The perfect gift
Jul. 19th, 2011 08:55 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
solrosanSummary: How Sherlock got his Stradivarius
Note: Violins - not my thing.
***
There was a card on the case.
No, there was a bleach-yellow post-it on the case.
Classy.
With a suspicious expression but a curious mind, Sherlock snatched the post-it and gave the case an even more curious gaze before looking at the note.
Congratulation.
Not signed, but Mycroft’s handwriting. Would recognise it anywhere; it looked almost exactly like his own. It was practical and dangerous at the same time, but they had a silent agreement; they didn’t counterfeit each other’s writing because the revenge would most likely be terrible.
He turned the post-it and looked at the back; nothing. What did he mean by this? Was he congratulating him on getting accepted to university (there was never any doubt, it wasn’t an exceptional thing; hardly worth commemorating) by giving him a violin? Or at least a violin case. Just a case would be completely unexplainable to Sherlock. To bestow it upon him by leaving it in his tiny student room (as a result of a break in, though not even Sherlock could see the trace of it) was almost just as puzzling. Not at all out of character though.
What was his brother up to this time?
First thought was to check the case for bugs. Wires. Bombs? But realised that Mycroft would have placed those things in less obvious places, if the break in’s motive was indeed to put him under surveillance or kill him. Mycroft wouldn’t kill with bombs either; too messy and not at all sophisticated.
So instead of getting too paranoid, he opened the case. It was a new case, made to look old; the brown leather still smelled new though. Expensive, and no doubt custom made. Was it really made for him? It must be, since his name was printed where he could imagine the chinrest of the violin underneath would be.
The teenager stopped his hands for a moment, changing direction and wrote his name over the text with his index finger. Sherlock Holmes.
Gah! What was Mycroft playing at?
Hesitant, but too curious to wait further, he finally opened the case.
Not a complete surprise to find a violin resting inside on purple velvet. Well, the purple was actually a bit surprising, Mycroft had always favoured red. To Sherlock it was indifferent.
The violin was, unlike the case, not made to look old. It was old. Sherlock knew it by just looking at it. It had been deeply cared for, but even so, the slight discolorations that appeared on old wood were visible. There was a slight nick on the top of the scroll, but otherwise it was perfect. Actually, it was still perfect. The strings were not nearly as old as the violin itself, so it had been used. Played. Served its purpose. Instruments, no matter how old, were not made to be displayed in museums.
Sherlock was stunned for a moment. Not even the sceptical thoughts about Mycroft buzzed in his ears for a second or two when he just looked at the beautiful instrument and reached down to lift it up.
It was just a little bit heavier than the violin he already owned. He felt it instantly, thought most musicians did. At some point, Sherlock had no idea when, the instrument stopped being an object and became a part of the body. As natural as a hand. He never indulged anyone in trying to explain this, it sounded a bit cliché. A bit pretentious maybe? It wasn’t really; it was just the way it came out if he tried to put words to it. No words seemed to fit, it couldn’t be explained to non-musicians (they would never understand) and it didn’t need to be explained to musicians (they already knew); therefore there were no words in the English language for it.
Sherlock had been playing since the age of four. In the beginning, not his choice. In the end, the only pause he had from life. He needed it, depended on it. Lived for it – at least when he felt dramatic.
Carefully he raised the violin. Placed his chin on the chinrest, tried the pegs, felt the strings underneath his fingertips. Nothing to comment on. So far, the violin was still perfect. The chinrest slowly got warmer under his skin, he liked that feeling; it was like the violin got to know him. They fitted pretty good together, not like his own violin did obviously, this one was different. They would need some time to really get acquainted, but Sherlock was sure it wouldn’t be difficult.
He took it down, looked closely at it. It was beautiful. In every way, even the little nick in the scroll, the discoloration in the wood. He turned it over, looking at the back for the first time. The back told the same story as the front; an old instrument that someone (most likely many different someones) had cared for, but here, one of the discolorations didn’t come from the ageing of the wood. It had obviously gotten scratched against something at some point, taking some black colour with it. Wonder what? Wonder why?
Sherlock explored the beauty flaw with his thumb; most likely, it wouldn’t be possible to remove without harming the wood further. The person who – accidentally, Sherlock presumed – inflicted it must also have come to that conclusion and that’s why the stain was left. A reminder from one of the previous owners. Sherlock wondered who it had been, what that person had played on this violin. If it had been a woman or a man.
