One-Shot: Violin
Title: Latuva - Violin
Author: Jaelijn
Rating: PG
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft Holmes, OCs
Disclaimer: Don't own Sherlock or Mycroft, but the OCs. They may not be used without my permision.
Summary: see prompt below
Warnings: depression, hints of an unhappy childhood, childhood-AU
(also: written on the fly without editing - mistakes? Point them out if you notice any, but please, comment on the story also)
Author's Notes: You have to picture Mycroft and Sherlock as teenagers here. I had in mind that Mycroft was about seventeen. I'm switching point of views between the two of them.
This is the answer to a prompt by bellis_naemar for my prompts requested! post (still taking prompts, so prompt away!), who wanted to know why and under which circumstances Sherlock Holmes learned to play his violin.
Comments are lovely!
Mycroft
One would imagine that it was impossible to get so hot that one could actually burn alive. As far as I was concerned, it was entirely possible, although I assumed I would melt before I burst up in flames.
The sun was still shining mercilessly, searingly, and I could swear I heard the plants sizzle as every drop of water burned away in the heat.
If I had not known that there was at least one person on this planet who felt worse than I did, I am sure I would have fled to the cellar, crawled into an empty wine barrel and stayed there until the summer was over. As it was, I remained where I was, trying to avoid any unnecessary movement, and watched.
He had not moved even a fraction for over an hour, in fact, since I had joined him on the back veranda, where there was the slightest breeze and some shade at least. It was certainly efficient to avoid exertion in such a weather, when even the wiggling of one's toes resulted in sweat pouring out of every pore.
He had taken the liberty of relieving himself of his jacket, and had rolled up his shirtsleeves, even unbuttoned the shirt. As a child, he was entitled to do so, although I prayed that Father would not see him - he would never have considered it proper, not with the presence of our guests. As a matter of fact, I should be getting back inside, but I could not bring myself to move.
Sherlock moved first, running a hand through his damp hair. His lips were pressed to a thin line, his eyes, which I had always found to be more expressive than mine, dark and overshadowed. He did not allow me to read his thoughts, but I could tell that they were not pleasant at all.
When his fellow students enjoyed the holiday, probably meeting at the lake, as we used to do it at Sherlock's age, he had arrived home in morose spirits, had actually yelled at Father - which usually neither of us dared - and had locked himself up in his room, refusing to speak to anybody, or even come down for the meals.
The heat had finally driven him from the attic room, and he had received a harsh punishment for his behaviour, but in the face of the coming visit, he'd gotten away physically unharmed. However, his room was shut up, the key taken away, which left him without his books, his chemistry set or anything else to occupy him.
I, who was like him in many ways, understood that this punishment was worse than any thrashing - I was sure that if I were cut off from my books, I would surely go mad, and he, being the more active child, had to suffer even more.
Thus it was that after properly welcoming the visitor - an uncle of Fathers', a old, stern, narrow-minded and horrible man, who treated both his wife and children as mere objects (truth be told, that behaviour was not entirely foreign to us), we found ourselves on the veranda.
Sherlock was bored beyond measure. As a rule, he would try to escape the inaction by lengthy walks across country, from which he frequently returned bruised and bleeding, but in much better spirits, but the heat did not permit such escapades, and his spirits were failing him. I have never understood that need of his to do something all the time, even if it was walking up and down the stairs, but I could see the unease, the entrapped energy in the depth of his troubled eyes. Had he been just a few years younger, he would be at the brink of tears by now, but not any more. My little brother shut himself in, was building a wall around himself that could not be penetrated by his emotions, and someday, he would no longer recognise them himself. But that day was not yet there.
“Sherlock.”
To my surprise, he actually looked up at my dry, raspy voice, and cocked his head in that peculiar way of his, but his eyes remained devoid of any reaction. “Yes?”
“Why don't you borrow one of my books to busy yourself? You can't just sit around here all day.”
“It will not help, Mycroft.”
“Maybe it will.”
He shook his head. “Don't. Just leave me alone.”
