Disclaimer: I own neither Sherlock Holmes nor his faithful companion, John Watson. I do, however, greatly enjoy toying with them.

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Passion

Holmes' delicate, exquisite hands grasped the formerly richly cherry-colored bow with a passion more suited for a woman than for a Stradivarius. His closed eyelids and the quietly content smirk upon his lips revealed a deepest exultation that I was always amazed to see experienced by my companion, a man professed to be comprised of nothing but brains and energy. Watching Holmes caressing both the violin and his whole bohemian soul that night, I realized that this detective was mainly comprised, not of brains or energy, but of passion. Passion was the roots of everything Holmes did; the passion for perfection in a life full of sin and vice.

The music abruptly stopped and its creator turned his languid head toward me. His piercing gray eyes smiled. "Watson, my dear fellow, I do believe there is nothing more satisfying than the knowledge that you are the reason for the previously unsure execution of justice. Ha! You should have seen the look on Lestrade's face when I told him the name of his man! It was absolutely delicious, Watson. Absolutely delicious!" He chuckled quietly to himself and began to play the whimsical notes once again. The melody bounced and skipped along the walls of our cozy flat and I could not help but think that it was times like these in which the perfection we strive for was temporarily obtained and the seemingly pointless exertion of passion was directed towards something worthy of hope.

Yes, Baker Street was alive that night with the nearly suffocating and the irresistibly contagious passion of a man who normally kept it within; the view though the window of the soul of Sherlock Holmes was blindingly beautiful.