This is what happens when I listen to the Sherlock Holmes soundtrack for five hours while discovering that Hans Zimmer did "unmentionable things" to a piano to get the sound he wanted for the movie. I figure this probably occured a year or two prior to the events in the film. Don't ask how the piano got up there. Just enjoy the insanity.

I'm a new author, so constructive criticism is always welcome. Flames, on the other hand, will be used to make s'mores.

Disclaimer: I own nothing, okay? Just the piano that serves as the inspiration. It's in my basement.

THUD!

Dr. John Watson glanced up at the ceiling, feeling more than slightly perplexed as a lump of drywall landed on his breakfast plate. Mrs. Hudson entered the dining room with a tea tray, her face as white as the china.

"I won't go up there," she said before Watson could even inquire. "I'm not setting one foot up those stairs while he's like this."

WHUMP!

"Watson!"

"I'll go see about him, Mrs. Hudson," Watson reassured her, not mentioning that he intended to do so after breakfast. Once he picked the drywall out of his meal, that is.

THUNK!

"Watson! I require your assistance! Watson!"

Resigning himself to the fact that breakfast would have to wait, Watson set his cup down and left the room. Gladstone met him at the foot of the stairs. The bulldog looked thoroughly distressed. Watson reached down and scratched him behind the ears.

"What's wrong, old boy? What's the old fool up to now?"

A series of rapid pops, not unlike gunshots, echoed through the house. Gladstone whined and followed his master back up to the second floor. The scent of burning sulfur, gunpowder, and other malodorous chemicals filled the air as Watson nudged the door ajar and poked his head into Holmes' room.

"May I join you in the arsenal?"

"Ah, Watson! Excellent timing! Hold this." Holmes shoved a beaker of some bubbling chemical into Watson's hands before scurrying back to his table. The doctor eyed the foaming concoction dubiously.

"Holmes, what is this?"

"Nothing for you to worry over. It's perfectly harmless in its current state."

"That's exactly what worries me. What are you planning to do with it?"

"I am going to use it to recreate the scene of the brawl at the pub we investigated last week."

"The brawl where a man's head supposedly smashed into a piano and completely demolished it, killing him at the same time?"

"Yes, that's the one." Holmes grabbed the beaker out of Watson's hand. "The one I've already proven cannot happen. A man's head does not apply enough force to destroy a piano as thoroughly as the one from the pub."

"And how did you figure that out?"

Holmes' eyes flickered uneasily down at Gladstone for a moment.

"Holmes," Watson began.

"He's perfectly fine," Holmes assured him, going back to his table. "You can for see yourself."

"Have you ever considered getting an actual guinea pig to test your experiments on? Or maybe a couple of wharf rats? There's an abundance of them down at the docks."

"Dogs are more durable," Holmes replied. "I can't exactly throw a rat at a piano and expect results."

Watson could feel the all-too-familiar sense of exasperation creeping up on him. Holmes scuttled around, mixing chemicals, moving objects to different places, and finally filling two small glass vials with some unidentifiable liquids.

"This should do it," he muttered, tying the two together with a piece of string. "Now, for the final test. Follow me."

Before Watson could protest, Holmes grabbed his sleeve and pulled him from the room.

"Holmes, what is that doing up here?"

The object in question was a black, upright piano. It was similar to the ones found in pubs throughout London. The only difference was, instead of being in a tavern like it was supposed to, it was on the roof of 221 Baker Street.

"Holmes, why is there a piano on the roof?"

"I told you I was going to recreate the scene. I couldn't destroy the piano inside. Mrs. Hudson would never forgive me. The roof was a perfectly logical alternative.

"Did you ever consider destroying the piano in a secluded area where it won't kill anyone?"

Watson could tell by the way his friend's brow furrowed that Holmes hadn't thought of that at all. The detective gingerly closed the top of the piano, getting as far away from it as the roof would allow. He pulled something from his pocket and held is up for the doctor to see.

"Observe."

Watson stared at the object.

"I'm putting off a perfectly good breakfast so you can throw a cricket ball at a piano?"

"No, the cricket ball is merely the trigger. The hammer for the middle C note has been modified to have a flint tip. When the key is struck, the hammer will break the glass vials I've attached to wire, causing the two chemicals to mix. At the same time, the flint will scrape against a piece of steel, generating a spark and igniting the chemicals. This will, hopefully, create the same amount of destruction the pub's piano was subjected to."

"And what will that prove?"

"That the man's death was not accidental, but premeditated murder. Now, let's see if it works."

Holmes took a step forward and hurled the cricket ball at the piano. The ball sailed through the air and landed in the center, right on top of the middle C key. The piano exploded in a flurry of smoke, shrapnel, and discordant notes. Through the haze, Watson could see that the top of the piano had been blown open, several keys had come loose, piano wires stuck out at odd angles, and the majority of the instrument was smoldering. Holmes had a look on his face like a taxonomist who had just discovered a new species as he examined the destroyed upright.

"I'll send a messenger for Lestrade to come by. This will be most beneficial to his case." He walked away, rubbing his hands together gleefully. "Most beneficial, indeed. The ruffian's as good as caught."

"Holmes," Watson began uneasily. The detective turned back around.

Weakened by the explosion, a wheel set on the back left corner of the piano suddenly collapsed. The entire instrument wobbled, and then began to slide. An unholy noise rent the air as the piano toppled over the side and ripped off several shingles before landing in Baker Street with a horrific crash. Holmes leaned over to view the carnage.

The piano had been reduced to nothing more than a pile of blackened firewood. Keys and wires littered the sidewalk. Frightened pedestrians were everywhere; some pointing at what was left of the piano, others pointing to the two men on the roof. A police constable was shoving his way through the crowd. Mrs. Hudson's head could be seen peeking out an open window.

"Well," Holmes said, stepping back from the edge, "What was that about breakfast?"