A/N: Based loosely upon a song titled Your Daddy's Son from the musical Ragtime. I don't know how in character this is, and it is from the P.O.V. of an original character. Sherlock and Mycroft's mother. Sherlock is only mentioned in it a little bit, but enough that I didn't know where else to put this. Hope you all like it. Especially because it was written in about forty-five minutes.
One-Two-Three. One-Two-Three. One-Two-Three.
His fingers flitted about the strings like a bumblebee touching each flower.
"It sounds beautiful Sherlock." He had his father's hands. Long, slender, soft hands. Except his finger tips. He had always had rough finger tips. It was from years of violin playing he used to say.
One-Two-Three. One-Two-Three. One-Two-Three.
It was a glance that had brought them together. She knew it was clichéd, but it was when both their glances locked at a concert, he a musician and she a spectator, that they both knew that they were to be important parts of each others lives. Three months later they were married.
One-Two-Three. One-Two-Three.
He went back to school for her. Became a lawyer. He played the violin less after that, but when he did, it seemed as though he had never stopped. Then Mycroft came, and their lives shifted again. Father loved him as much as he did his music. They were happy.
One-Two-Three. One-Two-
` There had been a crash, before it went dark. When she woke up, everything was white. The walls were white. The coats were white. The sheets were white. When she turned to the bed next to her, he was white too. A hard lump rose up in her throat. "Darling wake up." She wailed frantically. "Darling!" It took three nurses to hold her down when he didn't answer.
"He's under an anesthetic. There is shrapnel in his shoulder, but he'll live." The doctor laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. She didn't feel any safer.
One-and-two-and-three-and-One-and-two- and-three-and-
When they left the hospital, the father was fine, but his right hand had a tremor that the doctor said may or may not go away. It didn't. The violin remained untouched after that. He was never quite the same after that. Even when their second son was born, a little boy named Sherlock after his grandfather, was born. He grew depressed, and argumentative. No one was happy anymore.
One-and-two-and-three-and-One-and-two-and-three-and-
It was something no one had expected. It was not secret that things in the Holmes household were not quite happy, but no one expected the gunshot that rang out around midnight. It was clearly suicide, the gun was found in his hand. The blood pooled on the ground, soaking into the carpet, and covering his body, mixing with a pink liquid that she hoped was not what she thought it was. If it weren't for the two children who would be left behind, she would have followed him into the abyss.
"Mother?" Sherlock's five year old form appeared in the doorway. "I heard a loud noise-" His eyes opened so wide that his mother was afraid they wouldn't stay in his head.
"Go back to bed Sherlock." Her voice came out foreign sounding, harsh and abrasive. She never wanted to relive this moment again.
One-Two-Three. One-Two-Three. One-Two-Three.
And yet whenever she would watch Sherlock play his father's violin, it was right there. The little boy with his father's hands, and his father's face, and his father's eyes. Sherlock had his father's talent, there was no denying that. Whenever she saw him play, the image of her husband would swim before her eyes. But then she was reminded that he wasn't gone. All that his father was, Sherlock would be also. And she was happy.
A/N: Please don't forget to review! I love the feed back and I am really trying to improve as a writer.