Intermezzo: Sherlock

He watched John enter Peter's shop with concern. Mycroft would have told him (wouldn't he?) if John was selling his Stradivarius, though it would be supreme irony for John to decide to do so just as Sherlock finally (finally!) was almost ready to come home. But no, John entered the shop with the ease of familiarity, walking in confidently and heading straight for the back room.

Perhaps he was taking violin lessons? It would be the last thing Sherlock would have expected of his gun-carrying, furniture-making blogger, but he supposed it was better that his Strad was being played by someone. The case looked unfamiliar, though. His brow creased at the mystery, though he shouldn't be surprised. If anyone was going to surprise him, it would be John Watson.

When John hadn't left within half an hour, his curiosity grew too large and, adjusting his posture, he entered the shop. From the back room, he could hear Peter (?) playing a chromatic scale on … that certainly wasn't his Stradivarius, the voice was entirely different. Pleasant enough, but definitely not his violin.

The notes cut off as Peter came up to the counter and Sherlock hastily gathered some sheet music from the small rack at by the door. From the back, came "Auld Lang Syne," played slowly but with feeling, not hesitation, and Sherlock found himself frozen in place. John. It was John playing.

He lost himself for a moment in the sound—John was more accomplished than he would have expected, and seemed to have a good touch on this instrument. This instrument that clearly was not his Stradivarius, but why would John have bought another violin?

He was taken completely off guard when John came through the door. It had been nearly two years since he had seen him and he automatically took stock of the changes. He'd lost weight, but not unhealthily so. His skin was pale, but more from lack of sunlight than illness, and his fingers were covered with small scratches, and traces of glue. Ah. His workshop, then. It was good he was keeping busy. Sherlock wondered if John was selling more spinning wheels or desks these days.

He couldn't help but glance at the violin case and blinked. It was brand-new and looked custom made. Why would John …? But he didn't have time for the mystery just now. He sneered at John to deflect attention and hurried to finish his transaction so he could follow his friend up the street.

It looked like he was heading straight for Baker Street, and so Sherlock dropped back, noting the change in his friend's gait, as if he didn't trust his bad (psychosomatic) leg on the walk back to the flat. He had to duck aside hurriedly, though, when John was back out the door in ten minutes, empty-handed and practically whistling as he smiled up at the sunny day.

Sherlock had a dozen things he needed to do, urgent things, but he couldn't resist. Glancing up and down the street, he let himself in with his key, knowing Mrs. Hudson was out. He paused in the hallway, uncertain whether to go up to 221B or down to John's workshop. Remembering John's pale, work-worn hands, he nodded and turned for 221C.

The unfamiliar varnish smell struck him first. It was different than what John usually used, not commercially available. He wondered why he had changed … and then he rounded the corner and stopped at the sight.

Violins. John was making violins.

But why? He prowled around the workshop, carefully not touching anything as he looked at several instruments at different stages of completion. Did that mean … the violin he had heard at the shop? John had made that?

His eyes stopped on the case John had been carrying earlier and, hesitating only slightly, he flipped the latches and lifted the lid, catching his breath at the sight of the violin inside. He barely breathed as he reached forward to touch the strings. When had John … how had he done this? His fingers trembled as they touched their names, engraved on a plate on the case.

John had made this—made this for him.

Sherlock had never wanted anything as much in his life as he wanted to play that violin, made by John's hands.

But this wasn't the time. First, he had to get Moran, keep John safe. Then he could come back and try this remarkable instrument. He tried to remember what it had sounded like in Peter's shop, when John had played it. He had thought then the tone was pleasant, but now … his fingers itched. Why hadn't he paid more attention?

No. Moran first, then he would ask Mycroft what else he hadn't told him about John these last two years. Hopefully by tonight this would all be resolved. He could only hope that John would let him play this violin later. Carefully, lovingly, he closed the case and resolutely turned away.

Leaving the workshop, he silently ghosted up the stairs to 221B to find it largely unchanged (though his lab equipment had been removed from the kitchen). He stood in the sitting room for a moment, lost in thought … until a bullet shattered the glass.

End Intermezzo

#

For a moment, hearing the music coming down the stairs, John felt the floor move under his feet. How was … Who was playing that? It sounded like his violin … Sherlock's violin. Who would do that? Who would dare to do that?

He was staggering toward the stairs, furious and distraught, when Mycroft caught at his arm. "Breathe, John."

"What?"

"You're pale, and you're weaving. You need to take a deep breath before you go up there."

"Someone stole Sherlock's violin, Mycroft!"

"Not stolen, John," Mycroft told him. "It's still in the building. It's just being played, not being harmed."

