It was a Stradivarius, a genuine Stradivarius. Of course it was. It had belonged to a famous musician further up the family tree, and, knowing the adventures of the Holmeses, it had probably been in the family since it had been made in Cremona, three centuries ago. Not wishing it to be damaged by anyone, particularly the various small children who had been running around, the elders of the "manor" had placed it in a glass case, like one in a museum. Sherlock had seen it before. He had assumed that it was just a decoration. He hadn't expected, when he was eight, to see it extracted from this cabinet and placed, very carefully, into his hands.
At the age of just four, Sherlock had begun violin-lessons: chiefly because he was envious of his older brother, who, then eleven years old, had already passed his Grade 6 with flying colours. Sherlock had quickly distinguished himself. He was noticeably better than Mycroft, and furthermore seemed to enjoy playing a good deal more. Sometimes he locked himself in his bedroom for hours and produced waves of music, sometimes recognisable, sometimes entirely random streams of notes. His was a child's violin, and one of only a moderate quality, though he still managed to make it sing.
The Holmes parents considered buying him a new violin: but the enjoyment that Sherlock got from playing, and the extraordinary nature of his musicianship, merited something special: therefore, on his eighth birthday, they presented him with the prize of the household that had for so long stood silently in the dining-room.
He was made to try it out in front of them, and, because he was embarrassed by this, he had determined to play badly. But he quickly realised that with such an instrument playing badly was simply not an option. It sang. He adored it, he found himself becoming quickly obsessed with it. He forgot that he was being watched. He skated through a selection of his favourite pieces – the Mendelssohn Lieder, a peck of Sarasate – and, at last, when he opened his eyes, he was greeted unexpectedly by the sight of an audience and by rapturous applause.
He said it was entirely the violin's doing – he couldn't play that well, not really. His mother assured him that he had always been that good: he had just needed the right instrument. Whichever it was, he knew that this violin was already one of his favourite possessions, and that it would potentially be more of a companion to him than his parents had perhaps intended.