Now Playing: Nocturne ( c sharp minor ) - F. Chopin ────── ༻🎻༺ ──────

"You play beautifully, Mr Holmes."

Sherlock's eyes open as the crescendo of the piece he was playing on the violin would immediately halt at your words - as if his ears desperately needed to capture the hymn of his muse's lisp Intonation and commit it to memory.

"It's nothing, really."

Look at you, so refined, so gracious. Curse the Heavens above for sending an angel down Sherlock's way, someone he'd wish his logical mind would relinquish fawning over, his blackened heart lovelorn yet Sherlock always kept his mouth sealed - too grandiose for love itself.

"No need to be so modest! Why, if I could have the fortitude, I'd love to listen to you play every single day."

How would you respond if he told you how he felt?

A great detective doesn't have time for such dilly dallying - such illogical fallacies and tedious mediocrities of life weren't meant for Sherlock. Yet he composes piece after piece, just to soothe your ears and an excuse to see that smile on your lips for once.

'Then, I shall play for you every single second of every waking hour. You need not but ask.'

Yet those words remained in his heart, clandestine and unspoken, along with Sherlock's internal turmoil.