Author's Note: If you want to make reading more enjoyable, go to Youtube and listen Chopin's Nocturne in C Sharp Minor (violin, Joshua Bell's version is great). It's the piece of music that Sherlock is playing in the end of the chapter.

Chapter 3

Angel held the violin carefully, like it was made of glass. She stroked it and sniffed it and smiled at it. She placed it under her chin and bent her head lovingly. Her long, blond hair glided against the neck of the violin.

Sherlock stood beside her, observing. Well, no need to comment about the holding. It came naturally, he thought to himself. And her hair was really beautiful.

Angel took the bow from Sherlock and placed her fingers to the exact spots Sherlock had told her before. First joints of the fingers against the wood, little finger on the top and slightly curved thumb underneath, meeting the middle finger. Then she draw the bow across the strings few times, back and forth, and made a smooth, steady, even sound.

Well, no need to comment about the drawing, either, Sherlock pondered. She pulled the bow straight, parallel to the bridge, bent her elbow and compensated the weight of the bow really well. Quite extraordinary actually, as he had shown her only once. And wasn't that hair almost like a golden cloak on her shoulders? It seemed to capture the light and reflect it, brightly, around the room... After a moment he noticed that Angel was looking at him, waiting for more instructions.

"Your little finger needs to sit on top of the bow all the time and stay there," he said.

Angel corrected it right away and made yet another draw. Sherlock watched her hair moving in the air. He had never seen anyone's hair look so soft, so silky. Actually, he was pretty sure he had never seen anyone's hair at all. Well, he had seen, yes, but not really observed. Or cared to observe. Why would he? Like, wasn't that a waste of time and braincells anyway, to look at somebody's hair? A stupid thing to spend your time with. Really, he should stop it immediately and -

"Mr Holmes?"

Sherlock blinked. He forced his eyes away from her hair and cleared his throat.

"Now, when you place your first finger on the G-string, it's the one there at the edge, keep it curved and apply slightly more pressure on the left side," he instructed.

"At what spot, exactly?" she asked.

"One and a half inch down from the nut. That's A."

"From the nut?"

"It's this place where the strings rest on the fingerboard," he said and pointed at it with his long forefinger. He slew his desire to touch her hair.

She placed her finger precisely one and a half inch down from the nut and played an A, clear and pure. Sherlock nodded shortly.

John was watching them in amazement. How could they make the whole thing of playing sound like maths? Where were all the feelings he had seen on their faces, when Sherlock had played that violin nearly a month ago? And how would that poor girl, however tough she was, survive being taught by Sherlock, the most pedantic man on earth? She did it all perfectly and yet, he didn't give her any compliments. And what the hell Sherlock was waiting for with that hair, anyway?

The teaching continued. Sherlock asked Angel to do things and she did, mostly perfectly, and when making a mistake she corrected it right away and didn't repeat. Sherlock kept on staring at her hair and John kept on staring at Sherlock's face.

After an hour Angel raised her chin and handed the violin to Sherlock.

"Please, make it sing," she asked quietly.

He looked at her for a moment. Then his eyes softened a bit.

"What do you want to hear?" he asked, almost tenderly.

"Chopin's Nocturne in C Sharp Minor."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows in surprise. He didn't say anything but nodded and placed the violin under his chin, and played.

Angel listened, a delirious look on her face. Her eyes gleamed with tears and her lips were trembling. This time, Sherlock watched her as he played, and what he saw made his chest burn. It was like the drawing of the bow was tearing her heart apart, yet the smile on her lips was so full of wonder and delight that he kept on playing, gritting his teeth and forcing his hand to move smoothly back and fort. And, suddenly, he remembered the word she had used before:

A torture.

When the last sound faded away Sherlock had broken out in cold sweat all over. Angel didn't notice anything. She stared nowhere and her lips were moving, shaping words that she whispered into the silence of the room:

And then the player changed his tone,
And wrought another miracle
Of music, half a prayer, half moan,
A cry exceeding sorrowful.

A strain of pity for the weak,
The poor that fall without a cry,
The common hearts that never speak,
But break beneath the press and die...

There was a long silence. Sherlock and John looked at her. Finally she lifted her eyes and glanced at them both. Her gaze was still cloudy and distant, but she was slowly coming back from where ever she had been. She took a deep breath, blinked her tears away and smiled a little.

"Archibald Lampman," she said gently. "A Canadian poet. Did you know that his grave is marked by a natural stone on which is carved only the word, 'Lampman'? When I die I want a gravestone on which is carved only the word 'Angel'."

She looked at Sherlock, deep into his mind and there was something in her eyes that turned Sherlock's stomach. As if she had said that on purpose. To him. He swallowed and forced his voice calm and steady.

"Angels don't die," he said quietly.

"What do they do then?" she asked, a thin smile on her lips.

Sherlock shrugged. His eyes flicked toward John and then quickly back, and there was an odd, almost suffering look on his face when he answered:

"They just... fly away."