The first time John heard the violinist he froze in the middle of the pavement with people jostling him from either side. Time rippled around him- the sweet, pure sound so reminiscent of better days. His eyes burned with unshed tears and his breath caught in his throat. Everything was wrong, so wrong it made him want to scream. John shook his head, backing away.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry," he said over and over again to the strangers in his way, to the ghosts in his head.
The second time John heard the violinist he ran away. He did so slowly, never moving faster than his normal walking pace, but running away it was.
His infamous Watson stubbornness was the only thing that kept John from changing his routine and ensuring that there never was a third time. Still, each time he crossed that pathway and heard nothing, he breathed a sigh of relief.
By the third time that John heard the violinist, time had passed and his wounds were no longer bleeding, though the scars were still tender. He stood at the edge of the street listening with his eyes closed for what seemed like hours. The memories flowed like rainwater, carried by the beautiful tune, washed clean of bitterness and sorrow.
John could see Sherlock standing by the window with bow in hand creating magic. The sounds of Sherlock's violin had alternately soothed his nightmares and wrecked his sleep, depending on Sherlock's mood. The nights watching Sherlock play had always been their most companionable, a time when ruffled feathers eased back into their place. He'd never fully appreciated the beauty of the music that had provided a soundtrack to his words, to their life.
Standing there listening to a stranger create the same magnificent sounds that Sherlock once played, John felt like Sherlock was a little closer, a little less lost. So he stayed, and he listened, until the sky grew dark and the music fell to silence.
The fourth time John heard the violinist he followed the music to the musician. The man the woman sat hunched on a park bench, a mass of clothing from head to toe, so covered in cloth that it was impossible to tell a body shape much less a gender. Their face was hidden beneath an oversized hooded jacket that had seen better days; every feature was obscured by shadows. Only their hands were visible, stained brown by either dirt or sun, John couldn't tell. The long fingers appeared too weathered to manipulate the strings with such deft agility, but the same could be said of the worn violin that looked like it had been rescued from a rubbish bin. Covered in scuff marks, it seemed impossible that such an instrument could sing.
The impossible sound, so rich and vibrant, brought a warm longing to his heart. As if buoyed by having an audience, the hands quickened their pace, the violinist becoming impassioned, taking the music soaring to new heights. John listened, drifting, awash with joy and peace.
Before John left, he dropped every coin in his pocket into the open case.
The fifth time John heard the violinist neither of them should have been there.
The day was cold and wet with a constant falling mist that never quite graduated to rain- the type of weather that kept smarter, more fortunate individuals indoors. John was tired, bone-weary, his damp clothes clinging uncomfortably to his limbs, but he was driven to keep moving, to keep walking. His thoughts were too big, his head too small, and walls only exacerbated the problem so he walked the city soaking in the grey, melancholy.
As John rounded the curve of the path, he stopped, startled to see the familiar form of the violinist huddled under the shelter of the bridge, looking as wretched as John felt. John could tell the moment they noticed him, their hands appearing out from under the bundle of clothing to caress the violin case in their lap. As John moved closer, they bowed their head, keeping their face hidden in the hood of their coat. John shook his head and kept moving; if the weather was miserable for humans, it would be murder for an instrument of wood and string.
John froze in shock as he first notes reached his ear. He turned slowly, staring at the violinist, knowing that they played for him, wondering why they'd bother. He was no one, nothing, a stranger amongst the crowd. Who would play for him? His hands trembled as he moved closer, leaning on a rail for support.
The violin sounded like a bird, lonely and lost, crying in the wind. The music filled him, bringing stillness to his thoughts, leaving no room for anything but the sound. John closed his eyes, feeling his face become wet. The violinist played without pause, showing no signs of stopping, even as the weather worsened around them.
John pushed off of the railing, staggering under his own weight as his old injuries, both real and imagined, protested painfully. The violinist let their notes dwindle to silence. They watched him then, detecting his imminent departure, began to pack away the instrument.
John stood before the musician, hands empty of anything to give.
"Thank you," he said, hoarsely, voice cracking with emotion, hoping the simple words conveyed even a fraction of his gratitude.
They paused, a thumb lingering over the clasp, but never looked up from the case.
John began the long trek home; his day feeling just a bit brighter.
The sixth time John heard the violinist he hadn't intended to stop. He was meeting Molly for lunch and already running late but as he approached the figure lifted the violin to their chin and John found his feet slowing involuntarily. The song was one he knew well, fast-paced with notes flitting up and down the scales. John smiled as he listened to one of his favourites come to life again. John had never told Sherlock how much he loved this song, though he played it frequently enough to have known; the crescendo always reminded John of their harebrained chases through the London streets.
As the last note faded, John moved forward to gently place a bag of Mrs. Hudson's biscuits into the violin case; Molly wouldn't mind.
The seventh time John heard the violinist, it was only a memory. He paused as he approached the park, remembering the songs, wondering if this time the violinist might be there but like the last time and the time before that, there was no one playing; the bench sat empty.
"Looking for someone?" asked Sherlock, his breath forming clouds in the cold, winter air. John tilted sideways until their shoulders brushed as they walked.
"Not anymore."