Ten Months Later

"John? Are you down there?"

John just sighed, eyes not moving from the piece of maple he was coaxing into a curve. "Yes," he called back, hating the distraction. He'd been helping Peter out at his shop that afternoon. Peter had decided that John had enough experience now to be useful and said he would learn more from handling real instruments than from constructing his own. John wasn't sure about that, but he found he enjoyed the company. Anyway, with all the help Peter was giving him, he couldn't begrudge him a little free labor. He had looked forward to a chance to work on his own for a while, though, and so he didn't look up as the footsteps sounded on the stairs.

"I'm sorry to bother you … whoa."

Tightening the clamp, John exhaled and finally looked up to see Greg and Sally standing at the doorway. "How're you doing?" he asked.

"We're … wow, John, this is impressive. Last time I was down here, it was full of furniture."

John looked fondly around the workshop. The table was filled with notes and sketches of violins. He had one set of ribs clamped to a mold and was in the process of making another set. The chair was holding a pile of reference books to go back to Peter, and he had Beethoven's Violin Concerto in D major blasting from his stereo speakers.

Sally stepped forward, face alight with interest. "I know you had said you were going to, but this is amazing."

John nodded, stepping away from the workbench and stretching his back a bit. "It looks chaotic, I know."

"No," she breathed, "It's perfect. Though I miss the spindles."

He snorted. "You only have yourself to blame. This was your idea in the first place, remember?"

"All I did was tell you to find something he would have liked. I never said you should have a complete personality makeover," she told him as she glanced at Greg, who was still staring around the room.

"Never going to happen," John said amiably. It had been weeks since he had seen either of them, and neither had been to Baker Street since the night a year ago when everything had changed. They met for pints every month or so and tried to keep the conversation from touching on Sherlock, but none of them were comfortable about being together in 221B. John himself had only just moved back upstairs a couple months ago, finally wearying of sawdust sifting into his bedding. He had finally moved most of Sherlock's things into his bedroom to get them out of sight, to make it bearable, but he still spent most of his waking hours at 221 down here in the workshop.

Sally was still teasing. "Right, because the John Watson I used to know always listened to … what … Mozart?"

"Beethoven," he corrected, "And I did get used to having classical music around—especially violin. The interesting thing is that I listen completely differently these days, my ear always seems tuned to the sound of the instruments rather than the music they're actually playing. I sometimes wonder if this would make Sherlock's … improvisations … easier or harder to deal with, if I had to listen to them now."

"He was quite good," Greg said, looking uncomfortable. "When he chose to be."

"That was the tricky part," John agreed. "Especially at four in the morning." He glanced at his workbench, calculating how long he had before the wood would need to be re-heated. "Can I get you two some tea?"

Greg looked at Sally, shifting his weight, then said, "We don't want to interrupt. Can you keep working while we talk?"

John flashed a grateful smile. "I really would like to get these ribs clamped before I leave."

Sally looked at them curiously. "Those are the sides?"

"Ribs," he said, nodding. "You bend them first so they'll curve properly, and then they get shaped to the mold—like that one over there. Then the front and back are carved out, the bass bar and the f-holes added, and then you take the mold out and it all gets glued together."

"You sound like an expert," Sally told him. "And you only just learned this since…?"

"Since the night you stopped by my bedsit, yes," John said, focusing again on the wood under his hands. "But believe me, I've still got a lot to learn."

"You couldn't stop at one?" Greg asked with a grin with another look around at the various pieces of violin around the workshop.

"I think if I had stopped with that first one, Sherlock would have started haunting me—probably by torturing me by making me hear it played. This was supposed to honor his memory, after all, and that was an appalling instrument. But it's like my Mum used to say about biscuits—the first batch is supposed to be ruined so you learn enough not to mess up the next one."

"So you're making violins like biscuits? How many batches have you made?"

"Four," John said, "And I'm proud to say each was better than the last. Peter even sold the last one in his shop. Granted, it was to a student who wasn't overly picky about the sound, but that's still an achievement."

"The sound?"

"It's interesting, really," John said. "Every violin has its own personality—and so far, each of mine has been crabby. You'd think they'd all be pretty much the same, but they're not. I can't even name all the factors that affect the voice—the wood, the carving, the shape—even the varnish. I understand now why this is such a highly specialized field—and why Zygmuntowicz's violins go for £50,000. The basics aren't really that hard, but getting everything right? It's a challenge."

"You've got a new career … again," Sally told him with a gentle smile.

"I wouldn't go that far. It's really just an extension of an existing hobby, and it's not like it's paying the bills, but … yeah, something like that." John looked down at this workbench and ran his hand through his hair. "You know what, this can wait. Do you …want to come upstairs? I really could go for some tea."

The two Yarders exchanged glances and then nodded. "Yeah, we'd like that, John. Thank you," said Greg and with a nod, John turned and led the way upstairs.

After they were all settled and all carefully not talking about the changes or the last time they'd been in 221B together, Greg finally mentioned why they had come.

"We've got a case and it's got some familiar features to one you and Sherlock worked on and … I wondered if you could take a look?"

"Me?" He was honestly surprised. "I thought Scotland Yard officially frowned on consultants of any kind these days—especially those named John Watson."

