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Sally Donovan stood in the Royal College of Music Museum, in hushed reverence of the massive instrument collection standing before her. Her eyes were drawn to a rather beautiful harpsichord, in particular, the rare example having somehow managed to survive for over five centuries of human history - an impressive feat, for something so delicate. Gazing down at the aged keys, Sally couldn’t help but wonder at the identities of its former players. Absurd as it was, she wondered if they had left a part of themselves behind in the wood, gifted it a fragment of their souls - and if, by doing so, they had imbued the instrument with a certain power newer instruments could never hope to possess. As childish as the notion of sentient musical instruments was, she found she couldn’t completely shake the belief. As even the organ she occasionally volunteered to play for church, a relatively youthful seventy years old, seemed to produce a more soulful sound than the newer one she had practiced on as a child. Like the Velveteen Rabbit, she mused, maybe an instrument could only come to life after it had been loved deeply. The whimsical nature of such a thought made Sally’s fingers twitch, the urge to add a bit of own life-force to the instrument a powerful one.
“A fascinating instrument, isn’t it?”
The sudden emergence of a voice, cutting through the reverential silence of the room, made Sally start. Embarrassed at such an overtly feminine reaction, Sally frowned at herself before turning to see who the culprit was. Her frown only deepened when she discovered the culprit to be Sherlock Holmes - the man in question having materialized from thin air, like a wraith, to shatter her peace. Only instead wearing his usual mask of indifference, he had something that almost resemble genuine curiosity showing on his face.
“You play the harpsichord.” He presumed, tilting his head in that annoying fashion of his that indicated he was making some deduction or another.
“No.” Sally denied, pleased at the rare opportunity to correct him. “The piano.”
Instead of looking irritated, however, as was his usual custom when proven not to have been absolutely correct about something, Sherlock simply nodded - his unbothered expression suggesting that her playing of the piano had been his second-place presumption.
“I might have guessed.” He answered, entirely too self-satisfied for her liking.
“How?” She challenged.
As much as she loathed to present him with an opportunity to show off, especially when she was the subject, Sally was curious. Solicited or not, Sherlock had given her some rather usual insights about herself throughout the years of their begrudging acquaintanceship. That was how she had discovered that the true cause of her sudden aversion towards Dimmick, a few months back, had been due to a subtle switch of his cologne - and not his sudden presentation of bad vibes, as she had presumed.
“You were moving your fingers along the edge of that display case as if you were playing a piano.” Sherlock explained, self-assured but surprisingly not condescending. “You were playing Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto No. 3.”
Unaware of such subconscious movements, until they had been pointed out to her, Sally felt her cheeks flush - feeling more than just a little uncomfortable with the fact that Sherlock had witnessed such a distinctive habit.
"Rachmaninoff's Third is a notoriously difficult piece," Sherlock said, sounding genuinely pleased at the discovery of her hidden talent. "You must be a skilled player." He paused briefly, then added with begrudging respect, "I had not known."
“I do have a life outside of work.” She replied, suspicious of his civility.
“Naturally.” Sherlock allowed, without a trace of condescension. “I had not deduced that life involved music though.” With a frown that wasn’t almost accusatory, he added: “You’ve neglected to mention your interest in the subject.”
“Our conversations have only ever revolved around murders.” Sally pointed out.
“A true enough statement, I’ll grant you.” He conceded, reluctantly awarding her the point. “At least it was - until this morning.”
Sally grimaced as his words forced her to recall the macabre situation that had lead them to the museum in the first place. That being the brutal murder of one Adolphus Erikkson, said museum’s instrument restoration expert, via crucifixion. The culprit? A recently-paroled art thief keen on revenge towards the man who had apprehended her in the act, several years ago, and subsequently secured her ten years in prison.
“It’s a shame such a talented man was done away with.” Sally opined. “Especially so savagely.”
“Indeed.” Sherlock readily agreed. “Although being affixed to an antique harp did lend him a certain theatrical dignity.”
Although the words were crass, Sally could tell that he had been using them to try and comfort her - not to provoke a reaction with his irreverence.
“There are worse ways for a body to be displayed.” Sally allowed.
In the silence that followed, several grim memories flickered through her mind: the bloated corpse they'd fished from the Thames, swollen beyond recognition; the poor soul they'd found stuffed in a dryer at the laundromat; the scattered remains of a young woman strewn across a park like macabre confetti. Before she could sink deeper into that dark mental catalog, however, Sherlock's voice disrupted her.
“Where did you study?”
The question burst into the silence, catching Sally completely off guard. She blinked, momentarily stunned, before the words finally registered.
