Eight Months Later

To John's surprise, Mycroft had continued to show interest in his new project. With Sherlock gone, John had fully expected he would fade out of Mycroft's sphere of interest, but apparently the man had meant what he said—he wanted some kind of relationship with his brother's best friend.

John would occasionally find a black car waiting for him when he left Peter's and would sigh and get in. At least Mycroft wasn't dragging him to empty warehouses these days. More often than not, it was a restaurant where they would have a slightly-uncomfortable meal. (John couldn't decide whether Mycroft was just terrible at non-coercive small talk or if he was worried John wasn't eating enough.) Once, the car even brought him to a violin recital at St. Martins in the Field.

More often, though, Mycroft would visit at Baker Street—usually at 221B, but his curiosity had driven him down to 221C a few times. He would look at the progress of the various violins around the room and smile slightly to himself. John couldn't imagine why it would matter to Mycroft, but appreciated the faint approval nevertheless, which is why he felt it was right that Mycroft was there the night John finished Sherlock's violin.

It was almost two years, now, since Sherlock had died, over eighteen months since he'd started this project. John's work had steadily improved and he had high hopes for this, his seventh violin.

It was one of his most beautiful, he thought, with the fine grain adding a depth to the color from the varnish—his first try with that particular recipe. He'd stumbled across it on an internet search and—unlike many things you find on the internet—it had immediately piqued his interest. He had read somewhere that Zygmuntowicz said about varnishing that "that's when it crosses the border from a dead to a living thing," and John had been astounded to find it was true. He'd known from his other woodwork that of course there was a difference in finishing products, but nothing like the importance it made to an instrument. More than any other piece of wood, musical instruments were alive in a way he couldn't understand, but was learning to respect.

It was just all the more reason for him to fuss over Sherlock's violin … and he had high hopes that this particular instrument would be it. The deep color (the darkest spruce he could find) mimicked the depths his friend hid so well. He had made the fingerboard out of ebony and all the accents were deep charcoal, like his coat, with red accents on the tuning pegs. There had been something about this violin that had spoken to him as he was shaping it, almost as if Sherlock had been leaning over his shoulder, watching every movement.

If it had the sound John hoped, this was the violin he had started out to make.

He worried at it, polishing it with a cloth, trying to figure out why he was stalling. He already knew that he was going to continue making violins, but his first goal had been to honor Sherlock and he felt in his bones that this instrument—unlike the six that came before—would be his.

Unless he'd made a mistake. Unless he'd ruined it. Unless its voice was as broken as the man's had been.

Mentally shaking himself, John put the cloth down and reached for the strings, adding them with familiar movements and quickly tuning the instrument (something he almost thought took him longer to learn than making the instruments in the first place).

Taking a deep breath, he picked up his bow and touched it to the strings, drawing it across in a long, slow sweep as his ears strained to hear the sound, the voice of the instrument.

And it was sweet. Well-rounded and pure, but with a depth that bespoke a soul—something his other violins had been missing. It was impossible to define it, he thought. An instrument's soul (for want of a better word) was ephemeral, mysterious, but a good instrument—and by now he had played on a number of violins both terrible and sublime—had one. Deep, like Sherlock's voice had been. Strong, like his personality, and with … something he couldn't put his finger on, something indefinable that made it work. Its action wasn't quite as smooth as he'd like, but that suited a violin meant for Sherlock—the man had so loved a challenge.

It was perfect. Or at least, as perfect as John could make it.

His friend would never play it, he knew. Sherlock would never have the chance to scoff at it or pretend to love it. (Or truly love it?) He would never say thank you (something John had a hard time picturing even if the man hadn't been dead). But … this was Sherlock's. This was the violin he had longed to make for his friend.

Haltingly at first, thinking back that terrible Christmas party, his fingers moved into "Auld Lang Syne." He played slowly, not because of his lack of skill, but because this, this first song, was a lament for his friend, a man he wanted never to forget. Could never forget.

There were tears in his eyes as he finished, overwhelmed. The violin was by far the best he had made and he thought Sherlock would have been proud. Or, at least, not driven to break it apart for firewood. Though to be fair, Sherlock had been remarkably supportive of John's woodworking hobby and he liked to think he would have encouraged this, too.

That was, of course, the whole point.

He put the violin down carefully and covered his face in his hands. He'd bring this to Peter tomorrow for a second opinion, but … yes. Just, yes. This was Sherlock's violin. It just was.

