I. Intermezzo
Sherlock will tell you, and I will freely admit, that I am not a man of culture or artistic knowledge. I cannot pick out a good operatic singer from a poor one, and I would hate to undertake such an endeavour in the first place. I have borne witness to Sherlock dressing in tails to go and see a symphony (with Lestrade, with Mycroft, or by himself) when a particular violinist or composer was in town, but if I should happen to accompany him, there is no doubt in my mind that I would fall asleep in the middle of the performance.
Still, with that being said, I am confident in my analysis when I say that a violin is less an instrument in the hands of Sherlock Holmes, and more an extension of his own body. I have heard – at Sherlock's behest – several so-called 'genius' violinists of various eras, and yet the only artist to have wholly moved me thus far is Sherlock himself.
One day, as he is finishing an original composition, I tell him this. He smiles, clearly flattered, but tries to play it off. "It was a rather simple piece," he says quietly, reverently replacing the instrument in its velvet-lined case. He is modest. This is the one talent of his about which he does not boast.