Chapter Two: The Musically Inclined
"So what brings you to London, Ms. Hunter?" John had made tea and was setting it out for them when Sherlock returned from calling Lestrade. He had removed his coat, revealing a fitted dress shirt in dark purple. He went to the armchair directly across from where she was sitting beside the fireplace but before he sat, he picked up the violin and bow he had laid there earlier.
She thought she smelled rosin on him earlier and as she watched his hands idly touch the strings, she was not surprised he was a musician. His long fingers were unquestionably powerful but they could almost be described as delicate and as he gently stroked the well-loved violin, Violet felt her heart skip a beat. "Do you play, Mr. Holmes?" Violet asked as he placed the instrument carefully on his lap.
"When I need to think. I find clarity in music," Sherlock replied. He did not look at her, rather he sat staring ahead, his chin resting on the fingertips of his hands clasped together as if in prayer. Silently he cursed himself for allowing a woman to affect him so profoundly. He was dangerously close to losing control, which was not something Sherlock was prepared to accept. Focus, focus, he demanded.
"Plus it's hard for me to talk over the damn thing," said John, offering her cup as he pulled a chair next to Sherlock. "You know, I'm surprised you weren't impressed by his little show of detective skill out front."
"Well, I am kind of obvious," she replied with a gentle laugh. "I've been abroad a few times and I truly believe there's an American flag above my head that only Europeans can see."
"But the other things – your education, age…" John continued with a gesture towards his enigmatic friend. "Most people are taken aback by Sherlock's unusual way of introducing himself. And by taken aback I mean they usually want to slap his face." Violet laughed. "Oh - I'm not kidding. I bet Mother Teresa would have decked him but good." Violet laughed even harder. Sherlock closed his eyes and let the sound wash over him. Her laugh was intrusive; it broke through his resolve and went straight to his head. He was losing the battle against emotion and he did not like it at all.
"Most of it was correct," she said holding up her left hand showing the signet ring on her index finger. "Harvard class ring – PhD – quite distinctive; I grew up just outside of Philadelphia but I imagine years up north have taken their toll on my accent. But… I'm actually 36, I took a year off before finishing my thesis, and I am in no way 'well-off.' I received a small scholarship but student loans are killing me, which is the answer to your original question, Dr. Watson. I'm in the UK to teach a 6-year-old to play the piano."
"Please – it's John. Dr. Watson makes me feel like I should take your temperature," he said and they both laughed, completely oblivious to Sherlock's inner torment. Suddenly he decided John's inane attempt at conversation had gone on long enough.
"Your doctorate is in music?" The force of Sherlock's question startled Violet almost as much as the intensity of his eyes as they unrelentingly focused on her face. She felt as if he was taking an inventory of her features, noting each aspect for future recall.
"Theory, actually," she clarified. "Performing isn't really my thing; I prefer to play in private. However, I do love teaching and this position seemed like a terrific opportunity until it started to get, well, creepy."
"Explain," said Sherlock. He didn't move a muscle but somehow she felt him tense up. Violet took a drink of her tea as John leaned forward slightly to touch her shoulder. "Take your time," he said. She took a deep breath and began.
"A professor I'd kept in touch with called and asked if I'd be interested in teaching piano to a self-described prodigy in England. Apparently the family had exhausted the local talent and called Harvard hoping they knew someone who fit their rather peculiar list of qualifications."
"Peculiar? How?" demanded Sherlock.
"Well, they were only interested in a woman, no older than 40; and she had to be blond, tall, and thin. She had to be single and not need to return to the States for at least 6 months. He said the family was wiling to pay - I think the words he used were 'a boatload of money' – if they could find the right person."
Violet placed her cup on the table; she was afraid her hands might start to shake and betray just how anxious she actually was.
"Of course I was skeptical from the get go. I mean, seriously, who orders a piano teacher by hair color?" she asked rhetorically and continued. "They'd never heard me play and had no idea about my teaching style but, based on a recommendation and a photo they were willing to offer me $100,000 up front if I'd agree to spend the next 6 months at their estate in Hampshire with their miniature van Cliburn."
"A hundred thousand American dollars? That's like … well, that's quite a lot in pounds," exclaimed John, as he leaned forward, his mouth agape.
"Roughly 64,345 based on today's exchange," inserted Sherlock. "And yet, despite all of your concerns, you took the position." The disdain in his comment hit her unexpectedly hard. Violet got up from the chair and stood by the fire gathering her courage. She watched the embers burn for a moment before continuing.
