The Stradivarius.
Written by AzenorFeroceGriffe.
Disclaimer : A big thank you to this genius called Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and to Guy Ritchie who depicted an excellent Sherlock Holmes and a John Watson that I found beautiful, unique and endearing.
Note : I wrote this for a friend who was very fond of the idea of a violin thrown into flames. I don't know how I should feel about him and this statement. Also, English is not my first language, so pardon me if you find any mistakes and please notice them to me.
A cold and piercing wind was blowing through the streets of London, making anyone who dared to step outside at this time of the night shiver and freeze to death.
The weather was ruthless and freezing, not hesitating to take the life of homeless people with a vicious and slow death. Their bodies would freeze on the spot, their eyes would remain closed for the time to come, their faces forever frozen in a peaceful expression, or one of fear and horror.
Thus, Watson was more than happy to be at this very moment comfortably hidden under warm blankets, near a crackling fire rocking him into the arms of Morpheus.
Sighing in satisfaction, John turned around to find a more comfortable position. The bed protested against the movement with a plaintive squeak.
He briefly wondered who or what might come to disturb his well deserved rest. He grimaced in pain when bruises earned while arresting another murderer awoke with furious intensity.
One more fight, which was not his first and certainly wouldn't be the last. Watson would never admit it, but he loved his job as the 'assistant' of one so called detective.
John smiled slightly before curling up against his pillow, hoping he could sleep a few more hours, before Holmes comes in to wake him up with his usual delicacy.
Watson listened closely when he heard a strange screeching noise, like an old door creaking. The doctor waited several seconds, but shrugged when the silence remained undisturbed by this suspect squeal.
No Holmes throwing open the door of his room by making the most noise humanly possible, narrating one of his absurd experiments with an incomprehensible speech rate.
No Gladstone lying half dead on the ground. No Lestrade storming in his rooms to ask their help on the case. And it was the middle of the night, so really, no one would come bother him at that hour. Any sane person, except Sherlock Holmes, knew that provoke the anger of the ancient soldier would be suicidal or at least heavy with consequences.
He had forgotten a possibility. Only one. So obvious it had escaped him. John's eyes narrowed in annoyance when he heard this horrible screeching noise piercing through the ceiling and disturb his sensitive ears.
A sound produced by the strings of a violin abused by its owner. Said owner who bore the name of one great Sherlock Holmes.
Sighing loudly, John abruptly threw away the blankets that were imprisoning his legs and stood up, heading with a derterminated step towards the stairs that would lead him to Sherlock's room.
John climbed up the stairs with a heavy and dragging step, picturing the smirk his friend would display seeing him exhausted and upset beyond any expectations.
If they hadn't known each other for so long, John would probably have strangled Sherlock in an explosion of rage.
Oh, but he had already done that. The hard lines of the ancient soldier changed into a smile when the memory popped in his mind. He had tried to strangle Sherlock, believing he had just killed his wife. His new sife, Mary Morstan, to whom Sherlock never failed to express his displeasure at her presence.
With a sigh, Watson opened the door leading to Sherlock's room, the hair on his neck suddenly stood up to shrill and dissonant sounds coming from the tortured violin at the hands of its cruel master.
Sherlock almost crushed the bow on the violin' strings when making them vibrate, trying to make as much noise as possible. He suddenly looked annoyed and upset.
No Watson screaming his name, no loud noises coming from the stairs. Nothing. Only silence. It was not what he wanted.
He then proceeded to slid the bow quickly and repeatedly on the strings, earning strident and shrill cries from the violin.
The great detective smiled and chuckled quietly when heavy footsteps reached his ears, approaching in a drawling and agonizing speed.
Sherlock exhaled slowly, composing his face into a serious and focused expression. While inside he was boiling with the urging desire to laugh and mock the poor doctor he had so abruptly pulled off from his sleep.
Allowing a smirk to twist his lips for a few seconds, Sherlock repositioned the instrument on his shoulder, now gently placing the bow on the strings. His fingers pressed the strings with dexterity when Watson entered his rooms. The doctor looked exhausted and fuming.
Sherlock smiled innocently as John glowered at him. But the detective's chocolate eyes flashing with mischief were the cause of his downfall.
"Something wrong, Watson?" Sherlock asked, casually setting down the violin on a table.
John suppresed the urge to punch the nose of his friend with his fist, making the very hard choice to solve this problem civilly and politely.
"Actually, yes. You're playing violin when I am trying to sleep. It's past three in the morning, dammit!" John exclaimed, thorwing his hands in the air with an irritated huff.
"I'm sorry." Sherlock said, his expression almost convincing. He never apologized, not to anyone. Even on the brink of death, Sherlock would never say 'sorry'.
Hands clasped behing his back, the detective stepped back to stand and face the fireplace. "Especially since tomorrow, you're having dinner with your dear Mary Morstan." He hissed slightly, his tone bitter and his gaze fixed stubbornly on the crackling flames in the fireplace.
The doctor frowned, eyeing Holmes with an incredulous and annoyed look.
"So, that's what all of this is about? Mary is my wife, Holmes. Get used to it." Said Watson, his tone charp and blunt.
Sherlock showed no reaction, except that his muscles stiffened slightly at the doctor's words. Stubborn, he stayed staring into the dancing flames, to the despair of his friend.
"And to be sure you won't sabotage my rendezvous with Mary..." Watson began as he sharply took the violin with a sudden movement.
Sherlock turned around too late, barely having the time to see his beloved stradivarius being thrown carelessly in the unforgiving fire.
"No!" He cried, looking in despair as his violin was engulfed by the hungry flames.
The violon strings were consumed almost immediatly, producing a sharp, popping sound. Then the wood of the instrument darkened under the constant assaulf of the fire. Sherlock seemed aggrieved, almost pained as he watched his violin burn with empty eyes.
"Stop being such a child, Holmes, it's just a piece of wood." John let out with an exasperated sigh.
"This simple piece of wood, as you call it, has prevented you from falling into Morpheus's arms multiple times." Sherlock reminded him with a ghost of a smile.
He winced almost in pain, when he saw that his torture device dedicated to his friend was now little more than a pile of ashes.
"Go to sleep, you need it." Watson insisted, glacing towards the heavy dark circles under Sherlock's eyes. One could almost mistake him for a raccoon.
"I do not need to sleep, Watson." Sherlock retorted dryly, dropping into a chair with a heavy sigh.
John chuckled lightly, shaking his head incredulously. Holmes was reluctant to grant him a single look, opting to rather stare at the ceiling, the floor, or any object that caught his attention. John watched with an amused expression his friend startle suddenly as his eyeslids were beginning to fail him. Watson snorted softly, approaching Sherlock with a mocking expression.
"Obviously, you-"
Watson paused when he saw that his friend had surrendered and fallen asleep. Slouched in the chair and snoring softly, the puzzle solving machine seemed almost harmless. Almost.
John went to grab a blanket, covering the slumbering form of his best friend with it.
"No need to sleep, uh?"
The next morning when he woke up, Sherlock found a new Stradivarius resting against his chimney, a red ribbon tying the bow with the instrument.
Sherlock smiled before grabbing the finely sculpted piece of wood, turning it to observe the object from all angles.
With the violon resting against his shoulder, the detective swiftly slid the bow on the strings skillfully, smiling even more in appreciation when the melody escaped the instrument in clear and harmonious notes.
He did not hear Mrs. Hudson pressing herself against the door to listen to his playing, a tender smile lightening her usually severe and hard face.