Young Sherlock blows his black curl off his face as he slumps forward in frustration.
"Let's try again," his instructor says, "this time I want you to relax and draw the bow across the string. Gently."
Sherlock lifts the violin onto his shoulder; his nose scrunches as he lifts his right arm to place the bow on the string. His hand is tense and he drags the bow across the string with force that is not necessary, producing a very loud, screech. Still holding his instrument up Sherlock lets out another sigh.
"I don't understand how I keep making that awful noise. It's simply dragging a bow across some string."
His instructor laughs.
"What?" Sherlock exclaims.
"It's more than that, dear. Playing the violin is an extension of one-self. You aren't simply dragging the bow across a string; you are letting it glide down the string so that it can properly encompass your emotion and your meaning. Try again. This time though I want you to think of someone or something that calms you down. That makes you happy. Is there anyone or anything that you love dearly?"
Many things pop into Sherlock's head. He thinks a bit before he nods. He is about to tell his instructor who it is, but is interrupted.
"Good. Try again with that in mind."
Sherlock takes a breath. He closes his eyes and lets the thought of Redbeard run through him. All the hours they spend running in the sun, playing catch and having fun. He loves Redbeard more than anything on Earth. More than his Mother and Father. More than Mycroft.
He places the bow on the string and pulls. He pulls gently. Producing a smooth, continuous note on his violin. He opens his eyes and looks to his instructor.
"That was much better! Good job Sherlock!"
Sherlock grins.
