Chapter Text
The music-room in the Governor's House at Port Mahon, a tall, handsome, pillared octagon, was filled with the triumphant first movement of Locatelli's C major quartet. The players, Italians pinned against the far wall by rows and rows of little round gilt chairs, were playing with passionate conviction as they mounted towards the penultimate crescendo, towards the tremendous pause and the deep, liberating final chord. And on the little gilt chairs at least some of the audience were following the rise with an equal intensity: there were two in the third row, on the left-hand side; and they happened to be sitting next to one another...
The listener further to the left was a sandy-haired man in his mid-thirties. He was not a particularly large man, but his alert posture, as he sat upright in the gilt chair, one hand resting lightly on the cane leaning against the chair's side, suggested a long habit of standing to attention as much as his interest in the music currently being played. He was not wearing his best uniform, or indeed any sort of uniform at all; had not, for almost two months, since his honourable discharge on medical grounds and being invalided home from the front. Minorca had been intended as a rest cure, a chance to recover his health in the Mediterranean climate and fresh sea air -- so they told him, anyway, and so he kept trying to tell himself.
It was true the Balearic weather was undeniably better than London would have been, though the late January night was yet chill enough to warrant the heavy knit jumper (of an indeterminate porridge-like hue) he was wearing, and the jacket currently draped over the back of his chair. As for the rest cure, however, it felt more like a slow death through suffocation: the forced inactivity, the endless monotony of each day bleeding into the next like washed-out ink; the soul-sucking stasis of waiting for a call to action that would never come; the hopeless dedication of a soldier no longer useful to his war -- no longer needed. That morning, as every other, he had opened the drawer in the small, sparsely furnished room that he supposed he should call 'home' and, as he always did, had run his hand briefly over the gun concealed therein. No need to polish or clean it; it was, and had been, in perfect working order since his return. Though never likely to see action again, he reflected bitterly.
It wasn't that John relished killing; his job on the battlefield had been to save lives, not to take them. He had fired the weapon countless times in training, a handful of times on the battlefield when needed for cover or self-defence during a medical intervention, and only once to kill, that he knew of -- a sniper who had been picking off the ragged remains of a unit limping home and desperately trying to care for their wounded along the way. He had turned, seen suddenly the sniper's outline against a line of bushes (well-concealed; it was only the accident of the angle and the light that had revealed the position), drawn and fired without hesitation; there had been no more bullets, after that.
With the second sniper, he had been less lucky.
And so here he was in Mahon, eking out what had come to be a meaningless, comfortless existence. 'Eking' was the right word: his Army pension was barely enough to scrape by, even here, and whatever savings he had had were long gone. Small wonder that as his hand had brushed over the gun's cool metal that morning, the thought had briefly crossed his mind -- not for the first time -- of putting it to a darker use. What, after all, did he have to live for?
The invitation to the concert had therefore come as a welcome distraction, something to break the unchanging sameness of his days. He had encountered Stamford, a doctor at the local hospital, in Joselito's over his morning coffee, and that gentleman had pressed him to attend over his feeble protests, saying that the quartet playing would be exceptionally rare and in any case there was an interesting chap to whom he should be introduced, who would be sure to be there, never missed a performance at the Governor's when he was in town... In any event, Stamford had been himself indisposed when John came to call for him that evening, suffering from one of his recurrent attacks of gout and unable to rise from his chair; but he had insisted John go on without him. For John's own part, he had already made up his mind to go and was determined now to enjoy it, or at least pay attention.
He thus now gave himself a mental shake: no sense brooding over these melancholy thoughts instead of concentrating on the music. Having done so, however, he became aware that his own ruminations were not the only thing distracting him from the performance unfolding before him. His neighbour to the right was muttering something in a low voice, apparently to himself. Without turning his head to look directly, John could not discern much more of his appearance above an indistinct dark shape, tall but hunched intently forward in his chair, but he could make out some of the words, something about 'bowing' and 'articulation' and 'quite dreadful actually'.
Although not a regular concert-goer, John was fairly sure that interrupting other listeners' enjoyment in such a way did not constitute appropriate audience etiquette. He made a slight "ahem" noise and shuffled meaningfully in his seat, sitting slightly more upright, in an attempt to indicate as much to his verbose neighbour. The stranger did not desist however, but became if anything more audible, leaning closer as if to murmur directly into John's ear.
"It's the second violinist. Obviously."
This peculiar statement coincided with the sweeping final chord of the first movement, and John turned to the man next to him in exasperation. "If you must provide a running commentary on the music, sir, let me entreat you to do so in your own head, not in my ear!"
