A Tiny Violin

John did so love to hear Sherlock play the violin... even if the eccentric genius chose the absolute worst times to do it.

John could remember many a night that he'd found himself in bed alone, only to hear the sweet, dulcet sounds of the bow working over the strings coming from the main room. And many a night, he'd hovered in the hallway, concealed in shadow, just to watch him play. He'd learned early on that that was the only way to hear the truest, purest product. Sherlock often produced the most beautiful music when he was alone, after all.

It would seem as if tonight would be the same. Except, there was something different... a tiny violin, a mere fraction of the size of Sherlock's, rested on the settee on the far wall, and the piano had been rolled nearer to the middle of the room. Ah, so their young prodigy was awake, then. John had half a mind to be upset at her being up and about at such an hour, but then she bounded into the room, her face alight with excitement, and all of the anger dissipated at once.

"Quiet, Blair!" Sherlock chastised her, but there was no malice in his tone. "Your Papa will have both of our heads if he finds out you're awake at this hour!" Blair flashed him a toothy smile, silently promising it to be their little secret. "Now, have you been practicing?"

The smile promptly morphed as Blair childishly stuck her tongue out at the older man. "I don't know. Why don't you tell me?"

Offering her a chaste glance, he responded, "Callouses on your fingers and three broken nails on your left hand suggest extreme practicing conditions, perhaps three or more hours daily." That smile returned. "Am I right?"

"About the callouses, yes." Blair responded promptly. "The nails... well, I've been biting them."

John's face twisted down into a frown, and Sherlock stole the words right out of his mouth, "I wouldn't, if I were you. Your Papa can be particularly ruthless when it comes to eradicating 'bad habits'." Sherlock said, absently scratching where his nicotine patch should have been.

"Of course he is, silly." The six-year-old said. "Cigarettes are bad for the baby."

"I'll never understand how you came to be so smart." Sherlock shook his head, placing a hand over his slight bump.

The comment had been rhetorical, of course, and perhaps even a bit sarcastic. But Blair simply couldn't resist, "It's because of you, silly!"

And then, a shocked look came over her face. She quickly turned around and raced out of the room, almost stumbling over the settee in her excitement. Sherlock watched after her curiously, wondering as to what could have stolen her mind away from today's lesson. John could only smile, knowing full-well what the little girl was after. Mrs. Hudson had been giving the child lessons on the language of flowers, and Blair was convinced she'd found the 'perfect' one for Sherlock.

The flower itself wasn't particularly beautiful. It had red, rounded petals, with the occasional fleck of yellow. And while it did well to add a 'spot of color' to Sherlock's attire... one didn't necessarily need 'color' when dressed in blue and white striped pajamas and a fluffy red bathrobe. The doctor leaned against the wall and watched as Blair gleefully slipped the flower stem into Sherlock's hair, the dank curls just knotted enough (especially at this hour) to hold it in place.

"You got me a... flower?" Sherlock asked, trying and failing to keep the surprise and... was that confusion?... out of his voice.

"Yeah! Papa helped me pick it out." Blair offered up enthusiastically. "Mrs. Hudson says that the flower means mental beauty... I thought you'd like it, 'cause we appreciate your big brain and all... Do you like it, Daddy?" Blair asked, suddenly seeming incredibly insecure.

Sherlock cleared his throat. He was at a loss for words, but finally forced out, "Yes, of course. I love it."

And then, all of a sudden, he had an arm-full of his child. She squeezed him tight, all but hanging off of his torso. "Oh, I'm so glad! I love you, Daddy!"

The taller man patted her back awkwardly, now clearly totally lost. John remembered that Sherlock had told him, in a flashing whimsy of sentiment, that his mother had never hugged him. It made the sight before him sad, almost pitiable. And then, Sherlock tucked her little head under his chin. "I just don't understand you."

And just like that, the moment was over. Planting a quick kiss on Sherlock's cheek, the child bounded over and retrieved her violin. Sherlock raised his hand, placing it over the still-wet mark where her lips had met his skin. He was beginning to wonder if he'd ever understand his little elf-child. But when she turned back, giggling, he realized that maybe there were some mysteries in life that weren't meant to be understood.

"Can we have our lesson now, Daddy?" Blair asked, taking her seat on the coffee table.

"Of course." Sherlock shuffled some music on the top of the piano, before producing a copy of Saint-Saëns: Danse Macabre for Violin and Piano. The little girl tied up her rich black curls, before accepting the music and sorting it quickly. "Are you ready?" She nodded excitedly.

After receiving a starting pitch to tune to, she started in on the song that she had rehearsed so carefully over the last week and a half. She wanted to make her Daddy proud, and though his face was schooled in an ever-stoic mask, John could see it in his eyes. He couldn't have asked for a better daughter. John smiled, allowing the dulcet, if not somewhat manic sounds of the violin, whisk him away. He could get used to this. Like father, like daughter, after all.

A/N: Written as a response-fic to a prompt on the Sherlock BBC Kink Meme. Hope you enjoyed. Thank you for reading, and don't forget to review!

And for those interested, Saint-Saëns: Danse Macabre for Violin and Piano can be found on YouTube.