Finally, when he thought he had come to know the violin’s exterior (he already adored it), he looked inside, peeked through the beautifully carved holes. A bit hard to see, the light was not sufficient, but he could clearly see the geigenzettel…odd, he didn’t know the English word for it. Did they use the German? Violin note? It lost some of its aura in the translation. Wonder if the Germans thought it sounded as good as he did or if it sounded just as odd as violin note sounded to him?
He held it to the light and his heart stopped for a second, causing him to almost drop the violin, when he made out the text on the yellowing note:
Antonius Stradivarius Cermoni Fis Faciebat Anno 1732.
With trembling hands and a rapidly beating heart he lowered the violin and almost frightened he placed it back in the case. This wasn’t real, this was a bizarre joke; Sherlock had never understood Mycroft’s humour, but this was just absurd. Why break into his flat to give him a Stradivarius knock-off?
Because it had to be a knock-off, hadn’t it? There was no possible way Mycroft could be capable of giving away a Stradivarius. Or was he? No. The Stradivariuses were loaned to the world’s greatest violinists, performing in the world’s greatest orchestras. They did not show up in a spartanly furnished student room in a case with his name on it; they just didn’t.
Sherlock narrowed his eyes; his heartbeat back to normal, the initial shock of holding a Stradivarius ebbing out, the musician leaving room for the analyst. This was a test. Mycroft tested him for his own amusement, just as when they’d been children. The larger part of him wanted to just drop it, leave it be and not indulge Mycroft in this (whatever this was), but a small part – the musician part – longed to hold the violin again. The musician part still hoped, though it was highly improbable, that it was a Stradivarius. The analyst loathed the musician sometimes.
In the end they compromised, the musician got to pick up the instrument again, but only to allow the analyst to prove it was not a Stradivarius. But how? It wasn’t like he could carbon date it to establish the violin’s age. Well, he could, but if it was a Stradivarius (still, highly doubtful), he would never forgive himself for ruining it. Getting the answer wasn’t worth that.
Regardless, it was a beautiful instrument. What harm would it do if he kept it, used it, played it?
Answer: it would make Mycroft even smugger. No violin in the world would be worth that; even the musician agreed with that. Not even a Stradivarius. Stradivarius….He needed to get to the bottom of this. He just had to. He owed it to the violin! This beautiful, beautiful violin. Nicks and discolorations and stains and all.
Admittedly, Sherlock’s expertise on antique violins wasn’t profound enough to allow him to determine the authenticity just by looking at the instrument. To his knowledge, at least nothing disproved this being a Stradivarius; it did look old enough, judging by the wood and according to what he had read about the craftsmanship that went into the making of a violin (and what was known about how Antonio Stradivari made his) it could very well be authentic.
His heart rate rose a bit again. Had Mycroft given him a Stradivarius? How was that even possible? This needed research. The musician had to wait; the analyst’s needs were always much harder to resist. This time the analyst did it for the musician though.
It was late in the afternoon though, the library would be closing shortly. Not to mention that he actually needed to do some studying. Classes at university were much more time consuming than he was used to. He welcomed it, finally studying had become a bit challenging and it felt like he learned something useful. What he would use it for was still a bit vague, but that would become clear along the way, he was sure. It did however make it hard to find the time to examine Mycroft’s gift properly. On the other hand, Mycroft’s gift made it hard to study properly too.
Surely there were many people who could authenticate the violin. Sherlock was quite sure a hand full of them existed in close proximity to him; it was an amazing university after all. He couldn’t shake the feeling that it would be cheating though. Gah! He hated Mycroft for doing this, for having this manipulative power over him! He just knew Mycroft did this to infuriate him, but what was worse: he let him. Sherlock couldn’t help it, Mycroft always got under his skin; a ridiculous metaphor, but still true when it came to his brother.
The academics could wait for one day. It had to. The musician needed to play the violin, but the analyst wouldn’t let him before he knew if it was a real Stradivarius or not. Sherlock did however know that he was going to play the violin whatever the result turned out to be.
What could he conclude without the library? Appearance-wise it could be authentic and there where only five, six hundred left today; most of them owned by museums, institutions and collectors and played by savant-like violinists. This violin could not possibly be any of them; it would have been noted if one had been bought or stolen. Maybe not by your everyday Britt, but by Sherlock. Classical music was his football.
A lost Stradivarius.
