To Sherlock Holmes, it is always: 'The Case of the Stradivarius - Dammit.' The two words seem to him to be inseparably hyphenated, so that the violin in question is never referred to without the addition of the epithet. The events of the case which surrounded it have set it apart from its brother instruments in his mind, and now rather than a mere Stradivarius, it is a 'Stradivarius - dammit.' Indeed, I have never heard him speak of it by any other name.

Except, perhaps as: 'Kendry's Stradivarius - dammit.'

Addison Kendry was the violinist who, in the winter of 1888, rather indiscreetly misplaced the instrument which would come to be known to Holmes and I by such a colorful appellation. This indiscretion was compounded by that fact that the violin was not his own, but - as is the case with most instruments of its caliber, Holmes informed me - had been loaned to him by a private collector for his debut as the concert master of the London Symphony Orchestra.

What was more, if these difficulties were not enough, Kendry himself had gone missing, shortly after reporting the theft of the violin.

These events combined to form a disaster quite sufficient to see the managers of the Symphony, the owners of the violin - and improbably, as it seemed then, Mycroft Holmes - seated over steaming cups of tea in our sitting room early one blustery, bitterly cold morning.

The wind gusted against the window panes, making them rattle, as we all arranged ourselves around the fire and the tea was served. Holmes, bereft of a seat now that our sitting room was filled to its capacity, seemed to prefer to place some distance between himself and the close gathering forming about the fire anyways, and chose to lean against the wall beside the deal table, arms crossed over the front of his dressing gown.

The orchestra managers, Messers Hallet and Ferriman, took the basket chair and Holmes' armchair, while I retained my own.

Ferriman had presumably been in the business longer than his associate, his hair and neat, slightly twirling mustache steel grey while his companion's deep walnut coloring spoke of lesser years. Ferriman, also, was attired as was traditionally fitting for a man of his profession, dark cutaway coat and pinstripe trousers hinting only discreetly at the drama of a musical occupation, while Hallet's dress showed more of a nod to the aesthetic style.

Across from them, the owners of the violin perched on the settee. Mr. and Mrs. Benedict Alveston were clearly very wealthy, and something in their manner seemed to indicate that even the firmly middle-class locale of Marylbone was a descent for them. Mr. Alveston was a thin, nervous man; his small, round face dominated by a large, even rounder pair of spectacles rimmed in gold wire. His wife sat beside him, delicately sipping her tea with a certain hesitancy, as though unsure as to whether or not she might be somehow tainted by the inferior china.

In the midst of these, Mycroft Holmes, unwilling to stand, himself, had drawn up a chair from the luncheon table.

It was the managers who broke the silence, punctuated as it had been by only the rattling window panes and the sipping of tea, first.

"Thank you for agreeing to hear our case at such short notice, Mr. Holmes," Ferriman began. "I'm sure I speak for Mr. Hallet as well as myself when I say that Mr. Kendry's absence has certainly been difficult to bear."

Hallet, at this, nodded his assent. "The Symphony is playing Tartini's concerto in D minor in a matter of weeks," he added. "We have been unable to rehearse it properly without a soloist."

"I was under the impression that Mr. Kendry's debut with the Symphony was not to be for some time," Holmes replied.

"Officially, you are correct," Ferriman said. "Unofficially, our intention was that he should perform the lesser pieces with the Symphony, until his tenure was to be officially announced, three months hence, when -"

"When Tchaikovsky's new concerto is on the bill," Holmes muttered darkly.

Ferriman and Hallet exchanged a glance, quite clearly taken aback. "How could you know that?" the latter demanded. "It has not been advertised."

"I know it because I can see the sheet music protruding from the pocket of my brother's coat," said Holmes dubiously.

Mycroft, with a long-suffering sigh, as though he were accustomed to this sort of suspicion from his younger sibling, drew a slim folio from within his coat as though on queue. He held it out for his brother to take, but the younger Holmes made no move to do so.

"Why are you giving me that?" he asked, one dark brow arching distrustfully. "It will neither help me in discovering the whereabouts of the violin or the violinist."

"Then the obvious conclusion," Mycroft replied with the air of a schoolmaster who's patience is tried, "is that we wish you to do neither."

Holmes looked vaguely annoyed, but did not so much as uncross his arms to accept the sheet music. "Then I am afraid I must confess to being completely in the dark as to why I have been consulted."

Mycroft rolled his eyes at his brother's impertinence, and offered the music to me instead, which I took with some curiosity.

"Are we correct in our knowledge," Ferriman spoke again as I leafed through the pages of the concerto, "that you yourself play a Stradivarius, Mr. Holmes?"

