I don't own anything, not even the song (Tell Her About It by Billy Joel, if you've never heard it). Uuuuummm, the statements enclosed in the parentheses are Sherlock—kinda when you're in your own head and you go off into a tangent about the current situation in front of you that you're thinking about—you know, like when you have conversations with yourself. Hope that clears that up.
Anyway, read on!
Sherlock Holmes knew he had had a brain tumor for five months and three days, exactly, and no, he didn't need a doctor to diagnose his imminent death, he could do it himself thank-you-very-much. How did he come to this logical conclusion? Simple. For the last five months and ten nights, he had dreamed of Molly Hooper.
The dreams varied form the innocent (holding hands walking down the street, smiling at her small giggles when he made a silly deduction), to the heartwarming (her in his button up making French toast on a lazy Tuesday morning with a loving smile on her lips), to the ones that drag him from his sleep gasping and in need of a shower (her hot mouth teasing and roaming his bare chest, tongue going ever lower until – enough!). So, safe to say, he diagnosed himself with an obviously malignant growth (because how could it be benign when dreams keep torturing him and making him feel?) and was counting down the days until his demise. His ultimate demise that would come. Eventually. He was sure of it.
If that wasn't enough to convince himself, the fact that a certain landlady-not-your-housekeeper standing next to his bed, slightly shaking her head as he looked up at her in alarm, would have certainly done the trick. And if Sherlock knew this is what would have been awaiting him upon waking up, he wouldn't have gong to sleep hours previous (or woken up for that matter).
Throwing off his blanket he had no time to register exactly why he was wearing a suit (non crinkled as it were, was he sleep walking again? Or would it be sleep dressing in this instance?) before Mrs. Hudson opened her mouth and started to…sing?!
"Listen boy, I don't want to see you let a good thing slip away—you know I don't like watching anybody make the same mistakes I made."
Mistakes I made? While her past was something he was still found it hard to believe, why would she be watching him of all people become an exotic dancer? (He had only considered that choice once for a case and it had hastily been disregarded before the thought fully formed) He skirted around his landlady to the kitchen, only to hear her follow him and continue her theatrics.
"She's a real nice girl and she's always there for you—"
Whirling around, he looked to her. "Mrs. Hudson, I insist you stop."
"But a nice girl wouldn't tell you what you should do!"
Tell him what to do? Who? Nice girl? This must be the tumor making itself known (in what he would term the worst way possible) and he couldn't help but wonder what he did to deserve this torture (admittedly there were many instances that would fit the bill, so to say), especially the torture of Martha Hudson's singing.
His thoughts were interrupted by a hand on his arm and the offending body part was swatted away.
"WHAT are you doing, go away!"
Sherlock's progression to leave the flat in haste was doubled as the matronly lady started snapping to an imaginary tune, the sharp sounds chasing him down the stairs until he slammed the door and halted their pursuit. Shaking off the strange encounter of the morning, the consulting detective's eyes narrowed when Mycroft stepped into his view, no sleek government car in sight and motioned the younger Holmes to follow.
He did so after a derisive snort (maybe it was the start of a case). After five steps he wished he didn't (and it was not a case).
"Listen, boy, I'm sure that you think you got it all under control."
Dear god, no.
"Mycroft."
"You don't want somebody telling you the way to stay in someone's soul."
An angry scream left his mouth as he sped up his pace yet to his dismay his brother matched his pace and from out of nowhere came the sounds of an 1980's upbeat tune (oh, not this horrible excuse for music!).
"You're a big boy now, you'll never let her go—but that's just the kind of thing she ought to kno-ow!"
"She doesn't need to know anything, leave me alone!"
This decision to wake up was the worse he had made in a while—he would rather still being sleeping (rather was a weak word, he actually would love to still be asleep because it was a delightful dream featuring Molly and the quiet countryside). Wait, what? Now he was wishing to dream of Molly? And who the hell were they talking about (he refused to acknowledge that he knew exactly who Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson were alluding to)?
The air was taken from Sherlock's lungs as he barely managed to stop himself from jumping when fifteen strangers popped up from nowhere (where had they come from? Six of them literally emerged from thin air while the other nine turned from their morning walks) and started serenading him in perfect harmony.
"Tell her about it,
Tell her everything you feel!
Give her every reason to accept that you're for real!"
"Stop stop stop stop stop stop!"
Sherlock spun in circles helplessly as the faces' fingers snapped in synchrony and their bodies rocked back in forth to the simple tune (he had to admit, it was quite remarkable); his eyes darting everywhere he finally discovered a gap in the people and made for it, successfully dodging the happy mob that was now following a few paces behind him, more jumping in and adding to the bizarre scene unfolding before his unbelieving eyes.
"I must get out of here…think, think!"
