It was hours later, and John had apologized profusely for keeping Peter from his shop for so long, only to have them brushed off. "Don't be silly, I wouldn't have traded this afternoon for anything. I got to play a Stradivarius, was treated to some of the best scones I've had in recent memory, and met a new craftsman who somehow thinks he needs my help."
John smiled. "I do need your help. Even if there is a Violin-Making for Dummies book, it can only take me so far."
"Well, thank you for showing me your workshop. Your spinning wheels are impressive. Do you spin yourself?"
"Just a little, just what I had to learn to test the wheels."
"Does that mean you'll be learning to play the violin then, too?"
John paused. "I hadn't actually thought about it. But yeah, I suppose I might."
He showed the man out the door and then stood irresolute in the hallway, looking up the stairs. He'd made it once, after all, and it hadn't been so bad. Peter's enthusiasm for the violin had eased the emotional turmoil and his camaraderie with Mrs. Hudson had been soothing for John's jangled nerves.
John shouldn't have been surprised. Mrs. Hudson knew everyone, he thought as he hesitantly climbed back up the stairs. He stood in the middle of the room and looked around, swamped with memories. It was unnaturally quiet. When Sherlock had been out of the flat, it had always felt like a peaceful respite, not like it was empty.
Not like now.
John turned a slow circle, paying attention now to the familiar furniture and fittings, the bullet holes in the wall, the skull on the mantle. It was as if he had never left, but for the slightly stale smell to the air.
He slowly stepped over to the violin, wary. He almost felt as if he were doing something wrong, that Mum was going to yell at him for touching. Sherlock had been so possessive, so protective of his violin. John wasn't sure he had touched it more than twice in the eighteen months they'd lived together.
Opening the case, his fingers cautiously brushed the edge, feeling the silken smoothness of the wood as he wondered at his audacity at thinking he could make something this beautiful, that Sherlock would ever approve of it.
"I do hope you aren't planning on selling Sherlock's violin, John."
John jumped. How did that man move so silently? He hadn't even made the ancient stairs creak! "Jesus, Mycroft, don't scare me like that. My nerves aren't what they used to be."
Mycroft just gave him that slow blink he used instead of a smile. "Not feeling well, John?"
Oh, now he was just trying to make John upset. Except for a brief visit to explain Sherlock's bequest for 221B's rent, they hadn't spoken since the night before Sherlock's death, and John was happy to leave it like that. "Not particularly. You?"
"As well as can be expected," Mycroft said coolly. "I see you've left your old bedsit, John—a wise decision, I must say. The place was beyond dismal, even worse than the one you were in when we met. Does this mean you're moving back in?"
"221-C," John told him briefly.
Mycroft sniffed. "Well, it's a step in the right direction, I suppose, if you're not picky about mould."
"What do you want, Mycroft?"
"I just wondered what you wanted with my brother's violin. It seems suspicious that you would bring a luthier here to examine it, and I am endeavoring to understand why."
John was confused. "How could I sell it, Mycroft? Even if I wanted to, it's not mine."
"Oh, did I neglect to mention? Yes, it is," and now Mycroft actually did smile, even if it was a smarmy, self-satisfied smirk.
"I … what?"
"You are his chief beneficiary, John. Did I forget to tell you? So yes, you could, if you choose, sell the Stradivarius, the science equipment, even his suits to a consignment shop. I'm sure they'd get you a pretty penny—not that you need it, of course. His trust fund was quite generous, and more than enough to cover your needs."
John could only stare. "I'm sorry. You're saying that Sherlock left me his things? In his will?"
"That is the customary method," Mycroft said smoothly, "Though knowing my brother, it wouldn't have surprised me if he had found another way."
"And I'm just finding this out now, why?" John felt asea, adrift once again in a flood of confused emotion. Sherlock had remembered him in his will? The mere fact that Sherlock had had one had come as a shock—if anyone was going to be immortal, it would have been Sherlock Holmes, so the fact that he'd planned ahead was surprising enough. But… to have left his things to him? His flatmate, a man he'd barely known a year and a half?
John had backed into his chair by now, unable to cope with this new information and to control his legs at the same time. Whatever explanation Mycroft was giving went right over his head. He wasn't listening. He just stared at Sherlock's (empty) chair and tried to come to grips with the fact that his friend had done this. Not only had he died for him, but he had left him everything.
