So last weekend, I had to attend church, with several guitars, a steel guitar and a violin. Needless to say, I spent almost the whole service watching the violin. I finished this the other night and just posted it now because I'm so frustrated with doing paperwork online with an uncooperative website.
Restoration.
Sherlock absently drew the bow over the strings, the note ringing in vibrato. The melody was almost melancholic.
John quietly walked down the stairs. Sherlock was in one of his infamous sulks, doubtlessly. He eyed his flatmate who stood by the window as he came in the room and unfolded the paper before sitting down. Sherlock ignored him and continued to play.
Somewhere among the football scores for the matches the previous day, John was stuck with a thought. Sherlock knew everything about him. He probably even knew that his parents still lived in John's childhood home! But John knew very little about his flatmate.
He looked across the room to him and pondered his actions only a few moments before he opened his mouth. "Who taught you to play the violin?"
There was no hitch in the music that Sherlock continued to play. It seemed that Sherlock had not heard him. John sat back, paper opening once more.
Sherlock gazed out the window at the people on the street below. His hands continued to change position for each individual note, but he paid them no mind. He was elsewhere.
oOoOo
"Sherlock, show me you hands."
A young Sherlock, not even old enough to enter primary school, held his hands, and the violin and bow they held, out to his father.
Siger Holmes knelt by his youngest son, gently reshaping the small hands on the instrument. 'Bring it to position," he instructed and Sherlock complied. Siger adjusted the boy's posture.
Sherlock's little nose wrinkled. "It feels weird," he complained, but did not move.
Siger smiled. "You asked me to teach you," he reminded him. "It feels odd now, but, if you continue to practice, it will come naturally."
Sherlock pouted, but brought the bow to the strings.
"Play a C," he told his son. The bow slowly shifted up, a perfect note emanating.
oOoOo
Several years later, Sherlock stood alone in the practice room, playing one of his father's favourite pieces by Tchaikovsky. At the end of the month, he and Mycroft would be on their way home for the Spring Holidays. Their father's birthday would be the day before they would have to leave home once more. Sherlock planned to play the piece he was learning for him then.
Siger Holmes had taught Sherlock all that the boy knew of the violin. There were other instructors at the public school, but they did not understand how to properly teach the young genius. He'd heard his father speaking with one of his friends, who also played, that Sherlock was becoming a musical prodigy. It had made Sherlock even prouder of the pastime that only he and his father among all their family shared. And it had made him work harder so as not to disappoint the man.
There was a faint knock at the door before Mycroft stepped in, closing the door behind him. Sherlock glared up at him, carefully setting the instrument down.
"What do you want?" he asked, looking at the notes on his sheet music, the melody playing in his head.
"Mother called the school," Mycroft said solemnly. "We're leaving early."
"Why?" Sherlock asked, grumpily. He didn't want his brother to know it, but he was excited to leave.
"Father's passed away."
Sherlock 's face fell and he stared at his brother.
oOoOo
Sherlock sprinted into his room and leapt on top of the bed.
He couldn't stand all the people, telling him how sorry they were, shaking their heads with pity, saying how poorly they felt for him for losing his father so young. He couldn't stand the suffocating perfume of the flowers or the dishes of food that people brought them. He couldn't stand seeing his mother, so lively and joyful before, crying over his father's grave.
It wasn't fair! He was supposed to be playing the violin for his father, not standing at the man's grave because of a heart attack!
Sherlock angrily swiped tears from his face, cufflink scoring across his cheek. He curled up, knees to his chest and stared out across his room. His father had taught him most of his early lessons in that very room.
And his violin, a gift from his father only a few months before, was laid on his desk. He'd been so proud to have a full sized violin, just like his father's. But now? He hated the man for leaving his family! He hated the violin for reminding him of his father.
Before he could think, he swept off the bed and across the room. He tore the clasps open and stilled, staring at the instrument. Then he took a hold of it by the neck and flung it across the room, where it broke to pieces against the wall. Sherlock glared at it, tears streaming down his face, as it lay on the floor. He then turned from it and walked wearily back to his bed.
oOoOo
"My father."
John glanced over his paper. Sherlock was still playing, though the melody had took a more sorrowful turn. He nodded, though the man still faced the other way and could not see.
John had spent enough time to pick up some of Sherlock's methods and, more importantly, the knowledge of the man's moods. Though his posture hadn't changed, the music had. And then there was his voice. His normal deep, almost sinful baritone was gone, replaced by a soft whisper. John had never heard anything like that from the man before him.
He asked no further questions, understanding that Sherlock would talk about it only when he was ready. Till then, John would wait and listen.
oOoOo
Mycroft Holmes sat back with a slight smile. He had thought that John would make it as Sherlock's roommate and the video stream before him was proof enough that he was right.
Sherlock had told John about their father. Admitted, only that he had taught him the violin, but that was more than his younger brother had said about him in many years.
Perhaps he should have considered that John wasn't the only one who had been quick to trust in their relationship.
oOoOo
Sherlock ignored his brother as he quietly entered the room, the door locking behind him. He lay on the single bed, facing the wall.
"I know you despise me for keeping you here, Sherlock," Mycroft said softly, staring at his brother, "but you need to get clean. Mummy's worried herself sick again. She believes that one day the police will show up at her door to tell her that you got yourself killed."
Sherlock didn't speak, though if something had been in reach he would have threw it at the man behind him. He didn't need rehab. The cocaine helped him function. It kept him from becoming bored.
"I've spoken to the staff here," Mycroft continued. "They normally don't allow it, but I convinced them that you wouldn't be as much a danger to yourself if you had it."
Sherlock remained still and silent, until he heard his brother set something down and leave the room. The door locked once more and he sat up to see what had been left.
In the opposite corner of the room, on the table was a violin.
At first he was outraged and stalked over to shatter it like the one he had several years before, but as he glanced down at it he stopped, hand wrapped around the neck.
This violin wasn't perfect, or new. It had been damaged and diligently repaired before. But it was the most beautiful one he had ever seen, though, because it was his. It was the same violin that his father had given him and the same one that he had broken on the day of his funeral.
Mycroft waited outside the room, orderly waiting with him impatiently. Several minutes after he had left, music began to play. His brother was rusty, of course, but it was best song he had ever played.
And that is all. Please review and tell me what you think. I crave constructive criticism!