The bow slid across the violin with furious passion. It was wild as a Crusader’s sword, ferocious as a wild beast, quick as an arrow, held in a hand splotched and stained with chemicals.
The rooms were full of smoke and sound, designed to stimulate his mind, to make it race as fast as the bow. He pressed on, driving his mind as relentlessly as a cruel cab driver might drive his horse.
The answer was there and he would find it. He had to.
For Sherlock Holmes, failure was not an option.
Word Count: 93
This is for Friday Fictioneers. Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for running the challenge and Björn Rudberg for providing the prompt photo!