The head, the severed head, stared back at him semi-apologetically from the interior of the refrigerator.
He could just imagine what the conversation would be like, trying to find a severed head to bring home: "What can I get you today, sir?" "Oh, nothing much, George, just the usual." "Right. We got a fresh one yesterday, just for you, sir…"
John frowned. It was understandable, of course, that his flatmate wanted something for his experiments. Since it meant that they wouldn't involve him he usually didn't mind Sherlock's use of extraordinary subject matter. But since there now was a head, a severed head, staring back at him from beside a half-open jar of mayonnaise, he could no longer remember just what it was he had been looking for in the refrigerator – instead he silently began to count off all the times Sherlock had stashed body parts in their kitchen. The number was high.
"Oh, John, good morning. I wouldn't recommend getting anything from the fridge."
The liquid voice rolled over John's shoulders, an unwanted breaker pounding up against his occupied mind, words like waves crashing on the floor without having been understood. Very slowly, John closed the refrigerator door and turned to face his friend. God, there is a head, a severed head, smiling at me in the fridge. It was actually grinning, rigor mortis having frozen its gruesome expression in place.
"Sherlock," he said, "there's a head."
Sherlock nodded.
"A refrigerator," John continued, "is built to keep food cool. Mayonnaise. Jam. Vegetables. Food. Not-" he waved a hand, searching for the word. "Not severed heads, for God's sake."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow but didn't look away from the paper. "Really? Is that what it's for, then?"
"Yes, Sherlock. That's what it's for," John said, "food."
"Funny, I seem to have missed that bit in the instruction manual."
John gaped at his friend before realizing that he really should have expected the witticisms and that he would get nowhere with his argument. Reaching into the fridge, eyes shut to avoid looking at the head, he pulled out a jar of jam, set it on the counter next to his toast, and solemnly swore to himself to glare at Sherlock for the rest of the morning.