The Violin Man. A BBC Sherlock Fan Fiction by CowMow.

Inspired and based on Billy Joel's song The Piano Man.

I own neither the characters nor the song.

…

Imagine a pub like there are hundreds in England and Wales. Imagine a small building, squeezed in between old, hollow houses and new, run-down flats. The name, The King's Arms, is unassuming and the beer of which they offer just two or three brands is horrid. The barmaids are kind and friendly, though, and Jimmy the barman is always quick with a joke, always freely offering you a light for your cigarette or cigar.

The interior of the pub is nothing spectacular, either. The old wooden panels are darkened from the smoke swirling up from heavy shag and nicotine, and the handles of the tap are shining just like they ought. Jimmy the barman is proud of his pub, and he is the only one who knows every customer by name and face and story, and the only one who would listen to the full story if he didn't know it already.

John Hamish Watson, ex-soldier and ex-doctor, is part of the regular, nameless crowd now. You can find him at The King's Arms every Saturday from 8.30 PM onwards, until the break of dawn. Today is no exception to that rule; it has become part of his rhythm of the week. Heck, it has become the rhythm on his life. The one still point; peaceful and calming. For as long as that lasts, that is.

He isn't a man known for blabbing about his past or, heaven forbid, his feelings. He is an oyster, not letting anything out about himself, his past, all listening to whatever story they fire at him. After all, what does he have to talk about? Nothing happens to him, and reliving the past only hurts. He takes the last gulp from his beer, his face contort when the still, bitter beer hits his tongue.

John Watson forms a sharp contrast to the elderly man who's sitting next to him at the bar.

This old man is staring at his tonic and gin*, muttering and absent-mindedly stroking the damp glass. John can't help the soft snort of laughter escaping his throat. He feels sorry for the old man, though, especially after he realised the other costumers in the pub were secretly calling it 'making love'. He doesn't know the name of this old man, but he is there every Saturday, always arriving just a bit earlier than John.

The pub slowly fills with familiar faces of people John recognises but of which he doesn't know the name or the full extent of the story that hide beneath the bones and flesh. He also sees familiar faces, of people who have told him their stories. Stories which are normally hidden by hard, pained eyes but set free by a pair of attentive blue eyes.

John orders another a beer for a pound and a half, and sighs when he sees it's almost still, again. He doesn't complain, though, he simply doesn't have the energy.

He gets up from his stool, offering it to the blonde, young woman who's another regular. She wants to become a politician, very focused on animal rights and social minorities, or something like that.

He chooses a seat in a dimly lit corner, at a table for two. Not that he will share it with anyone at any point this evening. He never does.

He glances at the clock; it's still a bit too early. He sips from his beer, putting it down on the sticky, wobbly, coasterless table.

Excitement is buzzing through the pub as everyone is waiting for the clock to finally chime 9 o'clock.

But when the clock finally chimes seven, eight, nine times, nothing happens. The tension continues to hang around thickly. People keep flooding in, swarming all around the small place, sitting down at tables and bars, on high stools and low chairs, and some even sit down on the dirty, dusty floor.

Nearby, two men are chatting softly. One of them is in his navy uniform, and John remembers the youth telling him he probably will never leave the navy because his life's ambition is to become a commander of a sub-marine. The other is a real estate novelist. John vaguely recalls he is named Paul, who had run past the love of his life, being too busy with work to pay her any attention or realise what she was to him. Until he realised she had married his best friend, after which he turned to drinking.

People chatter and whisper, they order and pay their drinks, some even order dinner. They swarm the dimly-lit, smoky place, looking around for a place to sit down.

Jimmy is having a great time telling his jokes; many people smile friendly, some people merely nod politely. His grin threatens to break his face, but when Jimmy turns around to fill someone's glass with whisky, John sees his smile fade, his shoulders lower.

Oh, the stories he knows.

…

Suddenly, the whole pub goes eerily quiet, and John sighs softly from pure relief when he sees who enters. The Stranger must at least be six foot tall, probably more. It's too dark inside the pub to see him properly, but John knows about his dark curls, his full lips, but most of all he knows about the eyes. Unlike all the other pairs of eyes John has seen in the pub during the past six months that were his life – hard, steeled, pained, guarded, troubled and sad, or worse, lifeless (he has seen them all)- The Stranger's eyes are grey or green or blue and open, bright, light and reviving, feeling and caring, tearing apart and seeing.

