Just an idea I had floating around in my head. I wrote it a couple weeks ago, actually, and have only gotten around to uploading it now. My first Sherlock fic so... be nice? Let's just say, don't be Sherlock. ;)

Disclaimer: Don't own. Never will. End of story.

Dr. John H. Watson

HE HAS LOST IT

That's right. My flatmate, the great Sherlock Holmes, sociopath, genius, world's only consulting detective, and scourge of criminals everywhere, has finally lost it. He has gone over the edge. I seem to remember calling him a madman when I first met him. Bloody hell, was I wrong. Because if he was crazy then, what is he now?

Insane, that's what he is. Absolutely psychotic. He's… he's… there are really no words to describe the level of strange I've been observing lately. But perhaps you would all be better able to understand what I'm talking about if you saw it for yourselves.

[Video of Sherlock singing opera and baking. Insert your own imagery here.]

He's been like this for a week. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, believe your eyes and ears. Sherlock Holmes is singing and baking. So far, he's gone through three Mozart operas and made ten dozen cookies, two chocolate cakes, one blueberry cobbler, three loaves of bread, one cheesecake, and a cherry pie.

Quite honestly, it's almost like he's on… wait, hold that thought.

I looked up from my computer screen. "Sherlock, you're not using again, are you?"

He looked up from the cake he was meticulously decorating, completely oblivious to the question I had just asked. "Hmm?"

Speaking slowly and clearly, I said, "Are you or are you not currently under the influence of drugs?"

He thought for a moment, even going so far as to roll back his sleeves, apparently checking for injection holes or nicotine patches, just to be sure. "No, I don't think so. Why?"

I shook my head. "No reason. Continue," I said, before turning back to my blog. Sherlock shrugged and went back to his cake.

Well, he's not on cocaine. Or nicotine. I don't think he even has any caffeine in his system. At least, there isn't any coffee about. So WHAT in the name of all that is good is GOING ON? Anyone?

Suddenly, Sherlock entered the sitting room holding two shirts. I hadn't even been aware that he had left the kitchen.

"So, what do you think, John, the blue or the purple?"

I looked at him like he was nuts (which he very well may be…). "Um… I don't know. For what?"

Sherlock didn't seem to hear. "The purple, I think," he mused before leaving again, only to reappear a moment later wearing the purple shirt. He grabbed his coat and pulled on his scarf. "I'm going out," he announced decisively to the room at large before matching his actions to his words.

I stared after him, more than a little confused.

UPDATE: Sherlock's just gone out. After asking me if he should wear the blue shirt or the purple. He decided purple, just in case anyone was wondering. Should I be slightly terrified by this abnormal behavior? Okay, okay, I know, it's Sherlock. All of his behavior is abnormal. I guess I mean his more than usual abnormal behavior.

I'm calling a war council. Or a peace summit. Whichever you prefer. If you'd like to assist, please apply to 221B Baker Street tomorrow at 1300 hours. Please.

UPDATED UPDATE: He's switched to show tunes. Show. Tunes. I'm not kidding. Last night, I heard him singing "I Feel Pretty" from West Side Story. The sound is burned into my brain forever. I'll go to the grave still hearing it. And when they dig my bones up in a thousand years, archaeologists will still be able to hear it bouncing around in my skull. THAT is how disturbing it was.