I wrote this next song about a fisherman.

[onteamdyson]

Who: Kenzi and Sherlock
When: Late Wednesday night
Where: Sherlock's room whatever number that is
Summary: Kenzi is lonely. and bored. and then somehow she wants violin lessons.
Rating: R for potential swears?
Warnings: kenzi in general. Fights? Mean words. Underwear. Mud things.

Comments

[couldbdangerous]

Sherlock Holmes was thinking. Had been thinking, hard to do much of that with pint-sized invaders bursting into his room and onto his bed without warning. Several things happened in sequence. First, he gave a rather more violent than intended twist of the tuning peg of his violin as his eyes popped open. Second, the strange twang as his thumb caught on the strings when Kenzi threw herself onto the mattress. Third, and he would argue if need be largely involuntarily, his feet found the first bit of solid flesh they could manage and gave a brisk shove to get her back on her feet again.

"The chair," he announced, "is over there. Can't have the bed smelling like you; that would be horrible. It's mine. Mine and John's, you're not permitted. Now be quiet or go away, I'm busy."

Honestly, tuning a violin by ear without a point of reference was difficult enough without noisy interruptions. All the more so now that he had completely cocked up the string on which he'd been working. He plucked it a few times, making minor adjustments, before looking up again with a scowl. "Incidentally can you never simply knock? Must you always be so astoundingly loud? Someday I'm going to build a decibel meter and we'll put you to the test. My wager would place you somewhere between 'rock concert' and 'jet engine'. You've nearly thrown me off entirely."

[onteamdyson]

Woah, WOAH! Wait one freakin' second. Kenzi pushes herself up off the bed, thanks to that kick, and ruffles the shit out of his hair before asking, "Where did you even get that? Is it a violin?! Do you seriously play?!"

She grabbed the chair and pulled it closer before flopping into it with a grin on her face. "Play me something! Do it, do it, do it! I'll be SO freakin' quiet. Like I'm not even here. Like a tiny, little mouse." At least she was whispering. Slight improvement.

"Also, what do I even smell like? Why is that an issue at all? I clearly BATHE!"

And he messed up that string all on his own! She was completely innocent, as he could tell from that pure and chaste expression of angelicousity.

[couldbdangerous]

"Oh no, I don't play, I just quite like holding it, really," Sherlock said, deadpan, giving the string another set of plucks while he slowly tightened the tuning peg. "And it's not a violin, it's a very peculiar guitar, clearly. There are instruments in the rec room; really, you've been here long enough that you ought to know by now. I simply commandeered one, so to speak."

He closed his eyes, plucking two neighbouring strings in unison and frowning. Just a bit of adjustment and... there, that ought to... no, not quite. Nearly. Bit more. "As for your smell, you smell of you and you're not John or myself and therefore have no reason intruding upon our space, nor has anyone else."

So said the man who, once upon a time, used to steal John's jumpers and pull them over his head whenever the man went out to be with Sarah and not him. He'd hide them down the sides of his couch to use as pillows. To a man who noticed everything, scent was supremely important for comfort and he'd guard the sanctity of their bed at the cost of life, limb, and dignity if he had to.

Sherlock moved on to the last string, plucking and adjusting the same time-consuming, delicate process as before. It wasn't particularly exciting to watch or listen to, but it was essential that he finished. Then it would be essential that he go back and test all the strings over again, just in case they'd changed their tension while he'd been adjusting the others.

That was the first, entirely unintentional lesson he imparted about playing an instrument: some aspects of it were incurably dull. He'd been playing long enough now that he found it meditative rather than interesting, but once upon a time, when he'd first picked up the violin, it had been the bane of his existence, even more so than his inevitably blistered fingertips and bruised neck.

[onteamdyson]

"Never looked for instruments." She shrugged. Of course she'd noticed the piano, but that was about it. Usually she only went down there to watch Temari and Mindy fight or grab art stuff for Conrad.

"Whatevs, Touchy McToucherson."

The tuning was boring as ALL HELL! Still, she watched him, leaning back in her chair and playing with pieces of her hair. This was actually kind of nice. Sitting in the quiet, just the two of them. They really did fight a lot less when John wasn't around.

"That is such a fitting instrument for you. Vampires are always playing violin. It's like... required in fiction. Does your vampire play the violin? Nope? You will not sell a bilion books!"

[couldbdangerous]

"I'm not a vampire anymore," Sherlock pointed out, fretting a few chords to check and re-check the tuning. An out of tune violin was a thoroughly unpleasant thing. "And I've been playing the violin since well before I came here, thanks ever so."

And that caused a bit of a pang. One of the things he missed most from home was his Stradivarius. The only gift of Mycroft's he hadn't yet found an excuse to dislike. On the other hand, being here was like living his life as though Mycroft had never existed, which could only be a good thing. Nobody was constantly comparing him to his taller, older, 'nicer', better-dressed, stable, handsomer older sibling, as though he ought to be like that. As though anyone would want to be capable of tonguing one's own small intestine.

He scowled, giving a particularly violent strum of the strings. Fine. Good. That ought to do it. Next step? Rosining the bow. No, he wasn't done yet. At least this bit would go fairly quickly. He held it up, bouncing it lightly off of his forearm and making minor adjustments to the tension before setting about his work. Slow, smooth strokes, like running the bow across strings.

