He ran his fingers along the instrument's curved side, unable to stave off the rush of memories, cold and churning just as the yawning pit in his chest, his belly. Watching Sherlock press the bow to his lips when he needed to think without the pressing rush of danger, need, a case. Watching him pace the length of the flat, violin propped on his shoulder whether he was playing or not. Learning to hear words spoken through frenzied, choppy screeches and lilting melodies alike. Comparing Sherlock's casual but somehow always tense movements and posture to those of the instructor he'd had as a child.

Lifting the violin with careful fingers and steady hands, John tucked it between neck and shoulder and grasped the long bow. It pressed fleetingly to his lips before he rested it on the strings and began to play, staring out the window without acknowledging the tears streaming down his face or the widening chasm within himself.

And downstairs, curled in a lonely blue loveseat before a lifeless television, Mrs. Hudson brought a hand to her mouth as she cried along with him, wondering how her broken boy would survive.