"Well, I say friend…" It had struck Sherlock that it must be a very strange thing indeed to call a skull a "friend", so he had quickly elaborated to his potential flatmate. Mustn't come off as too strange. He did need help paying the rent, after all. But, despite the fact that the skull was an inanimate object, it had, in a way, been a friend to Sherlock nonetheless.
The man had made the decision to donate his body to science before he died, and so, when his skeleton had been found following the capture of a murderer who had viciously killed five people over the span of two years, it hadn't been all that difficult for Sherlock to acquire the skull. Mainly because he had been directly responsible for the capture of the murderer. Also because it wouldn't be hard to convince Molly to let him have it in any case.
Sherlock was fond of skulls. He always had been. When he was a boy he liked to doodle skulls on the edges of his boring, much-too-easy homework, resulting in scolding from his teachers. Apparently doodling was bad enough, but the fact that it was always skulls made it worse. Mother and Father had received their fair share of "concerned for his mental wellbeing" notes, and so Sherlock reluctantly kept his doodles to a small notebook, and occasionally his bedroom walls, which Mummy didn't appreciate.
But now, now he finally had a skull to call his own. Sherlock stood in the living room of his cramped little flat, grinning down at his prized new possession cupped in his hands. He rotated it around. Male, obviously. Thirty-five to forty. Slightly overweight. Trying to lose weight before he died, going by the state of his teeth.
Sherlock proudly displayed his skull on the bookcase. Shame he didn't have a fireplace here. He thought that the skull would make quite the mantelpiece decoration.
...
...
It didn't take long for him to start talking to the skull.
He had burst into the flat, still on the high of solving a locked-room murder (his favourite), his hands clasped together under his chin, his eyes shining with excitement. He was literally bouncing on the balls of his feet. He grinned over at the skull.
"It was the stepfather," he declared proudly. In three long strides he had reached the bookcase, and had pulled the skull down. "You see, as the woman he was dating worked at the zoo, it was no great feat for him to acquire the snake. Add in the fact of the small holes for the repairing of the pipes in her bedroom, even though no repairs were necessary, and also the fact that he would lose her financial support from her mother's will once she moved out, and it was obvious, really, once I had a look around."
The skull simply grinned back, as it always did. Sherlock continued babbling on about details of the murder, occasionally throwing in details of how slow and inferior the forensics team was.
The skull learned everything about Sherlock's cases. Every detail, every motive, every clever little fact that had been missed by everyone else.
"What would they do without me, Billy?" Sherlock declared to the skull, which was now sitting on his kitchen countertop while he lazily roasted a speared toe over his Bunsen burner. He wasn't quite sure when he had decided that the skull should have a name. But he felt a bit foolish just talking to "the skull". At least now he could say he was talking to Billy. He had never bothered learning the name of the man who had once owned the skull, which probably wasn't what Sherlock had christened it. That didn't matter, though.
Soon, Sherlock started talking to the skull about other things.
"He just keeps nagging and nagging me, Billy," Sherlock groaned, lying on the couch. He held the skull above his head, his fingers curled inside it to keep it from falling on his face. "'Get a proper job, Sherlock. Mummy would be displeased, Sherlock. You couldn't afford your rent this month, I see. Perhaps, if you asked nicely, I could give you a job as one my personal assistants.' Ha! I would live on the streets before I accepted that offer. I do have some dignity, you know!"
When Sherlock didn't have cases, he found himself leaving the flat with the skull sometimes. He occasionally brought it with him to Angelo's, who accepted his eccentric behavior without a single blink. Sherlock would place the skull in the middle of the table and occasionally make comments to it while he ate. He was very aware of the staring and whispering of the other patrons of the restaurant.
"She's cheating on her husband," he said in a low voice to Billy, glancing out of the corner of his eye at the woman whispering about him to her cousin – no, sister. "You can tell by the state of her nail polish and the tattoo on her wrist. And her hair. Her hair. That is the most important feature, Billy." He twirled the spaghetti around his fork idly, grinning slightly. He then glanced over at another table where two men sat, talking eagerly to each other. "Hmm. Best friends since childhood. Unable to catch up very much since they both got married – ah, within the same year, too. The blond has two sons, the redhead has none. But obviously they care about each other a great deal, even though they haven't seen each other in at least six months. Strong bond. They would obviously do anything for each other…"
He trailed off suddenly, brow furrowed. He had this strange feeling in his stomach, one that occasionally flitted by when he talked to Billy. But now, it was stronger. Sentiment and emotions were useless to him, so as soon as this feeling came by he deleted it to make room for more important things. But now it was much harder to ignore, or simply delete away, as he deduced the pair of friends and chatted away to his skull. He didn't like this feeling, not in the slightest. It made him feel…rather like he was aching. His throat felt a bit tight, and he swallowed his next bite of spaghetti hard. He blinked rapidly down at his plate. Should I attempt to delete this feeling again, or try to identify and then store it safely away so that I can avoid it in the future? He frowned at Billy, pondering this as he finished his meal, and as he left to yet another declaration from Angelo that he would not accept a single pound for the food, he realized that he had decided on the latter because he had already identified the feeling. Loneliness.
Well, that's entirely pointless, isn't it? Sherlock thought angrily as he deposited Billy on the shelf, back at his flat. It was not only pointless, it was confusing. After all, he had his skull. His skull gave him someone to talk to, someone who wouldn't interrupt and say stupid things. But why did he feel like this while he was talking to the skull? It made no sense.
Me, lonely! He scoffed as he flopped down on the couch, crossing his arms tightly over his chest. Well, this was a feeling that he would most certainly have to get out of the way. He hated this…getting reminders that he could be just as human as anyone else. I should be above this. I am above feeling. I am above needing companionship. Friends would only be distractions.
People had tried befriending him, before. Long ago it had been children at school. When he scorned their stupidity they angrily responded in their childish ways. Skipping ahead to recent times, there was Molly Hooper. Molly would be happy to be more than friends, actually, but the same basic principles could be applied. She kept on trying, no matter how cold Sherlock was to her. And there was Mike Stamford, who taught at Bart's. Mike put up with him better than most people, but at the most Mike could only be considered a casual acquaintance. And there was Lestrade, too. Not technically a "friend". Probably the closest to one Sherlock had, though. But they weren't like Billy. He could tell Billy anything. And Billy never irritated him.
So why wasn't Billy enough?Sherlock gritted his teeth in frustration. Perhaps, he thought, this was the first time he was properly acknowledging the fact that this wasn't enough, that maybe he really did need more. Maybe he did need someone to respond to his talking, something other than a wide, toothy grin and empty eye sockets.
Sherlock groaned and dug the heels of his hands into his eyes. A familiar need began to rise in him, and this time, he didn't want to refuse it. Not this time. Anything else would be better than these complicated…emotions.
Despite the landlord's tiny intelligence, he managed to find out. Sherlock didn't bother looking twice at the eviction notice; he simply balled it up and tossed it in the trash bin.
After Sherlock packed up his piles and piles of belongings and moved, for the time being, into a small B&B, he looked up flats for lease on the internet. His eyes lit up when he saw that there was a place in Central London, under a familiar name…He knew that Mrs. Hudson would be more than willing to give him a discount, but still, he knew he would fall far short, money-wise. Central London was an expensive place to live, special rates or no. A flatmate would be a requirement if he wanted to live in a place like that.
But who would possibly want him for a flatmate?