The Stranger finds his way through the crowd, walking up to Jimmy and having a short chat. He sits down on the stool John had been sitting on earlier, and places the case he carries softly, lovingly, on top of the stool next to him. The murmur in the chat continues, forming a soft, distracting hum in the background. John watches as the Stranger orders a drink - probably a black coffee with two sugars, he always does – and smiles friendly, genuinely, at a joke from Jimmy while his enchanting eyes wander around the jam-packed pub.

John can only imagine what they see. Is it a bunch of simpletons who failed living their lives properly? Is it a bunch of miserable, hopeless people who came here to try and get a grasp back on their wretched lives? Is it a bunch of people he loved to help? Is it a bunch of people with merely the advantage of carrying money and being desperate enough to listen and pay?

John takes a large gulp from his beer, unable to turn his eyes away from the intriguing man who is sitting at the bar, whose mouth currently curls into another smile.

All of a sudden, the barman pats the Stranger's arm, smiling sadly as he talks to him.

The Stranger nods, and stands up not long after placing his probably still half-filled cup back in his saucer. He elegantly shrugs out of his coat, and the whole pub goes silent again as he does that. They all stare as he walks towards a small stage where a microphone is already waiting. John sits up straighter, eager to see and hear and letting himself be carried away.

The old man, who has finished tonic and gin, grabs at the man's arm that's not carrying the case with spidery fingers, and John feels anger creep up through his veins. Every moment the Stranger lingers is a moment less of forgetting life for a while.

He sees the old man's lips move, trembling, insecure. John can barely make out the words Son, Memory, Sad, Sweet, Clothes. The Stranger smiles softly, pats the man's arms and continues towards the stage, and suddenly John longs to talk to the Stranger as well. What did the old man say to make the Stranger smile like that? Did those words make sense to the Stranger?

The Stranger has reached the stage, and carefully places his case on the floor, flipping the lid open. He lifts the wooden instrument out of its confinements, and stands again. The man the pub now faces is no longer a Stranger, is not longer another unknown face. The man who straightens his back is the Violin Man.

The pub sits up straight in full anticipation, leaning forward to catch the very first note. Some seem to have forgotten their drinks, having eyes and ears for the Violin Man only. John's glass is empty, and he feels light-headed as he watches the man lift the violin to his chin, placing the bow on the still strings. The Stranger's eyes are lowered in concentration, and in the infinitesimal second before his arm moves to caress the strings, his eyes lift to focus on the old man whose eyes are wet and glassy.

The notes are soft, dancing, howling, singing and crying, floating all around the listeners in the pub. Somehow, they make John feel like a young boy again, basking in sweet but oh so sad memories, running and stooping, crying and having fun.

The Violin Man's bright eyes are closed as his upper body gently sways with the melody pouring from his strings, a melody created by the pressure of his fingers and the caresses of his arm.

When the music fades away, the old man's lined cheeks are wet with tears he doesn't bother to hide. With eyes full of admiration and gratefulness, he looks up at the Violin Man, nodding a silent 'thank you, thank you so, so much'. John swallows and stares at his hands. It's too intimate a soundless conversation to watch.

The pub remains quiet, knowing that in silence alone the enchantment will hold, knowing that only in silence it can be powerful. And the Violin Man? He understands.

When the silence isn't sweetly broken by another melody, John looks up, puzzled. He suddenly meets the Violin Man's questioning and searching eyes, burning from across the far end of the room. Again unable to look away, unable to put the guards back up, unable to quickly rebuild the wall, John can only watch as his soul is sucked out of his inner core, investigated and gingerly poured back, sadness and pain taken away.

The Violin Man smiles, kindly, softly, promising. He doesn't break eye contact when he lifts his violin and bow. Neither does he close his eyes or look away when the first yielding notes float delicately from the wooden casting, all the way to John's ears.

Almost unnoticeable, the early yielding, the initial surrendering of the notes change, turning into quick, fast, fighting notes, and the Violin Man's gaze doesn't falter for one second, maintaining the connection to John's heart.

When the melody changes again, John's breathing hitches. It's turning soft now, guiding, promising better times. The music dies away when the Violin Man lowers his bow, gently breaking the contact to John's soul.

It is only then that John notices his cheeks are burning, that hot tears found their way down, that his trembling hand is still, that his leg doesn't hurt any more. The rest of the evening is a blur, a dream preserved by music alone, yielding, fighting, promising.

