"Sherlock, will you please stop chatting with that skull? I'm trying to sleep," John growls as he contemplates throwing a pillow at his door for added effect. Why does Sherlock have to speak so loudly at two in the morning? He hears a pause in the deep baritone rumbling beneath the floorboards.

"John, I am terribly busy at the moment so if you would take care not to interrupt me-"

"THAT'S IT!" shouts John, kicking off his sheets and storming down the stairs. As soon as his feet hit the second floor he halts, surprised. Usually Sherlock would be performing while talking to the skull, even when no one was around to see. His theatrical nature prevented him from being able to sit and quietly discuss something unless he was actively playing the part of the quiet, reserved genius for someone else's benefit. But right now, Sherlock is sitting down, holding the skull close to his lips as if sharing a secret not meant for mortal ears, as if – John wonders why this word comes to mind – conspiring.

He turns, now, letting the skull rest of the arm of his chair. "John, please, I am really very busy," he mumbles, obviously unwilling to discuss the matter at hand. John gapes. What's going on here? Is this a joke, some kind of trick to make him want to know more?

"Alright, tell me. What is it?"

"Unfortunately these matters are of a very sensitive nature, John, and I cannot disclose them to you. Now if you'll excuse me-"

"Okay, hold on. Since when am I not included in the discussion about anything?" John asks, getting angry. Why is Sherlock holding out on him?

Sherlock simply stands, leaving the skull on the arm of his chair, and leaves the room, eyes straight ahead as if simply looking at John would give away whatever secret he was holding. John sighs, sinking into Sherlock's chair. First Sherlock doesn't take him out on a case, claiming that the doctor has "missed too much work." Now this.

Looking down at the skull, John considers the possibility that it might hold secrets as well, ones that he will never know of. He picks it up, brushing his hand over the smooth, flat top. "You wouldn't lie to me, would you?" he asks, feeling silly. "What's Sherlock got to hide?"

No answer from the skull. Oh well, John thinks, at least I tried.

He goes back to bed, feeling the knowledge that Sherlock is hiding something from him gnawing at the back of his mind. He decides to forget about it, falling into a dream where he was chased (and eventually crushed) by a gigantic file cabinet.

Two weeks later, it happens again. John is eating dinner and as he ventures a look into the adjoining room, he sees Sherlock whispering into the ear of his former "friend." As soon as John's eyes hit Sherlock's back, subconsciously tracing the lines of his jacket, Sherlock snaps around. "Can I help you with something?" he asks tiredly. John simply shakes his head and turns away, refocusing on his plate. He takes a bite of the meal Mrs. Hudson had begrudgingly made for him and his flat mate, wondering if this was the only thing he had eaten all day. He stops chewing, however, when he hears his name. Cocking his head to one side, he listens as well as he possibly can while still pretending to chew his food. He can't make anything else out, though, and soon Sherlock sits across from him and says, "You're remarkably terrible at eavesdropping, John." John quickly goes back to chewing normally and swallows.

"I don't know what you mean by that, Sherlock." There is a moment of silence in which Sherlock's stare is completely deafening. "Why don't you have something to eat," John says flatly, obviously and clumsily changing the subject. Sherlock's gaze breaks and frowns, picking out a very small portion for himself and taking his plate to his room.

John's mind once again wanders to the skull and the secrets it must contain. If only there was a way to hear what Sherlock was telling it! He picks it up and looks it straight in the sockets, as if he could scare information out of it. After a few minutes of staring with no results, however, he replaces the skull and starts cleaning up.

Sherlock, observing the interaction between John and the skull from the stairway, is intrigued. He creeps over to his beloved skull and picks it up, examining it for any marks left by John. There is nothing there. Sherlock scolds himself; how could he believe his best friend capable of tampering with his most prized possession? He strides into the kitchen, purposefully making his footfalls audible, and grabs a plate and a cloth to wipe it dry with. John jumps slightly at Sherlock's first step, but is otherwise unaffected by his entrance. Together they wash and dry two plates, two forks, and two mugs. John insists that the pan their dinner was cooked in will take some time to clean, so Sherlock needn't stick around.

Sherlock takes a few steps back and sits at the table, watching John scrub cheese and meat grease from the pan. "That's not what I meant," John says, more to himself than to Sherlock.

"I know," comes the reply. John's hands work faster.

When he finishes, John puts all the dishes away and turns to his flat mate, who is still sitting at the table. Staring. Sherlock opens his mouth to say something, swallows, and says simply, "Good night, John." He stands and exits the room, his footsteps loud all the way to his room. John shakes his head, feeling as though Sherlock had just gone through every single thought he had ever had. He plods over to the TV and turns it on, hoping its meaningless noise would help him forget how strange his friend is being.