Parody of FilmCow's 'Llamas with Hats'. I advise you watch that on YouTube (or wherever) before reading this, but it's okay if you don't want to. It makes sense without the video. Well, when I say makes sense . . . You might find it funnier if you've seen the video in the past.

John trekked up the stairs to the flat he and Sherlock shared, two shopping bags in each hand. He could hear Sherlock moving around upstairs, and Mrs Hudson was watching television in her room. On his way up, he spotted one of Mrs Hudson's old felt bonnets – a faded red with a plastic yellow flower on top. Knowing Sherlock wouldn't even notice it, he decided to put it on for a laugh, and wondered how long he could go on wearing it before the detective realised.

He put the carrier bags down at the top of the stairs; they were getting too heavy for him to lug any further. He picked up the milk and yogurt – both of which needed to be in the fridge ASAP – and strolled into the living room . . .

. . . And consequently dropped both the milk bottle and the yoghurt.

The furniture had all been pushed to one side of the room, the carpet pulled up and rolled so that the room was completely bare. Sherlock himself was standing over a very bloody, very dead body. John had to quickly turn his head away as a wave of nausea struck. He also noticed that Sherlock – strangely enough – was wearing a floppy green striped hat, but seeing as there was a dead, mutilated body on the floor, he decided to get his priorities right.

Slowly, calmly, he approached Sherlock and the body, thinking oh God, he's finally snapped. John got a grip on himself as he looked back down at the body's tormented expression, the stab wounds all over the chest, and the missing hands. Blood was running down the wall behind it, not yet congealed.

"Sherlock," he began gently, but he couldn't keep a note of irritation out of his voice. "There is a dead human in our house!" He desperately hoped this was some science experiment – like the head in the freezer and the hand in the pickle jar – and not some vicious murder.

"Oh, hey . . ." Sherlock sounded mildly surprised, his eyes wide and innocent. "How did he get here?"

"Sherlock, what did you do?" John asked evenly.

"Me?" Sherlock pointed at himself defensively, eyebrows raised. "Uh, no, yeah . . . I didn't do this." His expression was so fake that John could clearly tell he was lying.

Closing his eyes, John pinched the bridge of his nose. "Explain what happened, Sherlock."

"I've never seen him before in my life."

"Why did you kill this person, Sherlock?" he asked through gritted teeth.

"I do not kill people," Sherlock scoffed. "That is . . . that is my least favourite thing to do."

"Tell me Sherlock, exactly what you were doing before I got home."

"Right," said Sherlock. "Well, I was upstairs . . ."

"Okay . . ."

"I was . . . I was sitting in my room . . ."

"Yes?"

". . . Reading a book."

"Go on," encouraged John.

"And, well, this guy walked in . . ." Sherlock's eyes drifted down to the dead man, as if expecting him to respond to the mentioning.

"Okay?"

"So I went up to him . . ."

"Yes?"

"And I . . . uh . . ." Sherlock hesitated, took a deep breath, and then continued. "I stabbed him thirty-seven times in the chest."

There was a short pause in which nobody spoke.

John blinked. "Sherlock! That kills people!"

"Oh! Oh, wow . . . I . . . I . . . tsk!"

While he was fumbling for words, John cried "Sherlock!" again, just for good measure.

"I didn't know that," Sherlock admitted.

"How could you not know that?" John snapped, thinking back to how his sociopathic friend didn't even know the Earth went round the Sun.

"Yes, I'm in the wrong here. I . . . suck."

John sighed. He could tell Sherlock wasn't himself today – the speech patterns, the . . . killing people. Glancing down at the body, he suddenly realised something. "What happened to his hands?" He almost didn't want to ask.

"What's that?" asked Sherlock absently, though he knew quite clearly what John was talking about – the man's hands were completely missing, bloody ragged stumps in their places.

"His hands," John repeated. "Why . . . Why are they missing?"

"Well, I . . . uh . . . I kind of cooked them up," Sherlock admitted, "and ate them."

The ex-army officer was speechless for a moment. "Sherlock!" He dragged the name out as long as he could.

"I was . . . uh . . . I was hungry, and well, y'know, when you crave hands, that's . . ."

"Why on Earth would you do that?"

"I was hungry for hands!" Sherlock repeated crossly. "Give me a break!"

"Sher-lock!"

"My stomach was making the rumblies . . ." Sherlock added with a smirk.

"Sherlock!"

". . . that only hands would satisfy."

"What is wrong with you, Sherlock?"

"Well, I kill people and I eat hands," Sherlock pointed out. "That's two things."

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