I have waited so long for this moment. He catches me up and cradles me. His fingertips press at my neck: thin and cold, clinically accurate in the finding of the right spots. I relish the memory of his palm's touch on my head, like a cold stone, and the sweeps of his other hand coax such music from my open mouth, made sweeter by his cheek pressed against mine. I rest on his shoulder and sing... until his companion decides to clear his throat.
'Holmes, now that you have time, would you kindly put down that violin and perhaps devote an hour or so to tidying away all these papers?'
I am released with a sigh.