The thought was dizzying. Knee-weakening.
Then again, how could Mycroft possible get his hands on a Stradivarius? Why would he give him a knock-off though? Did he think he wouldn’t notice?
Not knowing killed him; the prospect of finding out thrilled him. Mycroft must have known it would; that fact should be infuriating, but the excitement the violin created tuned out his brother for now.
As soon as the arts’ library opened the next morning Sherlock was there. He knew the task at hand was ridiculous, it felt similar to disproving a black swan. In other words: impossible. Too few pictures, too little written information, too many variables, not to mention: too improbable. When the library closed he was just as close to proving, as to disproving the authenticity of the violin; and whole day he just wanted to go back home and play it. Touch it.
There was an envelope taped to his front door; his name written on it in his own (ergo: Mycroft’s) handwriting. Sherlock snatched it; no break in this time, odd, but invasive none the less. The envelope was not offending enough for him not to open and read it; after he had looked at the violin for a moment or three.
Please just enjoy the violin Sherlock.
Its name is Herkules Stradivarius.
I apologise for not introducing you properly before.
Mycroft.
Herkules. The name was familiar. He had read it today! He had it written down somewhere. Mycroft’s letter (note, intrusions, clue?) got crunched in his hand while he hastily went through his notebook. There it was, scribbled in the upper left corner of a page:
Herkules. Stolen 1908, St. Petersburg. Eugene Ysayë. Not seen.
A lost Stradivarius.
There was a lost Stradivarius in his room.
Mycroft had given him a Stradivarius. A real Stradivarius. A lost Stradivarius. Surely Mycroft could have composed this too, making it possible for the violin to be one of the lost ones. For reasons Sherlock didn’t really comprehend, he believed his brother this time. Maybe because he just wanted to play.
This was…as close to fulfilling a childhood dream as anything could be; mostly because he’d never had any real childhood dreams. At the utmost, he had had teenager dreams, but since he still was a teenager that might just be considered a dream.
Sherlock fetched his bow, eager to try, longing to play. A sting of guilt touched him when he saw his old violin case, as if he was leaving a wife for a mistress. In a way, maybe he was, but the feeling vanished as soon as he lifted the violin and placed it under his chin.
The cool wood. His warm chin. The slight tremble in his hand, hands, as he raised the bow and rested it on the strings.
God, what was the first thing you played when you got a piece of music history in your hands? What was worthy enough? Could he even play something worthy this violin? Something happy? Something sad? Whatever came to mind?
He took a deep breath and let the bow meet the strings. The most wonderful sound arose. Well, maybe not the most wonderful – he only manage two chords before he stopped – but the promise that sound made, combined with the knowledge of which violin it was made the feeling incomparable to anything else. They instantly fitted together; like love at first sight (a phenomenon Sherlock didn’t believe in).
Sherlock paused, turned the each peg gently until he was fully satisfied with the sound; Mycroft had done a fairly good job tuning it, him, Herkules. Surprisingly, Sherlock appreciated his brother’s effort, maybe because music was the only field in which Mycroft had admitted Sherlock’s superiority. Sherlock had a harder time admitting to the fact that music was the only field in which he was superior to his brother.
Finally. He took a second deep breath; it was time.
Spohr’s violin concerto no 8 found its way to every corner of the room and Herkules forgave him every mistake he made. Because mistakes were made, it was a too complicated piece for here and now and he didn’t know it by heart. He should have taken another piece, one of Bach’s hymns or something else he had played since middle school. It didn’t matter, Herkules was forgiving.
Herkules was perfect.
The perfect gift and no matter what happened in the future, Sherlock would never be able to doubt how much Mycroft cared about him. Mycroft had given him the perfect gift, further expressions of affection or concern would be unnecessary.
Not to mention, this had proven Sherlock right on his far gone suspicion that Mycroft’s minor position in the government wasn’t so minor at all.
***
Mycroft knew someone had been in his office as soon as he opened the door. Not his P.A., he knew the trace she left (none, except the intentional ones she did out of courtesy), someone else had been there. For a moment he lingered in the doorway, taking it in before deciding the disturbance was minor and harmless. Why yes, maybe he had become a bit paranoid as he rose in rank.
On his desk was a receipt for a violin bow. An expensive violin bow. Of course it was expensive, nothing but the best. He was not going to reimburse it, of course; instead he archived it in his wallet with a warm smile.
