Ahhh, yes, more Skyfire-insanity. This past weekend, we were watching Fiddler on the Roof (if you don't know the film—which is a classic—shame on you). Of course, what fanatic Sherlockian can watch a violinist or a fiddler without thinking of the Great Detective and his Stradivarius? This fic was born about half an hour into the movie. ^_^ Enjoy!
==Violinist on the Roof==
I could not believe my eyes. In my many years of association with Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I have known and seen him perform some actions that were strange and even outside the boundaries of common sense. But never in all the years I have known him have I seen him do anything so completely outré.
"Good heavens! Holmes, what on earth are you—come down from there this instant before you fall and kill yourself!"
The Stradivarius paused only long enough for him to say, "My balance is perfect, my dear Watson. I shan't fall."
There are times when reasoning with Sherlock Holmes is like reasoning with a five-year-old: neither listen to you.
"For heaven's sakes, man, you're playing your violin on a bloody rooftop!"
And so he was, perched upon the roof of the little country train station, looking for all the world like a great grey bird settled there. The violin paused again as he said simply, "I wanted to see if it was possible. I am pleased to say that the experiment is coming off quite smashingly."
"Smashingly is the word—when you finally lose your balance and come toppling to the ground!" I retorted heatedly.
Holmes ignored me, closing his eyes and throwing his soul into his music. The tune sounded like a folk dance, possibly of Jewish extraction—which puzzled me, since never before have I heard him perform any music that was not of European origin.
Sherlock Holmes was quite content to cycle through several different styles of music for several hours. For the first half hour, I watched him anxiously; for the next half hour, I tried—and failed—to write out a case; and for the remaining three hours, I occupied my attention with a Clark Gable novel.
The sun hung low above the horizon when the last strains of music faded away. He slid down, as calmly as you please, from the ridgepole and let himself drop to hang on the eave—one-handed, his precious Stradivarius and bow in his left—for a moment before swinging and letting himself drop to the platform.
He flashed me a boyish grin, to which I responded with a raised eyebrow. "Satisfied?"
"Quite. That was most enjoyable. Shall we return to the inn now?"
He does it, just to see if he can. Ah, Sherlock, how we love you. You do all the crazy stuff we wish we were gutsy enough to try. xD
Oh, and five-year-olds really don't listen. If you know one, you know. If you've been the oldest sibling of several throughout a fifteen-ish-year-period, you really know.