nadzo3:
пересматривала сегодня наш “Приключения Шерлока Холмса и Доктора Ватсона”. Момент где, Ватсон играл на скрипке.
It took a while. It really did.
But John wouldn’t, refused, physically could not just leave Baker Street.
So he spent a few nights with Harry, of all people, and then returned to the flat.
Mrs. Hudson wasn’t in; it was just as well, because John really didn’t feel like talking to her, or anyone really. Not now.
He carefully, slowly, made his way up the stairs - seventeen, exactly - and into the flat.
Everything was as it had been when they had been arrested.
All of Sherlock’s possessions sat, untouched. His computer was still open, but John didn’t feel like snooping around. He had the nagging thought that he never would.
His throat was closing, tears stinging in the back of his eyes and the tip of his nose getting that peculiar tingly feeling it had whenever he began to cry.
Blinking and taking deep breaths, he surveyed the room again, unsure of what to do.
His eyes fell upon Sherlock’s violin.
It sat, leaning to one side, in Sherlock’s chair. The bow sat with it. Together, placed as such, it looked like Sherlock as a violin, one hand under his chin as he scowled into the nothingness, lost in his own mind. A small, hysterical laugh bubbled in his throat and died in his mouth.
John fancied it decomposed on his tongue. Or perhaps that was the faint taste of bile as he tried not to vomit from all of this emotional and mental upheaval.
Without thinking about it, he stepped forward and gently picked up the instrument. It was light, making John feel as if it were fragile, made of thin, brittle glass - which was completely untrue, considering the number of times Sherlock would throw it down in frustration onto his chair and whip the bow about as if it were a sword he was threatening his brother someone with.
John stared at it. It didn’t bite him, it didn’t make some snarky, deep-voiced remark, and it certainly didn’t bring the owner of the snarky and deep voice back. But it did, however strangely, make him feel better. Comforted.
He gingerly settled it between his left shoulder and chin, as he had seen Sherlock do so many times. His scar gave a dull twinge at the unfamiliar position, but John ignored it.
He picked up the bow, placed it on the strings, and then thought better of it and, in a flurry of fiery determination, searched for the rosin. Once found, he carefully stroked the horse hair over it, mimicking Sherlock. He refused to break this by being idiotic.
Once he had put what he felt was a sufficient, and then some, amount of rosin on the hairs, he returned to his previous position.
He took a breath, and then gave a slow, sweeping stroke across the violin.
It didn’t sound half bad, but he knew the instant he tried to press the strings for other notes, he would sound horrendous.
But that didn’t deter him.
And so, he spent his hours, long into the night, playing the violin - violating it, making atrocious noises, but refusing to give up. Or even stop. Mrs. Hudson gave up after fifteen minutes of trying to get his attention, and eventually came back with a small meal that went unnoticed.
It took two days of almost non-stop playing to sound somewhat decent.
It took five months to sound like an amateur.
And it took three years to compose his first, and only, piece, simply titled, To Love.