“Well, if you need anything... I should go back now.”
“Do go.”
-----
Sherlock
I was infinitely grateful to see Mycroft leave. As much as his concern was a certain comfort, I could not bear being around anyone at the present. I had forced myself to sit still, to remain unmoving, but inside, I was torn apart by my thoughts. Without anything to study, to learn, or at least something physical to concentrate on, they could not be appeased. There was nothing anyone could do, least of all I.
I felt the overwhelming urge to curl, to hide somewhere, somewhere dark, where no one would ever find me, but on this cursed day, there was no darkness anywhere.
I felt I had to scream, or cry, or kick the wooden fence I had been staring at for almost three hours, but I knew well that nothing would help. This would only pass when I was allowed back to my chemistry, or when Mycroft thought up any game to occupy me. But it seems his thoughts were the slower for the heat, and quite the opposite of mine.
With a muttered curse under my breath, that I would not have Father hear for the life of me, I rose and strolled across the garden to climb over the fence into freedom. The movement was nothing. It was routine, subconscious, and the wheels in my head still turned, grounding my reason between them. Confound this heat!
I trod about the country, noticing nothing in particular, feeling trapped in the blackness of my thoughts, until a sound pricked my interest, and I was suddenly alert.
Music. I had never before heard any music in this lonely area surrounding our home, much less encountered any people. The sound carried on a light breeze, and it was joyous, clean, free from the troubles of the world. Pure, devoid of lies and fights, free of deception.
I could not recall any time that the horrendous concerts my father subjected us to visit reached me beyond the biological process of hearing, if one did not count disgust. But this sound, carrying on the breeze, washed right into my core, captured my soul and released it at the same time, and for the first time in so many months, I felt free.
Quite naturally, I was drawn to the source of the sound, which entwined with laughter and song the nearer I got, until I was standing on a hill above a small clutter of colourful tents and wagons. I had encountered a band of gypsies, the only people that travelled so far off the beaten track, the very folk Father had told us to keep away from. Not that I cared in the least.
I took the precaution to button my shirt before I approached - I had no desire to be taken for a drunk, violent young country squire - at that moment, I wished very much to be one of them. If they noticed my arrival, they did not show it.
'They' were all young people, some my age, some older, gathered around a boy with a violin, which was the source of the music. A girl danced to the sound, singing, but she could not capture my eye for long. I was fascinated by the rapid movement of the bow on the strings, the endless flow of tones, melting into one another, nay, giving birth to a thing so beautiful that I stood and listened while my thoughts calmed, channelled themselves, and rose to a higher plane, where they were light as air, not weighing me down like stones.
I lingered until the boy bowed with a flourish, the last tones of his tune still lingering in the air, and turned away from his clapping and laughing friends to stroll out of the circle of tents into the country. That was when he noticed me.
“Sastipe! Con son?”
I did not understand one word of his language, and I had no desire to speak to him. I was afraid talking would erase the tune from my mind, and plunge me back into the blackness I had only just risen from. However, he caught up with me, and stepped in my way, although he continued to smile. “Did you enjoy my playing?”
I'm afraid I blushed. I had not intended to be noticed, and still, I found my gaze travelling to the instrument he held in his hands. “Yes. Much so. I... shouldn't be talking to you.”
“Neither should I,” he said, laughing. “Come! Hidee mansa!”
I followed him up and down the hill, where the tents were no longer visible, driven by the desire to hear that tune again, to feel cleansed again.
The boy sat on the ground, placing the violin on his lap. “My latuva is a great joy to me, you know.”
“I only wished I could play.”
“It is my belief that everybody can.”
“Indeed?”
“Ya. You are one of the sons from the squire living down this way, are you not?”
I did not want to talk about that. Already my thought were returning to that senseless, useless pattern, deteriorating my mind. “I am. My name is Sherlock Holmes.”
“I'm Kerio. You don't seem well.”
“Would you play for me again?” I ventured the question with the desperation of one that finds himself drowning, if only in his own mind.