“The Royal College of Music.” She reluctantly answered.
As much as she had wanted to evade the question, she had known her attempt would only prove futile - Sherlock would have deduced the truth anyway, as he always did.
“You must be quite the talented player.” Sherlock stated.
His pronouncement, delivered with such an air of unwavering confidence, might have grated on her nerves had she sensed even a sliver of dishonesty beneath the surface of it. But, as matters currently stood, Sherlock seemed utterly sincere in his expression - arrogance aside. And Sally figured, for the sake of the burgeoning truce forming between them, that she could overlook the pretension in favor of the sincerity.
“Maybe.” She conceded, feigning nonchalance. “At least…I was .”
“Was?” Sherlock queried, looking troubled at the tense.
“It’s not as if I have the time to practise - not properly, anyways.”
Sally’s words came out more bitterly than intended, her thoughts having drifted to the pathetic keyboard she had been relegated to practising on - her flat far too cramped to accommodate even a basic upright.
“What a shame.” Sherlock frowned, looking genuinely distressed.
“Piano wasn’t even my initial course of study.” Sally dismissed.
The words died on her lips as she watched Sherlock's face light up with that particular brand of delight - the insufferably knowing expression he reserved for moments when someone had inadvertently revealed far too much.
"It has just occurred to me," Sherlock began, his voice laced with curiosity, "that the strength and tonal quality of your voice are far beyond what one might expect in a detective." He paused, his fingers forming a steeple. "I detect the subtle nuances of a meticulously trained vocalist, wouldn't you agree?"
Sally couldn't help but roll her eyes as she held up her hands in mock surrender. "You got me, Sherlock. All of London can rest easy now."
Her attempt at self-deprecation went unappreciated, however, as Sherlock pressed forward with his questioning like a hound on the scent.
“Enlighten me.” He prompted, making the request sound like a demand. “In what capacity did you train as a vocalist?”
“With a focus on opera.”
As Sally felt her cheeks flame hot, she couldn’t help but resent her body for the ridiculousness of such a response. After all, it was not as if she had just confessed to something as shameful as idolizing Margaret Thatcher. But the harder she tried to reason the embarrassment away, the stronger it pushed back - the sensation not helped at all by Sherlock, who was gazing openly at her with an almost invasive amount of intrigue.
“Soprano.” He stated, as certain as he was about anything.
Sally smirked at Sherlock's statement. For once, his genius had failed him – if only slightly.
“ Mezzo -soprano, actually.” She corrected, before adding: “But not every woman with a powerful voice is a trained singer, you know.”
Naturally, Sherlock ignored her attempts at evasion - his focus remaining on her vocal features despite her clear discomfort.
“It wasn’t only the strength of your voice that betrayed your vocal training.” Sherlock replied, his confidence in his deductions unwavering. “But your enunciation and volume, as well.”
Having never learned to accept praise without a significant amount of doubt, Sally had to summon all her willpower to keep from squirming at his reply - just his approving tone, alone, enough to make her uncomfortable.
"You sure seem to know a lot about vocal traits," Sally observed, avoiding his gaze. "Are you a singer, too?"
Sherlock either failed to recognize the teasing nature of her tone or chose to ignore it, responding with far more gravity than the question deserved.
"I have no remarkable vocal ability," he admitted. "In terms of music, my expertise lies largely with the violin."
Sally couldn’t help but feel genuinely impressed by the answer, as the violin was inarguably one of the hardest, and most unforgiving, instruments to learn.
“What else do you play?” She pressed, genuinely curious.
“While I am primarily a violinist, I also compose.” Sherlock elaborated, his tone reverential. “As for other instruments,” he continued, offering a dismissive wave, “I can play piano, cello, and viola competently - though I have never felt driven to master them.”
“Of course you compose.” Sally stated, not unkindly.
“When I am sufficiently inspired, yes.” He replied, oblivious to the redundancy of her statement. “As a matter of fact, I’ve been working on a piece for quite some time now.”
"I'm surprised you can't create a piece in under an hour." Sally's words carried no trace of mockery. She meant it, completely and utterly.
“Musical composition isn’t a matter of speed.” Sherlock corrected tersely, having missed the teasing nature of her tone.
Musical composition isn't a matter of speed." His words came out sharp and defensive, and Sally noticed how he'd tensed, like a man expecting a punch. Something in her chest twinged uncomfortably—she'd helped build that expectation, hadn't she? Though, she reminded herself with well-practiced irritation, he'd certainly given her ample reason over the years.
"I was only teasing," she said, softening her voice despite herself.
