I was out on the town, on my own, unusually. Holmes was in the midst of a case and was running low on tobacco again, and so I had been sent to get supplies enough for both of us. Though I walked along the street amidst all the men and women bustling to and fro, my mind remained ensconced in Baker Street, lingering on Holmes's keen features; his intense thoughtful gaze as he stared up toward the mantle, his mind churning faster than I could fathom. And then there was that rare laughing glimmer in his grey eyes, seemingly directed at me more than not. Holmes was hardly a demonstrative man, praise was given only when well earned and even then sparingly, but there was something unexpressed in words that seemed to come out in volumes from a mere parting glance. It was at least enough to spark a dangerous hope.

I was so preoccupied by my thoughts that I almost stumbled into an elderly woman hurrying the other direction, and gave her a most belated and insufficient apology.

I was on my way back to Baker Street, a mound of tobacco in hand, when I happened to glance up at just the right moment to see a violin sitting proudly in the window of a music shop. I smiled at the thought of Holmes's instrument, doubtless more beautiful than the one in the window of the humble establishment, not that I would have truly known the difference. My legs directed me inside of their own accord, perhaps just to glance around and imagine what Holmes would make of it all.

Inevitably, I found myself face to face with a whole wall of music written just for the violin. Holmes couldn't possibly have memorized it all; perhaps I could bring him something new to spark his interest. Such a gift was the least I could do after all Holmes had done for me, a lonely invalid of no importance, lost in a city teeming with all manner of life, who had the incredible fortune to have been found by such a remarkable man. To be able to be of use to him, even in a small way was more than I could have possibly asked.

A single sheet of music was a meager token that could hardly encompass the half of all I wished to express, but then again, having had the privilege to hear such bewitching melodies wrought by Holmes's sensitive hands, perhaps such a gift was much too telling; it was not so different from a present I would give a lady in the course of courting, after all. But surely, there was nothing indecent in presenting a friend I knew to be musically inclined with a new piece in the hope that it might strike his fancy. No other motive needed apply.

I scanned the shelves in search of something new, something Holmes had never played before that would naturally draw the detective's eye, like an intriguing case. But in truth I had not a clue what I was looking for amidst the seemingly endless shelves of indecipherable manuscripts. In despair, I took a few out at random and flipped through the pages, but I could glean next to nothing from the parade of notes before me. It had been a fool's errand to even try to find such a gift worthy of Holmes.

Finally, in an abrupt and desperate bid, I grabbed the first thing that looked interesting, paid for it, and found myself back out in the sunlight rather regretting the hasty decision. I almost turned back and returned it, but I am perhaps a braver man than is wise, and so I forged on.

All was quiet as I mounted the stairs to their flat. I would not have been surprised if Holmes was still curled up in his chair just as he had been when I had departed, and did not move again for some hours except to refill his pipe. I carefully nudged open the door, vainly attempting to avoid the inevitable squeak of the hinges.

But my caution turned out to be unnecessary, as Holmes greeted me, lounging casually by the fireplace as though he were not buried deep in some obscure problem. "There you are, Watson. I see you have brought the essentials- And hello! What's this?"

He sprang to his feet with remarkable agility and elegance, and before I could respond he had pulled the sheet music from my coat pocket and was examining it with the utmost curiosity. My heart raced in nervous anticipation as Holmes's eyes flickered across the page, no doubt taking in more meaning from the notes than I could from plain English. My heart sunk as I saw no sign of appreciation. Rather, Holmes seemed to regard it as though it were a particularly grotesque piece of evidence in an altogether unremarkable investigation.

However, Holmes was not without humor when he at last looked back up at me. "You find my repertoire lacking in variety?"

"No, not at all," I insisted, but Holmes was not listening.

"Very well, let us see what new music you have brought for me to play. No, I insist, my dear Watson, it would be most ungrateful for me not to share the piece which you have been so kind to bring. The settee will do, yes, make yourself comfortable. There we go."

For all of my mortification over what was to come, I could not help but admire the delicate way Holmes held the long neck of the instrument with those thin, clever fingers. With his other hand, he brought the bow to, and after a quick series of discordant notes and a few turns of the tuning pegs, he was off.

When the piece was done, Holmes could only allow a moment for silence to settle before letting out a laugh.

"Perhaps such a piece is best left undiscovered," I admitted with some disappointment. "It was not terribly musical."

"Nor terribly interesting."

"I am certain no one else could have played it better," I attempted.

Holmes gave me a quick smile that seemed to linger in his eyes, softening his sharp, incisive gaze and aquiline features. "Let us see if I cannot find something better to play, an old favourite perhaps," he said with a spark of mischief.

I leaned back on the settee with some token reluctance and let myself be swept away by the dynamic man whose company I was so fortunate to share, and the sweet music that he so exquisitely played. The piece was a surprisingly tender one and the melody seemed to echo the swelling of my heart.