Sherlock smiled as he turned his music on. Every note exploded with life. Every quivering vibration of molecules against his eardrums was a universe of majesty, an aria sung by not an instrument, but by a grouping of fibers, be they steel or string or the wood-fibers of a reed.
He preferred small orchestras, quintets, quartets, or smaller. It was why he played the violin by himself—his ability to focus on the nuances of music was amplified. He could hear the hidden breaths of the catgut on horsehair. He could hear the subtle clicking of the flute keys on the pads. He could hear the moment at which the harpsichordist released the foot pedal. He felt every quiver, every slide, every fluttering note deep within his soul, deeper than anything else could reach. Flavours danced on his tongue as the different notes sparked within his mind—strawberry, caramel, mint, and something earthy that he couldn't place.
He smiled. It was a very rare moment indeed in which Sherlock Holmes felt…moved, and those moments were almost always associated with music. As an infant, the only way he'd do what Mother said was if she played his favourite songs. In school, when he couldn't focus, he'd play music in his room, and, distracted by the swirling majesties of what was, at its core, simple pressure-waves of air, he'd often fall asleep. University was somewhat different. He'd used music to augment other stimulants—his most vivid (and most treasured) memories were of evenings spent with cocaine in his blood and extremely loud violin concertos flooding his ears. And now, he composed. He made his own clemencies, his own protection from the agonizing tedium of reality.
But not tonight. Tonight was the last night he would spend in Montague street. He was being evicted for a myriad of reasons, not least of which being that he could, in his landlord's words, "not even have a semblance of common decency" about him. He didn't mind. He had his work. He had his mind. He had his music.