Author's note: The idea for this story came from a friend who asked me to imagine our choral teacher meeting Sherlock. Thus Dr. Pravatti was created. I claim no ownership of these characters, but dearly love to play with them.
Dr. Ethan Pravatti was not what anyone would call an imposing man. He was barely the average height for women, bordering on frailty in his bone structure. His hair lay in a close salt-and-pepper crop, nondescript and notable only because it rendered him not bald. He had neither the nose, nor chin, nor forehead that could render such a small person impressive. In short, when he arrived at the Holmes house to discuss violin lessons, everyone, to the butler who answered the door, was underwhelmed.
He sat on the heirloom sofa in the formal drawing room that had seen centuries, looking decidedly out of place in a black jumper and sans jacket or tie. Violet Holmes paused at the door and let out a tiny sigh of despair when he stood in greeting.
"Mycroft, go fetch Sherlock, won't you?" she said to the teenager at her side.
Mycroft smirked at the newcomer with something akin to pity and left the room. Ethan Pravatti raised his eyebrows at that, but made no comment other than his polite greetings to Mrs. Holmes.
"Your reputation in the music world precedes you, sir," she said, settling in the chair opposite him.
"As does your son's," he replied.
His tone was completely even. Neither jovial nor aggressive. Merely stating a fact as such. The effect was heightened by the flat American accent.
Violet fingered the pearls at her throat and smiled. "Yes, well, he's a bright boy. So talented."
"Talented enough to keep you in search of teachers for him."
Again the factual tone. Violet gave a narrow-eyed smile of agreement.
"How much instruction has he had?"
"Two years."
"Yes, but you mentioned that his actual instruction has been disjointed at best. What books has he used?"
Violet made a vague gesture toward the door. "We have all the books in the conservatory, but he hardly touches them. He says the books don't challenge him."
Pravatti pursed his lips at that. "I told you on the phone that I don't ordinarily give private lessons, particularly not for children. I'm a composer, not a tutor."
Violet let her face crumple into anxious lines. "He's frightened off five teachers already. It's not that he's a bad boy, mind you. He's just intelligent – more intelligent than they knew how to handle. He won't abide being treated like a child."
"He is a child," Pravatti observed. "A child who, according to you, has yet to begin to learn the discipline of practicing. He's a 10-year-old boy. At this point, it would be just as advisable to let him drop the violin altogether."
"That's why we wanted you."
There was a moment of silence while Pravatti let those words play through his mind, attempting to connect their meaning.
"He refuses to drop it," Violet continued. "He insists on scratching away, even though he hates the sound and can't fix it. He knows the finger positions well enough to pick out songs, but he can't abide the exercises in the books. Sherlock was never one for doing rote activities. What he really loves is playing music from his own head. That's what he won't give up, Dr. Pravatti. And that's why we need a composer, not a tutor."
It was as candid as Violet Holmes had ever been with a person outside the family. Pravatti leaned back a bit, considering.
"Has he had any theory?"
"Very little. Most of the other masters didn't feel it was essential for a child of his age, and he hardly needs it to be able to play. They felt it much more important to spend lesson time on the actual music."
The eyebrows were up again, but there was a minor commotion in the hallway and both heads turned toward the door. A low thud. A scrabble of shoe soles. A hissed command. And then the Holmes boys appeared in the door. Mycroft stood directly behind Sherlock, straightening his sleeves and giving a heavy-handed impression of the long-suffering retriever. Sherlock was performing a similar wardrobe adjustment, but his face was alight with the fire of battle. Violet cast a worried glance at their visitor and motioned her sons further into the room.
"Sherlock, Mycroft, this is Dr. Pravatti. Doctor, these are my sons, Mycroft, and Sherlock."
"How do you do?" Pravatti said.
Mycroft proffered his hand at once. "Pleasure to meet you. I've read nothing but the highest praise of your work with the University of London Symphony Orchestra."
Pravatti smiled. "It's been three terms and they haven't sent me back across the pond yet, so I'm fairly optimistic."
"Didn't I hear that the University press is going to publish an anthology of the works you've composed for the orchestra since arriving?"
Pravatti nodded. "Mostly orchestral, though I've done a handful of solo pieces as needed." He turned to Sherlock, "But enough about my publishers. You're the one we've come to talk about, aren't you?" He held out his hand, but Sherlock merely looked at it.
"I know all the fingerings and I have all the key signatures memorized and I can read music as well as Mycroft. I don't need you to teach me any of that. I can figure it out from my books. I just want to know what to do to stop it from screeching when I bow."
Pravatti blinked. Mycroft stepped around his brother and settled in the unoccupied chair, motioning the other two toward the sofa. Pravatti chose to sit. Sherlock did not.
"There's quite a bit more to violin than memorizing key signatures," Pravatti said, conversationally.
"I know most of it already."
"Very well, what is detache bowing?"
"It means you play one bow for each note, giving each equal weight," Sherlock spouted off, sounding for the world like an encyclopedia entry.
"Good, and how do composers indicate a need for natural harmonics?"
"With a small 'o' above the note."
"And how do you achieve martele bowing without crushing the sound?"
