Sherlock was six when he was given his first violin – one-eighth, a perfect fit for his small frame. Stunning, Italian made and far too expensive for such young hands, but the Holmes boys rarely got anything short of the best.
Sherlock always loved the sound of the stringed instruments. He loved the haunting mystery and drama that resonated within every note. Mummy often said the only thing that calmed him as a baby was the sound of classical compositions. The sound calmed him still. Where other children would want hushed lullabies or soothing words, Sherlock wanted Bach or Mozart. It was only natural that he be given an instrument of his own and a tutor to go with it.
The violin came first. Sherlock's eyes widened at the sight of it – a work of art to even his young eyes – nestled within the scarlet lining of its protective case. He brushed his small fingers lightly over the scroll, walked them gently down the fingerboard, and traced the purfling and f-holes with admiration. His eyes widened, amazed that such a precious thing was allowed to belong to him, that soon he would be able to place the bow to the strings and take control of the notes, order them together in whichever way he wished, master them, command them.
The violin presented a welcome distraction, something to focus on and quiet his busy mind, calm the constant whirlwind of disconnected thoughts and overload of sensory information. He was promised lessons to start by the end of the week, but Sherlock couldn't wait that long. He knew theoretically how the instrument was played and knew just about every sound a violin could make already. He wanted to create those sounds now, needed too. It would be an experiment to see if he could do it all on his own, a challenge he gladly accepted.
Which is why, Mycroft entered the parlour later that afternoon, drawn in by a plethora of strained and painfully squeaky noises, to find his little brother frowning at the new violin like it had done him a personal wrong. The expression on Sherlock's face brought an amused smile to Mycroft's lips.
Although Mycroft had studied music and excelled in the theory and history of it, he hadn't quite acquired the knack for playing an instrument. His art of choice was in paint and canvas. He knew enough about the basics however, to know what his impatient little brother was doing incorrectly.
"This isn't how a violin is supposed to sound like. It's…wrong," Sherlock uttered with a slight trace of a lisp, not bothering to look up at Mycroft.
"It's takes practice, dear brother. Even you can't be perfect on the first try." Mycroft laughed and took a few steps forward, reaching for the instrument. "If you just—"
Sherlock cradled the violin possessively and stomped a socked foot on the carpeting, which Mycroft noticed, much to his amusement, was covered in little bees, all grinning up at him – a humorous contrast to his little brother's scrunched up face and annoyed pout.
"I don't need your help, Mycroft."
"Well then, you'll just have to wait until your first lesson on Friday to find out what you are doing wrong."
Sherlock's pout deepened. He hated being wrong, hated it even more when he didn't know why he was wrong, especially when Mycroft knew and he didn't. He didn't need his brother's help. He didn't want it. He gave Mycroft a few squeaky notes just to prove how much he didn't want his help and sent his brother on his merry way with an innocent, "Go eat cake, Mycroft," which sounded far more threatening inside his head.
Mycroft shrugged and left the parlour, but stood on the other side of the doorway and waited, listening to Sherlock struggle with the instrument, cringing at every note. He knew his brother well, knew the moment would come when… Ah, there!
A soft defeated sigh, followed by an even softer, "Mycroooft?"
Mycroft turned back into the room. Sherlock stood with arms at his sides, the bow in one hand and violin in the other, staring at the carpet.
"I'm not asking for your help," Sherlock said, still pouting.
Mycroft smirked, striding over to kneel down beside his little brother. He gently guided Sherlock into the proper posture and repositioned the instrument correctly. "Of course, you're not."
"I can do this on my own. It's the violin's fault."
Mycroft loosened Sherlock's grip on the bow and helped curl his fingers into place around the frog. He hummed and nodded. "Of course, it is."
He led Sherlock's bow arm into position for a down stroke on the E-string, instructed him on the amount of pressure to be placed on the strings – not too much, but not too little – and let go, rocking back on his heels to give his brother space to play.
Sherlock bit his bottom lip in focused determination, gliding the bow along the string. The violin produced a still slightly strained, but nevertheless recognizable note and Sherlock's face lit up. He had done that. He had made the violin play its first note and there would be others that would follow, so many others, notes that would eventually turn into songs and maybe one day, even his own compositions.
He turned to Mycroft with a smug expression.
"Told you I didn't need your help!"
Mycroft rolled his eyes and sighed, but there was still a trace of a smile on his lips. He knew Sherlock was grateful for the help, even if he would never say it in so many words.