Chapter Text
15/08/2014
The violin was the first thing she heard.
Not sharp, restless notes but, soft, unhurried, and not baroque, not some storm of Paganini, Mendelssohn or Sarasate or Bach, but a contemporary piece – almost tender. Something clear and melodic, filling 221B with a sense of stillness and grace. A kind of music that didn’t demand to be solved, but rather absorbed, like sunlight spilling across wooden floors.
Shruti cracked open her eyes, reached for her phone, and groaned at the time. 9:20 a.m. It wasn’t as if they had anywhere to be—one of the privileges of being born into wealth—but her body still protested. 'Just lie here', it whispered, pressing a strange heaviness into her limbs.
Tea. She could smell tea, wafting from the kitchen, with notes of violin music.
It was unfair, really, the way Sherlock sometimes made even the most mundane domesticity feel orchestrated. She buried her face against the pillow. A bath, she promised herself. "A good bath and I’ll feel lighter." A bath would wash this creeping resistance in her chest that said "wait, not yet".
She shoved the blanket away with effort, only for her muscles to beg her to stay a moment longer. Eyes shut once more, she let herself sink into the bed and thought, not without irritation, of space.
Her thoughts wandered—back to Birmingham, to Holmwood, to the endless scale of rooms in Roy Palace. Wide corridors, domes that held echoes. Even Holmes Manor, sprawling with its suites and balconies. By comparison, 221B was just—well, it was a clever little puzzle-box. Cozy, yes, in its chaos, its crooked charm. But hardly the kind of place one could truly stretch out in. Here, they made do with a bedroom that was merely…serviceable.
Duty to self won over inertia. Shruti pushed the blanket away and swung her feet down, muttering under her breath at the heaviness of it.
The bathroom tiles were cool beneath her toes. The mirror reflected her—newlywed bride of Sherlock Holmes, hair mussed, eyes still fogged, skin somewhat pale. She twisted the tap and let water run, listening to its rush over porcelain.
"I really need to put Ratan Chacha on suitable home-finding duty," she thought, rubbing her face with both palms. "Something with space, with light. State of the art. Not this… this rabbit warren."
Steam was beginning to fog the glass, softening the edge of her reflection. She pressed a hand against it, warm against cool.
Of course, there was the matter of Sherlock.
"Would he ever agree to move?"
He treated 221B not only as a home but as a laboratory, an office, a kingdom. Leaving it behind, even for her, might be unthinkable.
Unless—unless he could keep it as his office. His sanctuary for madness. She almost smiled at the thought: one place for him to unravel the city’s mysteries, another for them to live, properly, like husband and wife.
“If only he’d agree…” she murmured to the foggy mirror.
From the next room, the violin’s tone shifted—longer, warmer, almost as if it had overheard her thoughts and responded with something close to reassurance.
______
Shruti finally emerged from their room, hair blow-dried, wrapped in a simple kurti and leggings. She crossed the threshold with her phone in hand and a little half-smile on her lips.
“You know,” she began, leaning on the doorframe, “today is a very important occasion.”
Sherlock, seated with violin in hand, placed his bow aside with the same precision he reserved for dismantling crime scenes. He arched an eyebrow. “Indeed. It’s the fifteenth of August. My homeless network reported half a dozen rallies in London. Indians waving tricolors, shouting slogans. Today is India’s Independence Day.”
Shruti dropped onto the black leather chair, folding her legs up under her. “Yes,” she said, drawing out the word. “Independence from the UK. Which, if you think about it, is ironic. Since we just got married. I’m hardly declaring independence.”
Sherlock’s mouth curved faintly. He let the violin rest against his knee, silent.
She tapped her chin thoughtfully. “But maybe I should. There should be something… some declaration. Like, I don’t know—get a job.”
Sherlock made a small, dismissive sound in his throat, as if she had just suggested redecorating Baker Street with lavender wallpaper. “We just got married. You’re not even thirty-five. We’re not bankrupt. There’s no hurry.”
Shruti tilted her head, mock-narrowing her eyes at him. “Oh, so you’re saying I should wait till we are bankrupt? Excellent plan, Sherlock.”
He ignored the jab, gazing at her with that too-sharp attentiveness. Then, softer, his voice low as if half-admitting something: “Besides, you’ll have to juggle it—with assisting me on cases… and whatever full-time profession you’re thinking of.”
For once, it didn’t sound like arrogance. It sounded like he had already pictured her, in his world, on his cases, moving beside him as naturally as breath.
Shruti grinned. “So, to clarify, you want a wife, a partner in crime-solving, and a live-in secretary?”
Sherlock leaned back. “I prefer the term ‘consulting detective’s indispensable other half.’”
She rolled her eyes and reached for the tea waiting on the side table. “Happy Independence Day to me.”
---
Shruti put her teacup down, her fingers still wrapped loosely around the handle as a soft hum escaped her lips. It was quiet at first, almost like a private thought spoken aloud. Sherlock, though, caught it instantly.
“ Ae Watan… mere Watan…” she sang under her breath, the Hindi words carrying both pride and tenderness.
Sherlock’s gaze sharpened, his hand instinctively moving to lift the violin again. He listened carefully, dissecting the cadence as though it were a puzzle, then set his bow to the strings. Tentatively at first, then with steady confidence, he followed the melody, weaving his notes around her voice.
The room filled with the unlikely harmony of them—her voice, rich and unguarded, and his violin, sharp yet fluid, chasing and supporting every shift in tone. The song stretched, expanded, until ten minutes slipped away unnoticed.
When the final note faded, Shruti lowered her eyes, a smile tugging at her lips. Sherlock let the violin rest in his lap, his fingers brushing across the strings one last time as if reluctant to silence them.
For a long moment, they sat in the gentle hush of Baker Street, smiling at one another—two entirely different worlds that had, somehow, fallen into perfect rhythm.
