You often remark that you find my modest nature when it comes to my musical talents absurd. Believe me when I say, I've not always held this outlook on the subject. Yes! There was a time in my youth where I took great pride in my musical talents, much how you observe my "pride" in The Work. There was time when I yearned for any excuse to cradle my violin to me and wring such sweet sounds from it my peers seethed with jealousy. On many occasions I would mock Mycroft for his fat fingers inability to compete with my brilliance, a novelty in its own. You ruined it that, John. The moment you walked - or limped rather - into Bart's lab that day, was the beginning of the end. It was not instantaneous, only a fool would fall for such stereotypical drivel. And being no fool myself, I can say that the process was slow. But it was there, slowly descending upon me, an itch ever at the back of my mind, inescapable. As time went on, the more I learned about you, and the more time I spent in your company, the more the music I once created became monotone, and painfully colourless. It's your fault because the more I came to love you, the more I could not express. There was no melody that could accurately express how you look first thing in the morning, hair a mess, when you take the first sip of your first cuppa of the day. I could not wring from my violin the look of bliss on your face in that timeless moment. I could not create from my own fingers a crescendo equal to that of your laughter. It was infuriating, John! The frustration was unimaginable, do you understand!? No. Imagine you don't. So John Watson, my blogger, my happiness, my lover, you know. You know that the flippant nature in which I regard my own creations are not by choice. It is by the power of my feelings for you that no music I create, no matter how beautiful, will ever be the same. Because nothing can compare to you. But until the day I die, I will try. I will try to find that sound that will express to you and world all that you are to me, and the feelings you bring forth in me. And should fail, I will take solace in knowing you enjoyed my efforts. For you John Watson, there is always a private concert on the tips of my fingers, ready whenever you wish it. SH
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