"What are you talking about, Mycroft? They have no right…"

They were all watching him. John Watson, center stage of a melodrama once again as the strains of music played on from above. John couldn't understand why Mycroft was keeping him here, instead of letting him charge up the stairs to stop this … sacrilege. Wasn't it bad enough that Sherlock's Stradivarius had been lost? That Sherlock himself was gone? But now this travesty, of someone, anyone playing his violin … his violin without permission … The bullet hole in the window was nothing compared to this.

Mycroft was saying, "I know, John. I'm just saying to keep a cool head. There's something you need to know."

John glared at him. "I'm surprised you don't have a team of men storming up the stairs by now."

Mycroft just shook his head, that gentle, all-understanding look on his face again. "There's only one man who needs to head up those stairs right now, and that's you. But first—I need to tell you about the sniper."

The words just weren't making sense. "The sniper?"

"Yes. Colonel Sebastian Moran. My men captured him a short time ago on the roof across the street. What you need to know, though, is why he was shooting."

John just stared, not understanding why they were having this conversation right now, instead of going to stop whoever was playing Sherlock's violin. He nodded, though, to show he was listening, even as he stared at the door, ready to race up the stairs as soon as Mycroft stopped talking.

"Moran was the right-hand man of James Moriarty," Mycroft said, and at the name, John's eyes snapped back to him. "We have spent the last two years taking down Moriarty's network. Well, when I say 'we,' I really mean one very determined man in particular, but the point is that Moran is the last piece of the puzzle. He was determined to kill you, John, before he was captured."

"Me? Why me?" It wasn't like Sherlock was alive anymore, John thought. "All I do these days is make violins, I'm not exactly a threat."

"No, but," Mycroft took a breath and looked past John at the others, all staring raptly. "You remember, of course, why Sherlock jumped?"

"To save the three of us from snipers," John said. They all knew this, why was Mycroft bringing it up? Though … a connection started teasing at the back of his brain. "Are you saying that Moran…"

"Was one of the snipers. Your sniper, in fact."

"But why would he come after me now? Even if your people have been taking down the network, what does that have to do with me?"

"The deal was that, to save your life—all your lives—Sherlock had to die," Mycroft said. "Perhaps Moran felt that our destroying Moriarty's life work cancelled that out. Or perhaps," he tilted his head at the music still coming down the stairs, "Perhaps he felt he had other reasons to feel the terms of the deal had been nullified. I just …need you to stay calm."

Confused, John looked past him to see the others, who he was relieved to see looked as perplexed as he felt. He didn't understand, but obviously something important, something huge was happening, and so he took a deep breath and nodded. And started up the stairs.

Mycroft's lack of worry should have reassured him. The absence of armed men, the complete confidence that John didn't need a weapon, not even the backup of Scotland Yard's finest … all these things should have made him confident that there was nothing to fear at the top of the steps.

And yet … the unreality of this, the utter absurdity of it … terrified him in some way that Afghanistan and bomb vests and having been shot never had. What had Mycroft meant, Moran had other reasons? Why was he so calm about someone else playing Sherlock's violin? (And did he even know about the Stradivarius?) John felt like the bogeyman was waiting for him, that something terrible and incomprehensible was playing that violin. Something wonderful, maybe, but terrible, like that ice-cold beauty they talk about the Fae having in old stories—the kind of beauty that strikes you dead with awe and wonder.

And still the strains of the song came down the stairs, leading him on, a somehow familiar siren's call that set off warning bells at the back of his brain.

Finally at the top, he paused for another deep breath before pushing open the door.

At first, he thought it was the customer from Peter's shop—the one who had sneered at his unscuffed violin case. The clothing was the same, he thought, and there was an unfamiliar pile of music on the floor by the door, but this man was taller, straighter as he swayed with his playing, lit from behind by the setting sun. And then the melody switched.

It was something John had never heard before. Plaintive and wistful, threaded through with regret and love and remorse, and it just about broke his heart. He forgot his anger at the stolen (borrowed?) violin, forgot that just a few hours ago someone had fired the bullet that murdered Sherlock's precious Stradivarius. He forgot everything.

Because the silhouette playing looked so familiar. The hair was shorter, perhaps, the clothing not as elegant, but this shape … this person playing … the sound of the notes…

John had to step back against the door jamb for support as he stared, eyes and ears filled with the unbelievable, the impossible. What had Mycroft said about Moran thinking he had a reason to shoot? That the deal that required Sherlock die had been nullified? What about his utter lack of concern that Sherlock's violin was missing and being played by …?

As he heard footsteps on the stairs behind him, the music shifted again, and now it spoke of hope and love and home and all the things John had somehow needed to hear. It spoke of faith and compassion and patience. It spoke of friendship.

It spoke of him. It spoke to him.

He didn't know what to think as this hallucination of Sherlock played out its heart in his sitting room. All he could think was that he had never dreamed his violin … Sherlock's violin … could sound so beautiful.

THE END

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Note: Thanks so much for your support for this series, everyone-the response to this story in particular has just blown me away!