I was sitting in our flat, enjoying the evening paper, when Holmes approached me with his violin in hand.

"My dear Watson," he said, "I'd like your opinion on something, if you don't mind."

"Certainly, certainly," I said, looking up, for there was rarely a time when I was not delighted to assist my flatmate with whatever it was he required.

He nodded and began to play his violin straightaway.

"Why, Holmes," I interrupted, "You know I'm hardly an expert on musical issues. If that's what you want, then of course I shall do my best, but I don't feel my opinion shall be worth very much."

Holmes paused. "Thank you, Watson, but just listen, please." He cleared his throat, and began again from the beginning.

So, I sat quietly and listened. It sounded classical, perhaps a ballad, but not a piece I was familiar with. Holmes remained stiffly postured, his hands skillfully working the instrument, his eyes almost closing at times; he occasionally moved his lips along with the strokes, as if the song had words to it, but he himself emitted no sound.

I smiled as Holmes completed his playing. It was a lovely piece, really.

"Bravo, Holmes!" I said, grinning. "Outstanding as usual. I must confess I didn't recognize that particular piece, however. Who is the composer?"

Holmes nodded and glanced around, started to speak but thought better of it, and -was he fidgeting?- he stuttered a few unintelligible words before saying quietly, "It's a piece of my own design."

What a surprise! My friend never failed to impress me with his innumerable talents. "Why, Holmes, that's marvelous! You, a composer? And a bloody fine one too, I say! Does it have a name?"

Holmes looked up sharply. "Why y-...ah... no... no, not yet, I'm afraid." He glanced down quickly.

"Oh... well, that's all right. I'm sure it will come to you," I positively beamed, so pleased was I an my friend's creation.

"Watson," said Holmes, a bit hesitantly, "There's something I should tell you... about this particular piece."

I smiled, suspecting nothing. "Do go on."

"It's... special." He grimaced. "How should I put this... when I... that is, I wrote it for a reason, a particular reason, and- it's..." He stumbled over his words, trying to find the right way to express it, his brow knit in thought.

"Go ahead," I said obligingly.

"It's..." His eyes met mine and stayed there. "It's meant for you, Watson."

I frowned. "Oh," I said, not really understanding. "Well, I enjoyed it, Holmes." I smiled pointedly.

"No, Watson," Holmes said gently, "I mean I composed it for you."

"Oh," I said again, and, with dawning realization, "Oh!"

We looked at each other awkwardly for a moment, Holmes twiddling his thumbs and I, to my embarrassment, blushing furiously.

"Th-Thank you, Holmes," I stuttered, "It was lovely, and- I mean- terribly sweet of you- I- You didn't have to..."

"It's all right, Watson," my friend said quickly, a smile beginning to form on his face. "I just wanted your opinion, is all."

I nodded helplessly. "Yes of- of course."

Holmes smiled warmly at me before turning and exiting the room, violin in hand.

I relaxed, breathing out slowly. Well. That had been most unexpected. I hoped I hadn't botched it up too badly.

I smiled as the tension eased out of me. It had been an unexpected development, yes, but it was not an unpleasant development at all.

No, not by any means.