A quiet melody came from the door of the flat.

Why is there piano? God, He better not be experimenting with things again, thought John Watson.

His odd sense of foreboding wasn't going off, though. John could normally tell if there was something wrong, an odd feeling in his stomach usually accompanied by a large explosion and smoke.

No, now there was only piano music. It was a classic tune, soft yet elegant. It was probably some sort of Beethoven or Mozart. John could never really tell those composers apart, nor did he want to. He normally devoted his time to the maintenance of Sherlock.

Speaking of the consulting detective, where was he? John shook out of his musings and creaked open the door to 221B.

"Wha- how, wha-!" John spluttered.

"Close your mouth. It gives the appearance of being an idiot," Sherlock called from the piano stool.

Sitting in the middle of the flat was a large grand piano. Sherlock was effortlessly gliding his hand over the keys, his fingers dancing between the notes.

"Sherlock," John asked, this time making sense, "why is there an effing grand piano in our living room?"

"Because you had broken my bow. It simply seemed logical that I pursue other musical devotions of time."

"Musical devotions of time? I was gone for half an hour. How did you even get this up the stairs?" the blogger questioned.

"Stop repeating my words, it's rather dull. Besides, I saved the piano maker from jail and the movers from a law suit. It was all rather tedious, but I'm not bored anymore."

And with that, Sherlock went back to his instrument. Watson seemed momentarily hypnotized by the long fingers darting back and forth. He could just remember this song, it might have been something he was forced to play during music class in school. Of course, it never seemed this graceful. Sherlock's hands seemed to be doing and elaborate tango across the black and white keys, while the teenaged John had awkwardly been fumbling around the keys of a mandatory recorder.

"Since when have you, you know played... this?" John asked.

He obviously knew about the violin, and there was that one case with the harp, yet he hadn't known that Sherlock played the piano.

"Oh, Mycroft taught me," Sherlock said with a sneer, "he thought it would be a good extracurricular activity. Apparently deducing Father's guest wasn't 'respectful'."

John nodded, content to just listen to the beautiful music. Something just occurred to him.

"Wait, how much did it cost?"

Sherlock just smiled and continued to play.

My first Sherlock fanfic. I do not own Sherlock. BBC and Arthur Conan Doyle do. What do you think? Comments and other feedback are lovely.