[Damn, that's so boomer he could practically feel the spirit of his old music teacher coming back when he hears that, and the man's been dead for about two centuries now.

Still, Moriarty laughs at his comment, politely - and makes a soft musing sound.]

Well, I would not mind a turn upon it. As much as I admire Salieri, I cannot hope to approach the mathmatical purity and emotion in the playing...there is, instead, a composer I often find myself playing upon sitting in front of the Piano.

....If I may?

[If he's allowed to sit, then he'll begin to play a potentially familiar song - Debussy's Reverie, played with just the right amount and mixing of longing, wistfulness, contentment, bittersweetness...

The remembrance of days gone by that you can never return to - and, perhaps, days that never truly existed anywhere except the confines of your own mind.

It is a much less complex piece, of course. And yet, he has a light, deft touch as his ink-stained fingers fly across the keys, expression focused and somber as if he's pouring everything into it. It's not the playing of a maestro, but it is genuine all the same, and he doesn't miss a note.

Once the last notes fade, he gives a sigh and leans back, looking to see how his audience took it.]