'Mother, do I really have to learn how to play the violin?' whined the little boy.

'Yes, Sherlock,' said Mrs Holmes firmly.

'But why?'

'As I've told you repeatedly, your father is tired of all the complaints that he receives from our neighbours about the damage that you've done to their property. Mrs Jones just came over an hour ago to tell me that you went and dug up all of her flowerbeds for no apparent reason!'

'I didn't dig up all of her flowerbeds. I was just taking samples of the different types of soil in her garden,' corrected Sherlock, as though that explanation made everything all right.

'You can't do things like that, Sherlock!'

'Why not?' questioned the young boy, in all seriousness.

'Because it's just not done,' snapped Mrs Holmes. She loved Sherlock dearly, but he could be very trying at times. 'The violin lessons should keep you occupied for a few hours every week—'

'And restore some peace to the household,' interjected Mycroft, who had been quietly engaged in reading a book up until now.

Sherlock glared at his older brother. 'Why doesn't Mycroft have to take violin lessons too, Mother?'

'Because he's very busy with his schoolwork, Sherlock.'

'No, he isn't. He's reading a novel now. He isn't busy at all. And besides, he never gets much schoolwork. He always finishes it in less than an hour.'

Mrs Holmes sighed. Sherlock never could drop an argument. He had to have the last word in every matter, or he'd know the reason why. It was time for Mrs Holmes to change her tactics. Cajoleries and calineries were in order.

'Sherlock, do you remember that lovely record that Father put on the other night? The piece by Mendelssohn?'

'Yes,' Sherlock admitted warily. Of course he remembered. Sherlock rarely forgot anything that he wanted to retain in his memory.

'Well, wouldn't you love to be able to play like that yourself so that you can listen to it again and again?'

'I could just put the record on whenever I want to listen to it. I don't have to learn how to play the violin just because of that,' reasoned Sherlock sensibly.

Mrs Holmes racked her brains to come up with another way to persuade her youngest son to take up violin lessons. No sudden burst of illumination came to her rescue, but Mycroft's disdainful snort did.

'What was that for?' Sherlock rounded on his brother.

'You'd never be able to play the violin. You'd never be able to stand the dreadful sound it makes when you first learn how to play it. You'd probably throw the violin away. You'd get exasperated with your teacher because you'd think that your teacher is stupid. You can't possibly do this.' Mycroft shrugged matter-of-factly.

'Oh, can't I?' Sherlock narrowed his eyes dangerously.

'No,' replied his brother succinctly.

Sherlock turned to face his mother with a determined light in his eyes. 'I'll start taking lessons tomorrow, Mother.' Then he stomped out of the living room.

'What have I just done?' groaned Mycroft.

'You got Sherlock to agree to violin lessons!' exclaimed Mrs Holmes joyfully. 'Thank you, dear!'

'I don't know if you'll still be grateful to me tomorrow,' warned Mycroft gloomily, as he picked up his book and continued reading.

It was a Saturday morning. The sun had just risen, and the entire Holmes household was already awake, thanks to Sherlock.

'Who on earth is making that infernal din?' growled Mr Holmes, as he unwillingly dragged himself out of bed. The sound (or, rather, the cacophony) increased in volume as he approached Sherlock's bedroom. He rapped Sherlock's door sharply and yelled to make himself heard over the caterwauling. 'Sherlock! Is that you?'

'Come in, Father,' was the blithe reply to his knocking.

'Whatever are you doing?' demanded an outraged Mr Holmes as he appeared in the doorway. 'What time is it?'

'I'm practising. I think it's about six a.m.'

'Practising what?' exploded Mr Holmes. 'How to drive all of us stark raving mad? Are you trying to send us all to a lunatic asylum by producing that awful screeching?'

'I'm learning how to play the violin, like you wanted me to,' his son responded respectfully.

'You mean that you actually made those sounds with the violin? It sounded more like you had a pack of banshees in your room.'