"You are not," Holmes replied tersely, clearly eager to question his brother further and annoyed at the interruption, "My violin is a Vuillaume*."

He turned to address Mycroft again, but was stymied when Ferriman continued: "I don't suppose it would be out of the question, were we to ask to hear it?"

"It would most certainly be out of the question," Holmes snapped. "My services as a consulting detective are for hire - my skills as a musician are immaterial. I'm afraid that if the purpose of this interview is in reference to the latter, I must bid you all good morning."

"Sherlock," Mycroft scolded, "there is no call for haste. Mr. Ferriman has very good reason for wishing to hear your violin."

"And I suppose," Holmes rejoined, "that if the Alvestons do not wish me to recover their instrument, that they are only present to confirm that mine is similar to theirs in tone?"

"Quite!," tittered Mr. Alveston, with an abruptness that fit his fidgeting manner. "That is very good." He smiled as though he had been privy to the performance of some original parlor trick.

"It is apparent," Holmes continued as though the man had not spoken, "that you plan to replace Mr. Kendry, and you wish his replacement to play my violin. However, since it is not a Stradivarius and there are certainly other instruments available to you, I fail to understand your insistence in the matter."

"What you fail to understand," Mycroft corrected, "no doubt out of your own sheer obstinacy, as evidence is by no means unavailable to you, is that we wish to replace Mr. Kendry with you."

The effect of this statement was to throw the room into silence.

The managers as well as the Alvestons regarded Holmes expectantly. Mycroft had fixed him with a supercilious look. As for Holmes himself, the expression of annoyance had been wiped from his face to be replaced by one of utter disbelief.

"Forgive me," he announced to the room at last, "but this must be a joke."

"Not at all," chirped Mycroft. "You are similar enough to Mr. Kendry in height and build that, seen from the stage, the differences between you and he should pass unnoticed. You are a violinist of similar skill - do not make that face, Sherlock - and your instrument may well pass as a Stradivarius. All that we are asking is that you play with the orchestra in his place, until -"

"Until Tchaikovsky's concerto..." Holmes frowned, eyes distant and troubled, as one contemplating the event of his execution. He shook himself at length, clearing his throat to ask his brother: "Perhaps now you will be so good as to explain how Mr. Kendry managed to entangle himself with government matters sufficiently to draw you from your breakfast table prematurely this morning?"

Mycroft scowled, but chose to overlook the subtle barb. "The truth of Mr. Kendry's disappearance," he said, "is something which is not to be spoken of, outside this room. Messers Hallet and Ferriman have already been informed of the true state of affairs - but I reiterate, gentleman, the need for absolute secrecy.

"It was the theft of the Stradivarius by which we were initially alerted to Mr. Kendry's clandestine activities. He made a rather sloppy attempt at reaching out to his contacts soon after it was stolen, no doubt in a panicked effort to regain the instrument. My department became aware of this -"

"And now he is languishing in a cell somewhere that does not officially exist," Holmes muttered.

Mycroft's scowl deepened. "Indeed. It had become quite clear to us that Mr. Kendry was a spy. For whom he was working, I'm afraid, is information I am not at liberty to divulge. Suffice it to say that his capture and the information we have acquired as a result has placed before us a distinctly valuable opportunity. Dr. Watson - the concerto, if you would be so good?"

I passed this over and Mycroft carefully cleared aside the tea things to spread the pages on the table between us.

"As you all are aware," he continued, "Tchaikovsky's concerto is a very recent work - so recent that the Symphony's performance of it shall be only the third in Europe. Thus, one may easily introduce subtle variations, such that they should never be recognized -"

"Unless one knew to look for them," Holmes interrupted. "Kendry was to relay a code written into the concerto?"

"At last you begin to catch on," Mycroft sighed. "Fortunately, we have been able to break this code, and use it to compose, if you will, our own variation on the concerto. Kendry's contacts will be attending the performance, at which time you, Sherlock, will perform in Kendry's place, and they will hear the coded message as we have re-written it. The point, of course, is to deliver them misinformation. It is crucial that they believe they are receiving this information from Kendry himself. Therefore, Sherlock, you must take up his position with the orchestra immediately, before they are given any more opportunity to learn of his absence."

"There is of course," Holmes frowned, looking, I thought, rather uncomfortable, "the slight difficulty of my mastering the concerto quickly."

