It was March 31st when my companion finally tied the loose ends of The Balinkey murders.
It had been an exhausting six weeks, and we were both drained mentally and physically. The day had started as usual. I listened for sounds coming from his lab in the basement. That would confirm he was at work and was not to be disturbed. Hearing nothing, I proceeded to walk into the parlor.

Sherlock was deep in the palace he calls his mind, half heartedly plucking away at his violin, which had been lazily propped up against one knee.
The instrument produced a dreadful noise, not having been tuned nor tightened in over seven days, but all thoughts vanished from my mind once I laid eyes on the kitchen area. Pots and pans lay about in an unorderly fashion, black hard residue crusting the bottom and half a plate of cold steak and potatoes from last night's supper sat dejected on the table.

With a sigh, I made my way back into the cluttered parlor where Holmes sat muttering to seemingly himself, and readied myself to lecture him on the rules of keeping a flat with another man, when I noticed that his plucking had ceased, his breathing slowed, and soft snoring filled the room. I picked up the violin to avoid it sliding off of the sleeping man's chair and clattering to the floor and set it lightly on the table. I crossed the room and sat down in my armchair, prepared to busy myself with the newspaper until he woke up, but I found myself gazing in wonder at his still figure. Shadows filled his sculpted cheekbones, and highlighted the angularity of his face and the dark circles under his eyes. His long dark hair, usually slicked back in the proper style for men of our age, lay like a messy mop of bouncy curls atop his head.

He was a very strange looking man. You would never see him without his black flapping coat and deerstalker, and a long smoking pipe held tight between his teeth. Some would say he looked like a god, others would say he had an otter or weasel like complexion, others said he was scary or like an angel. In my mind he was the most fascinating specimen I have ever studied the behavior of. He could take but once glance at the well worn sole of a farmer's left boot and tell the wide eyed man his own life story. There were times I didn't think he was human, but he was. And a typically unpleasant one too. But when he slept he could not open his mouth, therefore he was more peaceful and less irritable towards those who he found small minded, which was every individual we have encountered in our years spent solving crimes together. He had a very slim respect towards Lestrade and although he did not admit it he seemed to have fondness for Mrs. Hudson, our dear landlady, and Irene Adler, who's name had not been spoken in over three and a half months. No matter how much I questioned him, he would never let anything slip about his feelings or his mind, which seemed to be the only working object inside him. I cleared my throat softly, and tore my eyes away from him and back to the newspaper. The paper crinkled as I turned the page and began to read the regular morning news, only half paying attention. It was not long before I sensed someone's eyes on me. I looked up and my blue eyes met his bleary catlike ones. He sat up, let out a yawn, and squinted at me before laying back down and turning his attention towards the ceiling.

''How long were you watching me sleep?''

I felt myself turn bright red. ''I-I- was not watching you sleep,'' I stuttered. How in God's name did he know? I expected an explanation of some sort, as he always gives but instead he silently stood, picked up his violin, and began to play. The bow slid across the strings smoothly and cleanly, creating a beautiful melody, and his slender pale fingers danced across the fingerboard.

''I take it you haven't figured much else out about the case?'' I asked, trying to change the subject. The bow halted. He turned towards me, and glided across the floor, instrument in hand. He stopped before me, his face a couple inches away from my own, breath tickling my cheek, and whispered into my ear,

''Have patience my dear Watson.''