Note: Just to be clear, I know absolutely nothing about making violins except what I've learned online in web searches the last couple of days. I have no idea if I've got the complexity level correct here or not, and apologize in advance for any gratuitous errors.

Before John could start on Sherlock's violin, of course, he had a lot to do.

First … he was going to have to go back to Baker Street. He was going to need his workshop and, well, he'd left Mrs. Hudson alone long enough. He still didn't think he could bear to go up to 221B, though, but he could put a cot in 221C for the time being. (He found for the first time that he was grateful to Mycroft for keeping up the rent for the Baker Street flat.)

Then, he was going to need to research. Other than a basic wooden pipe when he was ten, he'd never even considered making a musical instrument before—certainly nothing as exacting as a violin. All he knew was that it required meticulous work and that everything had to be perfect to get the right sound when all was said and done. (And, really, an instrument with faulty sound … what was the point?)

He might be crazy, trying to build a violin that could compare with a Stradivarius, but maybe that was just what he needed?

He'd have to do some research, first. He didn't even know how to name all the parts of a violin, much less how to construct one. What kind of wood would he need? Any specialized tools? How did you attach the strings to the neck? (Was it even called a neck? Fingerboard?)

He barely slept that night. Well, he had barely slept for three months, continually woken by nightmares when he did sleep and tossing and turning when he could not.

But that night? The night he decided to make a violin? His mind was just too busy making plans.

It was good to actually feel excited about something.

Because, odd though it was, the thought of this did excite him. He would never have dared tackle it before—Sherlock would have made the process excruciating. He would have wanted to be involved in every step, experimenting with types of woods and wax and …

No. John stopped himself. Think of it as a surprise, not a joint effort. It's a memorial, a gift. If he were a painter, he would have painted a portrait of Sherlock with his violin. If he could sculpt, it would have been a statue. But he worked with wood, and the best thing he could think of to honor his friend would be a violin, lovingly crafted in memory of the many hours Sherlock had spent with his cherished instrument.

So, tomorrow, he thought as he stared at the moonlit ceiling, he would go to Baker Street. He would apologize to Mrs. Hudson for abandoning her. He knew she understood, but he knew that she was hurting, too. They were the only people who truly missed Sherlock and it was time they be together again. Besides, she was getting older and with her hip … he'd worry less if he was there. He couldn't afford to lose anybody else.

Then he would clean up 221C. He had left it a mess. (More than a mess, filled as it was with shattered splinters all too reminiscent of his life.) It was just one of the things he needed to clean up.

Next, he would research. He wondered if there were any luthiers in London who could help him figure out where to begin? There had to be. Sherlock would have known, but, well, asking him wasn't an option at this point. He would have to muddle through on his own.

He rolled over again and punched at his pillow. He just needed to get some sleep. He used to be able to sleep, he told himself, it used to be easy, remember? Well, not for years, to be honest., though living with Sherlock had miraculously eased the nightmares from Afghanistan. Sherlock had eased a lot of things. People just hadn't understood. Of course he had been impatient and arrogant and demanding. He'd had no patience for people less brilliant than himself (which was everybody), but that hadn't meant he hadn't cared. He had expressed his concern for John in countless ways, and right now, John would have sold his soul to hear Sherlock playing him a lullaby on his violin.

With a flurry of covers, he sat up. Fine. Sleep obviously wasn't going to happen. He'd go in the kitchen and make some tea and maybe have a bite to eat, and then he would start making plans—real plans—about what he was going to do. He was going to have to throw himself into violin-making like Sherlock had with … well, everything. Total immersion. And with any luck, by the end of it, Sherlock's ghost would be eased and maybe John could get through an hour or two a day without this aching sense of loss echoing in his gut.

#

"Oh, John, I'm so glad! I've missed you so much—both of you."

"I know, and I'm sorry, Mrs. Hudson. I just … couldn't."

"Of course, I understand, dear. Don't worry about it." She poured him some more tea and passed the plate of scones his way. "I've done some dusting upstairs, but haven't touched anything."

John's mouth went dry. "Oh, no. I … I still can't quite face it up there yet. I thought I'd kip in 221C for the time being."

