John balances the skull on his chest and strokes it gently, gazing at empty sockets where eyes should be. He talks to it sometimes, telling tales from his day at Surgery, and reminiscing about life before The Fall.
He's a smart man, an educated man, so he tries to think of interesting things to say. He recites the names of all the bones in the human body (the irony does not escape him), new discoveries in Science and Chemistry, and classic literature. All the greats. Byron, Wilde, Dickens, Moore.
He tries to be interesting, because Sherlock would hate it if he were dull.
John is a smart man. An educated man. He knows things. Things most people don't. He recites them in his head, not out loud, never out loud, least someone hears him, but he knows.
Brain cells die in less than seven minutes.
He lingers on this one. Sherlock always prided himself on his mind, his hard drive, but in the end was he any different from the average man? His mind still stopped, still died, but John likes to think his brain cells stayed alive for eight minutes just to spite the world.
Tissue decomposes twice as fast in air as it does in water; four times as fast as it does underground.
He'd like to picture Sherlock resting in his coffin, pale and pristine, but he knows better. He counts down the days.
The intestines begin to eat themselves and the dead cells release enzymes and gases that distort the body. The body swells, abdomen protruding, tongue engorging; fluid from the lungs leaks out of the nose and mouth. This process takes four to six days in temperate climates.
His stomach rolls. He can't think of Sherlock, beautiful, whipcord thin Sherlock, distorted and bloated, rotting, without wanting to run to the bathroom.
Hydrogen sulphide, methane, and traces of mercaptans are released.
He's familiar enough with those smells, having had them waft out of the fridge at him enough times, but he can't stand the idea of Sherlock smelling like that. Even when handling decomposing body parts himself he would always scrub up after, too proud of his appearance to risk smelling like the dead. No. Sherlock smells of dust and nicotine and old newspaper clippings.
Without animals to disturb the body, hair, teeth, and nails become detached within a few weeks.
He remembers Sherlock's smile, the way he would grin full wide, showing slightly crooked teeth. He remembers those long, lovely hands with their perfectly manicured nails. He remembers carding his hands through those dark locks. He remembers…he remembers…
Full decomposition takes place within a year, leaving only bones and teeth, along with small traces of tissue.
Across the room, hidden under the kitchen sink, are newspaper articles he's saved. He knows the headline by heart.
Fraudulent Detectives Grave Desecrated
He'd waited two years, just to be sure. Two years, and then he snuck into the cemetery, shovel in hand. He didn't use it, in the end. Instead he clawed at the soft dirt with his fingers; splitting his nails till they bled, face streaming with tears.
And he took it.
He took Sherlock's skull, leaving the one from the mantle in its place, and returned to his bedsit with it.
He holds it tight to his chest, the only part of Sherlock Holmes he has left, and whispers all the things he wishes he'd said.
These bloody days have broken my heart
My lust, my youth, did them depart.
For your wit alone, many men would bemoan
And since it is so, many still cry aloud
It is a great loss that you are dead and gone.
- Thomas Wyatt