It wasn't until Mycroft's voice trailed off that John realized his cheeks were wet. He wiped them hastily, and tried to answer Mycroft's original question. "I would never sell his violin, but I wanted … I needed to see it, to make sure it was stored properly. Sherlock would rise from the dead if he thought I was mistreating his Strad. I went to a luthier to … ask some advice, and Peter was so eager to see the violin, I invited him back to see it. But, God, Mycroft … of course I'm not selling it."
Quite the contrary, he thought. I plan on making it a baby brother so that there will be two violins that Sherlock isn't here to play. He scrubbed at his face again. Really, what was he thinking?
He looked up and saw Mycroft studying him, his face thoughtful. "What aren't you telling me? I knew you had moved back, but judging by the dust and the tension in your shoulders, you have not been in this room before today."
"No, I haven't been," John said with a sigh. "I said, I'm camping down at 221C for the time being. I couldn't quite face … all this … before now. Still can't, to be honest. I'm surprised to see you here."
If Mycroft caught the hint that maybe he wasn't welcome after Sherlock's death, he ignored it, focused on the purpose of his visit. "And the luthier? Why did you go see him, if not to sell Sherlock's violin?"
"I told you. I needed advice." John met his gaze calmly, wishing his eyes weren't still burning.
"Advice for what? Not the care and feeding of violins. It was something else." Mycroft's tone was confident and so like Sherlock's when he was deducing that it made John ache.
He lifted his chin and replied, "Just a project I'm working on, Mycroft. Nothing that concerns you."
"You're sleeping in your workshop and you just went to a violin-maker to ask advice," he said, musing as he seemed to stare into John's soul for a long moment before giving a brief nod. "Ah. So next the question arises, why do you think my brother would want you to make him a violin?"
John just shook his head. The way the Holmes brothers snatched things out of the air still awed and amazed him. "He probably doesn't, especially considering he's dead, but what else can I do? The man killed himself to save my life, Mycroft, and I only just found out. I'm furious with him, for going without me, and now you tell me he left me his things, too … And don't think I'm not angry about that, too, why it took you so long."
He held up his hand to stave off any explanations the other man might feel required to make. "All I want to do is find a way to get some peace. I can't … My days are … I need something to do, and I need to find some way to reconcile what Sherlock did for me with what he did to me—because make no mistake, sniper or not, his jumping almost killed me."
Mycroft had been silent, letting him ramble. "And you think making a violin will help?"
John shrugged. "It can't hurt. He lovedthat violin, and he played it—God help me—at all hours. It helped him think, helped him organize his thoughts, his feelings. It was a part of him, and one of the only things I can think of that he felt passionate about. I want … I need…"
"To honor that through the medium of your own craftsmanship," Mycroft finished for him, eyes thoughtful.
"Yes," John said on a long breath. "I know it sounds absurd. It's not like he's here to play it, and God knows anything I make won't compare to a Stradivarius, so he probably wouldn't want to play it anyway, but … it just feels right. Or as close to right as anything I can think of, and I need to do something."
Mycroft watched him, hands balanced on his umbrella as he rocked back and forth on his feet. John found he was actually anxious for his verdict. Would this be something Sherlock would have appreciated? Or would he have scoffed at the waste of time?
After a long moment, though, Mycroft gave a nod. "I think my brother would applaud your finding an appropriate direction for your talents, John. Nor should you underestimate your skills. Did you know I have one of your pieces in my office?"
John blinked. The shocks just kept on coming. "Really? When did you…?"
"I had thought to order a custom piece," Mycroft told him with a tight smile, "But thought my brother might object. No, I had one of my assistants conduct the transaction for me. My point, though, is that you are obviously skilled. Of course, making a violin utilizes some specialized knowledge, but I have no doubt that making a credible instrument is within your scope. Indeed, I find I quite look forward to seeing-and hearing-the end result."
"Now I'm not sure what to say. On the one hand, I appreciate your vote of confidence, but on the other, that would immediately have made Sherlock hate the idea," John said with the smallest of laughs.
Mycroft met it with a chuckle of his own. "Yes, he could be so obstinate. I find it's one of the things I miss most."
John gave a nod. "For some reason, I find myself thinking back on the rude behavior with a lot more fondness now. Though I really don't miss finding body parts in the fridge."
"No, I'd imagine not." Mycroft stood for another moment and then nodded. "Very well. I hope you'll keep me informed on your progress, John."
"Right," John said. "It'll be a while. Apparently there's quite a learning curve."
"I have every faith in you, John."
