Summary: Sherlock severed limb experiments always seem to get in the way. And John always gets caught in the crossfire
Warning: This is very silly. Domesticity, baking, shaving and Mrs Hudson being unamused.
Disclaimer: And of course, I don't bleedin' own them.
.
Head
At first he wasn't sure if it was real or the pharmacist had mixed up his prescription, adding something with a little more edge into his daily dosage. He squeezed his eyes with his fingers in a bizarre attempt to poke the apparent hallucination from his mind, but it was to no avail.
He tilted his head, curiously peering into the fridge, desperately searching for a valid reason as to why there was a severed head hogging the bottom shelf, and wondering where the hell his jar of mayonnaise had disappeared to.
If this was in anyone else's fridge, John would be horrified, would possibly draw his weapon and edge exceptionally quickly towards the nearest exit, but after seeing a skull on the fireplace and a half dissected ear on the kitchen table all within the first week of moving in, the shock and surprise had almost dissipated into a merely apathetic acceptance.
John cringed at the cold drooping mouth, flopped in a unruly fashion in his direction, before pushing the fridge door shut.
That sandwich he craved no longer seemed so tempting.
.
.
.
Finger
It was a frightful noise. A high pitched wail of fear very much worthy of a Hitchcock heroine.
John bolted in his bed, grabbing the gun beneath his pillow with haste. He could hear Sherlock scrabbling around in the bedroom beneath, presumably pulling on clothes with little grace.
Both men met on the landing, John with his service revolver at the ready, Sherlock equipped to hit the fiend in the face with his bare hands.
"Mrs Hudson? Are you alright?" Sherlock strained, ears searching for the tiniest hint of a noise.
Padding feet, strong, purposeful padding feet thumped towards the door. John and Sherlock visibly tensed, and the good doctor primed his gun at the door in preparation for what was about to face them.
A horrible, scarred face of a grubby overweight thug. Or a skinny, emaciated frame of a criminal youth. That's what they thought anyway.
What they weren't prepared for was the grossly unamused face of an elderly woman, eyes stark and brows furrowed, holding up a plastic tub of margarine.
"Sherlock!" Mrs Hudson waggled the tub and pursed her lips. "What have I told you about this?"
"Ah. Yes. Well, it was the perfect container Mrs Hudson, just what I needed for my experiment."
"It wasn't even used up Sherlock. I was to going bake with this." Out shot a hand along with the tub.
John peered inside, his eyes widening as he surveyed the contents. The tub was still quarter full with its original spreadable contents, but in the centre of it all lay a gnarled and grey looking finger, severed just below the knuckle.
"Well just think Mrs Hudson, your margarine is going to be part of a scientific experiment, potentially ground breaking, and may save a man several years in prison."
"Will you make my cake then?" She planted a stiff hand on her hips as she stared at Sherlock incredulously.
Sherlock patted John, who had so far managed to keep his nose clean, firmly on the back. "Watson here will. He's the most brilliant cook."
Mrs Hudson smiled. "Ooo is he now?"
"Apparently." John muttered through gritted teeth before placating Mrs Hudson with a smile. "Of course I will." Will I?
"Ah! Well everyone is happy then. So if you can pop that back in the top of the fridge Mrs Hudson, I'd be most grateful." Sherlock turned on his heels and sauntered back towards his room, but not before John grabbed him by the crook of his arm.
"I can't bloody cook. You know that."
"Yes you can. You cooked that stew...thing not so long ago."
"That's because you grab a load of vegetables, toss it in big pan and put the lid on. It's hardly skilful cooking."
"I have faith in you Watson. You're always solid under pressure." Sherlock smiled, a little to smug for John's liking, before ghosting away into his bedroom.
.
.
.
Foot
John had always preferred showers. Possibly a relic from his army days, where baths were a seemingly foreign concept saved for the very illustrious or the very lucky. Even with his leg leading him a (un) merry dance, he preferred standing in the cascading water instead of stewing in a bubbling swill of his own filth.
He peeled off his clothes, wrapped a fresh smelling towel around his waist, and padded into the bathroom across the corridor.
Determined to scrub up well with intent this evening, as tonight was another date with Sarah, he ran through his meticulous process of lather, scrub, rinse, repeat.
Running a hand across his face, he felt a shave was in order. His mind changed almost instantly when he observed that the only razor he had left was an abhorrent disposable one, after Sherlock had used his previous, and exceedingly expensive, Gillette razor to shave a vermin specimen for an ongoing experiment. The thought to buy himself a new one had passed him by totally.
He ran another hand on his cheek and chin. No, no, no. He needed a shave, judging by the sandpaper consistency beneath his fingers. He shakily grabbed the horrendous disposable razor and placed in on the rim of the sink, grimacing at the thought of the future pain that was to come.
Reaching a hand to the mirrored cupboard, he pulled the door to and jumped back as he eyes came to see what was inside.
A foot. A human foot. Fresh judging by its pinkish, flesh tone.
"Sherlock! Why is there a damn foot in my bathroom cupboard? Sherlock!" He stamped his good foot on the ground, hoping Sherlock would catch on that the unimpressed thumping was for him.
"What?" A muffled answer from below.
John pulled the door ajar and bellowed. "There. Is. A . Foot. In. My. Cupboard. Why?"
"Oh that. I thought you wouldn't mind."
John rolled his eyes. "Well who wouldn't mind a human foot in their cupboard?"
"It's just for an experiment. It'll be gone tomorrow."
"It'll be gone tomorrow." John muttered to himself. "Brilliant."
He prodded the door of the cupboard closed, encasing the foot in its temporary home.
"Well, I'll have to make do." John grabbed a bar of soap and rubbed it aggressively into his hands before spreading it across his lower face. He picked up the razor, it's ugly orange head gawping at his delicate face, and, with a mumbling prayer to God, began edging it towards his skin.
John had always thought being shot would be the most painful experience of his life. How wrong he had been.