"No, no, nooooo!"

Random howls of displeasure are never entirely unexpected when Sherlock is watching the telly, so while John nearly spills his tea due to the sheer volume, he makes a fast recovery.

"Are you watching Jeremy Kyle again, Sherlock?"

"John, come here," he demands.

John was actually on his way to the couch anyway, barring any tea mishaps, so he grabs a tray with some milk and sugar and heads over.

Sherlock is in full vulture pose on his chair, and looking like he is about to burn a hole in the screen through sheer will. To John's surprise, it's not crap telly, it's a movie. How strange.

"John, I know you were in marching band, not orchestra, but honestly… just look at that," he says, throwing a lanky arm towards the set.

He has no idea if he's ever had occasion to bring up his stint in marching band, but this insight is hardly surprising. He chooses not to comment. "At what? The violinist?"

Sherlock lets out a cross between a snort and a groan. It is, quite frankly, an indescribable sound, but its meaning couldn't be more clear.

"If you could call him that," he says.

John looks. The man is moving the bow back and forth in time to the music. It sounds beautiful, and John says so.

"I don't mean the musician, John, I mean the actor. Look at how he's sawing his arm back and forth. It's a slur!" he yells. "Both uses of the word, in this case."

John studies the movements closely, and it occurs to him that, for all Sherlock's playing, John has seldom watched him in the act. He scrapes away at the violin while it is on his lap, but his actual… musical… pieces are usually performed in the middle of the night. The few times he has seen him play a proper piece during the day, Sherlock is usually gazing listlessly out the window onto the street below, back turned toward the room. John realizes he has no idea how finger and bow movements correspond to the notes.

"Maybe you could be a consulting violinist as well as a consulting detective?" he says with a grin.

"It would have been worth their while to procure one. A movie about a violinist requires a minimum level of competency. You don't expect a movie about a taxi driver to have the lead wiggling the steering wheel back and forth like a four-year-old whilst driving down a straight road." Sherlock juts his hands out in front of him and rapidly wiggles them side to side in a quick demonstration before slamming them down into his lap.

"I didn't really notice," John says weakly.

"Of course you didn't! At least the director had the sense to film this scene from behind so you don't see his… oh I take it back. Wrong string. Random finger movements. Oh thank God, he's putting it away... oh no no no no don't touch the bow hair with your fingers!...well at least he's stopped. Watching him play for more than two seconds constitutes a form of torture."

"Why are you watching it at all, then?" John says cautiously.

"Because it's a good movie," Sherlock says, exasperated.