Disclaimer: See Ch.1
The Personal Blog of
Dr. John H. Watson
AT A TOTAL LOSS
Well, that was… inconclusive. No one seems to know anything that could help determine what in the hell is going on with Sherlock. Everyone is stumped, Mrs. Hudson, Mrs. Turner, Molly, Lestrade, Stamford, Harry, Bill, everyone. Even Mycroft, Sherlock's own brother, is baffled. He can think of absolutely no reason for his sibling to behave like this. And he's known Sherlock to do some pretty strange things. We all have. Does jumping off St. Bart's and pretending to be dead ring any bells?
Honestly, I think Mycroft was more shocked than anyone else. He told us that the last time he could remember Sherlock doing the whole baking and singing routine was when he was 12 and had just created an adrenal extract from the family sheep. Knowing Sherlock, he would have been absolutely ecstatic about that.
So that's good news, right? At least it means Sherlock's happy at the moment and probably isn't going to go on a shooting spree. Right?
I'm not sure I can deal with a flatmate who is truly mental.
Hold on a second, he just walked in carrying…
"Sherlock, are those flowers?"
He glanced at me in that lazy way of his, the one that I knew actually meant he was taking in every detail of his surrounding environment. "I'm not going to grace that question with an answer, John," he said languidly. "I know your powers of observation to be slightly more astute than that."
I scowled at him. Trust Sherlock to try and change the subject by answering with an insult to make me angry enough to forget my original purpose in questioning him. But I was not to be distracted. "You know that's not what I was really asking, Sherlock. Why do you have flowers?"
"Why are you writing a blog post about me when we haven't had a case for the past two weeks and you've already written up the last one?"
I opened my mouth to reply, then shut it with a snap. This was obviously getting us nowhere. Besides, I knew he wouldn't hear my response anyway, or at least he'd pretend not to hear it. He was back to belting show tunes as he arranged the flowers in one of Mrs. Hudson's old vases.
He was carrying flowers. Honest to God. Flowers. And not from a shop or anything, because there wasn't a wrapping around them. He must have picked them. So now we've added picking flowers to the list of insanity.
Oh, and he hasn't performed any experiments on Gladstone lately. Which slightly terrifies me, because he's always doing something scientific to the dog. If you've forgotten, Gladstone is the bulldog I found sitting outside my door one evening before Sherlock "returned from the dead." Turns out Sherlock sent him. Why? I don't know. Maybe just so he'd have a test subject handy when he came back.
I think I'm going to go mad trying to figure out what's wrong with him.
UPDATE: Now he's cooking. I'm not sure what he's cooking, although it smells rather good. I didn't even know he could cook. Course, I didn't know he could bake, either… Be that as it may, it's downright odd—er than normal. But I'll get to the bottom of it yet!
The flowers are gone, too.