Sherlock Age:15
"Sherlock, you have a mess to clean up down here. I rather wish that you would clean up after dissecting something on my kitchen table. Sherlock." Mummy's calling for me. I don't want to answer. I'm on the edge of an important discovery. Music. I crank the classical music up a little louder before laying back on the floor, propping my head up on some dirty laundry. "Sherlock. Don't make me ask again." Another couple of bars, now I can't hear anything but the violin. This is how I think. How I feel. I link my fingers together over my chest and close my eyes. Beautiful. The door's locked. She's going to want to come in, can't let her take it away. The sounds, the music. It's like another language. The door bangs open. Shit. My eyes fly open. Father. He's come home. Sitting up I hightail for the window that leads to the roof. He won't follow me out there. He pulls my stereo out of the wall, as I scramble over my desk, pulling open the window and clambering out onto the roof. Shit shit shit He's home early. Why did he have to come home early? I was wrong, he's following me, oh shit. He pulls his bulky form onto the roof, clawing with his big hands after me. No. No. No. Quickly I head to the point in the roof to scramble down the other side and in the window. His fingers close around my ankle, I hear a pop. No! I grip the crease with my hands, feeling the rough shingles bite into my palms. NO! He yanks me down and I scrape my chin. My fingers try to find something else to hold onto as he pulls me back down. My t-shirt catches on the shingles, leaving my stomach bare and open for more scratching. No no no. I've been hoping he wouldn't come back. Mother's downstairs, she's not going to help.
"Father please! I won't listen to it anymore! I promise! I swear!" He drags me into my room. SHIT! I'm going to die! He's going to kill me! He throws me to the floor and hits me on the side of my face, I don't care, he does it all the time, the bruise on my left side is from yesterday. I shoot to my feet and shoot out the window this time reaching the gutter and leaping onto the car, perfect. Father is shouting out the window, scolding me. Don't pay attention. I walk down the street, hands in my pockets, head hung low, playing the song over and over again in my mind, I bet I can play it. I bet I can. I pull open the front door and head for the living room, time to play.
221B Baker Street, Present Day
"I can play by ear." John looks up from the paper,
"Really?"
"Obviously."
"What?"
"Never mind John. Read your paper."
"Sherlock?" He's gone, and out of his room comes classical music, loud and proud. Not what normal people listen to. A fast violin solo, a whole song written for violins, and after twenty minutes he comes out and picks up his violin. After doing a quick set of chords and a small warmup song he plays something beautiful, the same thing John had heard just minutes before. He can play by ear. "You can play by ear." Sherlock says nothing but closes his eyes, swaying with the music, letting it flow through him. The violin knows what it wants, Sherlock is only the tool it uses to unleash the music. He finishes the song and puts it away without looking at John.
"See there? You were wrong."
"What?"
"I can play by ear." John smiles,
"I know," and then out of curiosity, "Does Mycroft play anything?" Sherlock laughs at a memory that question brings up,
"He played the cello."
"Past tense?" Sherlock laughs again,
"It was bigger then he was, and he wanted to play piano."
"He doesn't though?"
"NO! Oh Hell! Of course not! His fingers don't move properly."
"And I assume yours do?"
"Obviously. Much more nimble."
"So you play the piano too?" Another laugh,
"Not well."
"Can you play that by ear too?"
"Of course not!"
"What?"
"Violin is my instrument of choice. Meaning I spend more time with it then with any other instrument you could throw at me. It's much more... Beautiful then everything else. Humbling. Sensitive. It's almost alive I would say. God do I love the violin." He sighs a little bit before finishing packing up the violin. He sits down, "Do you play anything?" John smiles,
"I learned the clarinet at school."
"But you don't play it anymore. Or I would have known. What made you stop playing? Clarinets are beautiful too. Not like the violin, but they work well together I think."
"Wasn't my style. Besides, if you want girls, sports is where you go. Girls like that sort of thing. Let me tell you a story, when I played clarinet I got no girls, but as soon as I started doing sports, girls fawned over me. It's quite amazing actually."
"I wouldn't know."
"Right, not your area. I forgot."
"I know."
"Are you okay?" Sherlock sits back in his chair, lost in thought,
"What? Yes. Obviously."
"What are you thinking about Sherlock. You've gone all... distant."
"A long long time ago when the violin got me into trouble."
"...?"
"It was a long time ago. Don't worry. All I did was get scolded for not clearing up a bit of frog I left on the kitchen table."
"When was this?"
"When I was fifteen. Keep up."
"I guess some people never change."
"What?"
"Nothing Sherlock. Nothing." An awkward silence. Neither knows what to say, so they sit there, and John reads his paper, and Sherlock thinks. He gets his violin out again and plays something new, something he invented. Something for John.
"John."
"What Sherlock."
"Do you like the violin?"
"It's alright I guess. When the right person is playing it."
"Do you like when I play the violin?"
"Yes."
"It helps you sleep."
"WHAT?"
"Sometimes I play it when you have bad dreams, and then you settle down."
"Oh."
"What did you think I meant?"
"Nothing Sherlock."