Work Text:
From unpublished diaries of Dr. John H. Watson
It was on one Saturday, late in November of the year 1881, when I was woken up by the muffled chirping of the violin downstairs. It was not novel for my friend’s morning recital to lure me out of my bed, yet this time, contrary to his usual, this time he was playing actual music. Though I could not quite name the piece, it rang strangely familiar. I rose from my bed, opening the curtains with one hand as I reached to the nightstand for the watch with the other. It was hardly past seven.
On account of the last few months of sharing the lodgings with Sherlock Holmes, I have gotten used to all sorts of queer behaviour from the man, including him molesting his fiddle at the oddest hours. The last two weeks were exceptionally eventful in that matter, for, as Holmes proclaimed all of London’s criminals must have hidden themselves from the cold, and left him unoccupied. My companion’s performances were held either for my indulgence, during our quiet evenings together, or to accompany his own thoughts in the most and the least busy periods. Yet, rarely did they happen this early in the day. The matter must have been serious, and the music did not show any signs of stopping, so I turned to the wardrobe, dressed myself quickly, and directed my steps downstairs.
The door to the sitting room was half-open, so I pushed it gently and stepped in. Holmes did not seem to notice me, still flicking his bow over the strings in a dynamic staccato, with his head facing the window, and I did not intend to interrupt him. We stayed like that for the next few minutes, until he let the final chord, and turned on his heel with a broad smile.
“Good morning, Watson,” said he, putting the fiddle away onto his arm-chair. “I hope I didn’t startle you much, you understand, I couldn’t resist” he added, gesturing vaguely towards the outside.
“I’m glad to see you in a better mood, dear fellow,” I yawned.
"Oh I am, indeed!” he smiled, seating himself on the settee, stretching his arms. I settled myself down in my usual place, pulling closer to the fire.
“Do you mind sharing the good news?” I asked.
“Oh, I’d hate to spoil you the fun!” he exclaimed.
“Holmes, it’s roughly past seven,” I informed, covering my mouth with my fist yet again.
“Precisely! That is why your brain should be sharp as ever! Come now, Watson, what do you observe?”
I looked around, in search of any clues. I desperately tried to recall what the room had looked like when I was retiring to bed yesterday evening, but I could not tell what, if anything, had changed since. I glanced over at Holmes, to notice his piercing eyes studying me with gleam of amusement. Since I could find nothing of use in our surroundings, I turned my attention to the man himself. His hair was still ruffled after the night’s sleep. Along with his attire (consisting of a nightshirt and a dressing gown), it indicated that whatever lifted his mood must have been one of the very first things he encountered this morning. Looking further, I noticed his hands bearing fresh ink stains. Lead by this clue, I shifted my gaze towards the writing desk, to see several sheets of letter paper scattered over it, one of them partially covered in writing.
“You have been writing,” I started, hesitantly. Holmes nodded, the corner of his lip curled. “But you haven’t finished the letter. I assume something must have disrupted you.”
"Certainly,” said he, folding his slender hands together. The following silence compelled me to speak further.
"It was a good message of some sort, otherwise you would rather contemplate on the matter smoking, or doing one of your… improvisations,” I continued, “but of what sort?”
Holmes kept looking at me, smiling.
“You have all the necessary pieces, Watson. You only need to tie them together.”
“You can’t expect me to guess the content of a message on nothing but your fiddle recital, Holmes! No man could possibly do that.” I exclaimed, starting to experience something of annoyance by this exchange.
“Not guess, my friend, deduce. But I won’t nag you further. Go look out of the window, and there your answer will be,” said he, his eyes glittering.
I rose from my place and stepped up to the window. There, too, nothing seemed out of ordinary, except for a thin, white coat covering the streets and the roofs of the buildings of Baker Street. I stood there for a while, hoping to notice something of interest.
“I can’t see a thing, Holmes” I sighed, turning from the window. He looked at me over the headrest, grinning.
“Really?”
“Yes, really,” I returned to my seat. “Look, if you don’t want to share, I won’t make you,” I stated, looking around in search of a book that I had begun yesterday evening. I spotted it lying on the mantelpiece. “Now, I would like to read, if you will,” I concluded, reaching for the book, and opening it in the middle.
Holmes did not answer, so I assumed our conversation over. I attempted to delve into the novel, but as I read the first sentence, a soft sound of humming met my ears, breaking me of my reading. It was Holmes, repeating the same piece he was playing earlier. I pondered. I was positive I knew it, I did. I glanced over at Holmes and noticed him looking back at me. Suddenly, a realisation came upon me.
“Vivaldi!” I exclaimed, slamming the book shut. “That’s Vivaldi’s ‘Winter’!”
"Indeed it is,” he agreed, a smile creeping upon his lips.
“So…” I stopped and pointed towards the window, with a supposedly perplexed expression since my companion said:
“Don’t look so bemused, Watson. A man can be fond of snow, can’t he?”
“Of course, but…” I stuttered “I just wouldn’t expect for a little snow to make such an impact on you, Holmes.”
“You know I like a change,” said he, springing onto his feet. “Now, it’s a lovely morning, and it would be a real crime not to make a good use of it. What do you say we break our fast and have a stroll to the Park?”