To my surprise, he pressed the instrument into my hands. “My mother is a teller of fortune, you know, and she has taught me a thing or two. I know the music is in you.”
“But I have never learned...”
“It doesn't matter. Try.”
I lifted the instrument up to my chin, as I had seen him do it, and grasped the bow with my other hand. It felt new, interesting, exciting. There are few things that excite me. I recalled Keiro's movements vividly, my imagination active as ever, my memory photographic. I could feel the sound in my soul, and in the instrument. It was there still as I placed the bow on the strings, and set it free.
The first wrong sound made me cringe and nearly drop the bow. It had caused me pain, almost physical pain - I, who had wondered whether I had a soul at all, was certain now that it cried out as the melody shattered to pieces and I was torn out of the harmony by my own doing. I handed the instrument back to him with trembling hands. “I'm sorry. I cannot...” I rose to leave, and this time, he did not stop me.
----
Mycroft
I discovered my little brother on the sofa in the library as the guests were finally gone. It was the one place to avoid our father, and therefore it was only natural for him to be here, as his room was still locked.
“Sherlock?”
He had curled to a tiny ball, facing the backrest, determined to shut the world out. He flinched as I touched his shoulder. “What do you want?”
“You can come to my room if you like. The bed is big enough for both of us yet.”
“I was not sleeping, Mycroft.” He rose and walked over to open the window.
My spirits were the better for the evening chill, but apparently his were not. “Well, what were you doing?”
He bowed his head, casting down his eyes. “Nothing much.”
“I know you have been out wandering again. Anything of interest?” Usually, he would have asked how I knew, and I would have told him, issuing a discussion over deductions and minutiae that cheered us both up, but not today.
Today he held up a hand to keep me silent and leaned out of the window, trying to catch a sound that I had not heard.
“What is it?”
“Nothing. I'll go out again. Don't tell Father.”
“I never do. Don't get yourself caught.”
“I never do.” And with that, he was already off.
-------
Sherlock
The tune lingered on the evening chill as I climbed the fence and sprinted into the general direction of the source.
“Sherlock!” Keiro stepped out of the darkness, his beloved instrument cradled in his arm like a child.
“You have to get away. Father doesn't like...”
“We know. Day.” He motioned to someone in the darkness and an elderly woman stepped at his side. She showed strong familiar resemblance to him and thus was probably his mother, the fortune-teller he had talked about that afternoon.
“I see. You are Sherlock Holmes.”
“I am, madam.”
“Dear boy.” She stepped ahead and took hold of my hand before I could move away. “You are right, Keiro.” Her eyes, which were of a deep, dark blue, travelled up to meet mine. “You are extraordinary, young Sherlock. Freedom and music is in your blood. A sense of justice as yours is rare. You will make good use of it.”
“Thank you, madam.”
She smiled and moved to the side to let Keiro join her. “You, Sherlock, will show us great kindness, therefore, except as a gift all we have to give.”
I knew what she was offering me before Keiro held out his violin to me, and I knew I couldn't possibly accept such a gift. “No - I really cannot accept this. I can't even play.”
“Your heart plays, and your soul.” He closed my hand around his bow. “Take it, as long as it is in my power to give.”
“But you told me it was your joy.” I had not even noticed then that his mother had already left, fading into the shadows like a ghost.
“Yes, and it has been for all my life. Now I am giving it to you, so long as I can give it. You are worthy, Sherlock.”
And then, I heard the yell of my father, the voice slurred by drink and rough by rage, the baying of the dog, and Mycroft's desperate attempts to hold him back, and then the rapport of the gun as the shot rang wild and struck, and Keiro fell, dead in an instant, his eyes locked on mine before they closed - he was smiling. He had known.
----
Mycroft
All that remained for my little brother to do now was run. He told me later that he had hidden the instrument well, as he settled against me on the bed, stiff from the trashing he had received from my father for having contact with 'filthy folk', as he would call it.
From thereon, the music became Sherlock's greatest joy and his one passion, and I, who was his first audience, knew that each tone came from his very soul, and nothing else could replace his violin.