Type: A dribble & a drabble, or a 150-word vignette
Summary: Holmes plays his violin.
Disclaimer: Holmes and Watson belong to the estate of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, I suppose. Well, actually, come to think of it, I'm not sure - but anyway, they're not mine. For Watson's favourite music, I am indebted to /Study in Scarlet/.
He pulled his bow out of the case and began to scrape carelessly at his violin. The sweet notes made my hair stand on end. Was it my imagination, or was the not-quite-melody more uncertain and wavering than usual?
Concluding his reverie, Holmes played my favourite of Mendelssohn's Lieder.
"That was beautiful," I said as he lowered the fiddle.
"It has, however, brought no resolution to the problem that occupies me," he confessed, avoiding my eye. Embarrassment at being seen at fault, I supposed. I hated to watch his discomfort.
"It must be a very knotty one to perplex you so," I tried, hoping his vanity would appreciate it, and he blushed at my flattery.
"Of personal rather than professional moment," he answered, "and I fear it has no solution."
"Could I help to solve it?" I asked, perhaps too eagerly. He looked at me and smiled.
"I think you have."
A/N: Read what you like into it... I know what I meant it as...