.:VIOLINS:.


So, hello all! This is a post-Reichenbach one-shot from John's perspective. I've never written one before, and this seriously took me like...less than 10 minutes to write. But I like it. :D Please review! It'd mean so much to me since I'm new to this!


I know I'm not the most technologically advanced man-well, the most 'technological' thing I own is my phone from Clara, which I don't really have much use for now that you're gone (and by gone I mean not where I am, because I know you're not dead). But for Christmas, I bought myself a present. I got an iPod. I found out how to download stuff. Then, I downloaded violin solos.

I sit in my chair in 221B, my iPod turned up and my eyes shut tight, facing away from the window. If I concentrate hard enough, I can imagine you playing the violin in front of it. Sometimes you wear your purple shirt and black trousers and you sway gracefully back and forth, glancing now and again at a new piece you've composed on tea-stained paper that you've set on your music stand. Sometimes you have your blue dressing robe tossed haphazardly across your thin shoulders and your pajama pants thrown on. You dance and jump barefoot across the room, slashing violently with your bow on the strings, agitated with some unsolved problem on your head. Other times, you're perched like an owl in your chair; your feet tapping on the cushion as you lovingly set the violin under your chin. You draw your bow softly across the strings, almost caressing them. Your eyes are closed, the corners of your lips upturned in bliss as the violin lets out a beautiful sigh.

Then the track ends. You snap your eyes open and frown reproachfully at me. "Stop thinking so much, John. It's distracting." Then my eyes open reluctantly, letting the cold reality sink back into me. Spots from my eyes fade and clear slowly as I look across the flat. You're not here, but your empty violin case has been set on the kitchen table. Mrs. Hudson thinks I have your violin in my room for safekeeping; but the truth is, it wasn't there when I came back to the flat after that day. I searched everywhere for it. But I think you took it. You couldn't leave a note; no. Too obvious. But I knew you wouldn't leave behind your violin.

I shut my iPod off. Those violinists will never compare to you. I wind my earphones around the case, remembering all the times I yelled at you for playing the violin at some ungodly time of the morning.

Sherlock, when you come back (and I know you will, you have to), you're going to play for me. And when you're done, after you've pulled that final, solemn note from the strings, I'm going to walk over from my chair, and I'm going to beat the crap out of you for leaving your best friend alone.