The violin started as a way to irritate our father. Siger Holmes, a bastard—though I'll never admit that out loud—was always kind to me. To Sherlock, never. Sherlock was the second child he didn't want and from the day he was born it was clear he would be a disappointment. He didn't belt him; he never belted either of us. What he did was much worse. He made us see the disappointment in his eyes when one of us brought home a bad mark (never mind that it would be remedied within the week) or did something out of the ordinary.

He snarled at us and always acted as if we were less important than his work, or, as we got older, whatever mistress he was carrying on that month.

And he hated music. We never knew why. That didn't stop Sherlock. I still remember the day he brought home his instrument. He had just begun Year 7, and I was in my second year of Sixth Form, still living at home, but just for another year. He came home with a violin in tow. I took one look at it and said to him, "Father is going to smash that and burn it in the fireplace."

He looked up, his eyes almost ready to well with tears. I was shocked—Sherlock never cried; he never even nearly cried. "Do you really think so."

"Yes, of course," I said, my forehead pulling in tight. "What do you expect?"

"I could hide it."

"Yes, but then how would you practice?" I rolled my eyes.

"I don't need to practice. Miss Chandler said that I was the best beginning violin player she'd ever seen."

"You wait and see what happens. It won't be good."

I never heard the violin, not for those first three months. That winter, Sherlock's voice broke and our father went on an extensive American business trip for three weeks. It was the last day of winter holiday, and I was downstairs with our mother, discussing the relative advantages of either Oxford or Cambridge.

"Neither is very—" she stopped.

"What is it?"

"What's that noise?"

I listened—a faint warbling melody was coming from above our heads. It was the violin; the one that I had assumed had been confiscated and returned long ago.

"Sherlock, I expect."

"Where did Sherlock get a violin?"

"School."

She paused. "He's quite good."

I said nothing. He wouldn't stop playing until late that night, when my mother forced him to. I think then the two of us realized we could never tell Siger. It was too important to the skinny fragile boy that he be allowed to indulge this one whim. And so the three of us embarked on a conspiracy, buoyed by his teacher, who sang his praises to my mother in secret, and his headmaster, who called him into his office specifically to tell him how impressed he was by his progression.

The next year I went off to Cambridge and Sherlock stayed home, doomed to another seven years under our father's tyranny. Occasionally, our mother would send home news, always with a little titbit about Sherlock. Sherlock's progressed quite well, she wrote once, he expects to be admitted to the upper school orchestra by next term. Her letters never hinted that the entire affair was completely clandestine.

Sherlock detonated over Christmas dinner the year after I left. He was in Year 9 at that point and had advanced to playing Bach and Mendelssohn. "Father, I'm playing a concert next week, and I'd like you to come."

My mother and I paused, forks halfway to our mouths.

"A concert?" asked my father stupidly. "What do you mean you're playing a concert?"

"I mean that I'm playing a violin recital. I would like you to come."

Our relatives stopped and stared at the spectacle. No one moved for ten seconds.

Our father stood up and pushed his chair back. Without saying a word, he left the room. Dinner resumed. No one spoke.

At the end of the evening, when everyone had left and our housekeeper was tidying up the dishes, Sherlock remained at the table, white as a sheet, tapping his fingers on the tablecloth, his lips moving inaudibly. Loud voices came from upstairs, and I sat down next to him.

"You warned me, two years ago," he said.

"Yes, so why did you do it?"

"I needed to," he said simply.