"You don't bother with obscurity, now, do you?" Sherlock arches a quizzical brow. He sounds less judgmental than curious, however; were Metody from his own world he might cast aspersions on her musical education, but he suspects she's as uncertain as he is of how much music their worlds have in common at all. Vivaldi is not a divergence point, at least. However else history might have conducted itself differently, it managed to spit out two Antonio Vivaldis, and with him two sets of Four Seasons concertos.

Not that history should conduct itself that way at all. Not that the physics of this make any sense. He engrosses himself wondering about that again and loses track of time for a few moments before coming to himself again; he remembers he's holding his violin and then, abruptly, that he's supposed to play it. So he raises his bow: "I presume we're thinking of the same piece," he says of this with a wry smile.

"Movement 1? Or Movement 3, the Storm?"