The Case of the Waterlogged Violinist

Chapter 1

I watched Rosie pack her bags. Her precise movements just like her father's. Her grace when she folded her socks just like her mother. Mary and John separated by death, my fault.

She looked at me and smiled. "Don't be sad, Uncle Sherlock. I'll be home for the holidays."

I sniffed. "What makes you think I'll miss you? You should have left ten years ago."

She giggled. "I would have been five years old."

I felt a smile tugging at the corner of my lips. "I see you've finally learned to do simple sums in your head." A creak on the stair alerted me to someone's presence—John. "Congratulations Rosie, you've surpassed your father's rudimentary skills in mathematics."

John popped his head around the corner and said, "Well, at least I know the earth goes around the sun."

Our eyes met. My smirk morphed into a grin, then faded. We three had our rhythm and I would miss it. Rosie chatted on and on. I held John's gaze, then looked down at Rosie, rolling my eyes. "Stop nattering on and on. You're driving me insane. In fact, you're lowering the I.Q. of ..."

"...the whole street." Rosie echoed. She then walked over and wrapped her arms around my waist. I hugged her back, resting my chin upon her head. After a few moments, I backed away. "I'll let you finish packing."

"Okay, aren't you going to the station with us?"

"Nope, sounds boring."

Rosie patted my arm. "It's alright. I understand, Uncle Sherlock."

I left the room, then paused. The stairs presented a formidable challenge these days. I turned, finding John on my heels. "What do you want?" I snapped.

He reached out to steady my arm. "Do you need help?"

"Oh, for god's sake, just because Rosie is leaving the nest, doesn't mean you have to mother me. I just broke my ankle. I'm not an invalid."

"Fine and just because Rosie is going away to boarding school doesn't mean she's leaving the nest and in case you've forgotten your ankle is being held together with smart implants. You're lucky you can still walk after that stunt you pulled on our last case. Let's face it Sherlock, we're middle aged. It's time to slow down."

I quirked an eyebrow, grabbed the hand rail, then looked back at him. "John, unless you plan on living to be 110, you're past middle-age."

"Leave it to you to point out the obvious. I guess it's all downhill from now on."

"I have no intention of slowing down. Slowing down is boring." Slowing down is death. I attempted to ignore the whispers in my mind. You're alone so alone. Sherlock is boring. Sherlock is dying. You're quite through. First goes the body, then the mind. People die. That's what people DO. "Stop it, "I shouted.

John looked at me in alarm. "Sherlock are you okay?"

I opened my mouth to tell him to sod off, then noticed Rosie at the top of the stairs. Her smile stilled the voices within me. John held out his hand to her. "Are you too big to let me take your hand?"

"Of course not, Dad."

I took the stairs one at a time, knowing Rosie and John could overtake me if they chose. Hearing them stagger their steps made me impatient with my slow attempts to keep ahead. They're accommodating me. I lumbered into the sitting room, shutting the door behind me, ignoring the sounds that threatened to penetrate my solitude—Rosie's cheerful voice, John's soft replies, the creak of the wooden stairs, the shutting of the door, the clank of the door knocker, then silence. "Play the Lacrimosa from Mozart's Requiem." I ordered aloud. The strident tones filled the room. I wanted to walk over to the window. I wanted to wave good-bye to the two people I loved most in this world. Instead I counted, keeping track of the time and how long it would take a cab to get to Baker Street. Did I just hear the opening and closing of a door? Metal upon metal, locking mechanism snapping into place. My loved ones sealed in a black box. Should I see them off? A sharp, stabbing pain made the decision for me. I sat down in John's chair, sliding the palms of my hands to my forehead. You're the sitting type. I can tell. "Damn my ankle, damn aging, damn it all..."