I gasped in and out, scrambling to get a grip on the situation and wishing some earplugs would magically appear. The music, it turned out, hadn't just seemed to be deafening because I had just woken up, it was actually so loud that it was already beginning to give me a headache.

I frantically searched the room with my eyes, trying to find the source as fast as possible. With every second, my head seemed to throb and hurt more and more.

I hurriedly got off the couch, a groan of protest coming from it as I did. 

It seemed as if the sound was coming from my kitchen, so, plugging my ears as I did, I half-ran, half-walked there.

Skidding to a stop in front of my stove, it did seem that the music was amplified, whether it be that I was closer, or maybe it was just echoing off the tiles that surrounded me.

Then, just when I was beginning to get more annoyed than confused, it stopped. Cautiously, I removed my fingers from my ears, cautious of the quiet, and looked around for any telltale signs of him, of anyone. 

I knew it was probably Moriarty. I mean, who else would it be? He was the only person I had met that would do a thing like this - flamboyantly irritating. I mean, what kind of person thinks, "Hey, you know what's a good idea? Going through the effort to make a song from 1977 play in some stranger's apartment at 6:15 in the morning. It won't just be any song though, I'm going to use a song that medical trainees use to learn the number of chest compressions per minute to use for CPR." (Although, I suppose he had attempted to kiss me, so I may or may not have still been classified under 'stranger'.)

The silence was more stressful than the music. I knew that the music had to have a source somewhere in my flat, but silence surrounded me from all angles and had no start or ending point, it merely existed.

Getting fed up, I marched over to the coat rack by my front door and grabbed the nearest coat, a black trench coat, to hide my clothes that were crumpled with sleep.

The time passed in a flurry of seconds, the taxi ride to 221B Baker Street passing by surprisingly fast. I had been under the impression that it would drag on and on, my impatience only adding to the few minutes it took to reach the flat. 

I swung myself out of the car, my shoes hitting the pavement beneath them with my body quickly following.

Making my way to the door, I decided against even bothering to knock, as I didn't really want the old lady to answer and ask me nothing less than a billion questions.

The reason I had come to this place, ignoring the somewhat unpleasant memory, was bacause I figured that Sherlock lived there. No matter how mysterious he was, when I took one glance inside the kitchen, I knew.

The detective must have lived there, the jar of pickled eyeballs along with an array of test tubes giving him away.

to be continued