"You underrate your skills, as usual," Mycroft rejoined. "However, I cannot but agree with you that time is short - which is to say, that if we are to take advantage of this opportunity, time is insufficient to locate another man as well suited to our purposes as you. So - knowing you to be as much a patriot as I, and seeing as you have no other equally pressing work to occupy you at present, I am sure you will agree to help?" With this appeal, he gathered up the pages of the concerto and moved again to hand them to his brother.

Holmes regarded them for a long moment in silence, arms crossed and brows knit in contemplation. At last he looked up to catch his brother's eye. I thought, for a moment, that I saw the beginning's of a refusal in his manner, but as his gaze met Mycroft's something seemed to pass between the brothers, unspoken, and the demurral I had sensed vanished. Holmes sighed, and snatched the pages of the concerto in a quick, sharp movement.

"Very well. I will do as you ask - but only because the matter presents some features of interest. Not because I am English and so are you or any similarly vapid reason."

"Ever the patriot, as I said," quipped Mycroft. "Now, the only thing that remains to be seen, or rather heard, is the tone of your violin."

"If it does not suit, I suppose I might be excused from this endeavor?" Holmes asked, glancing over the concerto he had accepted with a dogged expression.

"If it does not suit," said Mycroft, "another instrument is easy to obtain, as you yourself pointed out."

Thus it was that the occupants of the sitting room were treated to an impromptu recital. I recognized the piece Holmes played as Paganini's eleventh caprice, which I knew to be a favorite of his. To my ear, the performance was flawless, and Hallet and Ferriman seemed very pleased at the revelation of their new first chair's technical ability. The Alvestons, too, seemed satisfied as to the quality and tone of the violin. I, however, who knew Holmes and his playing well, could not help but remark upon the fact that something of his usual expressiveness was missing from his interpretation of the piece. I said as much to him, after the final accord was made and our guests had gone.

He sighed, removing the pages of Tchaikovsky's concerto from where they had been left on the settee to toss them carelessly over the abandoned tea things before collapsing onto the cushions. "Sorry to have disappointed you, Watson."

"It is not that," I replied quickly, disappointed rather to have become the target of the asperity that was no doubt meant for his brother. I set about rescuing the sheet music from being ruined by tea-stains with equal hurriedness.

"Then what?" Holmes demanded tiredly, raking a hand through his hair.

"Well," I considered, "It is just that, if I did not know better, I would have said you were nervous."

Holmes looked at me suddenly, and seemed to stare for a long moment, grey eyes hooded and inscrutable. At last he sank back against the sofa cushions with a second sigh.

"If you must know," he admitted, "I was nervous."

"Really?" I asked stacking the sheet music together before rising to pin it to the mantle with the jack knife. "Whatever for?"

"Logically it makes little sense, doesn't it?" Holmes muttered, slipping one hand behind his head and fidgeting with the tie of his dressing gown with the other. "Why should I find playing a piece which I am free to choose, to such a small and private audience, daunting?"

I considered this question myself, turning to lean against the mantle and tucking my hands into my trouser pockets thoughtfully.

"Perhaps," I proposed at length, "it is a daunting thing for any man to be called upon to bare his soul to an audience of strangers."

Holmes was silent for an instant, and I thought, briefly, that I had struck a chord.

I was slightly nettled to discover that he had, in fact, been restraining laughter when at last he could not resist breaking into a chortle.

"Oh, Watson!" he smiled. "The romantic streak in you is really indefatigable."

With that, he fairly leapt from the sofa, snatched the concerto I had just taken care to arrange from the mantle, and disappeared with this and his violin into his room. I was left to scowl, arms crossed and mustache no doubt bristling in remonstrance, at his closed door.

At least, I consoled myself as I rang for Mrs. Hudson to clear up the tea, my comment, though I might have preferred it to be taken seriously, seemed to have lifted his spirits. I had heard him speak of Tchaikovsky's concerto several times since the news of its European debut, and understood it to be a virtuosically challenging piece. It only stood to reason that Holmes should be disconcerted at the prospect of having to master it quickly.

Although, I reassured myself, it was good to know that the difficulty of the piece was likely to be the most challenging aspect of the case we would encounter. In fact, I reflected, the situation seemed almost ideal - Holmes was occupied with a case which interested him, and yet posed no more risk to his health and promised to hold no more danger than did playing the violin.

Mycroft Holmes himself seemed assured of this fact.

Little did I suspect that even he did not comprehend the breadth of the web of deceit we were about to uncover.

* For the origin of Holmes' violin, see 'Theme and Variations' chapter 18.

Additionally - I have no idea when Tchaikovsky's concerto for violin was written, and have never heard that Tartini piece. Apologies for any inconsistencies.