That Sherlock Holmes' new profession, however temporary, wrought a drastic change not only in himself but over the entire household in the following weeks was not to be denied.

Of course, filling the role of Addison Kendry, as any role must, obliged an alteration in certain minor details concerning his own person, but even beyond this it quickly became apparent to me that part of this transformation ran deeper. Although Holmes the professional musician bore a very close resemblance to Holmes the amateur detective, spending every waking moment playing his violin for a matter of weeks seemed to change him.

His eyes, when he was not devoting his scant spare moments between rehearsals to satisfying his curiosity concerning the Alveston's missing Stradivarius, were softer. He gestured more with his long, slender hands when he spoke, as though their near constant employment in flying over strings and handling a bow had made them freer. That it was now a rare occasion that our rooms were not filled with music had seemed to give him a new appreciation for silence, as an artist for the negative space in a picture, so that not once following his first week with the Symphony did I hear him slam a door with unwarranted force or bellow at Mrs. Hudson. Even his manner of dress, though in fairness it is difficult to say whether this came about purposefully as part of adopting his character as Mr. Kendry, had become less severe.

In sum, Sherlock Holmes had mellowed.

So fascinated was I by this new incarnation of my friend that before long I began to be sorry that I was not seeing more of him. I heard him, certainly. He was not often at home, being frequently engaged at the concert hall where the Symphony played, or, when he was not, chasing down some lead concerning the Alveston's violin – but when he was in it was usually only the sound of his violin through his bedroom door that told me so. I never tired of hearing him play – under constant practice, after all, even skills which were not inconsiderable to begin with can only improve. But, nevertheless, I began to wish that it were possible to spend more time in his company than the rare meal we managed to take together allowed. I was, of course, also missing the consulting detective, as I had grown accustomed to his lectures on the varied topics which caught his interest, and his deductions, and lately was hearing none of them.

So it was that one evening, as I sat before the fire warming myself after having returned from visiting a patient, that I was very gratified to hear the music from Holmes' room stop, and shortly thereafter see the man himself appear in the sitting room with his violin case tucked under his arm.

"Holmes," I greeted him in, lowering the newspaper I'd been perusing. "Hello."

"Hello, Watson," he returned with the faintest of smiles, "you almost sound surprised to see me."

"I am," I confessed, as he turned to take an apple from the sideboard and slip it into his pocket. "I thought you would be playing all evening again. You haven't broken a string, I hope?"

"No," he replied, crossing to his desk and brushing his dark hair, which he now had taken to wearing without pomade, back from his forehead as he glanced through his stacks of sheet music. "Nothing like it. I must dessert you for a rehearsal once again, I'm afraid."

"Oh," I sighed, failing to entirely conceal my disappointment. "Well...good luck, then, dear fellow."

Holmes paused, having found his sheet music and now halfway through shrugging on his overcoat, and turned to me with a strange expression. His grey eyes, expressive when he allowed them to be though they had always been, if anything had become the more open and direct for the recent change in him. I almost would have thought that he was sorry to cut our interview so short himself. "Thank you, Watson," he said, and slowly turned to go.

It was then that a fortuitous notion occurred to me.

"Holmes?" I asked. He looked back over his shoulder. "Would it be entirely out of the question for me to accompany you?"

To my gratification, he appeared to brighten subtly at the suggestion. "Not at all," he said. "There is often a small crowd sitting in on rehearsals. In fact, I should appreciate your company – your thoughts on what you hear may be of value to me."

"In that case, I will just get my coat," I declared with a grin. Shortly thereafter I was seated beside him in a hansom as we rattled off to the concert hall, and was pleased to listen the entire way to a treatise on resonance, normal modes, and the subtle ways in which the temperature outdoors was capable of changing the sound of a stringed instrument.

When we arrived, we parted company, Holmes to the musician's entrance and thence backstage, and I to take a seat in the sparsely populated hall with the other, more dedicated patrons.

Most of the members of the orchestra were already present on the stage. The entrance of the rest proceeded in concert fashion – the remaining members trickling in until all were seated. Then the concert master – Holmes – walked in from the wings with his violin and sheet music tucked under his arm.

A scattering of polite applause greeted him as he crossed the honey-colored boards, shining under the limelights, which he accepted with a bow and a gracious smile befitting a performer. He placed his sheet music on the stand at the first chair's position, then remained standing to tuck his violin beneath his chin, and played an A. Once the orchestra had tuned under his direction, the conductor made his entrance. I noted, with no small interest, that the applause he received seemed somewhat more heartfelt than had my friend's.