…

When the sun sets, the pub slowly deflates. Everyone is leaving, going their own way, divorcing the company with which they shared their drinks and music and loneliness, throwing looks of awe and gratefulness like all the other faces in the crowd at the Violin Man, but no one speaks to the man himself.

John lingers, longing to talk to him. The Violin Man is packing his violin, lovingly stroking the shining, polished wood. When looking up as if he feels John's gaze, he nods curtly and stands up, before walking straight to John.

"Ho-" John's voice falters. "How did you know?"

The Violin Man tilts his head to the side. "Know what?" His voice is low and dangerous, yet so inviting.

"What I needed to hear, what the old man needed to hear," John adds, feeling more awkward by the second.

The Violin Man looks surprised, as if he didn't except anyone to ask. "I didn't know, I merely saw."

John's look must have been non-understanding, because the man continues, "I know you're a soldier who's been injured. Afghanistan or Iraq, I am not sure which one as it could be both. You're hurt in action, and life feels pointless for you. Your sibling is a drinker, and you don't want to end up like him, but you do long to have something to live for while your friends in the army died. You feel it should have been you. I merely let you see what you instinctively already knew. Yielding isn't an option, fighting is rewarded in the end. It's easy, really." He shrugs.

"Amazing," John gapes.

Now the Stranger looks strangely surprised, a look of disbelief tainting his pale skin. "Normally people don't care about the theory. They only want to hear the music, flattering themselves into thinking they're alone in their misery, that they're special to me." He chuckles humorlessly. "They're really not. It's merely science; I just watch and give what they need so they give me the money I need."

John shakes his head, unwilling to believe the cool approach. "There's more, there has to be more."

"Caring isn't an advantage, soldier. You should know," the Violin Man snaps, his eyes suddenly steeled, hard, shielded, like all the others. This man isn't any different. Who is?

John's lip curls upwards. "Then why bother playing for them? I saw the way you looked at that old man, and I felt how you dug deep into my soul, laying it bare, for everyone to see. Tell me now you don't care. You do. All those people come to this pub on Saturdays, only to hear you play. Everyone knows it. You care, you simply have to." He falls silent for a few heartbeats. "And there's nothing wrong with that, Violin Man. It's fine. It's all fine."

The Violin Man doesn't answer. Instead he stares at the damaged floor, at his expensive shoes that peek from underneath his tailored trousers.

John bites his lip, but places his hand firmly on the Violin Man's shoulder. "I just wanted to say thank you. Thank you for making me see, and thank you for making me realise you're right. I am not alone in my misery. I have to fight back." He takes a deep breath. "Thank you for playing for me." He turns away, heading back to his small bedsit. His step is steady, his cane forgotten as he lifts it from the ground with a hand that no longer trembles.

The Violin Man straightens his back, squaring his shoulders, as he watches the small, strong soldier walk away. "And thank you for making me see, soldier," he whispers, sure that the soldier will hear, somehow.

The Violin Man turns around too, and slowly walks away in the opposite direction, returning to his own life, his violin gently swaying back and forth with every step.

…

In another world, John Watson might have walked in on Mike Stamford the next day, and he might have decided to share a coffee. In another world, the Violin Man might have gone to the morgue to beat up a corpse with a riding crop.

In another world, these two might have become best friends. They might have become the Detective and his Blogger.

They might even have become JohnLock.

…

But that's not happening in this world. In this world, the mysterious Violin Man with the haunting, piercing and yet loving eyes fixed the broken ex-army man, the man who had given up hope.

John Hamish Watson, the ex-doctor without hope was able to conduct the very essence of hope into the heart that opened his.

All it took was one night, one song, one violin. And that was simply because they were John and Sherlock. It was because Sherlock and John always find each other, in any world. And there's not one morsel of tragedy in that.

…

Play us a song, you're the Violin Man
Play us a song tonight
Well, we're all in the mood for a melody
And you got us feeling alright.

Play me a song, you're the Violin Man
Play me a song tonight
You know I'm needing a guiding melody
And you got me feeling alright.

The End.

*Note: I wrote Tonic and Gin, and that's no mistake. In the lyrics of the song which I used to base my story on, they talk about Tonic and Gin, not Gin and Tonic. I thought it appropriate to use that phrase in my own little fan fiction.

Lots and lots of lots of thanks to the wonderful, funny and crazy-mad MrsCumberbatch for being my lovely, patient and over-enthusiastic beta and idea-machine. Without her I would have had a HARD time writing this properly, and the whole story would have been f*cked up. Which it is, anyway. I blame you, dear!