On the back, scribbled in what looked like his handwriting, were the words:
Thank you.
Note: Violins - not my thing.
***
There was a card on the case.
No, there was a bleach-yellow post-it on the case.
Classy.
With a suspicious expression but a curious mind, Sherlock snatched the post-it and gave the case an even more curious gaze before looking at the note.
Congratulation.
Not signed, but Mycroft’s handwriting. Would recognise it anywhere; it looked almost exactly like his own. It was practical and dangerous at the same time, but they had a silent agreement; they didn’t counterfeit each other’s writing because the revenge would most likely be terrible.
He turned the post-it and looked at the back; nothing. What did he mean by this? Was he congratulating him on getting accepted to university (there was never any doubt, it wasn’t an exceptional thing; hardly worth commemorating) by giving him a violin? Or at least a violin case. Just a case would be completely unexplainable to Sherlock. To bestow it upon him by leaving it in his tiny student room (as a result of a break in, though not even Sherlock could see the trace of it) was almost just as puzzling. Not at all out of character though.
What was his brother up to this time?
First thought was to check the case for bugs. Wires. Bombs? But realised that Mycroft would have placed those things in less obvious places, if the break in’s motive was indeed to put him under surveillance or kill him. Mycroft wouldn’t kill with bombs either; too messy and not at all sophisticated.
So instead of getting too paranoid, he opened the case. It was a new case, made to look old; the brown leather still smelled new though. Expensive, and no doubt custom made. Was it really made for him? It must be, since his name was printed where he could imagine the chinrest of the violin underneath would be.
The teenager stopped his hands for a moment, changing direction and wrote his name over the text with his index finger. Sherlock Holmes.
Gah! What was Mycroft playing at?
Hesitant, but too curious to wait further, he finally opened the case.
Not a complete surprise to find a violin resting inside on purple velvet. Well, the purple was actually a bit surprising, Mycroft had always favoured red. To Sherlock it was indifferent.
The violin was, unlike the case, not made to look old. It was old. Sherlock knew it by just looking at it. It had been deeply cared for, but even so, the slight discolorations that appeared on old wood were visible. There was a slight nick on the top of the scroll, but otherwise it was perfect. Actually, it was still perfect. The strings were not nearly as old as the violin itself, so it had been used. Played. Served its purpose. Instruments, no matter how old, were not made to be displayed in museums.
Sherlock was stunned for a moment. Not even the sceptical thoughts about Mycroft buzzed in his ears for a second or two when he just looked at the beautiful instrument and reached down to lift it up.
It was just a little bit heavier than the violin he already owned. He felt it instantly, thought most musicians did. At some point, Sherlock had no idea when, the instrument stopped being an object and became a part of the body. As natural as a hand. He never indulged anyone in trying to explain this, it sounded a bit cliché. A bit pretentious maybe? It wasn’t really; it was just the way it came out if he tried to put words to it. No words seemed to fit, it couldn’t be explained to non-musicians (they would never understand) and it didn’t need to be explained to musicians (they already knew); therefore there were no words in the English language for it.
Sherlock had been playing since the age of four. In the beginning, not his choice. In the end, the only pause he had from life. He needed it, depended on it. Lived for it – at least when he felt dramatic.
Carefully he raised the violin. Placed his chin on the chinrest, tried the pegs, felt the strings underneath his fingertips. Nothing to comment on. So far, the violin was still perfect. The chinrest slowly got warmer under his skin, he liked that feeling; it was like the violin got to know him. They fitted pretty good together, not like his own violin did obviously, this one was different. They would need some time to really get acquainted, but Sherlock was sure it wouldn’t be difficult.
He took it down, looked closely at it. It was beautiful. In every way, even the little nick in the scroll, the discoloration in the wood. He turned it over, looking at the back for the first time. The back told the same story as the front; an old instrument that someone (most likely many different someones) had cared for, but here, one of the discolorations didn’t come from the ageing of the wood. It had obviously gotten scratched against something at some point, taking some black colour with it. Wonder what? Wonder why?
Sherlock explored the beauty flaw with his thumb; most likely, it wouldn’t be possible to remove without harming the wood further. The person who – accidentally, Sherlock presumed – inflicted it must also have come to that conclusion and that’s why the stain was left. A reminder from one of the previous owners. Sherlock wondered who it had been, what that person had played on this violin. If it had been a woman or a man.
