Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to the BBC. I claim no ownership over it, as much as I would love to.
Even as a child, Sherlock was odd. He wouldn't play with any of the children in his class at school. At times, he would mope about the house, locking himself in his room for days at a time. Other times, he couldn't be kept indoors, so boundless was his energy. He rarely smiled, and almost never showed emotion or, really, seemed to feel anything. Mummy and Father couldn't quite understand him. Even their oldest son, Mycroft, who tested at genius levels, had friends, though he, too, had his eccentricities.
Another oddity was that Sherlock had never shown any interest in music of any kind. So it was strange when, at age seven, he passed by a music store with Mummy in London and stopped dead, staring at the window with wide eyes, despite Mummy's insistence that they keep going or they would be late for their appointment. Silently, he held up his hand and pointed at the small wooden instrument he felt inexplicably drawn to.
"Not today, Sherlock," Mummy said wearily, taking in his pleading eyes. "Maybe for your birthday."
His head drooped, and Mummy tugged on his hand, but he wouldn't budge. Mummy sighed and crouched down in front of him. She was quite used to his stubbornness, even at such a young age, and was not in the mood to deal with it that day. But when she brushed back his dark curls, her fingers stilled in surprise.
Sherlock's bottom lip was trembling, his free hand clenched tightly into a small fist. Enormous tears rolled down his cheeks, leaving salty trails in their wake. He sniffed quietly and took in a shuddering breath.
She wasn't quite sure what she was seeing. Sherlock rarely cried, even as a baby, and then only when he got hurt. Until now, Mummy hadn't even been sure Sherlock cared about anything or even had the emotional capabilities to cry like this.
She pulled him into her arms and at first Sherlock didn't respond, but within a few moments he wrapped his arms around her neck, grasping her jacket with his small hands. Mummy stroked the back of his head, murmuring soft comforts into his ear. Within seconds, his crying had stopped and he pulled away, his nose dripping slightly.
Mummy smiled at him, pulling out her handkerchief from her pocket and wiping his nose. "You want that violin?" she asked him sweetly.
"Violin?" he asked. He glanced back to the window and pointed at the instrument again.
She nodded. "That's what it's called," she explained. "You hold your fingers down over the strings and use a bow to make music. And you hold it under your chin, right here." She lightly tickled him on his neck, causing him to giggle.
"Please," he said, his sharp grey eyes wide. "I want it, please, Mummy."
This was so uncharacteristic of Sherlock that Mummy couldn't help but relent. "All right." Sherlock's smile was enormous, infectious, and Mummy found herself laughing before she continued, "But a violin isn't a toy. You need to take very good care of it."
He nodded earnestly and, after a lengthy discussion with the store clerk and a bit of haggling, Sherlock emerged from the store clutching a violin case close to his chest. "Thank you, Mummy," he said earnestly.
"You're welcome," she said. She glanced at her watch and groaned. "Oh, it's much too late to make my appointment. I'll have to reschedule with Dr. Watson for next week." She hailed a cab to take them back home, her foot tapping slightly with impatience. She looked down at Sherlock hugging his violin, his face happy, eyes bright, and smiled. Truthfully, missing the appointment was nothing if it meant she could see that expression on her son's usually empty face.
Sherlock swept the bow across his violin, his expression thoughtful. He began to improvise, playing a slow, mournful melody filled with nostalgia. He stared out the window, his sharp eyes drawn to the music shop down the road where he had stood so long ago, crying into his mother's arms. To this day, he couldn't understand what the draw he'd felt towards this instrument was, and he still didn't know what it was that he loved so much about playing.
He was good at it, certainly – when he wanted to be. And it was nice sometimes to improvise like this, just letting his mind wander as his fingers instinctively brushed over the strings, knowing what they wanted to do better than he did.
But it was something more than that.
He felt, rather than heard or saw, John come up the stairs with a bag of groceries. "That's nice," John commented as he wandered into the kitchen, putting everything away. "Composing?" he called.
Sherlock didn't answer. He never did, when he was playing.
His eyes flickered closed as a particularly strong section that sounded like longing rang through the air. Ah, that was it, he realized. Today was the anniversary of Mummy's death. Twelve years, now, was it? The strings bit into his fingers, but still he didn't stop. Couldn't.
He played through, the song turning into anguish, then stillness, then confusion. Anger began to rip through the notes and he grit his teeth, scraping his bow against the strings, then suddenly everything was gentle. Soft. His mother's eyes in her final moments swam in mind. Peace. Acceptance.
The song ended on a long, hollow not and his arms dropped to his sides. Suddenly, everything was gone, dispersed into the air with the vibrations of the strings. He opened his eyes to see John was sitting in his chair, watching him closely. John inclined his head to a pile of blank staff paper. "You should write that down."
Sherlock shook his head, his eyes finding the music store again, staring at the deserted storefront.
John scoffed. "Are you mad? That was amazing! People would love it."
Sherlock didn't reply for a long while, still staring out the window. John had resigned himself to not getting a reply when, finally, Sherlock turned and carefully placed his violin back in its case. Before closing it, he ran his hand down the side of the instrument, caressing it. He then shut and latched it, straightening abruptly.
"Not all songs are played to be heard." He stalked off, clutching the violin case to his chest as he'd done when he was a child, but the ends of his fingers still tingled with the short, simple inscription he'd run them over moments before: With love.
Thank you all for reading! I just want to give a bit of insight to my idea behind this. As a music therapy major, I've found it very interesting, in watching Sherlock, how much emotion he brings across when he plays the violin. In particular, I'm thinking of A Scandal in Belgravia, after he believes Irene Adler to be dead, and the composition he writes at the time. For a self-proclaimed sociopath, it seemed to me to be an extremely emotional song.
Sherlock, by that point, had made it fairly obvious that death didn't faze him, at least not at the same level as it fazed the rest of the world. And so his blankness in the hospital after seeing Irene's "body" he believes is meant to be taken as what he is truly feeling at that moment: nothing. But, knowing that music is derived from emotion, and indeed, good music can't be written without some kind of emotion being felt at the time, I wonder, is Sherlock really feeling nothing?
Or does he merely lack the ability to consciously understand what he's feeling?
My theory is that Sherlock cares - and of course we've seen it time and again, centered around John, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and even Molly, to an extent. But I don't think he understands it. His brain - his hard drive - is already filled to the brim with everything he needs to know for his work, and he tossed out any knowledge of emotion a long time ago, along with the knowledge that the earth revolves around the sun. So, perhaps the only times he can sort through those strange sensations he has towards his friends are when he's playing his violin.
I hope I explained that well... If not, feel free to ask me any questions and I'll get back to you!