Authors Notes: I wrote this as Canon as possible. Reviews are welcome as always =]
I remember the very first time I was invited to watch and listen to Holmes playing his violin. It was some weeks after the dramatic conclusion of the case we both have come to refer to as 'A Study in Scarlet', and the night was a particularly dreary one. After snapping a string and the bow of his violin in a violent crescendo of his black mood, Holmes had quite literally stormed from our rooms and into the pouring rain without either his coat or hat.
Of course, I myself had been the trigger for this particular collapse; if only he had chosen to flirt with that damned drug of his whilst I was out completing my errands, I would have not have found him with that tourniquet about his arm and his thumb upon the plunger. I did not see Holmes again for some hours, but when he did return he was visibly shaking from cold and soaked to the skin. Mrs Hudson, the poor soul, chose to follow Holmes up the seventeen steps to our main room, scolding him for dripping water everywhere and not minding his own well being each step of the way. Finally, Holmes entered the room and shut the door promptly behind him, blocking her mid word. Not once did I hear him reply to her accusations, nor did he even glance in my direction. Apparently, he had still not forgiven my interruption. Instead, he slowly walked towards his armchair, dripping water as he did so. I contemplated commenting upon the state of him, but thought otherwise as he dropped a bag I had not noticed him carrying next to the unlit fireplace. He hesitated, as if unwilling to leave the bag in my sight then took leave of the room, slamming the door behind him.
I had not known Sherlock Holmes for long, but already I had begun to adapt to his strange switches in mood and even stranger habits. Some days he would refuse any form of food, and would only accept weak tea and the strongest tobacco available, other days he would drag me out all over the country in any weather at even the slightest hint of an interesting case. It first appeared as though that night he would be unwilling to take care of himself, but I soon found myself corrected as he re-entered the room fully changed into a set of dry clothes. I had half expected him to be wearing that tattered old dressing gown of his, the one stained with chemicals and ruined with scorch marks. Once again, I was treated with the same cold, detached manner as before; I was completely ignored as if I weren't there at all. I watched as he made his way cautiously over to his armchair in an almost reluctant manner; it was rather strange even for him but I did not comment upon his odd behaviour lest I anger him again. It was not the strangest thing I had ever witnessed my friend doing.
His fingered lightly skimmed the lacquered surface of his Stradivarius and his brow furrowed as if contemplating something he would never elaborate on to me. After a few moments of simply looking down thoughtfully at his instrument, he picked it up gently as though it were is his time ever seeing such a work of art. I suppose for him, his violin symbolised much more than it was obvious to me, for I knew nothing of violins before renting the room upstairs. What puzzled me most was his reluctance to disturb the remaining three strings, for not once did I hear even an accidental tone pierce the heavy silence. I could not help but notice a distinct lack of scratches upon its surface, even though many a time I had found that Holmes had not put his violin away properly and simply left it laying wherever he cared to leave it. I had lost count of the amount of times I had nearly sat down on top of it.
The bag he had brought home with him was quickly retrieved from where it lay, and I watched in curiosity as he opened it and brought out a brand new bow and a new E string. I have not a clue as to where he bought such items at this hour, but I was immensely relieved that he had chosen to do something constructive with his time out in the rain instead of brooding, as he was prone to doing. The bow itself was a beautiful creation and complimented his Stradivarius wonderfully. I opened my mouth to comment upon its craftsmanship but once again thought better of it. Holmes smiled at me slightly, obviously appreciating my silence. I was very much relived that his mood had lifted from earlier, and continued to watch him carefully appraise the new bow.