'Yes, Father. I thought that I should practise a little before going for my first lesson today.' Sherlock smiled brightly at his parent.

His father returned the smile weakly. His nerves had been terribly jarred by the discord produced by his youngest son. 'Sherlock, I forbid you to play the violin whenever I'm in the house until you've learned how to do it properly. Do you understand?'

'Yes, Father,' said Sherlock disappointedly. Then, a thought struck him, and a grin crept over his face. Mycroft was mistaken. Sherlock had played a multitude of wrong notes and created a dreadful sound, but he hadn't thrown the violin away, as Mycroft had inaccurately predicted. Oh, he did love to prove Mycroft wrong! It was so much fun. There was no way that he would give up the violin now. He had just found a new way to annoy his brother.

Two hours later, all the members of the Holmes family were assembled around the dining table. Everyone was glaring daggers at Sherlock, who had deprived them of a few extra hours of sleep. It seemed that he had already formed the idea that sleep is transport, even at that young age. He had not begun to view food as transport yet, though, as was clearly evident from the relish with which he tucked into his Eggs Benedict, all the while conveniently ignoring the baleful looks from his family. The meal was consumed in silence, which was rather unusual, as Saturday morning breakfasts tended to consist of Mycroft and Sherlock trading insults, and their parents intervening whenever things got out of hand.

Once breakfast was over, Sherlock leapt out of his seat with alacrity and asked: 'Mother, can we go now?'

'We'll leave as soon as I've done the dishes, dear.'

Sherlock pouted. 'What shall I do in the meantime?'

'You could help me to put the dishes away,' suggested Mrs Holmes.

'That's boring,' Sherlock informed her.

'Well, it has to be done, whether you want to or not.'

'All right then,' Sherlock agreed reluctantly.

'Who's going to be my teacher?'

'I don't know, Sherlock,' answered his mother, as they drove off to the place where Sherlock was going to take his lessons.

'Will it be a man or a woman?'

'I haven't a clue.'

'How long will each lesson be?'

'About an hour, I think.'

'How many times a week?'

'I'll let you decide.'

'I want to have lessons every day.'

'No, Sherlock,' said his mother unequivocally.

'But you just told me that I could decide,' he protested.

'I meant that you could decide, provided that you make a sensible decision.'

'You didn't say that.'

'I know.'

'How am I supposed to know what you mean if you don't say it?'

'You can deduce it. You're fond of that.'

'That's different. I deduce things based on what I've observed. There was nothing to observe in your statement.'

Mrs Holmes gave up. It never was any use, quarreling with Sherlock. Besides, they had reached their destination.

'Come on, Sherlock.' She held out her hand to her young son, who took it and meekly followed her into the building.

Mrs Holmes registered Sherlock for biweekly classes, as Sherlock sauntered around the room, observing everything intently.

'Can he start having lessons today?' enquired Mrs Holmes.

The woman in charge checked her schedule. 'Actually, Miss Hadley is available right now. Her usual student couldn't make it, so your son can start right this minute if he wants to. We can fix another time for next week.'

'That's great.'

'Does he have an instrument of his own?'

'Yes, as a matter of fact, he does. I bought one for him yesterday night. Bring out your violin, Sherlock.'

Sherlock obediently complied with his mother's request and brought the violin out of its case.

'Sherlock! What have you done to it?' exclaimed his mother.

'I broke two of the pegs when I was experimenting with it this morning. I'm sorry, Mother,' he apologized with a believable show of contrition.

'That's okay, we have plenty of violins that he can choose from for his first lesson today,' the woman reassured Mrs Holmes.

'Thank you. Sherlock, I'm going to go now, all right? Be nice to Miss Hadley, and don't make any rude remarks.'

'I'll try,' promised her son.

After giving him a hug, Mrs Holmes headed home, not without a few worries about what Sherlock might say or do.

Sherlock was introduced to his tutor, who was a pretty lady in her late twenties.

'Good morning,' he greeted her politely.

