He is a shadow in the lamplight, a glimmer of a ghost. Untouchable at risk of dissipation. Any moment he'll dissolve into mist and disappear and that would be unbearable, unnatural. The gentle, lilting notes that flow from his elegant hands die when they've hardly met the air, fading as a last breath. His fingers dance gently across the strings, pressure applied where needed most, the bow gliding slowly, each note hanging in the air for the barest instant, then lost.
He wears his wounds like a second skin, as if they were always there. The bruised-purple temple, the blood streaking his neck, the edge- burnt hole in his coat where the bullet passed through, the crimson trickle from the corner of his mouth ignored. They don't trouble him, not even minor inconveniences. He plays oblivious to the world and its cruelty, eyes closed and lips pressed thin, pale face glowing through the darkness.
He flickers, fading into the dark before re-coalescing, shimmering as if a veil is drawn to hide him. The lamplight lances through him and he vanishes, reappearing a moment later still playing, still swaying with the half-music drifting from his violin. To reach out, to trail fingers over –
He dissipates as mist, the music dying, and John sighs, slumping back into his chair still clutching his bottle.