The next morning, a courier dropped off a beautiful, handmade violin case for Sherlock's violin, complete with a name plate with both their names and the date. John was touched at the gesture and smiled to himself as he got ready to head over to Peter's.

He felt nervous about this, like he had back at Uni, going in for an exam. He knew this violin had turned out well—even Mycroft had said so—but he still needed the validation from a (relatively) unbiased expert.

"John," said Peter after he'd lowered his bow. "This is wonderful. I am … what's the phrase? Blown away?"

John smiled at his friend. "If you're trying to make me blush, then yes, but I was really hoping for your honest opinion, Peter."

"Oh, but it is," he protested as the bell from the front of the shop jingled. "I'll be with you in a minute," he called and then lifted the bow again, playing a quick flurry of melody followed by a long, slow chromatic scale, each note sounding perfectly round to John's ears. "The tone is excellent. This one has personality, John, a soul the others were missing. Ultimately, isn't that all that matters? Play me something, while I help this customer."

He handed the instrument back to John and started toward the door. "It depends on the personality, I suppose," John said as he lifted the violin and played "Auld Lang Syne" once more.

When he was finished, he glanced at the clock and immediately felt guilty, keeping Peter from his work, and so fitted the violin into its perfectly-fitted case. (How had Mycroft done that so quickly?)

He heard a quick laugh and then a murmur of voices as Peter spoke to his customer. Shrugging into his coat, he went through the doorway to the front of the shop, accidentally bumping into the older man at the counter and knocking over his pile of sheet music. "Oh, I am so sorry!"

The man shrugged off the apology but let him scoop up the papers, glancing down at John's violin case with a tiny sneer. John supposed he did look a bit like a middle-aged student with his brand-new case, but there was no reason to … he sighed. He wasn't going to let anything ruin this day. With a nod to Peter, he headed back to Baker Street.

He dashed into the workshop just long enough to leave the violin on the workbench. He had things to do, but for now, the sunshine was calling. Today, for the first time in months, he felt free.

He hadn't realized the burden making the violin … that violin … had been. He had thought he'd accepted his new Sherlock-less life, but today? With Sherlock's violin done? It felt like a new beginning. Or maybe an ending. Or both.

Either way, a walk in the sunshine seemed appropriate. He would clear his head and come to grips with the fact that his original goal had been met … he could do anything he liked now. He thought about the mellow sound of the cello and wondered if it would be hard to learn to play one of those, thought about the challenge of making one. He had the skills now and it wasn't really that different than a violin. He could experiment with electric violins—something about which his new friends had very strong opinions, but whose shapes were so reminiscent of the furniture he used to make.

He walked for hours, never noticing that his cranky leg wasn't limping at all.

It wasn't until he turned onto Baker Street later, carrying some Chinese for his dinner that he realized something was wrong. The street was thronged with vehicles with flashing lights and his first thought was that something had happened to Mrs. Hudson.

Pushing his way through, he found Greg near the doorway, "Greg! What happened? Is Mrs. Hudson all right?"

"Thank God," the other man said, relief flooding his face. "She's fine, John. But where've you been? I've been calling!"

It was only then that John realized he'd left his phone on the bench next to the violin. "I was out for a walk," he said blankly, looking around. "What happened?"

Greg pointed up at the window of 221B. "A bullet crashed through the window a couple hours ago. Nobody was hurt, thank God, but when we couldn't find you…"

"Jesus," John breathed. "Where was Mrs. Hudson? Is she here?"

"She was out of the building at the time and never in any danger. We haven't found the shooter, but our men are looking now."

"This is a big turnout for one stray bullet," John said, looking around at the milling officers.

"221B is still on the watch-list, for some reason," Greg said, growing serious. "It's not like you're solving crimes these days, and most of the crazies who believed Sherlock was a fraud have given up … but it's in the system. Anything dangerous happens near 221, we go into full alert. Sometimes it's just not worth asking questions."

John shrugged, thinking of Mycroft's over-protective tendencies as Greg cleared his throat and said, "I don't know how to tell you, John. There was one casualty … Sherlock's Stradivarius. The bullet must have ricocheted, and … I'm so sorry, John. I know what that meant to you—to both of you."

