It had been a long day for Sherlock Holmes and myself. When I left him that morning, he informed me the current investigation would take him into the dregs of London, and that is where he spent the better part of his day.
During my rounds I came upon a rather difficult case of a child getting himself into some household poisons and had been at his bedside most of the night. It was a kind Providence more than my skill that spared his life and it was late evening when I finally returned to Baker Street.
Even before entering I could hear the violin, a trifle more furiously than was usual. He must not have met with much success.
He stopped playing when I entered the room and greeted me with an amiable but weary gaze.
"I'm sorry you've had no luck," I said and was surprised to find him incredulous.
"However did you know that?"
"You only play violent pieces when the solution to a case is eluding you."
"Quite so," he answered thoughtfully, "I had not realized that I developed habits in my playing."
"Indeed. What was the piece anyway? One of your own?"
"No," he smiled, "It is called 'Dreams of a Witches Sabbath'."
"Oh…" I thought for a moment, not familiar with the work, "Verdi?"
"Berlioz."