The violin.
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Sherlock knew what he had to do. Moriarty had John and he wanted Sherlock to sell his beloved violin. Sherlock did not understand why he had to sell the violin. Well, that he understood, he just didn't see the reason behind this. Nonetheless, the detective loved his violin.
Look at me, The detective thought. Sentiment. What would Mycroft think of this? He sighed wearily as he lifted the violin to rest upon his chin for the last time. The wood seemed to sigh at his touch, the strings to call out woefully at him as he dragged the bow across them. Bach's violin sonata No. 1 in G minor filled the air, it's sorrowful melody gracing his ears one last time, swelling and fading, complicated yet simple rhythms bouncing through the air. The notes streamed like the tears blurring his vision, choking back the words that longed to be said, the wails that itched at the back of his throat, the unjustice of it all screaming at him through the gloomy cloud of the music. Reaching the Fuga., he picked up the pace, the melodies and harmonies lulling him into a false sense of what seemed to be hope clawing at his heart yet his brain refused to believe it. There was a war between his heart and his mind, the casualties bound to be catastrophic. All of the screaming pain screeched through the strings of that damn violin, screaming its own unique pain, a pain that one only feels when they've lost something dear to their heart. When he almost couldn't take it anymore, in came the Siciliano. The notes caressed his ears, soothing him as a mother would her child. He could almost believe that everything was going to be alright. Every breath now was savored, it was almost as though the music drifting through the air as invisible as the very oxygen he needed to survive suddenly was the oxygen. It filled his lungs, satisfying a deep throbbing ache in his chest. It chased away the stabbing knife that was trained on his heart. It coursed through his veins, rushing through him as swiftly as the blood that circulated through his body. It raced as his heart, warming him. The final notes dripped from the violin, cascading over ears that could no longer bear to listen, eyes that no longer could see, breath that no longer satisfied the lungs of the magnificent being that depended on it to live. As the last whisper fell from that violin, as the last tear was shed and the last ray of hope crushed, the last dying ember doused, the great detective lowered the bow as a mighty hero might lower his sword after his last battle. Sherlock gingerly laid the instrument to rest in its case as though it were a sleeping child, sparing one last glance before letting the hinges creak shut and the locks snap down viciously, reminding him that he would no longer see this wonderful object. He straightened, picking up the violin case as he went.
For John, He thought. For John, I would do anything.
oOo
A/N: Okay, so I know there are some faults in the story here. Basically, I wanted to just write something with as much friggin detail as I could, pouring all 5'4" of me into it. I understand that he could just buy a new violin with all of the money he has but this seemed like the best thing to do. While writing this, I actually listened to the song he was playing and highly suggest that you listen to it so as to fully appreciate the story, the one I listened to (on youtube) was 'Bach - Violin Sonata No. 1 in G minor, BWV 1001 {Grumiaux}' by (youtuber) Bartje Bartmans. I really hope I did well. I apologize for the length of it and also for the huge author's note. Until next time,
~ LHH