The Red Violin: A Sherlock fanfiction.

Introduction:

September 9th, 2010. The time is 11:56 PM

A dewy petrichor lingers in the post-rain evening air that drifts in through the open window. On its tails, a susurrus of city ambiance permeates the stillness of 221b. Despite the hour, not all occupants have surrendered to the torpor of blissful sleep. Slumped in his chair aside a long cold fireplace, Sherlock Holmes waits in the darkness with steepled fingers pressed against his lips.
Somewhere a clock ticks off the passing minutes.

Then out of the quiet night rose the distant sonorous melody of the quarters. A twitching leg stills at the first saturnine chime and remains still through all the rest. The echo of the twelfth and final toll gives way to silence once more.

His eyes, previously closed, open and remain open without really seeing as a memory flickers across his mind like the shadow of a candle flame. It took only a moment to recall every detail despite the steadily growing gap between that time and the present one. A muscle jumps in his jawline; the singular indication to his state of agitation. 

Once it plays through in its entirety, dark lashes quiver against pale cheeks as he slowly blinks away the recollection and all the thoughts which buzz around it. His body coils then stretches to stand in a single fluid motion. The silk of his nightgown whispers in tow as he glides toward the window. The curtains murmur a soft reply where they shift languidly against the sill in the evening breeze.
Without preamble, his spidery grip drags open a filing drawer, it’s metal whine damped by the steadying force of his other hand pressed against its front. He reaches into the inky depths and retrieves a single manila folder. Despite the lack of significant light, there is no hesitation in his selection. Some months ago he had abandoned it there after moving his things into the flat. Now he removes it with resolute reverence. The surface of the pale cardstock remains pristine and unassuming but it’s soft edges and frayed seam gave way to its age. Under glaucous eyes, the folder falls open with the deft flick of nimble fingers. Haloed against the dingy sepia of street lamp light, those same fingers skim feather lightly over the contents within.

If there is a slight tremble in the gesture, it is not acknowledged.

Several silent moments slip away with the steady tick of the mantle clock. All the while Sherlock hovers near the window like a specter as he studies the stationary beneath his fingertips. Sometime later he places the closed folder gingerly upon his desk to be lost in the sea of those identical to it. He then turns to remove his violin from its case only to pause, constricting his fingers over the case in what would have been a compulsive comfort gesture if he were inclined to the necessity of such things.

His lip curls in disgust at his own futility.

Annual ceremony; a maudlin expression of sentiment which, like all others, he found to be utterly absurd. Such recurrences were beneath him. Yet, despite this firm conviction, his movements are reflexive, precise and polished after years of habitual repetition.

Finally, he lifts the instrument from its case to rest against his shoulder and tucks the chin rest securely into place before bringing the bow up into position. His eyelids sink down as he draws in a breath that hitches only slightly before dragging the bow across the strings.

Only darkened windows look out upon the silent street below, but long into the night the distant muffled sonance of London is accompanied by the sinuous notes of a hauntingly bittersweet elegy.