Anderson didn't reply to the biting comment. In fact, he acted like he didn't even hear it and continued with his work. Sherlock's brows knit together and he turned to John, for an explanation.
John, who could have no idea how Sherlock's mind worked let alone Anderson, just shrugged.
"It's his dad," Lestrade explained in hushed tones.
Sherlock turned to him, silently demanding more information.
Lestrade huffed, "His dad is in town from Scotland… He's apparently here to give a concert."
John pursed his lips, "His dad's a musician… and he's upset by it?"
Greg had only opened his mouth to speak when a very angry Anderson interrupted from behind them.
"He's not a musician. My dadseems to think he's a rock star."
Sherlock and John looked at Lestrade before turning to Anderson.
Lestrade, though a little sheepish at having been caught talking about Anderson behind his back, just shrugged.
"I thought every kid imagined or wished their parents were as cool as rock stars. I mean, he is pretty popular isn't he?"
Anderson sneered at all three men.
"Oh, please. There is nothing 'cool' about a 64 year old man prancing about on stage. To put it in his own words, he's too old to rock and roll."
He snapped the last words and turned away, hoping to end the matter. But that was the last piece of information John needed to put it all together.
"Ian? Ian Anderson. Is your dad? Your dad is Ian Anderson?"
Anderson took a deep breath and answered without turning.
"Yes, as you so eloquently and intelligently put it, my dad is Ian Anderson."
John couldn't help the look of awe he now held Anderson in.
Sherlock was clearly disturbed.
"John, who –"
" 'Pavan', Sherlock. 'Caliandra shade'. Sherlock does the most amazing violin accompaniment for " 'Bourée'-"
Sherlock's head snapped toward the still retreating Anderson.
"You're Jethro Tull's son?"
Anderson fairly growled and rounded on Sherlock.
"That's his bands name. My fathers name is Ian, idiot. Did you get him started on Tull, John?"
John nodded, still looking at Anderson a bit amazed.
Sherlock's look was something less than awe and more like confusion.
"You? You're the son of one the greatest rock singers and rock pioneers? And you're ashamed of him…"
"Look, will you two shut up about it if I… get you tickets, or something?"
Sherlock and John exchanged glances, smiled brightly, and turned to smile at Anderson.
"That would be quite sufficient… Anderson. Oh, and this isn't a murder, it's a suicide."
Sherlock walked away, still smiling.
John was more than smiling; he was grinning like an idiot.
"You know where to send the tickets," and off he was behind Sherlock.