Finally, when he thought he had come to know the violin’s exterior (he already adored it), he looked inside, peeked through the beautifully carved holes. A bit hard to see, the light was not sufficient, but he could clearly see the geigenzettel…odd, he didn’t know the English word for it. Did they use the German? Violin note? It lost some of its aura in the translation. Wonder if the Germans thought it sounded as good as he did or if it sounded just as odd as violin note sounded to him?
He held it to the light and his heart stopped for a second, causing him to almost drop the violin, when he made out the text on the yellowing note:
Antonius Stradivarius Cermoni Fis Faciebat Anno 1732.
With trembling hands and a rapidly beating heart he lowered the violin and almost frightened he placed it back in the case. This wasn’t real, this was a bizarre joke; Sherlock had never understood Mycroft’s humour, but this was just absurd. Why break into his flat to give him a Stradivarius knock-off?
Because it had to be a knock-off, hadn’t it? There was no possible way Mycroft could be capable of giving away a Stradivarius. Or was he? No. The Stradivariuses were loaned to the world’s greatest violinists, performing in the world’s greatest orchestras. They did not show up in a spartanly furnished student room in a case with his name on it; they just didn’t.
Sherlock narrowed his eyes; his heartbeat back to normal, the initial shock of holding a Stradivarius ebbing out, the musician leaving room for the analyst. This was a test. Mycroft tested him for his own amusement, just as when they’d been children. The larger part of him wanted to just drop it, leave it be and not indulge Mycroft in this (whatever this was), but a small part – the musician part – longed to hold the violin again. The musician part still hoped, though it was highly improbable, that it was a Stradivarius. The analyst loathed the musician sometimes.
In the end they compromised, the musician got to pick up the instrument again, but only to allow the analyst to prove it was not a Stradivarius. But how? It wasn’t like he could carbon date it to establish the violin’s age. Well, he could, but if it was a Stradivarius (still, highly doubtful), he would never forgive himself for ruining it. Getting the answer wasn’t worth that.
Regardless, it was a beautiful instrument. What harm would it do if he kept it, used it, played it?
Answer: it would make Mycroft even smugger. No violin in the world would be worth that; even the musician agreed with that. Not even a Stradivarius. Stradivarius….He needed to get to the bottom of this. He just had to. He owed it to the violin! This beautiful, beautiful violin. Nicks and discolorations and stains and all.
Admittedly, Sherlock’s expertise on antique violins wasn’t profound enough to allow him to determine the authenticity just by looking at the instrument. To his knowledge, at least nothing disproved this being a Stradivarius; it did look old enough, judging by the wood and according to what he had read about the craftsmanship that went into the making of a violin (and what was known about how Antonio Stradivari made his) it could very well be authentic.
His heart rate rose a bit again. Had Mycroft given him a Stradivarius? How was that even possible? This needed research. The musician had to wait; the analyst’s needs were always much harder to resist. This time the analyst did it for the musician though.
It was late in the afternoon though, the library would be closing shortly. Not to mention that he actually needed to do some studying. Classes at university were much more time consuming than he was used to. He welcomed it, finally studying had become a bit challenging and it felt like he learned something useful. What he would use it for was still a bit vague, but that would become clear along the way, he was sure. It did however make it hard to find the time to examine Mycroft’s gift properly. On the other hand, Mycroft’s gift made it hard to study properly too.
Surely there were many people who could authenticate the violin. Sherlock was quite sure a hand full of them existed in close proximity to him; it was an amazing university after all. He couldn’t shake the feeling that it would be cheating though. Gah! He hated Mycroft for doing this, for having this manipulative power over him! He just knew Mycroft did this to infuriate him, but what was worse: he let him. Sherlock couldn’t help it, Mycroft always got under his skin; a ridiculous metaphor, but still true when it came to his brother.
The academics could wait for one day. It had to. The musician needed to play the violin, but the analyst wouldn’t let him before he knew if it was a real Stradivarius or not. Sherlock did however know that he was going to play the violin whatever the result turned out to be.
What could he conclude without the library? Appearance-wise it could be authentic and there where only five, six hundred left today; most of them owned by museums, institutions and collectors and played by savant-like violinists. This violin could not possibly be any of them; it would have been noted if one had been bought or stolen. Maybe not by your everyday Britt, but by Sherlock. Classical music was his football.
A lost Stradivarius.
The thought was dizzying. Knee-weakening.
