"Sherlock, what the hell is this?"

Dr John Watson stood over the armchair by the television glaring down at his flatmate. He was holding no more than twelve severed fingers in a slightly open zip lock bag. Another finger had fallen out, and had dripped all over John's new jumper.

Needless to say, he wasn't impressed.

Sherlock opened his eyes to find this picture, groaned, and rolled to his side, tucking his feet under him. He could already see this wouldn't be a good day.

"I was bored."

"And?"

"I distracted myself with an experiment."

"Oh really,"

"Yes, really," said Sherlock, sitting up looking directly at John now, "I thought I would see how long it took for them to decompose." John gave the man an incredulous look as he backed away to let Sherlock make his way to the kitchen, and begin to pace.

Sherlock hadn't been himself recently, he had begun to forget where he left things; he would fumble over what he was trying to say. John was worried, he had never seen Sherlock like this, and his flatmate already had a habit of going into a quiet mood. Now John wouldn't hear from him for days on end, and then Sherlock would start yammering on about their latest case, as if no time had passed. The detective wouldn't even eat unless John was there to remind him sometimes, and these habits were getting worse. There were even times when Sherlock would stop, and watch something over John's shoulder, with either a vacant or alarmed expression. It was as if someone was following him. He was much more jumpy, too. A simple loud noise would send him off; he even reacted to firing his own gun, well, John's gun. It was all after that bloody hound thought John, as he watched his friend march through their London flat. A few months ago, they had travelled to Yorkshire, to help a man called Henry Knight. The effects of the hallucinogenic gas had long since worn off, yet fear seemed much more in Sherlock's life. John had only just out these two pieces of information together. Something must have gone wrong, or perhaps triggered him; I really don't know anything about Sherlock's childhood. Maybe I'll –

"Sixteen,"

John blinked his way back into their flat. He realised he had been staring, but it didn't seem too bad, as Sherlock was staring too. "Um, what?" John gaped at Sherlock, how many times had he said the number before he heard it?

"Sixteen. There were sixteen fingers in here. Sixteen exactly, there's 12 now, and another one fell on your jumper," Sherlock grimaced at John's stripy jumper – which was two different shades of brown. "So there are three around here somewhere." He said, flatly, and began to look under the table.

"Three fingers, that aren't ours,"

"I got them from Bart's mortuary. You didn't drop them did you?"

John shot him a look. It didn't work, they never did, but it couldn't hurt to try. He scanned all areas of the kitchen he had taken the fingers, and they were nowhere. Sherlock would have to hold the blame.

"You just left three loose fingers around our flat?" John watched as Sherlock opened every crack and crevice to find the appendages. He flitted through the kitchen, into the living room, and proceeded to crawl under the chairs, then the sofa.

"They're not alive, John. Don't worry! You won't wake up to find one on you." Sherlock retorted, not even bothering to look at his friend. He grinned to himself at the image of John waking up in bed to find a small finger writhing its way up his chest, like an episode of the Addams Family.

"That's it, you can find them yourself." John grabbed his coat, walked out the door and went downstairs. "Where are you going?" Sherlock asked, having decided the fingers were not in the living either, got up and sat on the sofa, contemplating possible hiding places if he were a lone finger.

"Out."

"Looking like that?"

Sherlock could hear John trump up the stairs again and close his bedroom door.

(^^) (-..-) (#)

"John!"

"John!"

"John, have you got a pen!"

Oh, right. John was out again. Sherlock really needed to learn to listen sometimes, maybe then John wouldn't go out so much. It was quiet in the flat, not even Mrs Hudson could be heard from downstairs, pottering about, or gossiping with Mrs Smith from down the road. Sherlock was bored. Really bored, if John hadn't hidden his gun the wall would be decorated by now. Of course Sherlock would be able to find his flatmate's gun, but he didn't fancy the aftermath of taking it, again. He got up from his chair, and looked out the window, staring down at the street below him. People watching, not overly entertaining, but everyone needed a hobby. As eleven turned to twelve o clock, Sherlock had seen 3 men having an affair – with 1 on a date with a mistress – 4 women late for work, 7 homeless people aimlessly standing about and 5 teenagers busking. Tediously boring.

As the thought crossed his mind, he noticed his purple shirt was starting to look unkempt, meaning it would need a wash soon. Shame, it was his favourite.

Now look at me! Sherlock thought as he moved back to his chair. Something better come up soon before I become completely domesticated. Before we know it John will come home to find me in an apron scrubbing the oven. He drummed his hands against the arms of the chair, hoping Lestrade would bring along a case for him. He had given one the other day; about something so boring Sherlock couldn't even remember, he must have deleted it at some point. Deciding it wasn't worth the trouble he'd get into with John if he refused to eat, Sherlock rose from his seat and went to the kitchen for a snack.

Four weeks for CRB to come into place.

Sherlock ignored the rice he had just taken from the cupboard, and went back over to John's chair. On the table next to it, lay a document. Obviously it would be invading John's privacy just reading through his letters. Ah, but from this angle it looked like a bill, they shared a flat, if John had to pay a bill so would Sherlock, so it was a justified peek.

CRB. A check from the Criminal Records Bureau, which was dated to about five weeks ago. Sure John, being a doctor, wouldn't need one? From what Sherlock could recover in his memory, they only lasted about eight years, and needed constant renewal. Yet John had never needed one while he lived at 221B. Sherlock ran a hand through his hair as he looked at the paper. Usually these were for a person who wished to take care of a person – well, yes John's a doctor – or working with children, such as becoming a teacher, or guide leader. This was distinctly for under sixteen's, and definitely a check for a school. Oh, God, he's not adopting or something stupid like that, is he? Sherlock wondered carefully putting the letter down so John wouldn't notice. It was obvious that the doctor struggled to hold down a girlfriend, and he wasn't getting any younger, but neither of the men had ever mentioned having a family, nor any plans of it.

Sherlock fetched his violin, and sat down with his sheet music. They said to write about what you know, and after today he knew boredom very well. He started to tune the strings.

The doorbell rang. It was a single, short buzz that echoed through the building. It must have been a younger person due to the duration of the ring, and only one showed nerves. Perhaps a customer? Well, as long as they had something interesting, anything would do.

Sherlock lay down his violin, and went down the stairs to make his day that little more interesting.