Sherlock was five when his mother first set him down in front of a piano. His older brother was reading in one corner of their sitting room. It was a thick book with gold trim and the pages rustled each time he turned them.
"Pay attention William," his mother chided gently.
His young fingers copied the keys his mother played, traveling carefully up the keyboard, the notes loud against the still morning. Mycroft rolled his eyes and shut his book with a thud.
"There are other placed for you to read," his mother said without turning around. "Come here Mycroft."
She stood up and pat the bench. Mycroft dropped into the seat besides him.
"Play some scales for him. I'll be back in a few minutes."
Mycroft sighed as he lightly touched the keys with graceful hands. He played through all the major scales and Sherlock sat staring with wide eyes. Mycroft looked hopefully towards the door but their mother hadn't returned.
"Play something else, Myc," Sherlock begged.
"I told you not to call me that, William," Mycroft replied.
"Sherlock," he corrected. "I like Sherlock. It's my name."
"If you call me Myc I am going to start calling you Sherly."
Sherlock stuck out his upper lip and glared up at his big brother. He squealed as Mycroft's fingers tickled his ribs.
"Okay! Okay! Stop tickling me!" Sherlock giggled helplessly.
"Your turn to play," Mycroft gestured to the keyboard.
"One song. Pleeeeease," Sherlock said.
Mycroft picked something he knew his brother loved to hear. Mozart had been a true genius in Mycroft's opinion. His music gently followed a pattern of up and down, one note following another in an almost predicable pattern. Yet when you heard the music in it's entirety in became something more. Youthful and full of energy. Mycroft always thought of birds when he played. Mozart's music was like their early morning song. When he finished playing Sherlock wiggled down under the piano and sat on the floor.
"Will...Sherlock. Mother wants us both to learn to play piano. I was already playing Bach minuets when I was your age."
Sherlock turned around until his back was to Mycroft. He sulked with his arms knit around his knees.
"I hate piano. All your fingers are doing something different. It's too hard."
Mycroft slid down off the piano bench and sat next to Sherlock, ducking his head so it didn't hit the piano above his head.
"Do you want to know a secret? I don't care for piano either. Mummy says when I turn twelve this year I can quit playing if I want."
"Really really?" Sherlock asked.
"Really really. Playing a musical instrument takes patience and hard work. That's the lesson she wants you to learn," Mycroft said.
Sherlock put his chin on hands and furrowed his brow.
"I'm hungry," he said. "Can we have cookies? With milk?"
"At ten in the morning? No we can't."
"Pleeeeeease. I won't go in your room for a whole week if you say yes."
"You shouldn't be in my room ever. That's why you have your own room," Mycroft replied.
Mycroft stood up and went to the tape player on the mantel. He pushed play without bothering to rewind it. He immediately recognized Mozart's violin concerto No.3. He turned around to see what Sherlock was getting up to. He wasn't normally silent. Words came out of him like they were going extinct.
His little brother had his eyes tightly shut and the tip of his tongue stuck out of the corner of his mouth. Their mother returned to the room and still Sherlock was sitting with intent concentration as he listened to the sweet sounds of the lead violinist.
"What kind of instrument is that?" he asked without opening his eyes.
"Violin," Mycroft replied.
Their mother stepped out of the room, her finger to her lips. Mycroft didn't bother to tell her that Sherlock knew she was there. He had sharp ears and would have recognized her gentle footfall. The song ended and Sherlock scooted out from beneath the piano.
"I want to learn violin," he said.
"Violin is more difficult than piano," Mycroft said.
Sherlock didn't reply. Mycroft recognized the set of his shoulders and that gleam in his blue eyes. Sherlock had made a decision and he was going to be stubborn about it. Mycroft sighed again and handed him a red book from the bookshelves. Sherlock hugged it tight to his chest, grinning widely.
"A Guide to Classi... classi," Sherock read.
"Classical Insturments," Mycroft finished.
"Ta Myc! I mean Mycroft."
Two days later there was a small case with an even smaller violin tucked inside in the sitting room. It was there for Sherlock when he woke up and came stumbling through on the way to the kitchen. He came to a stop, his hunger forgotten, as he took in the shiny wood and curves of the instrument. The bow was already tight and had a thin coat of rosin. He put the violin to his chin and lightly ran the bow over the strings. His arm moved back and forth, listening to the sounds each string made. Then he tried pressing down on each string with his fingers. There were white lines going across the neck and that was where he pressed.
Two hours later his mother came in to offer him breakfast. He just shook his head and went back to experimenting. Over and over again he held his fingers to different notes and let the bow move across the strings in sweeping movements.
"He has a natural talent," their mother whispered to Mycroft. Soon a tutor was called in.
It became a family ritual. Each day they would gather in the sitting room. Sometimes father was there as well. They would listen to Sherlock struggle through his repertoire. Myrcroft didn't offer praise or support. He knew Sherlock didn't need it. This new passion was keeping Sherlock away from his room and out of trouble. He prayed it stayed that way.
Sherlock refused to perform in front of an audience. Mummy thought it was because he was scared. Mycroft knew better. Sherlock wanted his privacy and he didn't need the feeble praise of adults listening to a child's awkward performance. Mycroft thought that might change eventually, as he grew more comfortable on the violin and thought he was good enough to deserve that praise. But as the months passed and Sherlock's talents progressed Mycroft decided it wasn't something that would change. The violin was and would always be a tool for Sherlock. Something he used to channel his feelings and intelligence. It was Sherlock's passion and it belonged to him. He would never share it with the entire world. However he would play for his family, as if they were the only ones he needed to hear praise from.
Twenty Years Later
"That was amazing!" John exclaimed as Sherlock lowered his bow.
Sherlock didn't reply. He gave John a small smile before he loosened the bow and tucked everything together in the case.
"How long have you been playing?"
"Since I was a child. I grew up with private instruction," Sherlock replied, as if he owed his abilities to their tutelage.
"Does Mycroft play too then?" John asked.
"Piano," Sherlock said.
"I can't picture that. You and Mycroft playing together," John chuckled.
"We didn't. He gave up piano when he turned twelve, much to Mummy's chagrin."
"But you kept on playing. I don't know much about music but you sound like you could be playing professionally."
Sherlock turned towards the window, gazing down into the street with his hands behind his back. He was still so long that John assumed the conversation was over. Then he turned to John, a smile touching his eyes.
"I only play for family," Sherlock said.
John felt his heart warm. It was the deepest compliment Sherlock had paid him. That evening as he drifted off to sleep he could once more hear the lilting sounds of the violin, following him into the night.