(It occurred to me that if I was going to write something called "The Case of the Missing Skull" I should actually have them find the skull, so this is probably going to be longer than I had planned. For those more interested in my "Playing with Fire", I'm sorry, but I'm putting it on hold for a while in favor of something more cuddly and easy to write)
It was oddly flattering that Sherlock had implied that John was a replacement for his skull in what was now a more than limited capacity. John had woken up the next morning to sunlight coming in through the window and a sleeping Sherlock wrapped around him as though John was a favorite teddy bear, his thumb still absently running up and down the back of his head. He stretched out, and turned to the other man, looking with interest at Sherlock who was unusually calm and peaceful, breathing deeply and evenly. John absently thought that filling in for the skull was rather the nicest thing he had done in a long time; the last time he had woken up tangled up in someone was pre-army; all his recent girlfriends were the sort that insisted on lilos or sofas until a supposedly predetermined time that they were aware of but he was not. And it was nice right now; usually he was the same height as his girlfriends and there was awkward breathing-into-each-others-mouths when they were wrapped up in each other, but now he was on his back resting his head on Sherlock's bicep, and Sherlock was on his side resting his chin on John's head, and everything was peaceful and wonderful.
John dragged the blanket up over the consulting detective's shoulder, and let his fingertips linger on Sherlock's shoulder for a while, feeling goosebumps from the early spring chill fade. The consulting detective grunted and opened his eyes to a slit. He froze for a moment as he took in the situation he found himself in, then sighed in defensive irritation before closing his eyes again, draping his arm over John's shoulder. John pulled closer, found a good position where he could hear Sherlock's heartbeat, which he noted in mild surprise did not thrum differently than the rest of humanity's, and dozed.
OoOoOoOoOo
When he woke up Sherlock was gone from his bed and the only evidence that he had been was a divot in the pillow John was sure he had not made, and warm patch in the bed that smelled vaguely of musky sweat and sharp chemicals. John rolled over into the warm spot, savoring the strange intimacy of being wrapped up in the smell of his flat-mate, a man he had killed for, indulged, and almost sacrificed his life for on several occasions before shaking himself out of his Sunday morning daze. He looked in the mirror, attempting to flatten his hair which stood up in a shock at the top of his head, and threw on a dressing gown over his pajamas, anticipating a shower after his breakfast of tea and jam and toast. He felt oddly nervous, as if he was preparing for an extremely impromptu date that he hadn't been aware he was going on until several minutes earlier. He supposed that, in all honestly, it was nothing of the kind. Being treated like a security blanket by an overgrown (if brilliant and prodigiously handsome) man-child did not a relationship or date make. Still, he scowled a little over the tired bags under his eyes that refused to disappear no matter how much sleep he had, and stopped just short of preening in the mirror. Being around Sherlock Holmes was enough to make anyone feel mildly inferior most of the time, and he decided that the fastest way to make himself miserable was by worrying about his appearance. Besides, John thought, giddily, Sherlock's last bedfellow was a skull, so in comparison, he decided, he was certainly winning.
When he stumbled into the sitting room after his shower, Sherlock was sitting in his chair with his knees pulled up to his chest, clean and fully dressed which meant, thank god, some sort of case was on and the 'down-swing' was coming to an end. John mentally canceled a lazy Sunday, perhaps with a walk in the park and some crap telly, and replaced it with a few dead bodies and his Browning, and possibly a few chases down back alleys. Sherlock flicked a glance up at him, and nodded at a cup of something on the table. "Tea."
"Oh! Thank you." John picked up the cup, and looked into it cautiously. The tea was almost white with milk, and still had the teabag floating, like a little island. Regardless, John raised it to his mouth cautiously; then tried to spit it out as subtly as possible as he realized that a certain consulting detective had punched the teabag down into the cup so vigorously that it had split open and tea leaves were now swimming just beneath the surface. He wondered if Sherlock would take offense if he made himself his own cup of tea, and decided, from the glare in the ice blue eyes, that he might. John cleared his throat gently. "Thanks Sherlock. Lovely."
He walked casually into the kitchen, started some toast and poured the tea concoction subtly down the sink before coming back out into the living room and sitting down with the paper. "So, we have a case on then?"
"Lestrade has a double homicide. And Mrs. Hudson does not have my skull."
Sherlock said it blandly without making eye contact, and John decided not to kick at the elephant in the room. "Homicide! Good. Fine. Breakfast will be ready in a few and then I'll get dressed."
Sherlock quirked a smile in his direction before turning back to his phone.