"GONE! IT'S ALL GONE!" A hysterical Molly Hooper had just burst through the door to the lab where Sherlock and John were currently working; or, rather, Sherlock was working on analyzing dirt samples and John was pretending to understand. John nearly fell off his chair at her entrance, but Sherlock hadn't so much as flinched. Molly's hair was a flyaway mess and she was, for some reason, wearing a flowered apron and a matching hat.
"Um. Sherlock."
"Busy, John."
"But, um -"
"Not now, John!"
"But – oh god, is that her arm?"
Molly was just standing there, weaving back and forth slightly, and appeared to be holding her left arm in her right hand, brandishing it above her head. Sherlock looked up, eyes narrowed.
"Hm. Interesting."
"Interesting? Sherlock, she's ripped her own arm off!"
"DON'T YOU GET IT?"
And suddenly Molly was yelling again, crazed eyes bulging from her face. She ran up to Sherlock and grabbed at his arm. "YOU SEE THE HAT? I'M MRS. NESBIT!"
He looked quizzically up at her and cocked his head to the side. John was frantically trying to get Sherlock up and out of the room with loud cries of, "Sherlock! She's deranged! We need to leave, or get someone, something!" But Sherlock just waved him off with a, "Quiet, John. I'm deducting."
John stood there for a moment, jaw-dropped, before throwing his arms up in the air. As he walked out of the room, he pulled out his mobile to phone Scotland Yard, leaving Sherlock to the mercy of 'Mrs. Nesbit'.
Later on that day he hailed a cab to Baker Street. As he exited the cab, the door to his flat opened and out walked a naked and (hopefully) hammered Anderson. Singing. Singing! "Deck the Hall", of all things. It wasn't even October yet! A few moments after he had thought that he stopped to reevaluate – the most concerning part of this was that it wasn't Christmas? "Well. I've got my priorities straight, at least."
He had to stand outside on the curb for a few minutes, leaning on a railing and trying to collect himself. He closed his eyes, told himself that it was just one of those days, or if he was very lucky, a nightmare, and opened the door to 221b. As he hung his coat up and walked up the stairs, he heard the sound of humming, to the tune of what appeared to be Monty Python's "Always Look on the Bright Side of Life".
A slightly bewildered John walked cautiously into their room, only to be met with the sight of Sherlock – and the source of the humming – spread out on the rug, stark naked, and covered in jam.
"Oh, god dammit, Sherlock."