They had been living together exactly one month the first time Sherlock got out his violin. John had been sitting at his desk, still trying—and failing most times—to type up their adventure with the serial killer cabbie. John had named it "A Study in Pink", a rather catchy title if he did say so himself. Sherlock, meanwhile, was pacing around the living room, pondering his newest case. John could hear his muttering as he walked in circles.

"If the brother could've gotten there before… No, no, no…But then her aunt was such a jealous woman—ah, but she had an alibi." Every so often John would look up and silently chuckle at Sherlock's perplexed expression. This went on for a good ten minutes before Sherlock suddenly stopped, then sprinted up the stairs. John turned around in his chair, wondering what on earth his flatmate could be doing. His question was soon answered when Sherlock returned only a minute later with his violin, a stand, and a stack of sheet music. He set up next to the window.

"That's right, I remember when we first met, you told me you played," John said, watching as Sherlock carefully putting the music on the metal stand. He merely hummed in response. If he was being perfectly honest, John was more than a little curious to hear how Sherlock sounded. He suspected Sherlock would be good at it—he seemed to excel at everything. Except for buying groceries, or course…and organizing the living room… and not leaving his "experiments" around the kitchen…

He was brought out of his inner monologue by a sound so rich and so beautiful, he could hardly believe it was coming out of the small wooden instrument Sherlock held in his hands. John could feel that his jaw had dropped open, but he was far too immersed in the music to even care.

It was a sweet song, something that would be played during a romance movie. At first Sherlock followed along with the music, but then he closed his eyes, and though John hadn't even seen a music note since his childhood days of playing the clarinet, he could tell that Sherlock was no longer playing the same piece. Rather, he was making up his own music. It changed from the passionate theme he started with into a dark, intoxicating sound. With a jolt of surprise, John realized that the music completely fit Sherlock.

It was smooth, connected—each note confidently led into the next. It was also sharp, though, in a way that others might call unpleasant. (John, of course, thought it fit in brilliantly.) There was also a recurring pattern, John noticed. It would start slow and low with a heavy use of long, held out notes. Then without warning, it would quickly change to a fast and high part, with Sherlock shifting his hand far up the neck of the violin. That, too, was just like Sherlock. John couldn't count the number of times in one week alone that Sherlock would be sitting on the couch, then suddenly jump up and run out the door.

Sherlock had opened his eyes again, jumping back into the sheet music, making his own song blend into it so effortlessly. With a wide grin, Sherlock accented his last note, and then turned to John excitedly. "I've figured it out!" He set his violin on the couch, carefully but quickly, and sprinted to the door where his coat and scarf hung.

"Well, John!" he called from down the stairs. "Are you coming or not?"

With a single glance at the violin, John grabbed his own coat from the back of his chair and hurried after Sherlock Holmes.