Sherlock was still sulking after his lost competition against John earlier that day, laying in his bed with the covers pulled high over his head. He was only glad that whoever that roommate of his was had disappeared (he hadn't bothered checking his journal for any messages) and left the room all to himself. It wasn't that he really liked to be alone... He normally hated it, in fact, even if the person wasn't exactly brilliant, it still was enjoyable to at least have someone to talk to. Or talk at.

With a sigh, he rolled over in his bed, irritably pulling the covers over his head when... What on earth. He bolted up from beneath the covers, looking wildly about at the infernal racket, eyes immediately darting to his own violin, sitting very neatly in its spot where he had left it. He frowned and grabbed it, stumbling out of bed and into the hallway, clutching his bow in one hand and the body in the other, walking about in his bathrobe, t-shirt and boxer shorts.

As he entered the common room, he ignored the oddity of it all, situated his own violin and began to play. He had a similar method of playing random notes, stringing them together as if he were trying to play a song but really didn't know which one to pick.