Her face looked blank. "But …"

"I know, it seems crazy, but for now, just being back at Baker Street at all is hard enough for me. I'll get up there eventually."

She still looked perplexed, but she just smiled. "Of course you will. Do you have work to do in the shop?"

"Not really the kind of work you're thinking," John said sipping at her perfect tea. "I'm still unemployed, I'm afraid. I haven't been able … I just haven't been working. If you're worried about the rent…"

"Oh no, dear," she said quickly. "Sherlock's brother has been taking care of that. He said it was what Sherlock would have wanted."

John made a face at the thought of Mycroft ever doing anything Sherlock wanted, but he nodded. "It was in his will, apparently. Sherlock apparently had a trust fund and one of the stipulations was to pay you for 221B for as long as you needed. But that doesn't cover 221C and I…"

"Don't even say it, John Watson," she told him firmly. "You're family and I've never been able to rent it to anyone as it is. You can have it as long as you need. I'll let you cover the utilities so neither of us is out of pocket, but that will be all I'll accept, young man."

He felt his face crease into the first real smile since … he couldn't even remember. "Yes, ma'am," he finally said. "So long as you let me help you a bit around the place. Speaking of … have you heard anything from Scotland Yard today?"

Her eyes immediately moistened. "The recording, you mean? Yes, Inspector Lestrade brought it over last night. Oh, John…"

"I know," he said, blinking his own eyes. "He did it for us."

She nodded, sniffling. "That dear, dear boy. I can't even be angry at him now, for putting us through this, knowing that…"

"It was Moriarty's fault," John finished for her. "I know."

They sat in companionable silence for a time, drinking tea and eating Mrs. Hudson's superb scones (which tasted better than anything John could remember in months). After a while, John said, "I was thinking of making something. For him. I mean, something to remember him … not that I need something to make me remember him, but…"

She smiled at his babbling and reached across the table to put her hand on his. "What are you making him, John?"

He took a steadying breath. What if she thought it was ridiculous? "A violin."

To his relief, her entire face lit up. "Oh, John. That's perfect. Have you ever made one before?"

"Never even thought about it," he said. "I just … it seemed like something he would … well, not appreciate necessarily, not when he had a Strad. But the thought. Sentimental though it is, I like to think he would have appreciated the thought."

"He would," she told him, voice firm. "There's no question. I think it's a wonderful idea. That's why you're back?"

"That, and you," John said. "It's about time I returned to the things I love, don't you think?"

"More than time," she said, eyes shining again.

#

The next few weeks were hard, though at least they were a different hard.

Even without climbing the stairs, living at 221 Baker Street was difficult. John never walked through the door without expecting to see Sherlock come hurrying down the stairs, shouting about a case.

Mrs. Hudson helped, though, if only by way of her obvious joy and relief to have him living there again. The two of them were survivors of the Sherlock Holmes War—the only two people to have truly understood how good a man he had been.

Then there was the press. With the release of the recording from the roof, the entire story—which had only just begun to fade away—exploded back to the front pages, reviving interest in all things Sherlock. Which, in retrospect, made it a bad time to have moved back to Baker Street, John thought. By returning the same day as the story broke, some of the press took it to mean that he had doubted, that he had only come back because Sherlock's innocence had been proved.

After all this time, John knew better than to try to respond to the reporters camped on the pavement in front of 221. He did, though, write his first blog post in months. He briefly expressed his relief that Sherlock's good name had finally been cleared. He wrote that he had never doubted him for a moment, that he missed him, and thanked everyone for their support through this difficult time.

Not that he felt he had received much support—though he grudgingly acknowledged Mycroft's financial aid. Still, with the blog post up, he could ignore the press, even if some were annoyingly persistent.

It took him less time than he would have expected to clear out 221C. He braved the ghosts in his old flat long enough to dash up to his old room to retrieve his old bedroll, and spread it on an old army cot Mrs. Hudson dug out from somewhere. It wasn't luxurious, but it would do. He had a kitchen for making tea and, well, the taste of sawdust had never bothered him.

