Watson closed the door and as soon as he stepped forward the annoying and loud screech of a violin greeted him, he made a small face, Holmes could be a musical prodigy or a string buster depending on his mood, which was very fickle. The doctor mentally prepared himself for any scenario before finishing climbing the stairs and announcing his arrival but halfway he stopped abruptly, as the melody changed, what seemed to be the habit of his friend mistreating his instrument out of boredom soon revealed itself as a cacophony of the never said, Watson had considered asking him to stop, with his presence or with words but being aware of this little moment so intimate that it filtered through the walls he decided instead to take refuge in his room without protest.
...
It was overwhelming, it always was when Holmes was so immersed in tearing his soul through the melodies because the memories invaded Watson and the respect he felt for this ritual reminded him of the recklessness of his youth, he took a seat, not in his bed nor on his small desk, but instead he fell on the floor, feeling like a spy, guilty of a great crime by being closer to where the deafening screams of the ropes filtered, he knew well the reason for this feeling, he closed his eyes and the name that he did not allow himself to pronounce came to his memory when his hand brushed his battered watch, his brother's initials echoed in his head and he thought of the ghost that haunted him.
The figure of a smiling boy full of life always received him with warmth in his thoughts and the vision of himself without the wounds of the war caused him a chill, he walked through the unstable scene of his diffuse and disconnected memory, of happy and distant days, his mind always clung to remember what made his heart ache, it was inevitable because the memory of his brother was a bright sky that was lost among gray clouds, the storm of screams and disagreements came and buried the joy with the despair and loneliness of the last few weeks before they parted ways.
Before he fled, not knowing that this farewell never done would be the wound that could never heal, for many years Watson sailed through the bitterness of the past, trying to think, trying to remember that moment of breaking, before the sun disappeared forever from their lives. It was impossible to find him, it always was until ... one day Holmes played his violin, and it all made sense.
...
Watson had never considered that day in the past as something transcendental, all the details such as the beginning or the end were irrelevant, so he could only remember a moment to which his mind for some incompressible reason always clung to; He could still clearly see Henry sitting in front of the piano, playing, nothing strange, the song was happy, it was common, even boring, John had no reason to notice his brother and he almost left the room until a tension trapped in the environment was unleashed, the rhythm increased, the keys were played with intensity, the notes lost their grace and at the same time became extraordinary, a melody out of tune, meaningless, which became a horrible sound, which for some reason was played with great passion, with absolute desperation. It was an explosion, which when falling into pieces became calm, returned to its monotony and when Henry's blue eyes faced him, he could not say anything.
He did not know it then and in the present, it was certainly an irrational idea, without logic, but he thought at that time as the true breaking point, for Watson it was Henry releasing his hand and leaving him forever, after that they could never return to the days of smiles and games. His brother had given him his soul in that little slip, he had asked for help and begged for his support, but like a coward Watson said nothing and let the window close, it was one of those things that would torment him to the grave.
That is why in his first months in Baker Street when the notes of Holmes's violin were transformed, when one night in particular his violin sobbed loudly, he did not allow his feet to flee and when the steely gaze of his friend faced him, he remained steadfast and take his hand gently. Things did not change noticeably after that, but John always felt that this time he did the right thing, that his mistakes had not been repeated. Watson decided that will not allow anything to silence that furious and sometimes depressed violin bow, because there, from the bow brushing the strings the words that could never be said escaped, the most difficult calls for help to announce and acts of love that could not be spoken.
When the doctor's pulse calmed and Holmes allowed himself to breathe from his tempest, Watson left his refuge to go to his dear friend and wrap him in a hug.
Note:
Inspired by Autoheart- Hungover in the city. (Please liste to this song and think about them, I think that works much better than this one I wrote).
Originally written with Solomin and Livanov in mind or the canon guys but I guess it might work for others...