Having turned towards him, he now had a better view of the stranger -- a tall, dark-haired, pale-faced creature in a midnight-blue herringbone coat and immaculate suit, no tie and one more button open at his shirt collar than was probably quite decent. One of his socks probably cost more than John's entire outfit, John thought. Well, he might be a fine-looking son of a bitch, but that did not excuse giving himself such airs. The man's general appearance was matched by his aristocratic features: a long chin, sharply pronounced cheekbones and sweeping brows, which were now drawn together in a rather disdainful look.
"If I were doing it in my own head, I wouldn't be providing it as such. And besides,you weren't listening to the music anyway."
John opened his mouth to retort before realising that this was in fact true; he had been preoccupied with his own thoughts more than listening. Before he could come up with a suitable alternative rebuttal, they were interrupted by the cello's two long phrases announcing the beginning of the slow movement.
Having apparently satisfied himself with the resolution reached at the end of the previous movement, the stranger now seemed content to sit back and listen, although John heard him let out the occasional disdainful sniff and once an audible "hmph" at what must have been some especially egregious playing on the part of the poor second violin. From time to time, though, he would nod appreciatively and look over at John with a quick smile, as if to check that John was sharing in his enjoyment of these parts.
The minuet struck up, with its gay and lively beat, followed by the complex fourth movement, but John's mind was even less on the music than it had been before. Who was this curious personage who had chosen to sit next to him, carry on a one-sided conversation with him entirely uninvited and in the middle of the performance, and was now apparently completely at ease in John's company, despite the fact that the only words they had actually exchanged were few and hot-tempered (at least on John's part; the stranger had seemed more amused when making his remark) and they did not even know each other's names? They were more or less of an age, he thought -- the other perhaps younger by a few years; but what else could they have in common that had induced this man to approach him so unexpectedly?
He could not resist a covert glance, and then another; the second occasion happened to coincide with a particularly neatly executed pizzicato interchange between the cello and first violin, and John found himself looking directly into the other man's eyes. They were of an unusual pale colour, grey-green irises contrasting strikingly with the wide dark pupils, but it was their expression of unguarded pleasure, creasing them up at the corners further as the two men's gazes met, that took John by surprise so that before he knew it, he was smiling back -- an easy, open smile that felt more genuine than any other had for a long time.
The music drew to its triumphant conclusion and the enthusiastic audience's applause seemed to draw the two back to themselves to join in, before the taller man turned still smiling to John and remarked: "Apart from that abysmal impostor, that was capital playing, all told -- some particularly elegant work from the first violin; I doubt I could have done better myself."
John was surprised, though not startled; he already suspected his new acquaintance to be something out of the ordinary, so to discover that he was also a musician merely lent yet another aspect to this increasingly fascinating character. "You play, sir?"
Instead of answering directly, his companion responded with another question. "How do you feel about the violin?"
Taken aback, John stammered slightly. "I -- I like it well enough, though I have not your ear nor ability to discern much of skill in others."
The other man seemed a little deflated. "Ah. You do not play yourself, then?"
John shook his head. "I played the clarinet in high school, if that's any help."
The man looked as if he had been about to make a face at the mention of the clarinet but was too well-bred to do so, merely giving his head a little shake as if to dismiss his disappointment. "Ah well, 'tis a pity, but no matter. If we are to be mewed up together sharing quarters for any duration, some duettos would have been just the thing to pass the time, but I have no doubt we shall find other entertainments to while away our evenings at sea."
Now John was utterly baffled. True, he had been thinking that morning that he ought to find new quarters and someone to share them with in order to ease his sad financial predicament -- his landlord having grown a shade uncivil over the matter of rent arrears some days earlier -- but how the devil could this man know such a thing, or that the shadow of the thought had begun to cross John's mind before even he himself knew it, that here might lie an answer to his problems, of both pocketbook and psyche? And what was all this business about going to sea?
Before John could make sense of his puzzling pronouncement, the dark-haired man leaped to his feet. "We shall continue this conversation shortly, of that I am sure, but for the moment I must hasten upstairs and attempt to position myself before our performers --" he nodded towards where the quartet were still making their bows upon the stage "-- retire to their supper room."
John had also scrambled hurriedly to his feet and, resisting the temptation to salute (where had that come from? This man was almost certainly a civilian and even if not, was certainly not John's superior officer) held out his hand instead. "Captain John Watson; I am to be found any morning at Joselito's coffee house." He was determined not to part without learning at least the name of this enigmatic person who had somehow burst in upon his life like a tidal wave and threatened to sweep him away to new skies and new horizons before leaving him so suddenly, cast high and dry upon the shore.
Long fingers grasped John's hand, shook it firmly; pale eyes warmed by a pleased and amused smile looked again into John's own. "The name's Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker St." And with an incongruous but strangely irresistible wink, he turned and was gone.