The December 4th prompt, as assigned by mrspencil:
Holmes puts aside his violin, and attempts to learn to play a new Instrument
And there I lay propped up in my bed, nose a-dripping, handkerchief in hand, and empty bowl formerly containing soup to the side. The long night at Baker Street had finally come to an end, and the sun was beginning to rise; I hoped that such light would ease the discomfort of a sleep (or lack thereof) spent with an inability to breathe. So congested was my entire head that it felt rather like a solid block of wood, rather than a piece of my anatomy.
Rest was difficult to come by, but just at that time, I was beginning to feel relaxed enough that I might catch an hour or two of sleep before my illness took hold once more. I closed my eyes in the gentle light that crept into my room, taking what deep breath I could manage before trying to settle in.
And a clash of what appeared to be thunder jolted me out of my respite.
"What the devil," was all I managed to croak out before the sound happened again and again, sounding lighter but no less excitable. The door to my room opened and Holmes appeared, drum strapped to his chest and a look of intense concentration on his face.
"I must ask you, Watson," said he, staring into space, drumsticks in hand, "the correct physical proportions a man would have to be in order to be able to effectively play an instrument such as this in a crowded situation. A man's life may very well depend on your answer, so do think carefully before you say anything."
"Holmes," I said through a coughing fit that ensued as I attempted to sigh in despair. "What are you doing?"
"You're quite aware of the case of the Disemboweled Drum Major." He looked indignant. "I, for one, am not certain he would have been able to comfortably play said drum without a great deal of physical discomfort, judging by his height and the length of his arms. Wouldn't you agree? Well, I'm certain that he wasn't a drum major at all, that the real drum major is-"
"Holmes," I said, more forcefully this time, though the coughing still prevailed. "Would you kindly take that instrument downstairs and think to yourself rather than asking me?"
His face offended, he turned and made to leave the room, though he paused in the doorway before he left. "The art of drumming can be a noble one, Watson. And I'm certain that the mother of our missing drum major never discouraged him in his playing when he was a boy."
And with that, he was off out through the door and down the stairs towards his favorite chair and (hopefully) relative silence.
Falling back against the bedclothes once more, I put my head in my hands as the drums continued all the way.