Honestly.

It all started with that damn skull, would be what John would vehemently protest.

Sherlock would just sit there, scowling and deducting every sliver of information in his seemingly cluttered mind. As brilliant as Sherlock thinks John is, and as usually right as John is, John is wrong on this one. John is wrong; Sherlock is correct.

And because Sherlock is so frustratingly angry, he decided that he would refer to John as Watson.

Yes, that seemed more fitting.

Well, you see, all of this is about one tiny thing. One small, minuscule thing that Watson wanted to do, did do and somewhere along the way included lots of tantrums and strops. One day, he saw Sherlock stroking the skull's head, and consulting it as if it were alive. It was quite a disturbing (but not an unusual) sight to see the man stroking and crooning over some piece of a dead person. Then Sherlock began pacing, babbling nonsense and then pausing so the skull could 'insert its dialogue'. Sherlock also occasionally glanced at it, with a contemplating expression on his face. John merely scoffed at what his colleague was doing and walked off into the kitchen to make some herbal tea. Believe him, he needed it. Also upon arriving said kitchen, John was not mortified to have discovered no less than three lucid green eyeballs, one finely chopped human ear and precisely twelve fingers in the fridge. He swore, grunted and then promptly shut the fridge door and leaned his head against the cool silver metal.

Should he say anything?

No.

This was Sherlock.

...let's just leave it at that.

Continuing this very abstract plotline (so far), it wasn't until later that John's day was about to get rather confusing. It was after three o'clock, and at three o'clock, Sherlock goes around London for a mind-clearing walk (but John obviously thinks that Sherlock comes back even more brain addled than he already is). John decided that he would watch a nice bit of Jeremy Kyle, laugh at the people getting into all sorts of stupid muddles and have some good old tea. So, when the doctor relaxed into the squishy chair next to the mantle piece with his Earl Grey, he had an urge. This urge was peculiarly strong. He really wanted to get up...and throw himself at the mantlepiece. It was one of the oddest things John had ever urge was somehow coming from... the skull. Oh dear lord. He wanted to...talk to it, confess, spill the beans, open up-

No.

He would not go near that skull, even if it were the last living molecule on this earth. It was a rather peculiar feeling, he had to admit - but he would not give into his own demands.

It was like Afghanistan in his brain all over again, only this time, he was fighting against himself.

Well. There was no-one around, and Sherlock wouldn't be back for about an hour. His eyes shifted quickly as if he were a criminal about to commit several murders. Although John couldn't commit any shape or form of murder here because Sherlock would pick it up in less than a second. Besides, he didn't want to kill anymore. Intrigued by the skull, John slowly put down the steaming mug of tea on the maple table next go the chair and walked over to the skull.

"Hmmm," John murmured, as he reached out and rested his palm on the bumpy bone of the skull's top. It felt rough and smooth against his palm.

Hello.

Well. John had to admit, many things in life don't make an army doctor jump but this- this was one of the few. He almost knocked the mug from the table flinging his arms about whilst jumping backwards. Oh my skull just spoke. It SPOKE. Do skulls actually speak? Cue more internal conflict and forever asking himself questions. Having quite a bit of experience with dead people (living with Sherlock and being an army doctor made seeing death a regular occurrence), skulls don't speak. Dead people don't speak and any form of dead thing does not speak. So, John thought, he was going mad. Being a flatmate to a sociopath did not have its benefits sometimes. Oh well, if he was going to go mad, he was going to have a damn good time being mad. Maybe he'd be given a straight jacket before long. John decided he might as well respond, so as not to be too rude. He didn't want to go to Hell because of being impolite to a skull. Although he didn't believe in god, so what difference did it make?

"Hello?"

John really did not think that he should say anything. But, he was fearless. Yes, he was godamn fearless.

"Is...Is anyone there? I swear you just talked to me. Oh great. I'm talking to a ruddy skull now - have I gone loopy ages ago and I hadn't noticed?"

I'm afraid not. You see, I'm a therapist. A councillor of some sort. Well, you could call it that. I just talk to Sherlock.

John's eyebrow rose higher up his forehead than it already was. Well, this is going to be interesting, isn't it?

"Really? Well. What seems to be on my mind?" John scoffed.

It wasn't like the skull would ACTUALLY know what he was thinking. It would be just godamn creepy if it did. If John was only now starting to wonder about his mental sanity after a whole year and a half from living with Sherlock, he was insane. Well, we thought we'd have already clarified that.

You were going to watch some rubbish telly. I know you've recently gotten Sherlock into that programme, he only likes it because he can find out who the father is before the people on the show actually do. To be honest though, it is pretty easy to work out from the deceptive looks in their eyes. Then, when he works it out, you smile at him fondly like...like he's a kitten. But I think you're more like a kitten.

It was at this point John knew he had gone mad. Skulls don't have Northern Irish accents. Maybe this was Moriarty the skull. John shuddered slightly - that was NOT something he wanted to think about whilst he was living in this flat. Also, none of this could possibly have come from even the very intricate depths of his subconscious because he has NEVER, and he means NEVER, thought about Sherlock and himself as kittens. John also does not think himself cute enough to be a kitten. Furthermore, his sub conscience would not be cooing at itself and calling itself cute. And since when did he smile at Sherlock fondly?

This was getting rather spooky.

John heaved a shuddering sigh, and gripped the mantlepiece tightly to hold himself upright. He was feeling dizzy; this was probably all due to recent lack of sleep on one of Sherlock's cases, wherein all poor John did was sprint alongside Sherlock and occasionally give dead people a once-over. He gave the skull a scathing glance, and then rather viciously grabbed his coffee from the table (to unfortunately find that it had gone cold), sunk into the leather chair and proceeded to put some rubbish telly on to sooth his...whatever you called it.

