Sketches Upon the Childhood of Sherlock Holmes--Gleaming Wood and Rounded Fingers
by Heavenly Awkward
From the moment I read the passage that first mentioned Holmes's musicianship ("Do you include violin playing in your category of rows?" "It depends on the player. A well-played violin is a treat for the gods--a badly played one--" "Oh, that's no problem then!"), I felt that a gap in his character had been filled--it seemed impossible to me that such a man could not be a musician, though that's mostly because I live for music myself. But still, I thought that he must have some musical talent, and Lo and Behold! I was right. Then I read the full paragraph in the same story that elaborated on just how good he was--exceptionally so--I began to wonder just how much time he had spent on the violin. And who was his teacher?
.
.
Mournful, all sad lullabyes about dying fathers and lost loves and rain on crying children, a clear singing voice with no words, more beautiful than the sun shining through glass, more beautiful than could be imagined. The sound of heaven drifted through the passages to the skinny little boy curled against the wall, where he had slumped, hopelessly lost in the dark during midnight wanderings. He stood up and followed it, wondering dreamily if his mother was trying to let him find her. Golden candlelight peeked around the edges of a door so he opened it and stepped into the fire-warmed room. Standing tall, with the violin tucked under chin, shadowed with fire and candle light, she played with her eyes closed in her nightgown and her honey-brown hair loose. The last quivering note ended and she looked at him.
"I'm sorry, I just couldn't see where I was in the dark and I heard your music and--"
"No, no, don't go, Sherlock. Tell me, did you like what you heard?" She knelt to see him eye to eye, the key on the chain round her neck bouncing a bit.
Sherlock nodded, grey eyes wide in wonder, and burst out, "Can you teach me to play like that?" Then he blushed and looked away.
"Do you want to play like that?"
"Yes!"
"It takes many, many years, and a lot of time to play that well. You'll be much older than Mycroft by then. Do you still want to?"
"Of course I do."
"All right. I'll teach you then."
"You will?"
"Yes. Is that alright with you?"
"Oh, yes!" Sherlock's eyes, still large and round as they had been two years ago, when she first saw him as he sat with Mycroft on the stair, lit up with happiness.
"But now you need to get to bed. Come on, I'll bring my candle." She picked up the candle and led him back out through the halls. The candlelight made the jeweled eyes of a statue glow like little fires as they passed. He whimpered and stepped closer to her, and she squeezed his little hand. Then they came to his door, and she tucked him into bed.
"Now, no more midnight wanderings, all right?" She said, tapping him on the nose. He blinked and smiled and nodded. "It's time for you to sleep--if you don't sleep, you'll be tired tomorrow, or whenever it catches up to you."
"Okay." Sherlock caught the key hanging on the necklace and looked at it. "This is the key for all the doors, isn't it?"
"All except a few."
"Mama wore one."
"This is the same key."
"Really?"
"Mm-hm."
Sherlock looked at the key for another moment. He kissed it, then kissed her on the cheek. She smiled and kissed him back.
"Goodnight, Sherlock." Sherlock was already half-asleep.
"'Night, ma..."
She shook her head, smiling, and left, closing the door behind her, and he dreamt of the violin music, sweet as angel-song.
"Sherlock? Sherlock, get up! Up, you sleepyhead!" The door opened and she stepped in, grinning and looking excited.
"Mm?" Sherlock was immediately awake, but didn't get up. "What for?"
"I've talked to your father about music lessons. We're going to get you a violin!"
Sherlock gasped in excitement and leapt out of bed. She laughed and went back out so he could get dressed.
A half an hour later, she held his hand as they stepped out of the carriage and through the door. A bell was hooked to it so that it jingled as the door opened. The sharp-eyed man behind the counter looked up.
"Coming to buy a violin, Miss? No, one for the lad, I perceive."
"Yes."
The man was tall, Sherlock thought, like her brother, but he was tall and polite and proud and gentle and stern, while this man was tall and... something. Different. Strange. Offbeat. Yes, yes, that was it. He'd heard Gail say that about someone last week. In music, everyone in the group followed one beat. But this man didn't seem to follow the same beat. Everything he did was odd, somehow. Why? Sherlock watched him intently. He had a way of stopping completely and standing still as something that doesn't move, in front of one violin. He would stare at it as intently as Sherlock stared at him, then suddenly move swiftly to one place or another, saying in a cool but terse way the pros and cons of one violin as opposed to another. The man was absolutely fascinating. And now he was looking at Sherlock sternly. But his eyes smiled.
"You have a very curious charge, Miss," he said in his educated, drawling way.
"You mean he's odd, or he thinks everything else is odd?" She smiled behind her hand.
