Watson glances up after a moment, leaving the journal open mid-article. He rests his elbow on his chair's arm, his hand brushing his chin, and he listens.

Not that he would say it aloud, as Holmes's ego doesn't need the stroking (and as Holmes, ever immodest, already knows it to be the truth), but he is really quite a remarkable musician. He always has been, even if Watson (and Mrs. Hudson, and others) would rather that he practiced at times other than three o'clock in the morning.

He raises his eyebrows slightly at Holmes, silently asking: Yes; and?