His long legs carried him down the street with purpose while his mind worked at hyper speed (John? No, he was at work in the opposite direction and that would involve diving back into the horde skipping after him) and was met with a realization—no one liked going to the morgue. Surely people singing a jaunty tune wouldn't follow him to the bowels of a hospital. Luckily, Molly was on duty (no, dammit, his heart was not going to betray him by skipping a beat at the thought of her).
"Tell her about it,
Tell her all your crazy dreams!"
He tripped on his heels as he turned and faced the people. "How do you know about my dreams?!" This was beyond Sherlock Holmes. The whole eight minutes since he walked from his bed was the strangest event to happen to him as of yet (which was saying a lot considering the cases he had worked) and it seemed like everyone following him knew something he didn't; and he did not like that. Not one bit.
He was going crazy. He was convinced. This was his tumor taking full possession of his last moments of life, in reality he was in his bed, 221B vacant besides himself, and slowly descending into the peaceful sanity that was death. That was the only explanation.
"Let her know you need her
Let her know how much she means!"
"I don't know who you all are talking about! I do not need anyone and I will not tell her how much she means! She already knows—dammit! Ahh!"
With already laboured breathing he started to run. He did not stop running until St. Bart's loomed in his vision (oh, look, John and Mary as well, along with delighted reprieve from the singing throughout his run) and stopped in front of the building.
"No time to explain, come along don't ask questions—and don't start singing."
To his abject horror (betrayal, that's what it was) John's mouth opened and he was singing the continuation of what Sherlock hoped had ended with his running away.
"Listen boy, it's not automatically a certain guarantee," (back up singers? Oh, dammit, the crowd caught up to him) "to insure yourself you've got to provide communication constantly!"
Sherlock was stuck between a snapping, happy, swaying, back-up singing mass of people and John and Mary whose hands were outstretched and clasped lovingly, no chance of escape. Matters worse (to the detective's mind, anyway) the married pair was gazing into each other's eyes as Mary now took up the hot potato of a choral performance.
"When you love someone, you're always insecure. And there's only one good way to reassure!"
With a lunge, John and Mary attached themselves to Sherlock's side, arms looped through his (zero chance of escape now) to lead the peanut gallery in what he couldn't deny was the chorus to this nightmare song (the big band accompaniment made a huge entrance from the background noise it settled into pleasantly, wait, pleasantly?).
"No no no, I refuse to hear this again! Let me go!"
In response Mary's finger jabbed him in the chest to the beat John was snapping (nightmare nightmare nightmare, Billy Joel nightmare) and the gaggle behind them were keeping also, no apparent reason for it to happen other than his tumor guaranteeing the worst way to pass on—ever—was this event.
"Tell her about it,
Let her know how much you care
When she can't be with you
Tell her you wish you were there!"
"Where is the childish smile in the sun? I don't think you all went all out on this!" Sherlock angrily tried shouting over the antagonizing beat (because truly, a smiley face in the sun and a bright lavender sky were the only things to make this sequence absolutely preposterous).
He was propelled up the steps unwillingly by John and Mary's constant pull on his arms in addition to the merry street people interchanging backup 'ooh's, 'aww's, and duplicate words (all to enhance the experience, of course, because this was one hell of a tumor). The doors to the hospital swung open at the slightest pressure to reveal the ground level of hospital staff (oh, of course they were singing, too).
"Tell her about it,
Every day before you leave
Pay her some attention
Give her something to believe!"
"You'd make me give false hope—excuse me, I do pay attention to her!"
His head swiveled right and left to glare at his friends as he tried righting their words (he really did pay attention to her, just nothing she's seen. He is discreet in his glances of her working) because Sherlock Holmes was a man who knew better than to mess with Molly Hooper (let's face it, his mind was getting tired of the denial) and giving her 'something to believe' would be wrong—he was Sherlock Holmes, he did not do sentiment (except he did; cue dreams and the faint smell of French toast).
Thoughts came to a halt as John circled on him and stopped everyone's progress (he actually had a lovely singing voice, one that he let out when in the shower and spur of the moments at the Watson home).
"Cause now and then she'll get to worrying, just because you haven't spoken for so lo-ong."
More clapping, always clapping, can't forget the snapping! Sherlock would give or take literally anything for the whole mess to desist at once (really, though, he would take on cheating spouses and horrendous missing animal cases!)!
"Though you may not have done anything, will that be a consolation when she's gone?"
Mycroft had appeared on the other side of Mary, twirling his constant companion (really, an umbrella at all times? Maybe he could stab himself with it) as he shook his head with a condescending smile on his face. They were moving again, the hospital staff and crowd pushing the four toward the elevator that opened up to Greg Lestrade, arms outstretched, winning smile on display.
