The sweet sounds of a violin drifted up and down Baker Street, passing into shops and homes through open windows and doors. When people looked for the source of the music, they were more often than not surprised.
A lone, scruffy-looking man stood outside of Speedy's, violin held between his shoulder and chin, his deft fingers coaxing note after beautiful note out of the instrument.
Most people just hurry past, ignoring him, but a few stopped to toss change in his case; others simply stayed and listened, wrapped up in a story that didn't have words.
John Watson stood, watching the musician with his head tilted. The man bore some semblance to Sherlock Holmes, tall, with the same high cheekbones and thin frame. Even the way he played, eyes closed, relaxed, but still never missing a beat. It was like watching Sherlock play again, like stapping back those three years before his best friend's fall…
Memories crashed through John's brain, of running through London chasing criminals, of quiet nights where Sherlock played solo pieces, lulling the doctor to sleep, of being there at the moment Sherlock solved a crime, the pieces falling together and the giddiness in the detective's face. A single tear rolled down his cheek as his mind assaulted him with visions of his dead best friend. He swallowed thickly, trying to will them away.
The violinist played on, transitioning into an instrumental version of an aria from an opera by Giordanni.
John fled to 221B, hoping to find some clemency from the sweet music that was punishing him so.
He's barely into the sitting room when a knock sounds at the door, and he hears Mrs. Hudson go to answer it. The violinist has (finally) stopped playing, and John gives a relieved sigh as he sinks into his chair. Two sets of footsteps ascend the stairs, Mrs. Hudson's and an oddly familiar one that he can't place. The old lady knocks and enters' informing John that he has a visitor. The doctor looks up, giving a warm smile to his landlady before looking to his visitor. The scruffy violinist beams at him, crossing the room and offering his hand for John to shake. John flashes a weak smile in greeting.
"You have a glass of water?" the musician asks. Mrs. Hudsin scurries into the kitchen to fetch it. John bends to get his newspaper, and when his gaze returns to his visitor, Sherlock Holmes is smiling back at him.
"Hello, John," he says warmly.
The soldier's eyes widen, and he slumps off of his chair in a dead faint.