"I thought long and hard about it, Mr. Holmes. I decided I just couldn't pass it up," she said to him directly. "That kind of money is life changing. It would make it possible for me to pay off my loans and do something I've been wanting to do for a very long time – go in with some friends and open a music school for inner city kids." Sherlock sat back in the armchair and rested his chin on his fingers again. Violet took that to mean he approved of her explanation. "I'm not as naïve as I look. I had a lawyer friend review the contact and I researched the family – The honorable Mr. and Mrs. Jephro Rucastle and son Edward…"
"Rucastle? The shipping magnate?" asked John. Violet nodded.
"They're well-known so I didn't think I'd disappear into the basement without at least one person questioning where the piano teacher went," she said with a wry smile. "But – today… what started as a mildly strange trip crossed well into the Twilight Zone and I'm afraid Rod Serling isn't going to show up any time soon." She returned to her chair but sat on the edge as if she was about to share a secret.
"I'm staying at the Four Seasons and I received a message this morning from the employment agency informing me that before our meeting, and as a gift from the family, a stylist named Francisco was waiting for me in the spa. I thought, OK. I have some time to kill today, so why not? Everything was going swell until Francisco – for some freaking bizarre reason - ties my hair into a ponytail and cuts it off. All of it! Gone! Now, you may not have deduced that I watch a fair amount of ice hockey and can hold my own with Bruins fans but I redefined 'ugly American' for everyone at the Four Seasons spa today. He did what he could to fix it but I'm afraid it will be a while before I stop wishing him bodily harm."
"You're reaching for it," said Sherlock softly.
"Nervous habit. I'll probably need to take up smoking or something until it grows back," she joked and folded her hands in her lap. "I was ready to give the employment agent an earful about the fantastic 'gift' when he about fell over himself to apologize for what happened and said that to make amends, the family was increasing my salary to $150,000!"
"Because of a haircut?" asked John as he looked over to Sherlock who continued to sit motionless taking in every word. "That doesn't make any sense."
"I know, right? He refused to answer any questions; just said a car would be coming for me tomorrow afternoon to take me up to Hampshire. And then, as he physically ushered me out, he slipped me this…." Violet handed John the folded note.
"Talk to Sherlock Holmes," he read aloud.
"Yes. So hear I am… talking to Sherlock Holmes."
Unexpectedly Sherlock stood up, placed the violin under his chin and began to play. He passed between John and Violet and walked over to the window; the music was thoughtful and tranquil. As abruptly as he started, Sherlock stopped playing and glared out the window.
"Chopin again?" asked John. "He's been trying to get this one piece for ages."
"Nocturne in E flat Major - not for the faint of heart. You are quite accomplished, Mr. Holmes," said Violet.
"Sherlock," he said without turning away from the window.
"All right… Sherlock," she paused, weighing whether or not she should ask the very personal question that was nagging at her. "Do you enjoy playing?"
"I play to think, not to 'enjoy.' Why do you ask? Was it not good? You said I was 'quite accomplished.' "
"And you are," she asserted. "You have amazing precision, Sherlock. Your form, your technique – flawless. You should play Bach or Mozart; the mathematical Baroques would lie down for you." She walked over to his music stand and touched the pages as if they contained treasured memories.
"But the Romantics…" she shook her head and faced him. "The Romantics set raw emotions on paper – expression over form, as it's explained. You have to stop thinking and play from here alone," she said touching her hand to her heart. "Chopin gave his life, his soul, to a woman he knew he could never have. His music tells a story of tenderness, and hunger, and complete desolation. These pieces are the love letters he couldn't find the words to write. Without that level of passion, the result is … well, it's cold."
"I am not cold, damn it. Why does everyone say that?" Sherlock flounced into the chair like a disappointed child.
"Probably because you're a proper bastard to most people." Sherlock shot him a look. "Oh come on. You told my last girlfriend she should consider breast implants because it would draw attention away from her face!"
"May I?" asked, Violet, indicating the violin in Sherlock's hands.
"Of course," he said and handed the instrument and bow to her. She placed the violin under her chin and played a quick scale. She adjusted a few of the pegs, played the scale again, and, satisfied at the tuning, glanced at the music on the stand. Then she walked over to John and asked him to stand. Violet looked him square in the eyes, tapped the bow against the inside of her left foot twice, and began to play.
