Work Text:
Mrs. Hudson had suggested that he stop moping around inside and go out to a diversion of some sort. Like a fool, he'd done what she'd said.
So one balmy June evening Watson had dined at 221b and afterward had attended a symphony. Except that he did not strictly "attend" that musical program. He did go to the concert hall, he did pay for a single ticket and he did go inside and take a seat, that was true.
But five minutes into the first offering – some gorgeous Oriental piece by one of the newer composers – Watson had fled the building, heedless of the angry whispers and glares of the other concertgoers as he'd jostled his way out of his seat and aisle. Once outside he did not flag down a cab but headed back to Baker Street on foot, blinking the glass out of his eyes and trying to outrun the boulder that had rolled onto his heart at those sweet, perfectly bowed violin chords.
–
The October weather was ghastly – glum and foggy, ragged rain – and the evening gloom was broken by unearthly caterwauling and screeching coming from the Baker Street rooms.
Watson sat in his chair, chin in hand, smiling dreamily at every scrape and wail as Sherlock Holmes stood before the fire assaulting the Stradivarius with his bow.