A/N: It's fun to write on the Skull's POV so far. So tell me what you think! 3

Prologue

Sherlock Holmes is actually a good man. A good, crazy man. The world's only Consulting Detective. He is Dr John Watson's complementary intelligence.

John Watson, on the other hand, is a better man. The only person in the world who can withstand and tolerate Sherlock's presence without wanting to scream. He is Sherlock's humanity – complements him when he did good and scolded him whenever he becomes too insensitive. They complete each other, it's obvious. I can see it from John's limping.

Sherlock is his crutch. And now that Sherlock's gone, John's limping.

Ten months after the unfortunate incident, John finally confided in me.

I never felt so alone in my life, Skull. John said. I still can't understand why Sherlock did this.

I was about to complain that my name wasn't Skull, but I stopped myself.

He isn't Sherlock; of course he can't hear me. Only Sherlock hears me. And besides, I can't remember my name, either. I am frequently called "Skull", and it rubs off of me.

And never mind my skull feelings. It's the first time that John Watson said it.

He feels alone.

Without Sherlock, he feels alone.

Alone.

At first I haven't understood the concept of being alone. Oh, don't look at me like that. I had been human, too – but I just don't remember much of it. I suppose you've deduced it by now; I don't have a brain.

I don't have a pair of eyes, either. Or ears. Or lips.

I do have a nice set of teeth, though. I haven't just got time (and hands) to brush them, and neither does Sherlock, or John.

But I digress. Let's not talk about my lack of bodily organs and Sherlock's lack of time to groom me, because I'm a skull and it's simply not the point of why I'm telling this story – the story that taught me the hurt every human feels when they were left alone when there's nothing to hold on.

No, don't give up on me just yet. I know that I'm the worst storyteller; I admit that there are some parts that you'd want to toss me to the hungry dogs… but before you do that I just wanted to tell you that I am the only skull that can tell you Dr John Watson's most darkest days. So, yeah. You have to think twice before ditching.

It all started when John went home alone – no groceries, no Sherlock, not hurrying – just clutching Sherlock's coat and scarf, which is a bad sign by the way, since John rarely comes home without Sherlock after solving a case.

And one more thing, Sherlock never takes off his flabby coat and scarf and send John home along with it. He never did. For better or for worse, John always stayed beside Sherlock.

John slumped on his usual seat and stared at the sofa opposite it, unaware of the fact that he's clutching Sherlock's coat and pulling it close to him. I noticed his eyes were red-rimmed. Red from crying, probably, but why?

Then after a few ticks of the clock beside me, John started to break down.

This is curious, of course. I had never seen Dr John Watson clutching Sherlock's coat and hanging onto it for dear life; let alone see him cry like he lose all sanity. What could've possibly happened that made John cry, gnash his teeth, and made him clutch Sherlock's article of clothing like he's…

Oh.

Right.

Shall I continue this or...?