"Do you know how you can tell a violinist when you see one?" he asked idly, eyes half-lidded as he drew the bow back in another long, slow stroke, carefully adjusting the pressure to get more rosin towards the outside of the bow than in the centre.

[onteamdyson]

"But you WERE a vampire and you have the personality for it and you kind of look like one sometimes. Anne Rice would have a field day with you."

Ironically, pretty much everything Kenzi knew about violins had come from an Anne Rice book, which wasn't saying much at all. She did know the name Stradivarius and would have been impressed if he'd mentioned he owned one.

Kenzi looked hopeful when he finally stopped messing around with all the little thingies and the strings... only to throw her head back and sigh when he started messing with something completely different!

"He's holding a violin? He's got a weird mark on his chin? He's wearing a scarf, looking pompous, and has a giant head full of ego!?"

[couldbdangerous]

Sherlock whipped the bow lazily across to thwack Kenzi sharply on the head before setting back to work. He wriggled towards the edge of the bed, facing her, and set down bow and rosin. He was trying to give her a lesson, the least she could do was shut up and listen. He tilted his head to the right, turning his chin towards his shoulder, and tapped the faint mark on his throat where the skin was just ever so slightly rougher and darker than the surrounding flesh.

"That," he said, "is a good sign, though generally a mark of one who plays with fair regularity. A violinist in an orchestra or band may have a more obvious bruise or callous, possibly a large fluid-filled swelling or blister. Someone who's just begun playing will likely also have a bruise." Playing an instrument wreaked havoc on the body in ways which somebody who'd never picked one up could possibly understand. He held out his left hand, angling the fingertips up to the light. He closed his eyes, as though reciting from rote. "Callouses on the fingertips of the non-dominant hand indicate that the subject plays a string instrument of some persuasion. Occasionally they blister and peel, particularly in new players. Guitar players tend to have a callous on the side of the thumb from muting the strings and as they're more widely-spaced, the callouses vary in location."

He held his hand out further, implicitly permitting contact. "A violinist's are concentrated towards the tip and fairly regular in distribution. The tendons of the hand and the wrist will also show development which is abnormal in that of someone who doesn't play a string instrument. The dominant hand should be largely undamaged in a violinist or cellist save, perhaps, for some light callousing of the palm from the bow in someone who plays very regularly. A contrabassist will generally show some callousing in the fingertips of the dominant hand as well, less precise and often towards the edges of the fingers, from plucking strings."

[onteamdyson]

"OW! What the balls was that for, Fluffy?!" She grabbed her head, glaring and kicking out at his shin! What a dick. How is she even friends with him-- yep. There's the smirk. Theirs is a violent friendship of strangeness.

As usual, she took in every word he spoke and filed it away. Even when he was being a total dick, he was interesting. The way he said things, like he knew every single detail in the entire world. So much information, delivered with attitude. Kenzi had decided a long time ago that he was the person she wanted to be like when she grew up... only a bit more likable. Normal adult life was not an option. Especially not when you're one of the few humans living in the world of the fae.

She reached out, taking his hand in both of hers and running her fingers over the callouses, just where he'd said they'd be. "Has this ever come up in a case?! Do you just know it because it pertains to you?! Do you think it'd be weird if I just molested the hands of an entire orchestra for sick comparisons?"

Kenzi hadn't been this interested in something in a long time.

[couldbdangerous]

"I know because I've observed. Best to know something before one needs it and yes, it has been useful in the past. Every last bit of information one could possibly learn about another person which might help one to identify or track them is key. Le bon dieu est dans la détail, or however it goes." Sherlock gave a dismissive gesture of the hand, taking his back to finish rosining his bow.

"Observing oneself is just as useful as observing others provided one doesn't get too caught up in it, in any case. I am a rather magnificent specimen, admittedly--" he gave a flourish and a bow "--but I already know where I've been and what I've done and how it has marked me. Useful when starting out, perhaps, but not so useful later. One comes to rely on foreknowledge rather than learning to work backwards, much to one's detriment during a real case. Never theorise without data. Speculation is the bane of the empirical mind. That's why I hit you. Well, that and you're supremely irritating and it was wholly satisfying, but a rather crucial part of my aforementioned magnificence is an astounding ability to multitask. Now shut up."

He set the bow down and stretched his hands, knuckles crackling, before taking both it and the violin up again. He tucked the instrument under his chin, fingers settling neatly onto strings, back straight, long legs folded underneath him. Violins were curious things. They were played by friction and so as one went on, the playing warmed the strings. The instrument came alive. It hummed into one's bones, resonated in one's skull, and at times, when there was nothing but the instrument and the sound, it seemed to respond most beautifully to the player's slightest whim. Nothing else managed both sharp and plaintive in quite the same way. It was difficult to make any other instrument cry out in agony not so very long after having teased lullabies out of singing strings.

It was important, therefore, to play the thing properly. It couldn't be rushed. The best things with which to start, the best ways to warm the hands and the strings were simple and soft and sweet, light things, idle things, to lull the mind and allow one to sneak up on the bits that mattered.

So Sherlock set bow to strings and played a simple melody, mindless pretty thing. The very best way to start. Moon river, wider than a mile...