Yeah, I really don't know where this came from. By the way, does anyone know if Sherlock's skull has a name?
Breakfast had never been the most important meal of the day for Sherlock Holmes. No meal had ever been the most important meal of the day for him, regardless of what parents and teachers and certain doctors told him. But with no case to occupy his mind, and John occupied with his new job at the clinic, Sherlock found that he could honestly think of nothing better to do besides have breakfast. The majority of the food in the kitchen was either contaminated or inedible, so he eventually settled for a slice of toast with Mrs. Hudson's strawberry jam. Neither was something he was particularly fond of, but it would do. Besides, his doctor had been harping on him to eat more often. Sherlock smirked at the thought. As if he had any other doctor. John was the only one he saw. Still, he'd made a conscious decision to eat more regularly, if only to escape that annoying nagging.
A beep from his phone distracted him. Sherlock dug it out of his pocket to check. It was a text from Lestrade. Double murder on the other side of London. One of the bodies had been found in a refrigerator, and the other was covered in toothpaste. Finally, something interesting.
Sherlock deleted the message, sent a text to John with instructions, and quickly returned the jam jar to the fridge before he shot out the door in a flurry of coats and scarves.
The door slammed behind Sherlock as he dashed upstairs to the sitting room. He'd spent all day and half the night gathering the evidence he needed. Now all he had to do was prove the man's alibi. And for that, he needed margarine. The detective darted into the kitchen and strode toward the refrigerator, removing a plastic bag from his coat pocket containing a severed finger.
As he opened the door and went to grab the margarine tub, Sherlock caught sight of something else. Jam oozed out from under the lid and onto the middle shelf where the jar was sitting in exactly the same position he had left it the previous morning… upside down. Stuck to the side was a Post-it note with John's handwriting on it.
Dear Sherlock,
Really?
—JW
Sherlock smirked, turned the jar upright, and wiped the jam off with a napkin.
And then he rammed the severed finger down in the margarine, closed the lid, put it back on the shelf, and left.