Sherlock gently stroked his violin, humming Vivaldi's Autumn softly. He closed his eyes and watched the notes move in front of him, his left hand fingering the notes unconsciously. His bow rested by his right arm, untouched. He refused to play until he knew the notes by heart and could play impeccably.
His fingers danced across the strings, tickling them until he could almost hear the joyous sounds bursting from his instrument. "Il mio violino, io sarò tesoro senza di fine…" he whispered, barely moving his lips.
"What was that?" asked John, reading an Agatha Christie novel in his chair. "Were you speaking Italian?" His head was cocked to the side, in that annoyingly ignorant way. Sherlock sighed and opened his eyes, his fingers ceasing their movement, the music halting.
"John…" Sherlock turned his head to give him his best irritated expression. "One, don't interrupt me when I'm playing-"
"You weren't playing, you were only humming to yourself." Sherlock glared.
"One, don't interrupt me. Period. Two, don't ask questions you already know the answer to. Three, get my phone and tell Lestrade that it was the stepmother and her two daughters. I wish him luck with the press conference."