This is to be a collection of one-shots based on prompts from the participants of The December Calendar Challenge of Awesomeness, hosted by Hades Lord of the Dead. As usual, I am running late. (as in I have missed half of the December challenges already). Hades LotD, graciously allowed me to join late anyway.
This is my first time joining a prompt challenge and my first time writing for Sherlock Holmes ( I usually reside in BBC SHERLOCK-land writing Johnlock), so please inform me (nicely) if I make any gaffs or otherwise mess up.
Disclaimer: Do we do disclaimers in Sherlock Holmes fanfics? Doesn't matter, because I don't own the rights to Sherlock Holmes.
So without further introduction, may I present: Today's prompt from Domina Temporis:
Young Sherlock Holmes is a menace to gardens and chinaware. His parents insist he take lessons in something to keep him busy – but why did they have to pick the violin?
I hope this one-shot is in keeping with your prompt. I know it's REALLY long. But hey, it's REALLY short for me (I always write too much! :D
This fic is rated K+.
The Introduction
The shattered vase lay amidst the pathetic remains of the dying lilies. The silly vase should not have been perched on the edge of the table where someone, who was practicing the art of navigating while blindfolded, would invariably crash into them.
The flowers were easily replaced, or they would have been if Sherlock hadn't scorched most of the flower bed when his newly invented flamethrower malfunctioned. That was really the fault of the cooper; if his barrel hadn't leaked, the special blend of whale oil and coal dust would not have spilled onto the garish lilies. They would not have ignited along with the straw-stuffed test dummy and…
"That vase was an antique, Mother will be displeased," commented his fat brother, whose tight collar was so close to choking him, yet, like the barrel, it failed in its duty.
"Shut up, Mycroft," muttered Sherlock.
"I was sent to tell you that Master Ambrogio is here for your first lesson," said Mycroft placidly. Mycroft was always placid, like a cow. An evil, brilliant bovine, who sat and chewed his cud all day, while secretly planning the eventual takeover of the British goverment.
"Don't pout. It's so plebian," murmured his bovine brother. "You brought this on yourself, Sherlock. Mother thought it would be best for you to develop a healthier past-time, aside from destroying the china and digging up the gardens."
"I didn't dig up the gardens; I burned them," corrected the pale, thin seven-year old who already sported a rather imperious nose.
"You dug up part of the kitchen garden a fortnight ago, looking for…what was it? Human remains?"
"The foreman who went missing forty years ago," announced Sherlock in a piping voice. "I found a button. It is at least fifty years old, it may have belonged to the victim or the perpetrator. I'm sure I was close to discovering the foreman's remains. He was killed by a jealous husband…"
"Master Ambrogio awaits in the music room," said Mycroft. "Mother wishes you to attend."
"No you wish me to attend. This was your idea. You wish me to die of boredom scraping across the strings of some stupid violin."
"Sherlock, go. If Master Ambrogio gives me a good report, I will consider allowing you to attend the coroner's inquest tomorrow."
The boy narrowed his sharp eyes, considered the pluses and minuses, then held out his hand, "Agreed."
They shook on it and went their separate ways.
Sherlock strode into the music room, a room he seldom entered.
A short plump man (late twenties, unmarried, lives with a female relative, most likely his mother), stood in front of a flourishing palm like a black suited hippopotamus.
"And you ar'a Mas-ter Sherrrock," said Master Ambrogio. "I'ma to understand you want to learn to play violin. I'ma to teacha you."
"You are sadly misinformed," announced Sherlock. "I wish no such thing. However, I will cooperate for this one lesson- provided you stop using that stupid, fake accent. What is your real name?"
Master Ambrogio blinked. "My name is Alfred Winston. But I did train in Europe, principally in Florence, Italy…"
"Please, I asked for your name, not your entire life history," said Sherlock. "So teach me a song."
"Well…Well," said Alfred. "Perhaps I could introduce you to the violin."
Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes. Introduction indeed. Next the silly man would be aking Sherlock to bow to the wretched instrument.
Unfortuately, Sherlock had made an agreement and besides he really wanted to attend the inquest. He tried to pay attention to the pudgy fake Italian. He really did.
By the third lesson, Sherlock was capable of making his violin screech like a witch and shriek like a banshee.
By the sixth lesson, he could name all the notes, and find his fingering without fail. But he flatly refused to play the baby songs that Master Alfred tried to teach him.
