Sherlock was bored.

Still.

Twelve days, fourteen hours, and thirty three minutes.

He glared at the clock until finally, the long had clicked over. Make that thirty two minutes.

He wasn't used to loneliness. He was used to being alone, for sure. Before John came along, he'd been alone most of the time, other than his skull.

Sherlock got out of his armchair for the first time that morning, each bone cracking as he stood.

The flat was messy enough before John left. Within the last month, it had turned into the kind of mayhem that one would think could only be done intentionally. Portions of Sherlock's experiments sat around the room, from a broken glass bottle that he decided he'd just side-step instead of sweeping up, to a preserved chicken fetus in a bottle sitting on top of the television.

"Bored," Sherlock mumbled to himself.

He rummaged through the many boxes until he finally found it: his skull. His fourth skull, actually. Mrs. Hudson had confiscated the first three.

In some ways, Sherlock mused as he placed the skull on the mantle and admired it, it was a much better companion than John. Skulls never complained when they found one of his experiments in his bedroom closet. Skulls also didn't move out on him. And skulls certainly didn't go away on a honeymoon for two weeks.