Sherlock had his small magnifying glass out and was inspecting a dead body at the morgue. An interesting case it was. Young male, found with simple scratches and bruises and nothing more. No sign as to why he died or exactly how. As he hovered his eyes over the right shoulder of the man, he discovered a small green tint color surrounding one of the scratches. He brought his nose down, and sniffed. A wide smile spread across his face.

"He was poisoned! Ha! Very clever, clever indeed. Inducing hundreds of small scratches and only needing one small cut to get the poison into the system. Genius." Sherlock looked around to see if anyone had been around to see him make this remarkable discovery. But there was no one. He looked back down at the body. "Well, I figured out how you died. You're welcome. It seems no one thanks me anymore." To his shock and terror, the body shot upright and opened its eyes.

"Well in that case, thank you for finding out how I died." It said, staring at him. Sherlock stumbled back and slammed his back into the wall. "What's wrong?" Sherlock couldn't speak. This man was indeed dead. He checked for a pulse and vital signs himself. This was impossible.

The cabinets that held the bodies on the opposite wall began to shake and shutter. Sherlock looked at them with concern. One by one they rolled out and all the bodies popped up and shouted congratulations to him. Sherlock slowly inched his way to the door, but when he placed his hand on the knob and turned, he found it to be locked. Now in a complete state of terror, he pulled and pounded at the door, but to no avail.

He watched as all the pail bodies slid off their cold beds and stood up. Music began to come from the walls it seemed, but as Sherlock frantically looked for the source of it, he couldn't see anything. Simultaneously they all began dancing to The Chicken Dance. Sherlock's eyes widened. What was going on here? Maracas and sombreros came from thin air; each body grew a mustache and continued to dance. One of them came up to Sherlock and grabbed him by his hands and insisted they danced together, but Sherlock slapped its hands away. They all began to slowly dance towards him and surround him. A sombrero was placed on his head, and maracas in his hands.

Sherlock sat bolt upright in his bed. A bead of sweat rolled down his cheek and his chest heaved. He reached over the side of his bed and looked at the pills he had taken before falling asleep. What a bizarre dream. But in the distance, he swore he could still hear The Chicken Dance being played.