It's not the fall that kills you.

Chapter 2

Sherlock pick up his newly restored violin when he's been home three months and eleven days.

The technician warns him gently that while he's done all that he can, the instrument will never be the same as it once was. And it may be baseless sentiment, but Sherlock accepts her back, all the same. She's been restrung and entirely refurbished, the wood glossy and the fine tuners shining, two brand new bows nestled into the case and even a fresh cake of rosin added in, free of charge.

She may not be in as good condition as she was before. But, in Sherlock's eyes, she is perfect.

And then, he plays.

It's-

Oh. Well. Oh. Oh.

This is-

Sherlock clenches his jaw and shakes his head vigorously once, so hard it rattles him from the inside out. Then, he re-nestles his chin against his violin, and begins again.

Less than a minute later, he's repeating the process again, even more vehement than before. It's just an inch off, he's sure- if he can fidget just right, adjust his hold a little more, re-discover the sweet spot- no, not quite...

But Sherlock, though he might very much like to be, on some days, is not stupid. He knows what's wrong, and it's not that that he's not yet found his bloody sweet spot.

It reminds him, most violently, of the years after graduate school, when he'd lived in crackhouses and back alleys, the time measured not in days but his schedule of get a hit, get a high, get a crash; get a hit, get a high, get a crash. Sherlock had left his violin in Lestrade's care, then, going four years without a practice regimen and months at a time without playing at all.

If he were a stupider man, he'd say it feels just the same.

(It's worse than that. It's so, so much worse than that.)

The bow slips and slides, bouncing when he tries to be forceful and whining with an ear-bleeding screech when he tries to be gentle. His left fingers ache in the first five minutes, the callouses melted away, and muscle memory is all but eradicated; his first attempt to leap to third position is so out of tune the bow screeches again. God, it's like he's seven again, letting his teacher mark frets with bunny stickers. Except he's not seven again, because he's playing his favourite piece that he spent months at his best learning and now knows by heart and it sounds like he's beating a cat against the walls instead.

He'd known it would be- not good. He'd known it would take practice. But-

This is horrible. This is horrible, no-good, bad-wrong, humiliating, dreadful, horrible. Horrible, horrible, horrible. This is horrible, this is horrible, this is-

John is outside.

John is just outside. His key, scraping in the lock.

Sherlock screeches to a halt, on a triple stop cadenza that had been all ear-bleeding screeches in the first place.

When John climbs up the stairs, Sherlock is back at his desk, signed into his email with sore fingers and a heart that will not stop pounding.

"Hey, there," John says, lighthearted and bemused. Normal. He lingers in the doorway, just for a moment; then, Sherlock hears him turning towards the kitchen. "What were you up to, just now? An experiment? I could hear the screeching down on the street!"

Sherlock steadfastly pretends not to notice that he's home, and keeps his jaw clenched shut for the next three hours. He scratches his ear, the one that's out of John's sight, and he scratches it until it bleeds.