He almost lifts bow to strings again to demonstrate, but considers that this would amount to playing Pachelbel's Canon, which would be breaking his tacit vow. "Is it insipid? Repetitive? Oversaturates weddings and Christmas Mass?" He raises his eyebrows. "Then we're probably talking about the same piece."

Sherlock relents and compromises by plinking out a few notes on the strings from the Canon with his fingers: those four damnable measures that performing violinists hear in Hell, as far as he can tell. So many hated boyhood Christmas Masses, forced on him first by a father with very little faith but a great deal of stubborn regard for tradition, then a brother unable or unwilling to stop doing anything their father started--and God willing, there's something the matter with him, because he's almost starting to miss hating Christmas Mass. The things you remember.

"Q.E.D.," he says. "Rubbish."