John remembered that when he was eight that he had a soft dog that he was particularly fond of. He was not the most imaginative child, so he called the dog, Dog. He had had it since he was very small, and it was the mangiest, scruffiest toy dog his elder sister Harry claimed she had ever seen. One of its eyes had fallen off, and there was black paint streaked across its back. It's felt ears were so stretched and pulled that it looked like it had an encounter with a vicious real-dog (though in reality, John just really liked carrying Dog around by his ears, swinging him up and down in circles).

One day, when he was in the fourth form, John decided it would be rather a good idea to take Dog into school, in his back-pack. He wasn't a complete idiot, and knew that if any of the other children saw Dog he would be in for a world of teasing and hurt, so he stuffed the scruffy thing at the bottom of his bag and covered it up with a scarf. It was deliciously comforting to poke his fingers under the scarf during class breaks, and mutter, "There you are then dog" to his bag.

Of course he didn't notice the rough boys were watching him. Rough boys usually assume that if another student is poking at his bag during the day there is money or food involved. Of course John had neither, but it didn't stop them from stripping him of his bag and using a bike lock to chain him to the bike rack through his belt loops before they left school.

When Harry found him an hour later, John had nearly screwed up enough courage to tear out of his belt loops despite what his mum would inevitably say about his nice pants. By the time Harry had cut him free with her pocket knife he had caved in and whispered to her about Dog, and Harry, darted away like a little lioness in the direction of the leader, Jameson's house.

When Harry had returned home that evening, she had a split lip and a black eye, and his back pack had been torn almost to shreds. But Dog was intact, and Harry told him with a certain amount of sisterly pride that she had told the boys that it was her dog, not John's. She ruffled his hair, and squished Dog next to his cheek, and it was the only time that John remembered that Harry's reckless behavior had earned her an ice cream from their parents instead of a grounding.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Sherlock was grinning as he pushed John over in the cab. "Two Homicides, one homeless girl and one well cared for elderly man; both in completely different parts of the city, neither connected by any acquaintances, yet both killed with a scimitar, which is a rather unusual weapon of choice, don't you think John. John?"

John was lost in thought. If Mrs. Hudson didn't have the skull, someone else must have it. Now who would know of Sherlock's attachment to the skull enough to steal it? Most people would just assume that it was part of Sherlock's general morbid ambiance. If not Mrs. Hudson and John himself, then who? Lestrade? Perhaps. Certainly not Donovan or Anderson. Molly? Unlikely, the girl was enamored with Sherlock but not enough of a stalker to know about the skull. Moriarty? John really didn't like the thought of that one, though somehow he could imagine Moriarty being frivolous enough to come after the skull in an attempt to burn Sherlock's heart out. Mycroft was most likely however; he had them under surveillance and might have known Sherlock to grow attached to objects as a child…

"JOHN!"

John jumped, and stared straight into Sherlock's light blue, almost clear eyes which were approximately six inches away from his face. Damn that man, no sense of personal space… "John, did you hear anything I said? I didn't keep you awake too late last night did I?"

There was a snigger from the cab driver, and John blushed bright red, running his fingers through his hair. "No, no Sherlock, you're fine. I was just thinking."

Sherlock gazed at him skeptically before he looked away out the cab window. "At any rate," he finished, "We will have to visit all the flower shops in London that sell azaleas before we can know for sure whether the murderer is male or female."

John, who was developing a rather vigilante frame of mind in regards to the skull thanks to his memories of his sister and several years in Afghanistan, and who's slightly more average mind had not made the same creative leap as Sherlock's in regards to the azaleas, merely stroked his chin thoughtfully, nodding absentmindedly.

By the time they arrived at the crime scene, John had made up his mind. Sherlock may be most suited to solving mysteries of the homicidal bent, but John would probably be more than competent at solving the case of the missing skull.