"Both, Miss. Come, Sherlock, and pick which violin you would like."
Sherlock looked intently at the violins. Then he pointed to one, the one closest to her. Its wood was polished to a shine, and the pegs had pearl laid into the handle. But that wasn't why he picked it; He picked it because the color of the wood was dark brown. Just like her violin.
"Very good." The man picked up the violin and bow. He placed the bow on the counter and bent over to see eye to eye with Sherlock. He placed the violin beneath Sherlock's chin. "Hold out your arm, yes, yes, very good. Now hold the scroll--gently, now! Well, well, you are quite tall for your age, is he not?"
"Yes, he is. So he fits a full-size violin?"
"Indeed."
"That means that, if you are very, very careful with this violin, you will never outgrow it."
"Yes. Now, watch me. I shall show you how to hold the bow. Your fingers must not straighten out, like this, when you hold the bow, and you must not hold it like you would a club. Only your fingertips may touch the bow, and they must be rounded, gently curved, you see?"
"Why?"
"Because it's easier to draw the bow properly across the strings this way. It looks better, as well."
"Ohhhh..."
"Thank you, sir."
The man put the violin and bow in a soft velvet case, along with a soft cleaning cloth and a box of rosin. "Thank you, miss, and good day!"
She didn't hold Sherlock's hand as they left, for his hands were full with the violin case. But her fingers rested gently on his shoulder as she ushered her charge of two years back to the cab.
.
A/N: THANK YOU, Sigerson, Haley Macrae, and TeriyakiKat, for reviewing! To answer you breifly:
TeriyakiKat: Yes, yes, that's exactly what I'm trying to do! And the first one was, after all, when he was six years old, so it should be somewhat whimsical. But putting little tantalizing hints of what's to come is a specialty of mine, and of course I'm going to do the same here!
Hm, I intended Mycroft to be about twelve, fifteen at the oldest. But both of them are very intelligent, so it's not hard for him to pick it up. And I'm thinking Sherlock would be the one to pull it into a more definite shape, since it is his little creation, after all. And it just seems right by his personality. I'm going to make that the subject of one of these. :D
Haley Macrae: Thank you! It is interesting, watching their childhoods affect them as adults, isn't it? I'll update as fast as I can!
Sigerson: Yes, there are grammatical mistakes, and you aren't imagining it when Holmes sounds a bit too American. I'm sorry! I'll fix it sometime and upload the results.
Thank you all again!
HA
by Heavenly Awkward
From the moment I read the passage that first mentioned Holmes's musicianship ("Do you include violin playing in your category of rows?" "It depends on the player. A well-played violin is a treat for the gods--a badly played one--" "Oh, that's no problem then!"), I felt that a gap in his character had been filled--it seemed impossible to me that such a man could not be a musician, though that's mostly because I live for music myself. But still, I thought that he must have some musical talent, and Lo and Behold! I was right. Then I read the full paragraph in the same story that elaborated on just how good he was--exceptionally so--I began to wonder just how much time he had spent on the violin. And who was his teacher?
.
.
Mournful, all sad lullabyes about dying fathers and lost loves and rain on crying children, a clear singing voice with no words, more beautiful than the sun shining through glass, more beautiful than could be imagined. The sound of heaven drifted through the passages to the skinny little boy curled against the wall, where he had slumped, hopelessly lost in the dark during midnight wanderings. He stood up and followed it, wondering dreamily if his mother was trying to let him find her. Golden candlelight peeked around the edges of a door so he opened it and stepped into the fire-warmed room. Standing tall, with the violin tucked under chin, shadowed with fire and candle light, she played with her eyes closed in her nightgown and her honey-brown hair loose. The last quivering note ended and she looked at him.
"I'm sorry, I just couldn't see where I was in the dark and I heard your music and--"
"No, no, don't go, Sherlock. Tell me, did you like what you heard?" She knelt to see him eye to eye, the key on the chain round her neck bouncing a bit.
Sherlock nodded, grey eyes wide in wonder, and burst out, "Can you teach me to play like that?" Then he blushed and looked away.
"Do you want to play like that?"
"Yes!"
"It takes many, many years, and a lot of time to play that well. You'll be much older than Mycroft by then. Do you still want to?"
"Of course I do."
"All right. I'll teach you then."
"You will?"
"Yes. Is that alright with you?"
"Oh, yes!" Sherlock's eyes, still large and round as they had been two years ago, when she first saw him as he sat with Mycroft on the stair, lit up with happiness.
"But now you need to get to bed. Come on, I'll bring my candle." She picked up the candle and led him back out through the halls. The candlelight made the jeweled eyes of a statue glow like little fires as they passed. He whimpered and stepped closer to her, and she squeezed his little hand. Then they came to his door, and she tucked him into bed.
