There were good days and bad, although I'm not convinced that our situation allowed that sort of thing. That black and white sort of distinction. Maybe you could differentiate between them if you closed your eyes and listened.
The bad days, to put it bluntly, were when the violin was his only weapon against the rest of the world. Against himself. It was all heat and fire and intensity. It was an exorcism of what he hid behind brick walls and barbed wire topped fences.
They circled. The sounds, that is. Simple frequencies were a whirlwind of his human nature. His human error. They were fleeting and desperate and /raw/. It tore him apart. It held him together.
John Watson knew. He saw, he felt, he heard. The sole witness to the glory of destruction. It was so pitiful, so human, and who was he, this selfish, self loathing man, to say that there was no heart pushing blood through his veins?
The bad days couldn't hold a candle to the worse days. When he was... When he was gone, those were the worst days of all. The silence. It was unbearably loud. I wish I could tell you that John Watson felt it. That it shook him up like a hurricane, and swallowed him up for good. But it didn't. He was absolutely nothing, and that was so much worse. He was a soldier with no battle left to fight.
The strings felt it. The wood cried and the bow begged. The very air was at his mercy. That was a bad day. Each note was intangible evidence of his humanity.
The good days were brighter. When the London rain pattered on the window pane, the sun met it on the other side of the glass. It was a gentle stream of mid morning light. The coarse bristles of a paint brush dipped themselves in the stars and painted themselves in each note.
The good days were as unorthodox as the bad. Maybe that was why the line between them was so thin. The sunlight streamed in between the heavy drapes of a murder scene. You could hear it all so clearly. Guns were shot, and they were reloaded. So precise. So clean cut. If he was lucky, that was all it was; Notes. The after effect of brushing a bow against a string. It hardly ever was.
The flaws rang out with a certain authenticity. The perfections were flawed and the flaws were perfect. The notes took your hand and helped you along. Maybe John Watson heard love on a good day. Maybe he saw the fire in the bad days and wanted to dance. To burn. Perhaps both. File that under "What Makes John Watson Special".
You could bathe in it. The very air that held his heart. You could pop the bubbles that carried everything away, just to see them burst. It was unfair, really. How his most tender thoughts were just there for the taking. But maybe that was another thing that made John Watson so important. He didn't take them; he held them close to his heart and let them go again, when the melodies ceased.
Sherlock Holmes, lonely within his mind. The violin came in handy when he knew words would betray him. The music was a lifeline. The violin was communication - or was it just sound?