John felt his face freeze at the thought of that gorgeous instrument, with all its history, all the memories, demolished by a bullet, of all things. One more piece of Sherlock, gone. "It was insured," he murmured, stunned. "Though I can't say I remember gunfire being specifically mentioned in the policy."

He nodded to Sally as she came over, expressing her sympathies. How much had it been worth, she wanted to know, and John couldn't say. "They're priceless, really. Millions, probably. I can't …"

"Do you need to sit down, John?" Greg asked, voice concerned.

"No," John said. He supposed he looked shocked (and he didn't even have a blanket), but really, he was angry. Incredibly angry. What kind of person would murder a priceless violin? It was just lucky that the shooter was probably blocks and miles away by now… he turned around quickly, glaring at the windows across the street.

Except he turned too quickly and his left foot skidded on a piece of debris on the pavement, causing him to lose his balance for a moment.

As he caught himself, cursing his recalcitrant leg for being so fickle, another bullet slammed into the building right next to his head.

Chaos erupted as John's army instincts kicked in. He grabbed Sally and forced her to the ground, shouting "Down!" in his best Captain's voice as Greg braced himself in front of him. "Don't be stupid, John," he said as John protested. "I've got my vest on and you don't." He looked back over his shoulder and then said, "Right. Inside 221, now."

Within minutes, they had scrambled through the door, with another bullet hitting the wood as it closed. "What the bloody hell … ?"

"John? John, are you okay?" Mrs. Hudson was hurrying out of her flat, only stopping when the others waved her back.

"The sniper's still out there, Mrs. Hudson," John explained, breathless. "It's not safe." The four of them moved back to her flat, further away from the front of the building. It bothered him to be in here, being protected, rather than out there, hunting down the madman with the gun. Greg had a point, though—he didn't have protective gear and his (still not exactly legal) gun was upstairs and it wasn't like he could pull it out in front of the Met. Not unless it was really an emergency, anyway.

So he recruited himself to wait. "I wonder if Mycroft knows about Sherlock's Strad," he wondered aloud.

"Oh, John, isn't that dreadful?" Mrs. Hudson's face was distraught. "It doesn't seem right, does it? Though at least…"

He met her eyes, surprised at how calm she was. In fact, her eyes were alight with something akin to mischief. "I suppose the timing could be worse," he said, his own lips twitching. "The violin is dead, long live the violin."

"Long may she reign," she said with a chuckle of her own, and then, despite the seriousness of the situation, they were both giggling while Sally and Greg stared at them in disbelief.

"Sorry." John tried to pull his face back to something appropriate. "Sorry, it's just … when we're done with this, you need to come downstairs. There's something I want to show you."

Greg's eyebrows lifted. "You mean…?"

John couldn't stop the smile spreading across his face. "Yeah. It's not the same, but let's just say Sherlock still has a violin, even if his last one did get murdered—which, really, is just what you'd expect to happen to anything belonging to Sherlock Holmes."

They got the all-clear then, and Sally and Greg went back to do their jobs, leaving firm instructions for John to stay inside. He protested but seeing Mrs. Hudson's concern, let them convince him. He shared his Chinese and drank too many cups of tea before they finally came back to knock on her door. "Everybody all right in here?"

John looked up with a smile. "We're fine. You two? You look knackered."

Mrs. Hudson (being who she was) insisted on giving them tea to drink, and so it was a little longer before they could all head downstairs to see Sherlock's (new) violin. John wasn't altogether surprised to find Mycroft just coming through the front door. Two days in a row were unprecedented, but he supposed Mycroft was concerned about the Strad, too. If John remembered correctly, he was the one who had given it to Sherlock in the first place.

He tried to apologize, but Mycroft waved him off. How could he possibly have known a bullet would come through his window? He was just glad John and Mrs. Hudson were safe. John told him he hadn't even been up to see the damage yet, but he was just about to show the others his violin, would he like to come?

And so he led his little parade down into his workshop and froze.

The case was on the workbench where he had left it, but it was open.

And empty.

John looked around with frantic eyes, desperate to find it. What could he have done with it? How could he possibly have lost both of Sherlock's violins in one day?

Then they heard it.

Wafting down the stairs … "Auld Lang Syne."