Problem.

Sherlock arrived home with his brain all jumbled up. Those mind-clearing walks around London only made him more confused and agitated. When he wanted to think about one thing, his brain would sometimes lead to too many seemingly logical conclusions, and he would stop and mutter to himself as he walked along (or hailed a taxi). As he took his coat and his scarf off and hung them up, in his peripheral vision he noticed John looking a little pale. He was sitting down - watching rubbish telly, he noted - with a cup of...cold tea. John's fingers twitched on his right hand, the one that was holding the cup. His composure said frightened. Or scared off, either one. What could possibly have scared John? He lives with a sociopath, for god's sake. A sociopath whose idea of fun is to go out and investigate a swamp of bloody, limp dead bodies, verbally torture Anderson about his slimy fringe and throw himself in front of taxis just to prove one ever so miniscule point. He turned his attention back to John. He wanted his attention, so he sighed loudly and then procceeded to unceremoniously dump himself on the chair next to John.

"Watching rubbish telly again?" Sherlock glanced at the TV, and scoffed.

"It's so obvious he's not the father. Look at the turn-ups on his jeans, for christ's sake! Honestly, why don't people think?" Sherlock noticed that John had jumped slightly when hearing abrupt conversation from him, and he saw the way John's eyes quickly darted to the skull, looking a bit... shifted in his seat.

He was sitting about half a metre's length away from John, but he decided that wasn't close enough to gauge his flatmate's condition, so he scooted forwards. John just looked at him dubiously. Sherlock attempted to loudly clear his throat seeing as talking to people wasn't actually his strong point - neither was attuning to someone.

"John, what's-"

He frowned, lips thinning in an attempt to coherently put words together. Obviously John was looking at him expectantly but he was waiting. He would probably have to wait for a long time, to be honest.

"John, you look like you've seen a ghost," said Sherlock. He clasped his hands together and interlocked his thumbs and fingers to try and look somewhat...worried? He attempted to twist his face into a concerned position. Well, he was genuinely concerned but his face would never show it so he'd thought he could at least try.

John just sniggered, the corner of his mouth twitching ever so slightly.

"Nothing, really. I'm fine," but Sherlock eyed him suspiciously .

John just smirked.

"Seriously! Nothing's wrong." To that, John put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder and smiled...fondly at him? In his sparkling eyes, there was a mixture of gratitude and respect. It was rather quite humbling, in his opinion. But then no-one but John was for his opinions. Something about John was so very special but he couldn't put his finger on it. Sherlock decided that after half a minute of intense staring, it was getting a bit...uncomfortable. He cleared his throat and abruptly stood up.

"Right, then, if all is well, I am going to be conducting a few experiments," he declared. At John's worried look, he amended, "But none of them will be taking place in the kitchen, or somewhere that it considered to be unhygienic." Sherlock could see the tendons in John's neck loosen a bit - he knew John didn't mind so much. If he did, he wouldn't put up with him. Something about hygeine. To which John got up, and said, "I'll be in the shower if you or Mrs Hudson need me."
But what John didn't understand was that he was the sole focus of the experiments.

John padded into his bedroom wearing only a worn-out blue towel slung low over his hips, and he still hadn't dried properly. His feet made copious amounts of water marks on the carpet and droplets landed haphazardly on the carpet. He dragged a hand through his hair and went to his cupboard. He slid open the cupboard door and picked out a T-shirt and jeans; he wasn't going anywhere. No need for a fancy suit (although he liked those), or over the top drag (that had come up with a case. Sherlock looked damn good as a woman). A slight cough interrupted his thoughts from the doorway, and John turned round.
Oh. It was just Sherlock. John turned round and raised an eyebrow, so as to ask what Sherlock wanted but when he looked at Sherlock, what did he look like? He was at the door looking...more than a bit dishevelled?
Woah, John thought. Sherlock's lips were slightly parted and slightly more red, his face was flushed a pretty pink and his pupils were blown wide. He was shirtless and practically hanging off the door frame.
Now, John had already noticed that Sherlock was aesthetically pleasing but it seems he didn't, although he could use it to his advantage in a case. Those sharp cheekbones and those eyes, they were something you wouldn't get in anyone else. John has already given him a few appreciative glances (hell, even Lestrade has once) when he appeared in a Westwood suit or his general smart clothing. It seemed he was completely oblivious to people asking him out (Molly from Barts, for instance). If they asked if he wanted dinner, he'd probably say something along the lines of, "Yes please, and bring it round later. John will probably want some, too." So he wasn't smooth with the ladies, but Sherlock had said that wasn't his area.
Maybe it was men.
John quickly turned his situation back to the present and not the past, and went, "Hhmm? What do you want?"
Sherlock actually looked a bit more than beyond flustered at this point and then proceeded to say,"I just wanted to know if you were doing anything later." The words sounded really hard to get out of his mouth.
Well. That was unexpected. But everything Sherlock did was unexpected. Like putting severed body parts in the kitchen, downloading some alien porn video he had to watch for a case onto John's laptop and generally being such an enigma, so unexpected. Although, John had to admit, it was rather cute that Sherlock was asking him out for dinner (since when did that happen? He always ate it on his own), John thought he would play 'hard to get." He smirked.
"I thought you were going out? You know, experiments and all to do. Dead bodies to see," John quipped. Sherlock balked at this and actually looked at loss for words. "Well, I seem to have accomplished that, so there's a case on at the Yard now so Lestrade was wondering if we were free, but I'm only free if you're free." Oh. John didn't know what to feel; disappointment or hopefulness? Disappointment that Sherlock was only asking him to go on a case, or hopefulness because he actually thought it was adorable when Sherlock said, "I'm only free if you are."

He needed to talk to that damn skull.

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