Three people with a vice grip on his body (they knew all he wanted to do was run. The morgue was a bad idea, he should've gone anywhere else, anywhere else) drug him into the elevator as Sherlock let loose a stream of commands (let me go!, I will kill you, John!, Look, Mycroft, cake! Nothing.).
"Listen boy, it's good information from a man who's made mistakes. Just a word or two that she gets from you could be the difference that it makes!"
Four sets of eyes were glued to the detective while the man himself watched the elevator descend at the slowest pace known to man (or tumor induced allusions, he admitted) and couldn't help but let loose an amused snort at Lestrade's words (man who's made mistakes, because all it brought up was his failed marriage (That's not nice, Sherlock!) The tumor now had Molly speaking directly into his head. And Lestrade most certainly did wink and finger point. Loads of therapy required, saying he lived.) although abruptly changed to an exasperated groan.
Elevator music: Billy Joel. Only words his friends and brother would communicate with: Billy Joel lyrics. Other noises: snaps in beat with the damned Billy Joel music in the descending box. Mary's distinct voice: singing once again. (He debated on whether this imagined experience was worse than a case that led him to a primary school's science fair—Sherlock was still debating on whether it was encouraging to see so many take to the sciences or an abomination to the whole institution.)
"She's a trusting soul, she's put her trust in you—but a girl like that wouldn't tell you what you should do!"
"And so you lot are by way of song? TUMOR, TAKE ME NOW!" His hands were knotted in his curly hair yet the other occupants' blissful ignorance of his distress was easier to see than his brother's latest failed attempt at a diet.
"Tell her about it!"
"I refuse."
"Tell her everything you feel!"
"I. Do not. Feel."
"Give her every reason to accept that you're for real."
"THIS isn't even real!"
"Tell her about it, tell her all your crazy dreams-"
"No no no I refuse to listen to you anymore!"
"Let her know you need her, let her know how much she means!"
By the ding of the elevator, Sherlock bolted from the middle of the broadway musical to discover a whole slew of hospital staff and street walkers lining the hallway, a path from where he stood directly to the lab doors (alternate hallways were of course blocked—he noted among those who created the human road guide were surgeons in full scrubs, small children, women in heels, nurses, suited men, clowns and other various carnival performers (oh this was getting ridiculous now), and others who melted into the mob). The strangest thing was, however, the complete, ringing silence that greeted the World's Only Consulting Detective; his eyes flitted from one individual to another, the same anticipating, encouraging looks on all their faces, like they expected him to do something (by this time, he was anxious for the end and the scene before him had to be treated with as much caution and trepidation as a live bomb).
He was not going to move, or talk, orsing, or tell her about it. Ever. His mistake came in stepping backward in hopes of getting back on the elevator and escaping this tumor fueled hell (hell was an apt word for it if Sherlock Holmes had anything to do with categorizing the scene). That movement set off the chaos of dancing, singing, clapping, snapping, and echoes of all sorts. Mary skipped passed the frozen man and twirled down the empty space, singing loudly with the others as her scarf became her dancing partner.
"Tell her about it,
Tell her how you feel right now!"
Mycroft exited the box and swung his umbrella as he strolled after Mary; Sherlock got the pleasure of being shoved forward continuously by John and Lestrade (the roughest one being for emphasis of 'right now', damn them!) all while the upbeat lyrics continued with a fervor and the sidelines wagging their arms in reckless abandonment as Sherlock passed by to emphasize every raucous lyric (jazz hands at their best, he concluded with disdain).
"Tell her about it,
The girl don't want to wait too long!"
"Mrs. Hudson?! Your hip!" His dear landlady had just performed a cartwheel (admittedly she did retain flexibility from her former occupation).
"You got to tell her about it,
Tell her now and you won't go wrong!"
"What the hell—STOP PUSHING ME JOHN!"
"You got to tell her about it,
Before it gets too late you know you got to tell her about it!"
"AAHHH just stop everyone stop and shut up you're all—"
Just what he needed (the tumor dream wouldn't be complete without these two he noted begrudgingly) was Donovan and Anderson manning the doors he was rapidly approaching, despite his flailing arms, shouted protests, and back treading, which resulted with more shoves from the happy men behind him (see if they're invited to his real funeral, though if the double doors led to whatever after life situation he was confronted with it wouldn't be unwelcomed and therefore they were invited, escorting him to death apparently), their torturous smirks managing to anger Sherlock only a little less than this whole experience.
"You know the girl don't want to wait-
you got to tell her about it!"
The doors opened after wait to reveal a lit lab (so it wasn't the welcoming reprieve of death, damn it all would this torture never end?!), Molly Hooper working silently at her station with no notion or even acknowledgement of what was going on less than ten feet from her (there was always the chance she was truly unaware of the circus going on in the hallway, it made sense in the way that this was tumor and even in this downward spiral she's too intelligent to join in. Then again, it was Molly Hooper, and if it was real the woman would be spinning ridiculously with Mary being happy and relaxed and beautiful—the tumor evidently had taken over Sherlock's logical reasoning, and to him that was enough to signify death). As Sherlock was propelled into the space he slammed his eyes shut and grit his teeth together while the outside world started to fade out with the song and exclaimed loudly, trying to put an end to the horrific situation.