He had done it, and the relief was almost unbearable. It didn't matter that his work would improve, that his instruments would get better—this, right here in front of him, was the whole point.

It wasn't until he had collected himself and lifted his head that he realized he had an audience. Mycroft stood in the doorway with Mrs. Hudson, hand on his sleeve, right behind him.

He had no idea how long they had been there, and for a moment felt embarrassed, but then realized how absurd that was. It was altogether appropriate that the other two people on the planet who truly missed Sherlock were here for this moment. They both knew how much this meant to John, and he thought they knew how much it would have meant to Sherlock as well.

And so, his eyes bright, he didn't say a word. He just picked up his bow and started to play Aaron Copland's "Simple Gifts," its lilting melody a reminder that life goes on, to be grateful for the blessings you have.

When he was done, Mrs. Hudson was frankly crying and even Mycroft's eyes looked suspiciously bright. Now John really was embarrassed. "My playing's not that bad, is it?" he asked, trying to divert the mood.

Mrs. Hudson just shook her head and nudged her way past Mycroft to come over to John. Carefully taking the violin from his hands and placing it on the table, she leaned forward and gave him a hug. "That was beautiful, John. Absolutely perfect. Is it…?"

He nodded. "It's probably not good enough, but yeah … this is Sherlock's."

She reached out a gentle hand. "I don't know what you're talking about, John Watson. It's beautiful. He would have loved it."

John shrugged, uncomfortable at the attention, the emotion. Shouldn't someone be making tea, or something? "Maybe not as much as his Strad, but I hope he would have liked it."

Mycroft had come over and, with a glance for permission (!), lifted the violin to his own chin with long-practiced ease, then lifted the bow which he laid on the strings. Like John had, he took a deep breath before beginning to play something John almost recognized. Mozart's Requiem, maybe? (He'd grown an appreciation for classical music, but its naming system still defeated him since almost every title sounded the same.) Whatever it was, it was mournful and sad, but with a hint of hope.

John tried to listen to the violin, not the notes, but he couldn't. He had never realized Mycroft could play—he was certainly much better than John—and to have him playing now, on Sherlock's violin … well, he really needed tea.

He held his breath as Mycroft lowered the instrument. How bad was it? Just because it was the best John had made didn't mean it was good. What if he thought it was rubbish? That Sherlock would have hated it?

The look on Mycroft's face reassured him, though. "John. I am … impressed."

John tried not to look too hopeful. "You're not just saying that?" he asked, even as he mentally chastised himself. Mycroft was a master at polite lies, and it's not like he would admit it if he was lying.

"No, John, I am not. I would never have guessed that you'd only made … six? … violins before this one. Its sound is quite remarkable."

Mrs. Hudson had reached out at some point to clutch his hand, and now squeezed tight. "Sherlock would have been so proud of you, John."

John just blinked, suddenly feeling lost. He knew it was silly, but when did emotions ever obey rational thought? "Seriously, you're not just saying that?" he asked, hating himself for needing the reassurance.

"I think it's safe to say that Sherlock would have been overwhelmed," Mycroft told him, his face unusually gentle. John was reminded of their first meeting, when Mycroft had welcomed him back to the battlefield, to the war, with such understanding. His voice was calm and gentle now as it was then. "To my knowledge, no-one ever made him such an exquisite gift—and it is, indeed, exquisite."

Mycroft looked down at the violin in his hands for a long moment and then looked up at John, a world of understanding in his eyes. "You had wished to honor his memory by making this violin, but I must say, to me, it is a tribute to both of you. It is your tenacity and friendship that made this possible, John. I really can't thank you enough."

"Thank … me?" John asked, faltering.

"Yes. I had feared for years that Sherlock would waste his talents, his gifts. His personality was a difficult one, as you know, and I had thought he would live his life without anyone ever realizing what a remarkable—if flawed—man he was. But this … gift … that you've made? You and he both have exceeded my highest hopes."

Mrs. Hudson was crying again and John felt he wasn't far behind. Trying manfully not to sniffle, he stood up and went over to the flat's tiny kitchen to pull out a bottle of scotch leftover from Christmas. He poured three glasses and handed them around. "To Sherlock," he said.

"And to his best friend," added Mycroft, "And his new violin."

And, faces flushed with an array of emotions, they all drank their toast to their absent friend.

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(Note: Yes, I know … sentiment! What can I tell you? It was an emotional moment and I may have gotten slightly carried away.)