The orchestra came to a stop and the lights dimmed, cueing for an applause from the high school audience. I looked around at the surrounding faces, intent for the act to follow. Every so often I could see a couple of people look at each other, maybe exchange a few words and perhaps a giggle, but all stares were trained on the stage for the final performance; a solo violin act by a senior boy.
I myself had only ever heard of this boy through hushed whispers, the Einstein of forensics, Sherlock Holmes. The young, lanky man took his place center stage and the spotlight struck him, leaving his frail figure looking fierce and bold. The lights highlighted his high cheek bones and left the crowd in awe, all ogling at this striking boy. He had no sheet music, only an antiquated violin and a sleek bow. I hadn't noticed that my peers had been making subtle noises until Sherlock picked up his instrument to his chin and a hush flooded the auditorium. It was as he first pulled the bow across the strings that my breath got caught in my throat.
The sound was mystifying, so rich it was almost terrifying. I felt like I might drown in the intensity. His tune was dark, and though his bows were strong, his fingers flitted across the neck of the instrument and the bow among the strings like a well choreographed ballet. He was just as interesting to watch as he was to listen to. Something changed in the tune, although the octave remained the same, the notes seemed to come out lighter, more soothing, as though to comfort the crowd. When I heard he was the Einstein of forensics, I'd assumed he was naturally gifted at the science, I hadn't even considered that he also owned up to the violin talent.
I settled in my seat and let the music overwhelm me. In the presence, in the audience of this boy, I felt so amazingly normal. But John Watson was always normal, no matter what school I was enrolled in, I was the invisible student, and I was always comfortable with it. Now, however, the sheer talent being presented made me look back and see all the oportunities I missed to maybe be as great or to have as much potential as the excellent Sherlock Holmes.
Just as I was really sinking into the notes, they halted, and I looked at my peer and watched as he bowed and walked off the stage as we all clapped. I sat there wishing he could play more, just a little more, it felt so unfinished and I felt so unsatisfied. But how I felt didn't matter. As the clapping died down, everyone rose from their seats and began a jumbled exit. I stood up to find that I was a good half head shorter than most of the people around, but I've always been on the short side. I shake off the observation and file out with the rest of them, making a promise to myself that I would find that boy. I would confront him, compliment him face to face, let it be known that I admire him without shame. But that was for another time, for another day, it was a Friday afternoon, and we were all leaving for home. I could try to find him on my way out, but like a revenant, he was no where to be found after the performance and I was left with his mysterious aurora engulfing me.
Sherlock Holmes indeed was a talented boy, and all the way home, all I could think about was the possibility of becoming his acquaintance. But after our exchange of words I'd planned out, it was very unlikely that'd we'd become anything more than two people that one day talked. John Watson and Sherlock Holmes would probably never become anything even relevant to "acquaintances".