'Good morning, Sherlock.' She flashed a friendly smile at him. 'You have a rather unusual name.'

'I like it that way. I hate things that are normal and dull,' responded Sherlock.

Miss Hadley was slightly shocked by this, but she quickly regained her composure. 'So, let's begin our lesson, shall we? First of all, I'll show you how to hold the violin.'

Sherlock immediately adopted the correct posture, and held the violin and the bow in the accurate manner. Miss Hadley was impressed.

'Who taught you how to do that?'

'I looked at the posters on the wall outside that showed the correct way of holding a violin and copied it.'

'That's good. Okay, now I'll teach you where to place your fingers on the fingerboard. Maybe I should get some strips of coloured tape to mark the—'

'That's not necessary. Just tell me,' cut in Sherlock.

'Are you sure? This will help you—'

'Yes, I'm completely sure. I don't usually forget things that I want to remember.'

'All right then,' said Miss Hadley hesitantly, as she proceeded to teach Sherlock proper finger placement. He absorbed everything that she said. 'I've never met a child like you before,' she told him.

Sherlock smirked. He had always enjoyed standing out from the hoi polloi.

'I don't normally start teaching this to such young students during the first lesson, but...' Miss Hadley trailed off.

'I'm not normal.'

'Yes, you really aren't,' she agreed musingly. 'In a good way, though. I think. Anyway, I'm going to teach you some scales now. Pay attention,' she told him, even though she really didn't have to, as she knew that Sherlock would undoubtedly do so. She then taught him how to play the C major scale.

The rest of the class went on smoothly. Sherlock did say and do some rather startling things at times, but he got along tolerably well with his new tutor. He mercifully refrained from making any deductions about her personal life, which was probably because of the fact that he was completely engrossed in learning how to play the violin. All in all, the lesson was quite a success, and Miss Hadley couldn't help but feel that she had something of a prodigy on her hands.

Mrs Holmes was relieved, and also a wee bit surprised to find out that Sherlock had behaved throughout the entire lesson.

'So how did you find it?' she questioned him.

'It's quite interesting. I'll practise playing the violin every day from now on.'

Mrs Holmes beamed proudly. Then she realized the full import of what Sherlock had said. He would practise every single day. Once Sherlock had made up his mind to do something, there was no stopping him. Endless days of Sherlock scraping away with his bow on his violin... The very thought was appalling! Of course, he would learn how to play it well very quickly – Mrs Holmes had no doubt of that, as her son was a genius – but the violin could also become a very effective instrument of torture in Sherlock's hands.

'What have I done?' groaned Mrs Holmes softly.

'What did you say, Mother?'

'Nothing, Sherlock,' she replied with a forced cheerfulness. Hoping for the best, she stepped on the accelerator pedal as they sped homewards.

A/N: I got the idea for this fanfic from a radio interview with Benedict Cumberbatch and Steven Moffat on the Bob Edwards Show, where Benedict jokingly suggested doing flashbacks for Season 3 of Sherlock, and one of the flashbacks he suggested was Sherlock's first violin lesson!

I would say that Sherlock's age in this story is about eight years old, which makes Mycroft 15. I imagine that Sherlock would have been a rather precocious little fellow, and that he'd have understood every word that his father said to him about his violin-playing (or violin-murdering, take your pick). I have no idea what his relationship with his parents really was like, since Sir Arthur Conan Doyle never mentioned it, and it wasn't shown in Sherlock either, so this is just my imagination running wild. I hope you don't mind.

And I must say that I don't know anything about playing the violin, and I haven't a clue what people actually do during their first violin lessons. I visited a few websites to get more information, but I still don't know much about this subject! Please forgive me for any mistakes I've made.

Do feel free to let me know whether you think that this fic actually worked out and could have happened, or whether I could improve a lot more in any areas: characterization, writing, whatever. I'm always open to feedback, no matter whether it's positive or negative! Thanks for reading. And sorry for the extremely long Author's Note!