A/N: prompt 5 from goodpenmanship: Sherlock Holmes plays the violin.
Violin
Here, at the start, is a fine violin.
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Here is a boy, with his nose pressed to glass,
Just staring, not caring he's late for his class.
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Here's the same schoolboy, who raises his head;
He's rarely distracted, but words stay unread,
As notes from the music room call him instead.
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Here is the boy, with his senses aglow,
As he quells a slight tremor, hopes heart rate will slow,
And the instrument rests on his shoulder, just so,
And it's like coming home when he picks up the bow...
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Here is the youth, amidst tall dreaming spires,
A study in solitude's all he requires.
And here is a pawn shop, he stops and admires,
And for forty five shillings, on impulse, acquires
The only possession he truly desires.
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Here's a young man, for time moves on apace,
Long hours in the lab as he seeks a blood trace,
And a random encounter; the gaunt, suntanned face
Of a limping ex-soldier, quite lost, out of place;
And a flat share to offer, with plenty of space
For a worn Gladstone bag, and a violin case.
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Here are two tenants, like none seen before;
Two hundred and twenty one B on the door.
And here are the many adventures in store,
From dark London alley, to fog-ridden tor.
And here is a doctor in practice once more.
And here are the nightmares, the horrors of war,
Which ease as the notes of a violin soar.
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Here's the detective, emotions held tight,
And here is his faithful conductor of light.
Here are the villains pursued, wrongs made right,
The victims protected, the foes put to flight.
And here is a comrade's unbridled delight,
At a violin played on a cold winter's night.
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Here is the view of a Swiss waterfall,
And here is regret at an urgent false call,
And tracks to the perilous edge, which appall.
And here is a note, in familiar scrawl,
And here is no violin music at all...
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Here is a man in a bookseller's guise,
And here is his grief-stricken friend's shocked surprise,
And here is the honest remorse in his eyes,
And here is his music, a welcome reprise.
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Here, the return from hiatus, unplanned;
A Boswell recording their tales in The Strand,
A detective, once more with a bow in his hand.
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Here is their swan song; the humming of bees,
And the laughter and music which catch the sea breeze.
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And here, at the end, is a fine violin
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