The music was soft and sensual and it enveloped John like a warm mist. She seized him with her eyes – blue-green with mesmerizing flecks of gold - and the way she seemed to caress the strings into producing the most beautiful sound intoxicated him. Violet finished the passage and lowered the violin to her side, bowing her head slightly to break the spell she had cast. John grasped at the table's edge and cleared his throat.
"Ok. Wow. That was… Seriously. Wow," he said.
"It was pretty wow for me, too," she said with a wink. "Thank you, John. I don't often get to share music so… intimately."
"Leave," said Sherlock from just behind her right ear. She thought he must have moved behind her while she was playing, not that either of them would have noticed. And Sherlock doubted John would have noticed a bomb exploding in the kitchen.
"Not you," he said to Violet. "John. Leave. Now."
"Yeah, I think I need a cigarette anyway," he said as he moved slowly to the door.
"You don't smoke."
"Only after sex…" he said as he closed the door behind him. The moment the knob clicked, Sherlock took Violet by the shoulders and spun her around to face him. He continued to hold her as he spoke softly but distinctly.
"I consider myself an exceptional violinist; second to very few, but what you just did there… with John. Tell me how you did it." Violet smiled and his resolve liquefied in an instant. At that exact moment Sherlock decided to stop fighting whatever was happening to him.
"I can't 'tell' you but I can try to show you. That is, if you're willing to see and not just observe," she offered. Sherlock dropped his arms and stepped back in reply.
"When I played for Dr. Watson, I let the music tell him I wanted him in the most intimate way possible. I took hold of him using the basest of desires – lust. I admit it was easy to draw him in; I think he's a bit lonely," she tossed out a few measures as she walked to the music stand and turned to look at Sherlock. "But – you. You're not lonely, are you, Sherlock? Oh, you're alone. Sometimes painfully so, but even though it hurts you don't seek comfort in the arms of a woman. Not because you can't – let's face it, you're kind of hot…" Sherlock rolled his eyes and scowled. "No, you can't find relief in a woman because you refuse to let yourself be so defenseless, so exposed. You just can't take that risk."
"I have absolutely no problem taking risks. Life would be too monotonous to bear without mortality," he countered.
"I'm not talking about physical risks, Sherlock, and you know it. Death is much easier to take than rejection; any teenager could tell you that," she fired back. The strength in her voice was backed by her clearly superior knowledge on the subject. Sherlock knew he was out of his depth and it frightened him just enough to make him want to understand this vibrant, talented, and quite brilliant woman.
"The nocturne – music for the night, Sherlock. Remember that. Now - give me the first 8 measures; just the first passage. Look at me while you play – but don't just 'see' me here in front of you. Feel me here; feel me with you. Let Chopin tell me what you want," she said as she handed him the violin. "Can you do it, Sherlock? Can you make a woman feel desired without saying a word?"
His light-blue eyes met hers as he accepted her challenge. If anything, Sherlock was ready for any good experiment. He settled the violin under his chin and began to play. Halfway through the passage, Violet gently placed her hand flat on his chest directly over his heart. Through the thin cotton shirt she felt his heart skip a beat before quickening to a frenetic pace. The heat of her palm seemed to pass right through the fabric; it was as if she were touching his bare skin. He continued to play as best he could but the apparent union of their desire for each other took Sherlock quite by surprise. His eyes filled with tears as the warmth of what could only be explained as affection spread throughout his entire body.
He played the final notes and drew the bow down to his side. For a time they simply stood in the drawing room, not thinking or talking; just enjoying being connected to each other in this intimate manner. Violet was about to move away when she felt his hand move to cover hers completely his fingertips gently stroked hers. Violet wanted to say something – anything - but no words would form. Sherlock was having an equally hard time finding words that would adequately express what he was feeling. This was all so new to him – amazing, exhilarating, and exciting – but new, nonetheless.
He placed the violin and bow on the chair and leaned closer. His eyes never left hers as he pressed her hand firmly to his chest and reached up to caress her cheek with his other hand. Violet willingly nestled her face against his touch, so gentle and honest.
"Assuming it's safe now that the lesson is oh…ver…. Yeah, maybe you need another minute," said John opening and quickly closing the door.
"Thank you," said Sherlock quietly. Impulsively, he lightly kissed her forehead; his lips lingering against her flushed skin.
"And thank you," she replied in a whisper. Neither of them wanted to move out of the embrace but they knew there was work to be done.
"John!" called Sherlock reluctantly.