, then he huffed to himself and flopped conclusively back into his chair.

"Aw, oi!" his boyfriend burst out. "Yer s'posed to do the *naah nah nah* stuff at th'end!"

"You just blackmailed me into playing a *six minute long* song and you're miffed I didn't do the idiotic humming bit?" Holmes countered, throwing his hands up in frustration. "You're bloody impossible!"

"Alright, fine... I just like that bit, is all." After a pause the other boy smiled, wide and genuine, and leant over to throw one arm around Holmes in a hug. *(Sally abruptly realised she'd not seen the bloke use his left arm at all - in fact the elbow appeared to be locked unnaturally into place under the sleeve of his jumper, a thick lump bulging beneath the fabric... a cast, maybe?)* "Y'did brilliant on all th'rest, though. Knew you'd remember th'words."

Holmes returned the hug with a vaguely exasperated-looking pat on the man's back. "I have no idea how you expect me to forget the lyrics to a song you've played about a hundred bloody times this week."

"Hah, yeah I dunno." The boy laughed again. "I guess most folks just kinda block that stuff out? Sounded brill, anyhow."

The freckled bloke drew away from Holmes and, turning back to the table, reached out for the camera with his good arm. Sally's view of the scene blurred out again as the young man manipulated the object in his grip.

"So where's th'fuckin' off switch, then?"

"How should I know?"

"Yer all good with computers an' shit."

"Being able to defrag your laptop's ancient hard drive doesn't mean I'll automatically- oh, it's right there."

"What? Where...? This'un...?"

"*No*, you idiot, it's next to the-, bloody hell just give it here."

More muffled sounds as the device switched hands, then a beat later the screen blacked out.

Sally sat and stared vacantly at her darkened computer monitor for several seconds.

Well. That had been... hm. Good lord. *Well.*

She wasn't entirely sure why, but she was beginning to feel rather like she'd just been sucker-punched in the gut. Like her mental image of Sherlock Holmes had gotten turned squarely on its head, never to be viewed the same way again.

But then *why...?* Was it... was it all the friendly banter? No, no, she'd heard Holmes have similar conversations with Watson loads of times - a bit less rude language, granted, but mostly the same dynamic. Nor was it the brief displays of affection between the man and his long-ago ex, as she'd seen that stuff already with the photos. So... so then.

God, no... alright, it had been the singing. The *bloody* singing.

For all Sally strove to maintain her stoic belief in Holmes as a dangerous psychopath, a walking time-bomb, ready to murder anyone at the drop of a hat... that position was now sorely compromised by the knowledge that the man had once upon a time been able to *sing.* And moreover that he'd sung something like *that.* A wistful, quiet ode, full of haunting melancholy. Resigned and oddly hopeful all at once. Quite frankly an *alarming* mix of emotions for a self-professed sociopath to convey so easily.

Psychos... didn't sound like that. Did they? *Could* they? Was it possible to fake such a viscerally human act as *singing?* And to fake it that well?

Endless minutes stretched by as she turned these questions over in her head. Finally, deciding she really shouldn't be wasting time like this in the middle of her office, she moved her hand to her mouse and firmly closed the video player. Holmes, christ... who cared. Who *cared*, honestly, he was a lunatic.

A second's hesitation, though, as her pointer hovered over the button to close the folder she'd been browsing through. If she clicked on anything else now she'd lose track of the highlighted file - the thing had been named with an arbitrarily assigned designation by the camera, not organised into a tidy set like most of the victim's other recordings were. It could take weeks to find it again.

These file copies were housed on a backup flash drive, not the original laptop (which had been compounded as evidence ages ago), so Sally was free to re-name it. Without giving herself time to reconsider she right clicked on the thumbnail to do so... but then sat frozen, fingers hovering over the keyboard. What bland, boring, straightforward filename could possibly fit something like *this?*

Unbidden her mind strayed once more back to the song, to a very young Holmes with a guitar over his too-thin chest and his freckled cockney boyfriend pressed up beside him, reluctantly giving musical voice to poetry.

Shaking her head, she quickly typed in a few words, then closed the folder.