The shift in his expression was subtle but striking. First came the familiar tightening around his eyes, the slight lift of his chin—his usual armor against mockery. Then, as her words actually registered, his features underwent a remarkable transformation. The defensive mask slipped, replaced by surprise and then, ever so briefly, something that looked almost like relief. It was gone in an instant, but Sally had caught it, and something in her chest tightened at the sight. "Of course, naturally. Yes. Quite." His fingers began an anxious dance against his thigh, but the tension in his shoulders had eased slightly. "Someone who bothered to become skilled on the piano would understand what composing entails." He seemed uncertain now, but not in his usual defensive way—more like someone who'd been bracing against a storm only to find themselves in unexpected sunshine.
"Have you seen the organ?" The question burst from him suddenly, though whether from lingering nervousness or newfound enthusiasm, Sally couldn't quite tell.
“Not yet.” She answered, her gaze returned to the harpsichord.
“A rather captivating piece.” Sherlock appraised, having followed her gaze. “But come, I assure you equally attractive sights await just a few feet further."
Sally found herself about to argue—purely out of habit—when she stopped herself, remembering that she very much did want to see the organ.
“Alright then.” She obliged. “Lead the way.”
Their shoes clicked against the marble flooring as they walked, the sound echoing in the hushed space until they came face to face with an instrument that made Sally catch her breath. The organ dominated the room like a cathedral unto itself, its polished pipes rising toward the ceiling in ascending rows of gleaming metal. The wooden console below was a masterwork of Victorian craftsmanship, its dark mahogany gleaming with the patina of age and care. Three manual keyboards stretched across its face, bordered by ranks of stops—ivory and wood worn smooth by generations of hands. The pedal board below spread like a fan of ebony, and the whole instrument seemed to radiate a presence that filled the space with silent potential, as if all the music it had ever played was somehow still contained within its pipes, waiting to be released.
“And I thought the organ at my parents’ church was big.” Sally remarked, starring at the towering pipes. “But I’d have to be standing to play this thing.”
“So,” Sherlock hummed, “You play the organ as well.”
"You don't sound surprised," she remarked.
"That is because I am not," he returned smoothly. "Though I must admit, I am impressed to a certain degree. An organ is not an easily mastered instrument."
Eager to deflect attention from herself, uncomfortable with praise from any source—but particularly from him—Sally redirected. "You really never play anything else but your violin??"
"No," Sherlock confirmed. "Once I had felt a violin in my hands, I was sure nothing else could satisfy me."
Sally nodded, understanding completely. "I felt that way with the piano," she admitted. "It was like it became a part of me."
"A sign of a true artist," Sherlock appraised.
"You sound awfully sure of your opinion for someone who's never heard me play."
"A person does not get accepted into the Royal College of Music with mediocre talent."
A flush of pride she didn't normally allow herself to feel crept up her neck. "I was on full scholarship, you know."
The words tumbled out before she could stop them, and she looked away, embarrassed by her own boasting.
"I was interested in hearing you play," he confessed. "Now I find myself eager. I do so hope to be satisfied in that regard."
Sally scoffed.
"We can hardly get through a day without wanting to murder each other. I don't think a concert would be prudent." The words came out harsh, but she softened them with her next breath. "Besides, I'm likely rusty. I don't get to practice every day."
"We've made it this far into our conversation without stopping to verbal sparring," Sherlock speculated. "Perhaps we are safe from that if we stick to topics of music."
"So what, then? We only act civil to each other if music is involved?"
"That would be a reasonable start, I believe, to ending this discord between us." His choice of musical terminology wasn't lost on her.
"You find out I can play piano and suddenly I'm worthy of your time?" Sally frowned, her natural skepticism resurfacing. "Lestrade should shell out for recorders for the rest of the yard."
"I—" Sherlock began, only for her to cut him off.
"Look, I realize you've been less of an asshole since you've been sober—actually sober—I do. But you have to realize I'm not just going to forget years of your... jackassery just because we both love music."
A long silence followed, and for once, Sherlock actually looked as if he was reflecting on her words.
"I would not expect otherwise."
The sincerity in his voice caused a pang of guilt, but she remained strong.
"If you want a music buddy, you're going to have to earn it. You need to show me this isn't just a passing phase, or experiment. I'm not going to be toyed with."
To her surprise, he looked confused, though he was quick to hide the expression behind a mask of apathy.
"Where would you propose I start?"
"I think this was a good enough start." She gestured vaguely at the space between them. "Let's not ruin it by pushing for more."
Sherlock nodded, prim as ever.
"Very well. I'll leave you to your exploration. Good evening."
"Goodnight, Sherlock."