To my dismay, I was shortly to learn why.

The orchestra rehearsed the pieces they were to perform the night that Tartini's concerto headed the playbill. The first two works were unknown to me and, although they were enjoyable, allowed no opportunity for any one instrument to distinguish itself – particularly not a string. It was with great excitement, therefore, that I anticipated the final piece – the concerto – as I knew it to be written for the violin, and the soloist would of course be the first chair.

When the time came, Holmes rose to stand behind the conductor, facing the audience. He appeared to me to cut a very dramatic figure in his role as a musician – a tall, stark shape in his dark suit against the yellow hardwood, the varnish of the instrument in his deft white hands glowing subtly under the stage lights.

When he struck the first note of the opening solo, however, it seemed immediately clear to me that all must not have been right.

My brow was knit in perplexity before long. It was not that he played out of tune, or made any error – his execution of the piece, technically speaking, seemed to my attentive if untrained ear without flaw. In fact, his playing might have been called robotically precise and correct.

In fact, it might have been called mechanical.

I cupped my chin in one hand and brushed a fingertip over my mustache thoughtfully as I watched and listened. On the stage, Holmes stared into the middle distance, bowing accurately but not expressively, fingers hardly flying over the strings but striking them dispassionately, as though they had been the keys of a typewriter. I found myself frowning as the piece concluded.

Sherlock Holmes plays the violin in such a manner that, no matter how heartless his actions or what new levels of callousness he might pioneer, as long as I had known him I had never doubted the depth and profundity of the soul he possessed in secret. It was more than once, when he would deny this certainty of mine, that I had insisted to him I had seen him laugh, seen him weep, and seen him in love, because I had seen him play his violin. He has a tendency to shudder most affectedly at the 'unwarranted crude emotionalism' I ascribe to musical expression, but I know him to be more sensitive to precisely this than I. For weeks I had been listening to him do nothing but attain new heights of his art when I heard him play at baker street. And yet, in a concert hall before an audience, accompanied by an orchestra, when his talents ought to have been shown to their best advantage – I could not but think that I might as well have been listening to a phonograph recording.

The conclusion of the performance from which I had hoped so much was anticlimactic at best. The applause of the audience seemed dry, in a way that had nothing to do with the size of the crowd that could be attracted by a mere rehearsal. Holmes exchanged a stiff bow with the conductor, something in the manner of the latter suggesting the doggedness with which one copes with a continuing frustration, and then strode from the stage.

For my part, I leapt from my seat and hurried out of the concert hall to meet him.

I found him in the alley behind the hall, near the musician's entrance, smoking a cigarette and chatting amiably with a fair-haired young man whom I believed I recognized from the viola section.

"Well, Watson," Holmes smiled as I approached, taking the cigarette from his lips with the hand not clutching a violin case and exhaling smoke into the frosty air, "what did you think?"

The look on my face must have made it clear enough, because his smile was exchanged for a frown before I could think of how to express and answer, and he said: "Ah. I see."

The violist, sensing a change in the atmosphere, prudently wished my friend and I good night, and departed.

Holmes sighed, grinding his cigarette out against the brickwork before dropping it onto the cobbles at our feet. "I detect that you would articulate much the same criticisms of my playing as do my conductor and my second chair," he frowned.

"I would not criticize your playing in the slightest," I replied. "But what I heard a moment ago was not your playing."

He sighed again, and turned to walk towards the main road. I followed, and we strolled together in silence for some moments.

"Are you afraid to play in front of an audience?" I asked at length.

Holmes scoffed. "You have just seen me play in front of an audience. Did I give any indication that I was afraid?"

"Not explicitly," I shrugged. "But your playing seemed very...reserved. Actually, do you know – now that I think of it, you sounded like you did when you played for Hallet, Ferriman and the Alvestons - when your brother brought you this case. Well - you sounded worse, in fact."

"I thank you for the review," my companion snapped.

"Holmes," I scolded gently, and heaved a sigh myself. "Why ever you play like an automaton when anyone other than myself and Mrs. Hudson can hear is probably none of my business. But you know you cannot play that piece like that at your concert."

This seemed to cut him to the quick. He frowned deeply, glancing down to study his shoes for some time as we walked. "I know," he acknowledged dourly at last.

"Then why did you play it so carelessly just now?" I demanded. "Was it that this was only a rehearsal?"

Holmes did not reply, but looked at me sidelong in a manner which derided me wordlessly for even suggesting as much, while simultaneously defying me to press the matter any further.

Knowing far better, I did not. Reaching the main road, we hailed a cab, and shared the ride back to Baker street in silence.