John was never musically inclined.
Back in school, what now seemed like two and a half lifetimes away, he had enjoyed the music department's performances as much as any other kid, but had veered as far away as possible when the subject was offered up for new members. He could sing about as well as he could fly, and playing the trumpet or saxophone or such seemed an even more distant possibility. And while Harry had tried her hand at a few instruments, it was clear that that was as far as she would ever get.
But three weeks after the Fall - what he had begun referring to the incident as in order to avoid a second mental breakdown, for poor Ella could only take so much - he found himself standing in Sherlock's room in front of his desk, the slightly battered violin case sitting peacefully and innocently upon it, as though it had not kept him up night after night when Sherlock was in one of his foul moods. It sat pure, exactly as he had left it.
His eyes roved over the worn leather, taking in every little scuff mark and streak of residue, imagining how Sherlock would be able to tell a man's entire life from these miniscule details. He picked out a certain weathering upon the material and remembered the time that the consulting detective had stood at the open window for hours, case resting just under the windowsill and violin perched on his shoulder as the rain and wind poured into the room and he played with a brooding vigor. The nearby walls still showed a touch of water damage. He'd cleaned up the instrument itself, of course, but the mark remained on the case.
Hesitantly, his fingers twitched towards it, yearning to see more, to release more memories. The leather hissed softly under his fingertips as they were dragged gently across its surface before dropping down to the latch, taking in the cool feeling of the metal before lifting it. John shifted aside the velvet coverlet and immediately was reminded of how the dark, well cared for wood nestled among the lining, with its lines and curves, dips and angles, had housed Irene Adler's secrets for a time. So elegant, distantly calling for someone to lay hands to it and create the beautiful melodies it was more than capable of. But the hands to wield the sword had to be practiced and patient. They had to know what they were dealing with and how each lay the bow to the strings would resonate, what force to play with and grip to have. Up close, it seemed rather intimidating. Taunting, as if it was saying, "Here I am, and here you are. But you can't riddle me out." It was a bit eerie how deeply the instrument resembled the man who had mastered it.
It was nearly a challenge. One that John wasn't sure if he was very eager to take. But as he thought of how Sherlock had so often found solace in playing, deep into the night or early in the morning, he wondered if perhaps it wasn't such a horrible challenge after all.
A determined look touched his slightly weathered face. His hand once again reached forward, lifting the bow gingerly from its niche while his other hand plucked a piece of rosin from the hollow at one end of the case and swept it across the bow as he had seen Sherlock do so many times. The substance rasped dryly as it was rubbed over the bow, and John let himself fall into the relaxation that came from the simplicity and repetition of the back-and-forth movement. After a moment, he gave a short nod to himself and replaced the rosin, this time reaching for the body of the violin. It was cool to the touch, and as his hand slipped around the smooth wood to hoist it gently into the air, he felt a bit escape his lungs. Without hesitation, he lifted it to his chin and placed his short fingers over the strings on the neck, bow raising to hover mere centimeters over the bridge. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, released it slowly through his nose, and began.
The noise that resulted made him grateful that poor Mrs. Hudson was out shopping.
He rubbed his ear for a moment, wincing and glaring at the violin. His musings hadn't been exaggerating - this was hell to learn. Still frowning slightly, he sighed and steeled himself to try again. This time, though it was still a far cry from the various styles penetrating the air of the flat in the past, John managed to produce a somewhat more human sound and grunted in satisfaction. He had learned to adapt to Sherlock. There was no way this was any more difficult or too terribly different.
Three hours later, he decided to spare the tortured violin and retire for the night.
He would tell Ella in the morning that he wouldn't be needing the blog anymore.
Reviews help John go through Sherlock withdrawal. And we all know how terrible that is, don't we?