By the end of the week, 221C was fit and ready for service. His tools were laid out, the shards of former pieces were gone, and all decks were cleared for action. He couldn't help the military terminology marchinb through his head. All this felt very much like a mission—a rescue mission—and the only way he was able to deal was to think in clear, black-and-white terms as much as possible. Even the slightest hint of sentiment would incapacitate him.

#

He found the name of a luthier not too far from Baker Street and on a sunny Friday morning, entered the shop.

"Hello? May I help you?" The man behind the counter was 50-ish with faded blond hair and a welcoming smile, as he carefully laid down the viola in his hands.

"Yes, I hope so," John said. "I … it's a bit unusual, I know, but I need, er, want to make a violin and was hoping you could tell me where I should start?"

The man's eyebrows rose. "That is unusual, yes. May I ask why?"

"You might say it's a form of therapy. My best friend was a masterful violinist and he recently died. I was thinking that … making a violin for him might … help. I do realize," he hurried on, "That you're not in the business of teaching someone how to do your job, and I'm not asking … I mean, I know you have a living to make. I just need to know where to start."

He was babbling again, and now the man was looking at him like he was an idiot, which you'd think he'd be used to, but really not, and why had he come in here in the first place, it was such an obvious mistake, there was no way he could do this andreallyheshould. Just. Leave.

He was already starting to shift his weight to pivot to the door when the man said, "It sounds like you've got a lot of questions, and it's time for my break, anyway. Why don't you come back here and tell me what you need over a cup of tea?"

John blinked. "That's really quite nice of you, but it's not necessary."

"Nonsense," said the man, lifting part of his counter so John could join him in the back. "It sounds like there's a story here, and my mother always said I couldn't resist. My name's Peter, by the way. Peter Jeffries."

"John Watson," he said as he walked through the cluttered shop, breathing in the familiar scent of wood and wax.

He thought he might have seen a flicker of recognition on Peter's face, but it was gone quickly as the man filled the tea kettle and switched it on. "I gather you've never made a violin before, but … any instruments?"

"No instruments, unless you count a pipe when I was a boy. I do make furniture, though, and the occasional spinning wheel or spindle."

"Fascinating," Peter breathed. "Not many people make spinning wheels anymore. Do you have a workshop? Could I see it?"

John blinked, unused to being the focus of such avid attention. (Well, other than Sherlock's.) "I do," he said, "On Baker Street, but there's not much to see at the moment. I haven't done anything in the last few months. Haven't wanted to, frankly. Until I thought of this."

"A violin for a dead friend."

"I know, it sounds crazy, but…"

Peter was shaking his head. "No, it doesn't. It sounds appropriate. I'm sure your friend would have been honored."

John shrugged and accepted the cup of tea Peter handed him. "I'm not entirely sure of that—I mean, he owned a Stradivarius. Anything I can make will be miserable in comparison, but … that's not the point, is it?"

"A Strad?" Peter's eyes were wide. "That's … remarkable. There aren't many of those around. Does he … who has it now?"

"It's in the flat, I think, unless his brother took it … I haven't been back since … well. It's been three months."

Peter looked on the verge of hyperventilation. "You do know that—especially if it's not being played—that there are ways a good violin should be stored, right?"

John actually felt amused. "You're dying to see it, aren't you?"

Peter looked like he was trying to refrain from dashing out the door. "I can't say I wouldn't be interested. I had a client who had one, once, and would love the chance to examine another. Your friend … was he a professional violinist?"

He shook his head. "No, nothing like that, though he was quite good. It was one of the few things he was passionate about—even if he did like to play in the middle of the night when I was trying to sleep. He said it helped him think."

"The middle of the …? Oh. So, when you say a friend, you mean…"

"I mean a friend. We shared a flat and he was my best mate, but that was all." John stopped abruptly and stood up. "Look, this was a mistake. Thanks for the tea."

"No, wait. I'm sorry," Peter said, stretching out a hand. "I didn't mean anything by it. Please, let me help."

John stared at him for a moment, and then sat back down, carefully stretching out his stiff leg. "I'm sorry, too. I overreacted. I just got so tired of everybody and their sister thinking we were a couple. He was my best friend and he saved my life. I just want to … do something for him, something he would have liked. I don't expect my violin to compare to his Strad, but … he would have appreciated the effort. Or at least, I think he would."

