N. Noise
It is an awful, horrible, ear-ringing screech that wakes me one morning. I recognise the sound of the violin bow being dragged unceremoniously across the strings, and groan aloud as I roll over in bed to look at the clock. Four-forty-six, it reads in glowing red numbers. I groan again. Just last week I had to talk to Sherlock about playing the violin at odd hours. Music is one thing – on a good night, I can sleep through music. But that sound is not conducive to normal brain function, much less any sort of rest.
Screech again. I set my jaw and drag myself out of bed, pulling a warm jumper on over my pyjamas. No point trying to go back to sleep now, is there? Not if that's going to continue. I might as well make a pot of tea and watch the early news.
He's sitting in his usual chair when I enter the sitting room, but when he looks up, he seems surprised to see me. So surprised, in fact, that the bow screeches once more, and I wince.
"Didn't realise you were here," he says. He blinks rapidly a few times, as though to make sure I'm real. "Thought you were round at Sarah's. Sorry, John." Carefully, apologetically, he sets aside his violin and bow.