Then again, how could Mycroft possible get his hands on a Stradivarius? Why would he give him a knock-off though? Did he think he wouldn’t notice?
Not knowing killed him; the prospect of finding out thrilled him. Mycroft must have known it would; that fact should be infuriating, but the excitement the violin created tuned out his brother for now.
As soon as the arts’ library opened the next morning Sherlock was there. He knew the task at hand was ridiculous, it felt similar to disproving a black swan. In other words: impossible. Too few pictures, too little written information, too many variables, not to mention: too improbable. When the library closed he was just as close to proving, as to disproving the authenticity of the violin; and whole day he just wanted to go back home and play it. Touch it.
There was an envelope taped to his front door; his name written on it in his own (ergo: Mycroft’s) handwriting. Sherlock snatched it; no break in this time, odd, but invasive none the less. The envelope was not offending enough for him not to open and read it; after he had looked at the violin for a moment or three.
Please just enjoy the violin Sherlock.
Its name is Herkules Stradivarius.
I apologise for not introducing you properly before.
Mycroft.
Herkules. The name was familiar. He had read it today! He had it written down somewhere. Mycroft’s letter (note, intrusions, clue?) got crunched in his hand while he hastily went through his notebook. There it was, scribbled in the upper left corner of a page:
Herkules. Stolen 1908, St. Petersburg. Eugene Ysayë. Not seen.
A lost Stradivarius.
There was a lost Stradivarius in his room.
Mycroft had given him a Stradivarius. A real Stradivarius. A lost Stradivarius. Surely Mycroft could have composed this too, making it possible for the violin to be one of the lost ones. For reasons Sherlock didn’t really comprehend, he believed his brother this time. Maybe because he just wanted to play.
This was…as close to fulfilling a childhood dream as anything could be; mostly because he’d never had any real childhood dreams. At the utmost, he had had teenager dreams, but since he still was a teenager that might just be considered a dream.
Sherlock fetched his bow, eager to try, longing to play. A sting of guilt touched him when he saw his old violin case, as if he was leaving a wife for a mistress. In a way, maybe he was, but the feeling vanished as soon as he lifted the violin and placed it under his chin.
The cool wood. His warm chin. The slight tremble in his hand, hands, as he raised the bow and rested it on the strings.
God, what was the first thing you played when you got a piece of music history in your hands? What was worthy enough? Could he even play something worthy this violin? Something happy? Something sad? Whatever came to mind?
He took a deep breath and let the bow meet the strings. The most wonderful sound arose. Well, maybe not the most wonderful – he only manage two chords before he stopped – but the promise that sound made, combined with the knowledge of which violin it was made the feeling incomparable to anything else. They instantly fitted together; like love at first sight (a phenomenon Sherlock didn’t believe in).
Sherlock paused, turned the each peg gently until he was fully satisfied with the sound; Mycroft had done a fairly good job tuning it, him, Herkules. Surprisingly, Sherlock appreciated his brother’s effort, maybe because music was the only field in which Mycroft had admitted Sherlock’s superiority. Sherlock had a harder time admitting to the fact that music was the only field in which he was superior to his brother.
Finally. He took a second deep breath; it was time.
Spohr’s violin concerto no 8 found its way to every corner of the room and Herkules forgave him every mistake he made. Because mistakes were made, it was a too complicated piece for here and now and he didn’t know it by heart. He should have taken another piece, one of Bach’s hymns or something else he had played since middle school. It didn’t matter, Herkules was forgiving.
Herkules was perfect.
The perfect gift and no matter what happened in the future, Sherlock would never be able to doubt how much Mycroft cared about him. Mycroft had given him the perfect gift, further expressions of affection or concern would be unnecessary.
Not to mention, this had proven Sherlock right on his far gone suspicion that Mycroft’s minor position in the government wasn’t so minor at all.
***
Mycroft knew someone had been in his office as soon as he opened the door. Not his P.A., he knew the trace she left (none, except the intentional ones she did out of courtesy), someone else had been there. For a moment he lingered in the doorway, taking it in before deciding the disturbance was minor and harmless. Why yes, maybe he had become a bit paranoid as he rose in rank.
On his desk was a receipt for a violin bow. An expensive violin bow. Of course it was expensive, nothing but the best. He was not going to reimburse it, of course; instead he archived it in his wallet with a warm smile.
On the back, scribbled in what looked like his handwriting, were the words:
Thank you.
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