A fun little fic that was inspired by an ongoing PM conversation... special shout-out and thank you to MissD721 for suggesting a method of "reveal" in Mollstrade, I had decided that I wanted to bring over this particular plot feature from Eurstrade, which is one of my favourites, but hadn't decided exactly yet how I was going to go about it.

Tuning in the Neighbours

Genre: Friendship, with minor humour

Pairings: Greg and Molly

Main characters: Sherlock, ? ;) :P

Sherlock sat in the living room at 221B Baker Street, quietly studying the music he held in his hands.

A new composition, but it wasn't going as planned. It lacked flow and cohesiveness – almost as if it were several pieces rolled into one.

None of that made sense to him, and it frustrated him – two things that, if left unresolved, were virtually guaranteed to spill over and drive everyone at 221 Baker Street more than a little bit off their trolley.

All except for one particular neighbour, who, unwittingly, was the cause of all the bollocksed up notes that Sherlock had recorded on his sheet.

And so, Sherlock sat, thinking, pondering, contemplating. He considered going into his mind palace, but decided that since he hadn't solved the mystery outside of that mental hard drive, he wasn't likely to find the answers within it, either.

He arose and walked into his bedroom, intending to change into something more comfortable than the form-fitted dress shirt and tailored pants he generally wore. He thought about jeans, deciding those would do, and a t-shirt. Casting off his socks, he decided that as he had no plans to go anywhere now, he might as well take his comfort level all the way to the top floor.

He sat down on his bed, still distracted with his thoughts, when suddenly he realized there was a sound – faint, coming up through the vent, from the basement.

Music?

The sound stopped and started midway through, part way through, most of the way through. Someone was practicing on an acoustic guitar, or simply mucking about with it.

Sherlock's features scrunched together as he thought about it. He closed his eyes and thought back to where he'd been when he'd been composing, realizing that the random sounds coming up through the floor of his bedroom closely matched the jumbled and nonsensical notes that had ended up on his music sheet.

Of course – obvious! The music coming through the floor had been so faint as to be subliminal, and Sherlock hadn't even realized its influence on his own efforts until now.

But where was it coming from? Obviously it was wafting up from 221C, Greg and Molly's flat, but nobody there played any instruments.

Did they?

It clearly was being played live, it wasn't a recording. It was too random and haphazard, and sounded more like someone in the process of learning and perfecting rather than something that was being played all the way through with the precision of a professionally recorded track.

Although, now that he thought about it, Sherlock realized that he had already been privy to several pieces played from start to finish, ranging from classical to contemporary, with what seemed to be an impressive amount of skill - everything from strumming, to what he now realized was a process of learning the more complex fingerstyle technique.

Curious to a fault, as always, Sherlock made a decision. There was a small mystery to be solved, he was perplexed, bored, and frankly – more curious than Toby could ever be in his most feline of felinity moods.

Quietly, slowly, padding down the stairs leading to the landing, Sherlock stopped again, training his ear towards the Lestrade flat. Softly, he tiptoed his way to the door and opened it, mindful of the creak in the hinges.

That was it. That was definitely it!

Again, walking softly, he deftly pussyfooted his way to the room the sounds were coming from and stood next to the door, his back and palms flat against the wall. Listening, more than a little bit impressed, his mind flitted between enjoying the skill of the player – which was increasing with the piece by the minute – and an overwhelming curiosity as to which Lestrade exactly this mysterious talent belonged to.

Just as he was about to turn his face to peer into the room, Sherlock stopped short.

No, he wouldn't nick them just yet. Not yet. No, no, he had a much better idea.

Smiling to himself with playful mischief, Sherlock had to stop himself from giggling at the sheer genius of his random, impromptu plan to bust the surprise guitarist. Glancing at the floor to ensure there were no toys on the carpet – he'd stepped on one of the twins' rattles once and had yelped like a little girl, causing Molly to start, Greg to cuss, and Toby to sprint behind the sofa – he padded stealthily back to the doorway, letting himself out.

Once in the safety of the landing, he bounded up the stairs and back into his flat. Stopping only a moment to grab his violin, he once again made his way downstairs, into 221C, and back towards the doorway where the music drifted from.

Sherlock took a deep breath, thinking on the notes he was hearing. Raising his violin to his chin and lifting up the bow, he drew it across the strings in what was a perfect accompaniment to the guitar sounds coming from the room.

Abruptly, the guitar stopped, and a short moment later, Sherlock paused his own playing. After a few deathly silent seconds had passed, a singular, adamant phrase in an unmistakable voice erupted through the doorway.

"Ohhh… YOU BASTARD!"