Sherlock's face froze for a moment, then he replied, less sure of himself. "It's to do with the accentuation of the note. I assume it's something to do with the bowing position."
Pravatti shrugged in agreement, eyes hardening. "Something to do with that, yes. It's the type of thing a book can't teach. You have to practice it."
Sherlock crossed his arms and planted his feet on the Persian rug. "I won't be turning in practice logs with perfect two-hour time slots on them."
"That an unfortunate decision. I require regular rehearsals from all my musicians, even the professional ones.
"Are you going to teach me how to play without it screeching?" Sherlock demanded.
"Most likely," Pravatti replied.
Mycroft gave an appreciative smile.
"Not sure you can?"
"Not sure you're willing to learn."
There was a protest that reluctantly stayed behind Violet Holmes' pursed lips. Mycroft steepled his fingers under his chin, dividing his attention between the defiant figure of his brother and the utterly calm American across from him. Sherlock's entire body had tightened at the sentence, eyes narrowing at Pravatti to almost the exact angle his mother's had minutes previous.
"You must be expecting to lose your job at the University of London," he said, a high note of derision in his voice. "Either that or you're in money trouble of some sort."
"Sherlock…" If Violet's exclamation was meant to be a rebuke, it fell far short of the mark, landing somewhere akin to a groan.
"Why else would the conductor of the University of London Symphony Orchestra bother to come all the way out here to teach a 10-year-old boy?" Sherlock asked. He turned his gaze back on Pravatti. "There are plenty of students who would do almost anything for a chance to study under you. You don't give private lessons. Everyone knows that. And you show up here in rumpled slacks and with those lines under your eyes and expect us to just accept that you've suddenly decided to take private students?"
"No,I don't." Pravatti said with the same flat, polite tone. "I haven't decided to take you, yet."
The silence was so profound it seemed to undo half of Sherlock's bravado by its very existence. Mycroft had half-leaned forward, prepared to intervene, but stopped, head cocked, to observe the phenomenon. His little brother had been shut up, and by the simple strategy of not reacting. Sherlock seemed rather at a loss for how to proceed.
"What will decide it for you?" he asked stiffly, two beats past the point of awkwardness.
Pravatti stood. "I'll need to see you play."
Sherlock led the way to the conservatory and had his violin out and the strings tightened before everyone was properly seated. He ran the rosin along his bowstrings with defiant precision, glancing over at Dr. Pravatti, who appeared completely at his ease in the wingback chair he'd taken. Tuning was completed in a matter of seconds, and then the instrument was raised to his shoulder.
It was no beginner's run of Twinkle Little Star. Sherlock was giving a version of a tarantella, a rendition that seemed to have been pieced together from memory rather than studying the music on a page. He attacked the beginning at a forte, a ferocity not often seen in the dance accompanying each swish of his bow.
After about 20 seconds, there came a quiet ts, ts. It was an unassuming sound, but it cut under the sound of the violin so insistently that Sherlock stopped playing at once.
Dr. Pravatti got to his feet. "Your right pinkie finger is stiff. Bend it in."
"But I always hold it this way."
"Yes, and you always struggle with the next section, don't you?" Dr. Pravatti took the bow and demonstrated the proper position. "This way your finger follows through. You can sustain your notes better and keep your bow in position."
Sherlock took the bow back and copied his example, frowning at the unfamiliar sensation.
"From the beginning, then." Pravatti said, stepping back.
Sherlock took off again, but in even less time, that ts, ts was heard, and he stopped, eyes flashing, to look at the conductor.
"You're letting your wrist go flat."
Sherlock immediately corrected the stance himself and started again.
Ts, ts.
"How can you hear me play if you keep interrupting?"
Pravatti held his gaze. "I've heard enough." He let that announcement sit in the air. All three Holmes' seemed to draw a collective breath. "You've done some good work thus far. Most of it on your own, I think. You could continue on your own and blunder your way into decent playing skills if you'd like."
Sherlock inclined his head ever so slightly. "Or?"
For an answer, Pravatti held out his hand for the violin. There was a moment, an impossibly long moment, where it seemed Sherlock would not relinquish it. Pravatti waited.
Grudgingly, Sherlock extended the instrument to their visitor. He grasped it so familiarly that Sherlock frowned, distrusting the quick movements as Pravatti checked the strings and tuning and fitted the instrument under his chin. He gave two experimental bows on the E string, adjusted his stance, and began.
The first few notes were lilting and lovely, but almost at once a dissonance was introduced, dancing in and out of the delicate melody with a consistency that almost made up for the its jarring presence. The music wove a balance between the two, the manic driving along the lyrical theme, the sweeter notes soothing the harried portions. It was an interior monologue, a conversation between the violin and itself, alternately self-congratulating and accusatory, which wound itself down to a softer, wearied conclusion.
Pravatti let the last note resonate, then lifted the bow. Violet and Myroft broke into appreciative applause. Pravatti smiled slightly, but didn't move his gaze from Sherlock. A light frown was sketched into his forehead, the rest of his face immobile. He held out his hand. Pravatti returned the violin with a nod.
"Your choice."
Please read and review! I'd love advice, suggestions, and opinions on whether or not I should continue the story. Thanks!