"Now, no more midnight wanderings, all right?" She said, tapping him on the nose. He blinked and smiled and nodded. "It's time for you to sleep--if you don't sleep, you'll be tired tomorrow, or whenever it catches up to you."
"Okay." Sherlock caught the key hanging on the necklace and looked at it. "This is the key for all the doors, isn't it?"
"All except a few."
"Mama wore one."
"This is the same key."
"Really?"
"Mm-hm."
Sherlock looked at the key for another moment. He kissed it, then kissed her on the cheek. She smiled and kissed him back.
"Goodnight, Sherlock." Sherlock was already half-asleep.
"'Night, ma..."
She shook her head, smiling, and left, closing the door behind her, and he dreamt of the violin music, sweet as angel-song.
"Sherlock? Sherlock, get up! Up, you sleepyhead!" The door opened and she stepped in, grinning and looking excited.
"Mm?" Sherlock was immediately awake, but didn't get up. "What for?"
"I've talked to your father about music lessons. We're going to get you a violin!"
Sherlock gasped in excitement and leapt out of bed. She laughed and went back out so he could get dressed.
A half an hour later, she held his hand as they stepped out of the carriage and through the door. A bell was hooked to it so that it jingled as the door opened. The sharp-eyed man behind the counter looked up.
"Coming to buy a violin, Miss? No, one for the lad, I perceive."
"Yes."
The man was tall, Sherlock thought, like her brother, but he was tall and polite and proud and gentle and stern, while this man was tall and... something. Different. Strange. Offbeat. Yes, yes, that was it. He'd heard Gail say that about someone last week. In music, everyone in the group followed one beat. But this man didn't seem to follow the same beat. Everything he did was odd, somehow. Why? Sherlock watched him intently. He had a way of stopping completely and standing still as something that doesn't move, in front of one violin. He would stare at it as intently as Sherlock stared at him, then suddenly move swiftly to one place or another, saying in a cool but terse way the pros and cons of one violin as opposed to another. The man was absolutely fascinating. And now he was looking at Sherlock sternly. But his eyes smiled.
"You have a very curious charge, Miss," he said in his educated, drawling way.
"You mean he's odd, or he thinks everything else is odd?" She smiled behind her hand.
"Both, Miss. Come, Sherlock, and pick which violin you would like."
Sherlock looked intently at the violins. Then he pointed to one, the one closest to her. Its wood was polished to a shine, and the pegs had pearl laid into the handle. But that wasn't why he picked it; He picked it because the color of the wood was dark brown. Just like her violin.
"Very good." The man picked up the violin and bow. He placed the bow on the counter and bent over to see eye to eye with Sherlock. He placed the violin beneath Sherlock's chin. "Hold out your arm, yes, yes, very good. Now hold the scroll--gently, now! Well, well, you are quite tall for your age, is he not?"
"Yes, he is. So he fits a full-size violin?"
"Indeed."
"That means that, if you are very, very careful with this violin, you will never outgrow it."
"Yes. Now, watch me. I shall show you how to hold the bow. Your fingers must not straighten out, like this, when you hold the bow, and you must not hold it like you would a club. Only your fingertips may touch the bow, and they must be rounded, gently curved, you see?"
"Why?"
"Because it's easier to draw the bow properly across the strings this way. It looks better, as well."
"Ohhhh..."
"Thank you, sir."
The man put the violin and bow in a soft velvet case, along with a soft cleaning cloth and a box of rosin. "Thank you, miss, and good day!"
She didn't hold Sherlock's hand as they left, for his hands were full with the violin case. But her fingers rested gently on his shoulder as she ushered her charge of two years back to the cab.
.
A/N: THANK YOU, Sigerson, Haley Macrae, and TeriyakiKat, for reviewing! To answer you breifly:
TeriyakiKat: Yes, yes, that's exactly what I'm trying to do! And the first one was, after all, when he was six years old, so it should be somewhat whimsical. But putting little tantalizing hints of what's to come is a specialty of mine, and of course I'm going to do the same here!
Hm, I intended Mycroft to be about twelve, fifteen at the oldest. But both of them are very intelligent, so it's not hard for him to pick it up. And I'm thinking Sherlock would be the one to pull it into a more definite shape, since it is his little creation, after all. And it just seems right by his personality. I'm going to make that the subject of one of these. :D
Haley Macrae: Thank you! It is interesting, watching their childhoods affect them as adults, isn't it? I'll update as fast as I can!
Sigerson: Yes, there are grammatical mistakes, and you aren't imagining it when Holmes sounds a bit too American. I'm sorry! I'll fix it sometime and upload the results.
Thank you all again!
HA