He looked over at the other man, thinking. Maybe an interested violin aficionado was just the buffer he needed for his first foray back into 221B. "I haven't been back in the flat since the funeral. I honestly don't know if it's even there, but if you want to come on the off-chance his brother left a priceless violin sitting where he left it, you're welcome to come."

"What? Now?" Peter was practically on the edge of his chair.

John took a deep breath. "Yes. Why not?"

#

John paused on the landing, fumbling for the right key. Except for a couple forays for supplies, he hadn't been in 221B since just after Sherlock died. He could still remember how oppressive the silence had been as he had sat there alone. It had been one of the worst nights of his life.

He glanced back at Peter with an apologetic smile and was surprised at the expression on the man's face. Not just eager about the rare violin, but … something else.

John turned abruptly to face him, jaw set "What is it?"

"What?" Peter sounded surprised. "Can't you find the key?"

"That's not the question," John said. "The question is what do you want?"

"To see the Stradivarius?" The man's voice was tentative, confused.

"No, there's something else." John might not have been a Consulting Detective, but he'd picked up a few things. "You're eager about more than just the violin. Why?"

For a moment, Peter looked insulted at being called out, but then he said, "All right. I recognized your name, and when you mentioned the Strad … I knew your friend was Sherlock. But, honestly," he hurried on as John felt his face tightening with heat, "I knew Sherlock, too. Where do you think he came for strings and rosin when he needed them?"

John was breathing hard, fighting down a sincere urge to toss the man out. "Is that why you offered to help?" he finally asked. "So you could get the inside scoop on Sherlock Holmes? See the flat? Maybe sell your story to the papers?"

He was almost relieved to see the look of horror on the other man's face. "No! I am honestly concerned about his violin. I admit to being a little curious, too, because I knew him and there have been all those articles in the tabloids, and, I mean, I am human. I can't help being curious, but honestly, John. I'm not here for anything nefarious, I promise. I just want to do what I can to help—not only that priceless violin, but my old friend. Well, maybe not quite a friend, but we did discuss music from time to time when he'd come to the shop. An acquaintance, but one I promise you I knew. And because he'd want me to help."

John could feel the skepticism etching lines into his face. "You think so? Really? Sherlock didn't take help from anyone."

"He would for you," Peter said, voice confident. "Do you know that he actually bought a rubber for his violin after you moved in? You know, the muffler used by beginners while they're learning and are dreadful? He told me his new flatmate had nightmares, and he didn't want to disturb his sleep. I don't know how often he used it since you say he played in the middle of the night, but he did buy one. That counts for something, doesn't it?"

John just looked at him, weighing his words, his posture, his expression. He'd had to deal with so many thrill-seeking, gossip-hunting, obnoxious idiots in the last three months. He certainly wasn't about to let one into 221B. It was almost sacred ground to him, and he wouldn't profane it by letting just anybody in. Still, the man's face looked sincere, and the story rang true.

"John? Is that you, John?" Mrs. Hudson's voice came up the stairwell. He was just shouting back to reassure her when she came around the corner. "Oh, good. I'm not used to hearing noise from up here anymore, and … Peter? Is that you?"

"Mrs. Hudson, it's good to see you again. How's the hip?"

"Holding its own, dear, thank you for asking. Are you here to help John with his violin, then?"

John felt like he was at a tennis match, but watching the two of them banter reassured him that Peter was telling the truth since Mrs. Hudson clearly knew and liked him. "I brought him up to see Sherlock's violin, Mrs. Hudson, if that's all right?"

She laughed. "It's your flat, John. You don't need my permission."

"No, but I thought you would know if it was in there, or if Mycroft took it?"

She looked thoughtful. "No, it was there last I checked. I don't remember him taking a thing except some clothes. It's like he wants the flat to be left like a museum. It's one of the reasons I haven't felt comfortable moving things. I did make sure the violin was in its case and out of the sun, though. I know it's quite valuable."

"Right then," said John as he pushed the door open for the first real visit in months.

#