A minute or two passed in this fashion, with Holmes examining every inch of the new bow with a critical eye and myself watching him do so to the sound of rain upon the window glass. Finally, he sighed and lay the bow upon the floor at his feet. Taking up the E string, I watched as he unravelled the finest string of the set with skilled hands. With the E string in his right hand and the Stradivarius resting lightly upon his leg, he hooked the end of the string into the tail-piece and pulled it tight. I winced as I watched the wire cut into his thumb slightly, yet he paid it no notice and threaded the string through the topmost peg with great care. He paused, evaluating the position of the string, before taking it out and attempting it once again. Holmes was indeed a perfectionist when it came down to this particular activity. After he was satisfied, he held the violin steady with his leg hand and wound the peg with his right, occasionally plucking the string. I was initially surprised at how quickly Holmes managed to find the perfect tautness of the E, yet after all these years I have come to realise just how musically gifted he really is. He relaxed once he had successfully tuned the instrument, yet his gaze lingered upon the bow at his feet. Before I could blink, he snatched up the knife from the mantelpiece and took a small box filled with a strange amber-coloured block from his pocket.
''I cannot but help notice your curiosity. This, my dear Watson, is a substance known as Rosin. It is made from a special type of sap, that in powder form, clings to the strings of a bow. It both holds and releases strings constantly.''
I raised my eyebrows in surprise; Holmes was speaking to me again much sooner than I first thought he would. The concept of this 'Rosin' confused me somewhat so I, not wanting his mood to dwindle again, asked him to elaborate. ''Rosin? Forgive me Holmes, but you already know I know nothing of musical instruments.''
He smiled warmly, and whilst scraping the sharpened blade over the block of Rosin, explained a little more to me.
''Then I shall explain more to you so that you might understand. Rosin, as I have already said, is a type of sap. It is taken specifically from Pine trees, and because it both holds and releases the bow strings, the strings vibrate much better. Without Rosin, a violin is utterly useless. A blank canvas without a painter; infinite potential but very unlikely to be paid attention to.'' After scraping the knife across the block, he ran the bow strings across it to collect the powder. I shuddered as I imagined Mrs Hudson's reaction to the dust as it fell upon the rug as he did so. It would be somewhat difficult to remove. Holmes smiled again as if sensing my thoughts, but otherwise said or did nothing but continue to apply the Rosin.
''Holmes, the hour is late. I really should retire soon.''
He paused momentarily as if my declaration surprised him. ''Won't you stay for a tune or two? You have sat in silence for at least an hour watching me prepare my violin, the least I could do is let you hear the result first hand.'' He paused again, unsure of what to say. ''Especially after my terrible attitude towards you earlier. Consider it an apology.''
The offer was a totally new one to me, for I had only ever heard Holmes play through the walls of my room, and even then it was always too early in the morning for me to properly appreciate his musical talent. I smiled and nodded. Sleep could wait for now.
''Excellent! Would you prefer any tune in particular?''
''Play what you feel like playing Holmes. I cannot possibly choose.''
He nodded and placed the violin at his shoulder, although he did not start playing until he was stood at our window overlooking the darkened street. After a moment or two of peaceful silence, he drew the bow experimentally across each string, staring with the the lowest. After the E, he returned back to the G, which then merged into a nameless yet beautiful tune seamlessly. I was in awe of the raw emotion behind each individual note, each stroke of the bow, each and every time he swayed slightly in rhythm to a song I would never know the name of. Never before had I thought it possible for a piece of music to say more than any letter, yet as soon as he started to play I instantly knew why it was that the violin was held so dear to him whilst other things were not. As a surgeon, the only instruments I had ever learned to master were the scalpel and tourniquet. For the Consulting Detective stood in front of me, I knew the violin was not only an instrument; it was the only method he had of truly expressing his emotions. I was a fool for never realising before that night. Finally, his song came to a gentle end, and he turned on the spot to witness my reaction. Words would never be able to express what I thought of his music, and he smiled widely as I told him as such. The violin was very much an extension of his soul, a creation built specifically for him, maintained and cared for more than even his own health. I was honoured and remain honoured to this day to have the privilege of being audience to such shows of unrestrained emotion on a regular basis, for even when he cannot find the will to speak, his music will tell me everything he wishes me to know and more.