That Certain Piece
a short story by sobeautifullyobsessed
…when the quality of sunlight through the front room windows began to take on the hues of early evening, Sherlock brought out his violin, rosining the bow, then checking it was properly tuned.
He began with a portion of Paganini’s Violin Concerto 1 Opus 6; he appeared to be playing by memory, his eyes closed, the ebb and flow of his bowing a language all its own. He paused at the end of the piece, and shuffled through the sheets on the music stand.
“Oh, I really liked that one, it was lovely,” she interjected, “Who wrote that?”
His eyes still focused on the music stand, he answered “Paganini.” then began to play again. She listened quietly, appreciatively, and Sherlock allowed himself to sink again into the music, no longer referring to the notes on paper as he played, having played the piece so often it flowed out without a thought. He finished with a little flourish, and she said excitedly “I know that one. Bach, right? It’s so reflective, so sad sounding, isn’t it?”
“Indeed,” replied Sherlock, “Sonata for Solo Violin, No. 1 in G Minor”. He was now as ready as he’d ever be, he supposed, and went directly to his own composition. He knew once the first note was played, he’d have no choice but to play on, and thus he was committed to the experiment—to see if she could divine the meaning of the piece.