A

John woke up to the sound of a drill. This would not be abnormal in any other household-an indicator of a project or maybe even a bit of DIY- but in 221B waking up to the sound of a drill was down right terrifying. For a moment John debated getting up and investigating, but then he remembered that given the source of the drilling, and witnessing whatever (or whomever) his mad flatmate was drilling into would only make John an accessory during the fact. He rolled into a ball and pulled his duvet over his head.

B

2 hours later John rose for work. He lingered as long as he could in the shower,trying to keep his mind off what Sherlock could be doing in the other room. Unfortunately the more you try not to think about it, the more your mind focuses on it. So,while shampooing his hair, John came up with at least twenty possible explanations for the drilling, the most worrying being:

1-Sherlock was dismantling something, such as a table,chair,etc (please God not again)
2-Sherlock was building something horrid,like another guillotine (That reminds him; he owes Mrs. Nesbitt next door a cat)
3-Sherlock was experimenting on teeth (Must remember to sleep lighter the next week)
4-Sherlock was mixing concrete in the sink again
5-Sherlock was screwing chairs to the wall .Again.
6-Sherlock was fixing something HE broke (John had a good laugh at that one)
Most of all,John not to think of the probability Sherlock was performing a lobotomy (5:1).

C

John dressed and ,towel-drying his hair, wandered in to the kitchen. Sherlock was sitting cross-legged on the floor examining what appeared to be an instruction was a suspiciously long box on the floor along side an electric drill. John cast about for the reason for the drill-ah,yes. Sherlock had drilled holes in the floor and..John looked closer, yes,yes, the ceiling as well. John hoped it was for a pole, like for...
Oh, swallowed hard,hoping he was wrong (he hated to admit it but he hoped he was right, more-so).
John pulled out a carton of eggs while he waited for the water to boil.
He tried to think of other more...sane reasons for Sherlock to have a pole up (flag pole, lamp post,bird house)...but his mind kept coming back round to the first.
John cracked an egg in to the boiling water and twisted the flame up "Starting a night job?"
Sherlock looked round "What?"
John blushed "Nothing." and busied himself with making the tea and concentrated hard on NOT picturing Sherlock pole dancing. John never appreciated having an early-morning job as he did that morning.

D

John came home late that night and stumbled through the door, head bleary with exhaustion. He shook his head at the pole,now with tabs running up one side, and wandered into his room,shedding clothing.
John was climbing into bed when the realization hit him and he back-peddled into the living prayed he had been wrong, that he was so tired that he was examined the tabs running up and down the pole.
"No...please God no."
Just what he was afraid of ...skin, drying on tabs like little had to been at least 200 samples.
He looked at Sherlock,lounging on the sofa with a book on apiary. They had argued on the subject of keeping bees in the flat before (NO Sherlock, what if someone is allergic and even worse, what if they become Africanized? "I never thought of that." "NO bees Sherlock) but John had bigger problems.
John rounded on Sherlock. "Is that..skin?"
Sherlock turned a page 'Yes."
"HUMAN skin?"
Sherlock didn't even blink. "Yes."
John opened and closed his mouth a few times. "Of course it is."
"Is that a problem?"
John barked out a laugh. "Is that..no at all." John rubbed his eyes with the palm of his hands,exasperated. "And Mrs Hudson wonders why we don't have friends round." He shook his head. "Christ, human skin."
Sherlock looked at John curiously,eye brow raised.
"Not Christ, John, merely prisoners, blackguards, the more dead than others."
"More dead than others." he repeated in wonder. He threw his hands up in exasperation "That's it,I'm going to bed."
Sherlock had heard the affection in his voice, had noticed the 'we' but said nothing of it.
It wasn't time.
He nodded and turned another page. 'Goodnight John.'
The only reply was the bedroom door closing.