The legendary Sherlock Holmes stared at a large stack of album covers, his eyes darted from place to place like a pair of cocaine addled hummingbirds. While he examined the evidence, Sherlock took a long drag from his pipe. The resulting smoke billowed about his head in an aromatic cloud.
"An interesting case, I must admit." Holmes declared, looking at his guest for the first time in five minutes.
"Indeed. So then, you will take my case?" Asked Brian Epstein.
He looked exhausted. A tentative hope played on his face.
"I think I will, yes. I've always been interested in scarabaeus."
Off to the side, leaning fashionably on a Victorian chest, Watson did his level best not to roll his eyes. Poor Sherlock, he saw plausibility in even the most absurd of claims- and still found a way to be pretentious about it.
Sherlock saw the look of incredulity on his old friend's face and felt similarly sorry for Watson- whose lack of imagination had been a millstone around his neck for well over a decade.
"Watson, I must implore you to see the plainness of the case. The scenario sketched out by Mr. Epstein is a bit unlikely, I agree, but how likely is it that there should be four musicians whose collective imaginings would change music so profoundly? Not bloody likely. Yet there they are." Holmes pointed at the stack of album covers.
"Yes, but..." Watson began.
He was cut off by a wave of Sherlock's gaunt hand.
"No buts. It makes perfect logical sense."
Seeing the blank look, Sherlock elaborated, "Oh Watson, must I hold your hand and walk you to even the most apparent of truths? It follows as day follows night that an extraordinary man should have his death play out in an extraordinary way- and that is exactly what we are seeing here. What's more, I believe I can prove the case using nothing more than anecdotal evidence and these album covers."
"Marvelous!" declared Brian Epstein.
Watson shook his head in wonder and reached into his sock holster for his whiskey flask. He took a long pull.
"Watson, bring your pistol." Sherlock said, rushing out of the room with a flap of his unnecessarily dramatic cape.
Twenty minutes later, they were standing in the control booth in Abbey Road Studios. Sherlock swept in like he owned the place and immediately started pushing buttons and flipping levers. Brian ran behind, returning everything back to where it belonged.
"Please, Mr. Holmes, these switches are very sensitive."
John and Ringo came wandering into the control room in search of a ham sandwich. Ringo was drinking a grape soda.
"Who's this guy?" John asked, pointing his thumb at Sherlock.
"This is the great Sherlock Holmes."
John stared, grinned, waiting for someone to admit the gag. No one did.
"No joke." Watson confirmed.
John turned around and stuck his head back into the studio.
"You guys really need to come in here." John called.
Paul and George came in and were introduced to the legendary detective.
"Wow. This is like when the Harlem Globetrotters met Scooby-Doo." Ringo gushed.
"I'm afraid I'm not here for a social call and I do not anticipate any hijinks with Scooby Snacks.