It was only later, once I fully appreciated how much he despised what he called elevator music for idiots, that I realised he was playing them for me, because he knew I liked them." Who the hell knows? Sometimes he'd play pieces I recognised, pieces I liked.
God knows what he got out of it, maybe he was eliminating demons in his head by vocalising them. "Sometimes he just tortured it, or more accurately tortured the rest of us with it. "He did three things with that violin of his," John continued eventually, addressing a point just to the left of Mycroft's shoulder. That is a kind gesture." Mycroft continued to wait as John fidgeted uncomfortably, clearly still having something he needed to say. I thought you might want them." He thrust the hand-written scores abruptly at Mycroft, as if it pained him to give them up. There is nothing I can do with these but I couldn't bear to just throw them out. I never learnt to read music, despite my half-hearted efforts with the clarinet. "Anyway, I found these." John waved the sheets of paper at Mycroft. He knew John had finally moved back into 221b Baker Street, Mycroft having quietly paid up the rent for quite some time to come. There's only so much I can take at one go, you know?" "Of all Sherlock's things, you only took the violin," he continued. "You only took the violin," said John abruptly. They had only met once since John had confronted Mycroft over his role in Sherlock's downfall and that had been at the funeral where John had ostentatiously cut Mycroft dead. While he waited for a response, he absently noted the changes, the sandy hair with more grey strands than before, the body gaunt beneath the baggy jumper. Mycroft regarded the doctor who stood in the entrance hall of his Bayswater home, one hand curled around the head of his cane, the other clutching a number of sheets of paper.
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