CHAPTER 2: VIOLIN
The next morning, John came downstairs to the strains of the violin. So Sherlock had fetched it already. He must have woken up the music shop owner at an ungodly hour. He was standing at the window in his dressing gown. And John could tell, from his tense stance, and the manic intensity with which he played, that he was in one of his moods.
"Right then," John said, "off to work." Sherlock did not look at him.
That night, when John got home, Sherlock was still at the violin, still in the window, still in his dressing gown. John thought he likely had not moved from the spot all day. He worried, but he didn't say anything. He lay in his bed listening to the sounds of the violin all night, getting as little sleep as Sherlock. He wanted to do something, to comfort to Sherlock, to break him out of this black mood. But there was nothing to say.
The next morning, before John left, he paused downstairs. Sherlock lifted his hand from the instrument momentarily, his bow hand shaking with fatigue, but he didn't turn.
"Please do me a favor and eat something. Sleep. Please, Sherlock."
Sherlock went back to playing.
That evening, when John came home, Sherlock was gone. He hadn't left a note.