Greg shrugged a little. "Yes and no. For the regular cases, yeah, but for ones where you may have specific knowledge that would help? Then you're just like any other consultant."

"So if you get a serial killer who uses violins …?"

"You're our man, absolutely."

John sighed, but at the same time, felt a tiny warm spot of interest in his gut. The last year had been quiet for him. Once Sherlock's name had been cleared and he had started working on his Great Violin Project, things had gotten better. He hadn't even missed the adrenalin rush. That addiction seemed to have been burned away by grief, and while his current life wasn't exciting or unpredictable, it was so much better than anything he could have pictured twelve months ago. It was like one, long, lazy Sunday afternoon, and if that wasn't exciting, well … he'd had enough of that for one lifetime, hadn't he?

Yet, with Greg's words, he felt an old, familiar stirring of interest and adrenalin.

"What case?"

#

Against all odds, John had managed to start his life for a fourth time. There had been the life he'd been born into, with his cabinet-making Dad—the one where John could have been a quiet, content craftsman, never missing the rush of adrenalin. When that had been taken away by his Dad's cancer, he had become a doctor and headed off to the army to do as much good as he could … a life that had been torn away by the bullet through his shoulder.

Then the dark, dreary imitation of a life that was all he'd had left after that had been filled by the Technicolor kaleidoscope of life with Sherlock Holmes—whirling, vibrant colors that suited John to the very bottom of his starved soul.

Because, honestly, he had never realized how empty he had been before that all-consuming friendship with Sherlock Holmes had filled in all the dry, dark, lonely bits with warmth and color. Falling head-over-heels in love would not have been any more life-changing than the friendship started by walking into Barts' lab and lending his phone.

It had just been his own mistake to build that third variation in the Life of John Watson (in D Major) solely, totally around Sherlock Holmes, because the loss of him had almost destroyed what was left of him. When Sherlock walked off that building right in front of him, John had spent the last eighteen months working, breathing, and living Sherlock Holmes. He had stopped working at the surgery long before, rarely had time to meet up with any of his army mates, and God knew he hadn't had a successful date in months. He had stupidly, happily let Sherlock Holmes take over every aspect of his life.

Which meant his absence left a void that John hadn't imagined he would ever fill.

So this new … he couldn't call it an adventure, since nothing about this desperate, clawing journey from the depths of loss of purpose, loss of meaning, loss of Sherlock could be called adventurous. It was a survival story, perhaps, but there was a difference between breathing, walking and talking, and truly surviving. Or thriving. But, whatever you called it, this new … mission … had surprised him. What had begun as an attempt to make some kind of memorial for his dead friend had—through its sheer complexity—become a basis for something like a life. It might be tinted with pale, pastel hues instead of saturated, vibrant color, but at least it wasn't dark and gray anymore—not entirely. Nor entirely alone.

Not that he dated these days. Not only were his hours filled, but he just couldn't find the emotional energy to do so. He went out for pints with Greg and Sally every month or so, where they would occasionally ask his advice on cases (though he wondered if they did that out of pity). He sometimes met with his old army mates, as well, and there were occasional lunches with Harry—so there were ties to his old life (well, lives).

Meanwhile, he spent most of his time working on violins and other stringed instruments at Peter's shop. He spent time with other luthiers, too, discussing everything from sources for wood to esoteric varnish recipes.

He wished (not for the first time) that Sherlock could have been there for this. His scientifically-minded flatmate would have happily tested every possible wood, finish, source, cut for … well, everything he could have thought of. There would be spreadsheets about best woods for the pegs, which source provided the best pieces for the body, what to use for the purfling at the edge. It could have been a project they could have worked on together. The possibilities would have been delightfully, infuriatingly, endless.

Because John never forgot why he had started this project in the first place. As much as he was enjoying the new friends, the new skills … as much as this had opened his world in a direction he'd never expected … it still ultimately paled next to a world with Sherlock still in it. He missed the arguments they might have had between the scientific aspects of building a violin and the artistic side of it. He missed the live-in expert he would have had when questions arose. He occasionally ached at the thought that Sherlock would never play one of his violins—because he had finally accepted that this was not going to be a one-time project. He was hooked, wrapped in sentiment and violin strings to the one thing that had given him back some purpose, helped create John Watson 4.0.

His own skill at playing the violin was never going to be above average at best. Between the Afghani bullet that had stolen some of his fine motor skills and the fact that he simply did not have long, elegant fingers like a former flatmate he could mention, he would never be able to play as well as he'd like. He found he enjoyed it, though. Mrs. Hudson often came to join him as he played (once he'd gotten past the tortured-cat stage).

He went to concerts with Peter and some of the other luthiers he had grown friendly with this last year, as well. He might never love classical music like Sherlock had, but it had somehow worked its way under his skin, much like the glaze on a new violin sank into it, transforming a dead piece of wood into a living receptacle for Music. It didn't, it couldn't, have the rush that chasing criminals had had, but it was more satisfying than he could have hoped back when … well … the day he lost his best friend.

Against all odds, he had built a new life for himself, and if it wasn't vibrant and exciting, that was all right. He had had his glory days, and he was being constructive and trying to make something beautiful. There was a lot to be said for that … wasn't there?

#