Music swelled from nowhere. John briefly wondered where the orchestra was hidden before the words he'd been about to say came out of his mouth in a more lyrical form. Catchy, even. And rhyming.
What the hell?
The words kept flowing and he did a quick two-step in perfect time with the music.
When Sherlock took over the next verse, John knew this couldn't be real. Sherlock singing? Never going to happen. Well, it had happened once, but that had been on a case, undercover at an opera company, not in their living room at Baker Street. Not when the subject of their tuneful argument was why there wasn't any tea in the flat; why Sherlock had used the last bath towel and not then done the laundry; and why were there eyeballs in the freezer and were they human?
They met in a chorus of intertwining melodies, dancing an Astaire and Rogers sort of routine, and John didn't want to think about which of the two he was supposed to be.
The music swelled through a bridge and into what he hoped was the final verse. God forbid they be forced into an encore.
John woke in the chair with the telly running. On the screen, young pretty people were singing about demons and vampires.
"Of course," he muttered. "Buffy."