Instead, he practiced making the banshee shriek, to terrorize his brother during the next thunderstorm.
By the tenth lesson, Master Alfred was ready to admit defeat.
"It's a shame that with those long fingers, you still cannot manage to play single note," said Master Alfred wistfully.
Sherlock smirked, he did not want to manage to play a single note.
"Well, I'm sorry you found the violin too challenging," continued Master Alfred. "Perhaps your family will want you to try the piano instead?"
"I didn't find it challenging, Master Alfred. I found it dull," corrected Sherlock.
"Prove it, play the beginning of that Chopin, which I adapted just for you," challenged Alfred, looking more like a card sharp than a music teacher.
"You are merely trying to manipulate me," said Sherlock. "It's not unlike two boys making a dare."
"Yes, I am," said Alfred genially. "Prove me wrong. Prove you're a genius."
Sherlock didn't want to play, primarily because Mycroft and his parents wanted him to. He so wanted to fail, just to show that he would not be bullied into playing a violin. On the other hand, he wanted to prove that he was a genius.
Master Alfred tapped his foot and began playing the sprightly Cholin.
"Please feel free to join in any time, Master Sherlock…Don't be afraid."
The boy stiffened. Sherlock Holmes was never afraid. He placed the small, student sized violin under his chin and held his bow at the ready, waiting for Alfred to return to the beginning of the piece.
Now Sherlock joined in. It was rough; he was frequently off key, which was all the more noticeable as he followed his teacher's flowing notes. But Master Alfred did not slow down for his pupil. No, he pushed the boy to try harder. He pulled his pupil after him, chasing down the notes one after another. They played for an hour and a half, until both were tired and glowing (which, as Sherlock had been informed, was the polite word for sweating.)
"Brilliant! Bravo!" said Alfred, mopping his brow with his pocket handkerchief and smiling.
"Do not patronize me," said Sherlock with a pout combined with a scowl. "I was awful. I was slow, and clumsy and missed as many notes as I hit."
"This was the first time you actually played, Master Sherlock. I consider this to be your first lesson. Therefore, you played brilliantly. It is a pity you don't want to continue with your lessons, because I sincerely believe you have talent. It is so sad to see talent and, dare I say genius, go to seed." Alfred shook his head sadly.
Sherlock studied the rotund musician. Even at seven, Sherlock was learning how to read people, and Alfred radiated sincerity.
"As usual, you misunderstand me," said the pale, intense boy. "When I said that I had enough lessons, I meant the other kind. I do not wish to have any more lessons where I hunt for A minor or F sharp, nor will I play nursery rhymes. I will only participate in lessons where we will play music. Real music like the Chopin or the Bach. I am confident that I will soon prove to you that I am a genius."
"Holmes, who is this Alfred Winston?" asked Doctor Watson as he sipped his morning tea and sorted the mail. He proffered a small card, edged in somber black.
"What? What?" snapped Sherlock Holmes who paced in front of the fireplace, leaving a billowing trail of tobacco smoke in his wake, while he ruminated on his latest case.
"You insisted that I open your mail, Holmes," said the good doctor. "I have sad news concerning an Alfred Winston."
"Winston, Winston…Ah, my old music teacher, Watson," said the great detective. "Sad news you say. You mean he died."
"Well, not to put too fine a point on it, yes."
"Mmm, yes he's been fading the last two years. I always told him that his corpulent habitus would be the death of him. Which reminds me, you've surely put on half a stone this winter, best not have any more toast, Doctor. I wouldn't want to lose my personal physician."
"I have not put on weight," said Doctor Watson, smoothing down the front of his tight waistcoat. He frowned from underneath his mustache. "It doesn't matter, I'm running late. Sorry, Holmes."
"Sorry, whatever for, Watson?"
"For the loss of your old friend and teacher."
"Who said he was a friend?"
"I say it," said Watson with conviction. "And I am sorry for your loss."
"And I say you are going to be very late for your meeting, Watson," said Sherlock, waving his hand dismissively "Off you go!"
After the good doctor hurried out for his appointment (having left his toast untouched) the consulting detective took out his violin.
He tuned it.
Then he made it scream like a witch and screech like a banshee.
Then he began the Chopin, a simple dance tune, adapted for a young student. He played all the old tunes, swaying in time, in memory of the man who introduced him to the violin.
