Being a singer in a natural gift. It means I'm using to the highest degree possible the gift that god game me to use. I'm happy with that. –Aretha Franklin
John awoke with a start, a terrible noise ripping through the flat. He ran down the stairs, gun in hand, to find Sherlock at his music stand, a clarinet up to his mouth.
"Christ, Sherlock, what are you doing?"
"Learning how to play the clarinet. I should think that would be obvious."
"At 4 in the morning?"
"Is that the time? I hadn't realized." He put the clarinet back to his lips, a loud squeak emerging.
"Come here," John ordered, "let me show you." Sherlock walked over to John, who demonstrated the proper way to play- the hand position, how to form the embouchure, how to breathe properly. Sherlock was a quick learner, but that didn't surprise him.
"Couldn't you have read about how to do this?" he asked. Sherlock blew a note, much better than the awful sounds that had awoken John.
"I find that with playing instruments, book instruction cannot replace practical experience."
"Tried it with violin?"
Sherlock glared at John, "Mycroft eventually insisted that I receive private lessons."
"Would you take a break for a few hours? Your face muscles need to get used to playing a wind instrument, and I need to go back to bed."
"Very well," Sherlock said, "I have to do research, anyway."
"Hmmm?"
"I have to look up where to buy a bassoon."