Hello guys and welcome to my second fanfiction!

Please remember, I'm from Austria so I'm sorry for every mistake you'll probably find. Otherwise I hope you'll enjoy my little story and please, please, please review! :)

Dear Skull

Chapter 1: John Watson-Consulting Doctor

"It's done. I'm insane. Utterly insane. Actually, I should've known this day will come. If you get used to eyeballs in the microwave, body parts in the fridge, a bloody violin play at three o'clock in the morning and to be the best friend of a high functional sociopath you just HAVE to be crazy. Well, at least he is MY best friend, I have no idea what I am in his eyes. But the worst part is that I start to be a little like him. And that scares the hell out of me. Imagine, today in the surgery a young woman wanted desperately to flirt with me but I turned her down because of the bright stripe on her forefinger, which told me that she was recently a couple of weeks abroad, probably on honeymoon with her young age, and that obviously with her husband. She slapped me in the face and stormed out of the door, leaving me back in shock about my strange behaviour and with a burning cheek. Maybe I should start to wear a long, black coat and call myself consulting doctor. What do you mean?"

John turned around and faced the two dark, hollow eyes of the skull, which stared at him in silence. The army doctor sighed tiredly and nodded.

"Okay, okay, you're right. But I really would like to see Sherlock's face when he watches me putting on his holy coat."

Slowly he made his way to the kitchen and put the kettle on.

"Fancy some tea?" he shouted in the direction of the skull, which, of course, didn't give an answer.

"Well, I need one", John murmured and a few minutes later he sat comfortably in his chair, sipping his favourite earl grey and listening to the raindrops crashing against the window. Yawning he closed his heavy eyelids and tried not to fall asleep in an instant.

He wasn't surprised of his tiredness, really. The latest case came just yesterday at night to a long awaited ending and took them the whole week to solve and today he had to work. He just couldn't risk another day off or Sahra would strangle him with a stethoscope.

So, after hours full of complaining patients and crying kids he was glad a silence flat had greeted him as he'd came home a couple of hours ago. Sherlock most probably became bored again and went off to or called Lestrade to give him some cold cases. Yeah, that sounded like him.

15 minutes later the doctor put his empty cup in the sink and rubbed tiredly over his face. Suddenly quick steps could be heard on the stairs and Sherlock stormed, dramatically as always, through the door and rushed into the , who leaned heavily against the table, was about to ask him where he was, but no words leaved his mouth and his eyes widened unbelievingly. There, in his flatmates hands, was a plastic bag, and in the plastic bag was a leg. A. Whole. Bloody. Leg.

Sherlock ignored his bloggers expression and started to empty the fridge, of course in his own, careful way. He picked one thing after the other and simply throwed them over his shoulder straight through the kitchen. Milk, eggs, jam, all of them leaved several stains on the wall and ended in a gigantic mess on the floor.

John just stood there, stared at his definitely mad friend and asked himself quietly what he'd done to deserve this. No really, WHAT HAD HE DONE? Finally, after the last carrot found its way to the ground, Sherlock plugged the leg carefully into the fridge and stood up with one fluent movement.

"You have to clean this, I don't want it near my experiments" he said, with an uninterested voice and leaved the kitchen.

John clenched his fists and took a deep breath to calm himself. He knew to argue was absolutely pointless in his state so the blond swallowed all his anger and started to throw his flatmates mess away. Again. Because the great Sherlock Holmes NEVER cleaned anything, he deemed himself for far too brilliant for lowering his person down to do something as mundane as cleaning.

After the floor was neat again, John made Sherlock and himself a cup of tea. He didn't even know why he made one for the other man too but he guessed it was purely habitual. Or at least he tried to tell that himself. Yawning every two seconds he waited until the water began to boil and then filled it in their two cups. Then he realised that their milk was spilled just a few minutes ago. Great. That was just…great.

Grinding his teeth he went into the living room, carefully carrying the black tea in his hands and put it in his friends demanding hands.

"Milk"

"We don't have any" the doctor answered and sat himself in his armchair, desperately trying not to collapse in front of his flatmate.

"Why?"

That was it. John looked up at Sherlock, who sat on the sofa and peered suspiciously in his cup.

"Wha…what does that mean 'why'? Because a certain Oh-so-brilliant-consulting-detective thought it was one of his wonderful ideas to throw the content of our fridge away just to put a damn leg in it!"

John's voice grew louder, annoyed by his friend's behaviour, his tiredness and his tea, which definitely needed a splash of milk. Sherlock frowned and put his untouched tea on the table.

"It's for a…"

"Case, I know", John interrupted him and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Breathing, John", he thought to himself. "Just breathing"

Sherlock's frown deepened and he surveyed his blogger a bit closer, folding his hands under his chin. Dishevelled hair, dark eye rings, pale in the face, obviously light headache. Well, somebody didn't have to be a genius to tell what the matter was.

"John"

The doctor looked up, a bit surprised by the scientist's soft voice.

"You should go to sleep"

The doctor stared at him.

"Ähm… yeah maybe I should"

Slowly he stood up, but Sherlock raised his hand.

"After…"

John moaned.

"After you went to the shop and bought some milk"

The blogger let out a desperate cry.

"Oh, no! No, no, no, no, no! Sherlock, you spilled the milk, so go and get some by yourself! I'm your friend and not your bloody housekeeper!"

Then he stormed off to his bedroom and slammed the door behind him. Quietness fell over the flat like a deep, wholly blanket. Sherlock crossed his arms and pulled a pout. "But that's boring", he murmured offended and pulled his legs to his chest.

Stupid tea. Stupid milk. Stupid world. Stupid, stupid, stupid and boring. Stupid and boring John. Sherlock bit his lip. Scratch that, John wasn't stupid or boring. Well, at least not as stupid and boring as the rest of the brainless human population, which wasn't even capable of producing a murderer who wasn't a completely and obvious idiot.

The detective yawned deeply and stretched himself. Fantastic, now he was tired. He hated sleeping. It was so…ordinary. He slept three days ago, why the hell was he even exhausted? Annoyed, Sherlock laid himself down on the sofa and closed his eyes.

Looking back, he maybe was a bit unfair to his blogger, but it really wasn't his fault that John needed the adrenaline as much as he did. No, it really wasn't his fault. Also, Sherlock Holmes shouldn't feel guilty. He's a high functional sociopath, for god's sake! Otherwise, Sherlock Holmes also shouldn't have friends... But the little, nagging feeling inside his stomach stayed until he fell asleep.

Yes I know, it was rather short but the second chapter will be posted soon!

I hope you'll continue reading and please, review away ;)