"ALRIGHT I'LL TELL HER EVERYONE JUST SHUT UP!"
His eyes opened with steely determination that matched his stride to the surprised pathologist, observing nothing of his surroundings (missing a perplexed looking John and Lestrade who watched his movements after his unprompted shout), taking her by the upper arms to crash his mouth to hers (his mind acquiesced that the sensation was delightful, the rush matching the adrenaline present after a case). Three seconds later (yes, three, as it would be enough to placate those singing idiotic friends) he broke contact and spun to see John and Lestrade, mouths slightly ajar accompanying a lost look (one that clearly read 'huh, well, uh, okay' which was the appropriate response to what just transpired).
"Are you all satisfied?"
"Sherlock, what—"
"Or does that not cover the 'tell her about it' message you have all been beating into my head for thirteen minutes? Would it be better to say that I dream of her cooking French toast for us in only my shirt? Does she need to hear how much I want her in my life? That just the thought of her makes me feel disgustingly happy?" Air quotes surrounded tell her about it to relate his disdain. "Go ahead, open the doors and let everyone know so they can finally leave me alone and not harass me on the street like some common tourist caught up in a flash-dance!"
The two men by the doors exchanged glances only to revert back to staring at the detective (the crazy look being directed his way was one that was often given to the man in question, it was the look that defined his professional life).
"Umm, a-are you alright, Sherlock?"
"Flash-dance? Bloody hell what are you on about, Sherlock? There's a case here!"
"So we're just ignoring the fact that you grabbed and snogged Molly Hooper in front of us?"
Sherlock stomped to the door as all three voices rang out at once (Molly: breathless, confused, slightly embarrassed (he'd have to kiss her until she wasn't—NO!); Lestrade: frustrated, amused; John: unbelievable, more matter-of-fact) and upon wrenching them open froze as he saw nothing, no trace of human activity. At all. Anywhere.
What had happened was: Sherlock, John and Lestrade waltzed into the lab.
Sherlock: Molly, results from yesterday?
Molly: In a mo, Sherlock. Hello, John, Greg!
Greg: Hi, Molly.
John: Hello, Molly. Have fun last night?
Molly: Oh, yes! Girl's night with Mary is always a surprise and I just can't stop humming the song—we did some '80's karaoke. They had Billy Joel on list.
John: That would explain Mary's 'listen boy' and laughter, couldn't quite get much anything else from her when she got home.
Sherlock: *went from deducing Molly's day up to the current minute (new blouse, tired yet alert eyes—late night? Yes, slightly dehydrated which indicated drinking and not involuntary lack of rest due to her chipper tone, something about singing meaning a bar, bars indicate men and so help any men who even looked at his Molly wait stop dammit tumor, he's working!) to his mind palace while the two driveled on (he's gotten a lot better at letting Molly do things on her terms, example: being patient while she converses, and ultimately his requests are completed in a favourable manner) where Billy Joel filtered through and the 'tumor rampage' played through in approximately thirty-eight seconds*
Greg: Oh, dipped into that new place near the chip shop? Heard it's good on the weekends.
Molly: Haha, yeah, the Friday night crowd was welcoming and sorry, John, might've had one too many.
John: It's what I've come to expect from your dates! No worries, at least it's enjoyable.
Molly: Very! You all should come next time—we could go somewhere without karaoke for Sherlock—by the way, here are the results, Sherlock—but it would be—
Sherlock: ALRIGHT I'LL TELL HER EVERYONE JUST SHUT UP!
Moments stretched over the four people, no one moving or speaking up until John Watson cleared his throat.
"So, Sherlock, you dream of a naked Molly?"
Sherlock Holmes's tumor was decidedly not real (no, he was not going to die from an imaginary brain growth, rather from unwarranted feelings) and he turned around on his heel and quickly devised an escape plan.
"Well, I think I've said and done enough for today. I'm sure you all have questions," his gaze traveled over their faces and forms (he was storing their exact reactions to further deduce when he was alone, at his home, curled on the couch with the door soundly bolted), "however they will remain unanswered. Forever. Good-day."
With a tight smile and a flourish of his Belstaff, the consulting detective swept from the lab and edged his way around the elevator (he shuddered at the thought of a winking Lestrade) and took the stairs, relieved to be alone with the silence after his imagined last moments of life.
Hehehehe, I crack myself up. Point out any errors as you see fit (I don't offend easily) but I hope you enjoyed reading it!