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“He’s a freak. A machine,” spat Donovan scornfully. “He doesn’t have any normal human feeling in him.” John couldn’t help but note the venom in her words and wonder what on earth his mysterious flatmate could possibly have done to have earned it. He couldn’t fathom the sentiment though. Did they honestly not see it? A machine indeed! As he had seen in their time together, Sherlock Holmes was many things but emotionless was certainly not one of them.
Brilliant, intelligent, a genius - clearly. Emotionless? He’d already witnessed his frustration with dead ends in cases, his fury in the face of perceived police incompetence, his despair when the pieces just won’t slot neatly into place, the distain dripping from every pore when Mycroft pays a visit. They are perhaps not the most positive of emotions, but they are emotions nonetheless. Then there’s the sheer joy written all over his face when presented with an intriguing puzzle and the shy look of, not pride, but something close when he’s earned John’s approval in the form of a breathless “Amazing. Extraordinary.”
The final proof though was perhaps something the members of the Yard had never been privy to. It was John’s privilege and punishment to hear Sherlock play. No one could listen to him and fail to see that he’s pouring forth his soul abroad. Whether it’s the strangled cat torturing of strings, the frenetic wrangling of a wild melody or the masterful taming of a sonata, the feelings of one Sherlock Holmes are unmistakeable when heard through the strains of his beloved violin.