Chapter 21
Chasing Ghosts
Sherlock
Irene's words echoed in his mind palace seemingly mocking him. I think you're damaged, delusional and believe in a higher power. In you case, it's yourself.
He couldn't think. Mycroft's words bubbled up. Narrow it down. Sherlock grit his teeth in frustration. Time was running out. He needed to clear his head. God, he missed his violin. It was a Stradivarius, crafted by Antonio Stradivari himself. The instrument had been in Mummy's family for generations. It had been gifted to his great great grandfather, Horace Vernet in exchange for one of his paintings. It had been passed down from generation to generation coming into his possession with Mummy's death. Sherlock sighed as he remembered when had first glimpsed the instrument in the music room instinctively sensing its beauty and unique quality. That is a very special instrument, mon cher. Mummy had murmured to him as she brought it to him to inspect. It is still a bit too large for you to learn on. We will start with a smaller one. Sherlock had insisted that he wanted to learn on that instrument. Mummy had looked closely at his hands and decided to indulge him.
Mummy had taught him to play; told him that he had the hands for it. First, she taught him the science of it: the way the vibration will travel through the bridge and sound post to the body of the violin, radiating the sound into the surrounding air. She told him that the playing tension of a violin string ranged from about 9 lbf to 20 lbf.
She had shown him that an instrument well played could pull emotions out of even the most unwilling listener. There was something about human beings that also responded to a long drawn out note. We all long for a connection, Sherlock, and music connects us all. It sees passed race, color and creed and speaks to the heart. She had whispered as she adjusted the instrument in his hands for the first time. She went on to tell him to say things with his violin, things that he couldn't put into words. Music could be clearer than words sometimes.
The haunting chords of the piano enter his thoughts; minor chords with a bone deep melancholy. Mycroft. Sherlock struggled to remember when he had last heard his brother play. Mycroft's musical talent rivaled his own, but he rarely used it. It was so rare an occurrence that it was easy to forget that it existed at all. His brother's whispered warning entered his thoughts from all those years ago. All lives end, all hearts are broken, caring is not an advantage. For once, Sherlock paused a moment to pounder what had led his brother to first utter them. There was something that he was missing. Sherlock shook his head to clear it. Think! John. Molly's voice replaced Mycroft's. You need to focus! Sherlock couldn't stop his thoughts were spinning out of control. Moriarty's voice mocked him. Your friends will die if you don't. The image of Moriarty's dead body flashed in his mind. Stop he had to make it stop and Sherlock only knew one way to do it. He pulled the case from inside his belstaff and exposed the syringe. It was filled with his seven percent solution. Sherlock pulled up his sleeve and found a vein and slid the needle in depressing the plunger. Everything faded away.