John looked at him in surprise. "Do you? Do you really? You've had an odd way of showing it."
"Perhaps because you continually surprise me. Most people are so predictable, one quickly learns what to expect and can practically plot a graph of what behaviors will occur in any given situation. You, on the other hand, persist in doing the unexpected. I may sometimes appear not to have trusted you, but it was because my data was flawed. I have come to understand that you are a truly remarkable man, John Watson. I've learned not to underestimate you, though I fear it may be too late."
John was sure the room was reeling. (Really, the shocks just kept on coming.) "Too late?"
"For us to have any relationship of our own."
"You would … why would you want that? We've never been friendly, Mycroft, even before…"
The man just blinked and glanced down at his umbrella. "No, but it would not have been possible before. Sherlock was surprisingly jealous at times and would never have accepted it."
"You mean before you betrayed him." John's voice was even.
"Do you believe that?"
John blinked at the hesitant way Mycroft asked. "I wouldn't have," he finally said, "If you hadn't confirmed it. I would have believed the empire would fall before you would do anything to hurt your brother. You said it when we first met—you worry. And you are the most over-protective brother I've ever seen."
Mycroft glanced up through his lashes. "And you believe I confirmed a betrayal?"
"Didn't you?" John tried to force himself to remember what had been said that night, but the revelations at the Diogenes Club had been drowned by the reality of Sherlock's jump. "You said you traded information with Moriarty."
"I did," Mycroft agreed. "However, you might want to ask yourself why I would do such a thing with a confirmed madman with a vendetta against my brother—and you. And whether it's not possible that Sherlock and I were trying to turn his game on him."
"You and … but Sherlock is dead." John could taste the disbelief in his voice, heavy on his tongue. Surely if both Mycroft and Sherlock—the most brilliant men he'd ever known—had teamed up against Moriarty, they would have won?
"Despite my best efforts, yes," Mycroft said, and John could see the pain in his eyes. "Not every game is winnable, though I believe he would count your continued survival a qualified success."
John just shook his head. "Not by any standard I can think of. I would have done anything, anything to keep him safe."
"Do you truly think his life was worth more than yours?" Mycroft asked, forehead wrinkled ever so slightly as if he knew the answer but wanted to know if John did.
"You know I do, Mycroft," John said. "And so do you. So what does it say about us, that we're still here, walking around, and he's gone?"
"I don't know, John. I doubt he would have grieved much for me, but the fact that he put you, Mrs. Hudson, and Detective Inspector Lestrade ahead of himself, his own life?" Mycroft paused, face momentarily distant. "I find it's not a matter of value or worth. I just … have never been so proud of my brother."
John could only nod, wordless as he was swamped again with the loss of the best man he had ever known.
#
After that surprisingly cathartic conversation, John pushed ahead with his new project. He threw himself into it with a single-minded zeal worthy of Sherlock himself, researching everything he could get his hands on. Peter (who was becoming a fast friend) was more than happy to lend and recommend books and videos by the stack.
As much as John had always appreciated their beauty, he had never really given any thought to how violins were constructed, and found himself fascinated by the complexity, the challenge. A dozen times a day, he found tidbits that he wanted to share with Sherlock. He wondered how much Sherlock had known about how his beloved violin had produced such exquisite sound. (The fact that it was actually intact and un-experimented-on only proved his devotion to the instrument, though John wouldn't have been surprised if Sherlock had torn apart a generic, factory-made version or three to explore the construction.)
Still, in learning about the inner workings of violins himself, John found himself feeling closer to Sherlock than he had in months. They had never discussed music (outside John's pleas to stop torturing the violin in the middle of the night), but John was learning a new appreciation. He started playing CDs of classical violin as he read, and found himself trying to listen to the sounds of the actual instruments instead of just the notes.
He also started taking violin lessons himself. He would never be a virtuoso—his fingers were too thick, too callused to ever be really good—but he wanted to be able to play this thing when he was done with it. Besides, knowing now how important it was for a violin to be played, he felt like the Stradivarius deserved to get out of its case from time to time, even if part of him felt guilty about subjecting it to his abysmal skills.
Still, most of his time was spent learning about woods and glues and finishes and techniques. There were even videos, and it wasn't too long before he decided he was ready to start. After all, he told himself, he could study the art for a lifetime, but that wasn't the point of this exercise. Sherlock would be impatient for his new violin, after all.
Then he sighed. If only he could believe that was true.
#