I'MMM BACKKKK! :D

Sorry this took longer than I expected :( I was up at bloody half five this morning to go through to edinburgh university and my day has just been full of boring, mind-numbing lectures and getting lost :S And then when I got back I basically wrote this, and am now going to fall aslleep.

OH! I brought souviniers! Well, basically it's a keyring with a green sheep on it, and a piggy bank covered in snapshots of the place, but I think they're the absolute best things in the world :)

Anyway, we have some catching up to do. I am very, extremely, marvelously thankful, grateful and...happyfull...for all of my reviews, and all of my readers THANKYOUTHANKYOUTHANKYOU and continue liking pretty please :)

So, with no time to lose, or waste, or chew on, here is THURSDAY! (a.k.a, the day things went way too far)

:D

Thursday -

By now, when John walked through the door of his flat after a long day at work, he felt like he was walking into a tank of piranhas. No, sharks. No piranhas and sharks, and the odd, carnivorous, dinosaur.

It really was horrible, and the other, irritating, fact was that Sherlock didn't seem to give a damn about any of it. He didn't even realise the insanity of the things he was doing.

He had found the escaped tarantula, and thankfully Sherlock had stomped back down the stairs long enough to help him chase it back into the cage. Now, John had a padlock on the cage, and he kept the key. Sherlock could keep the creepy spiders in the flat if he wanted, but he was not getting the chance to let them loose for any experiments. Anyway, luck would have it that Sherlock would only make them more monstrous. And probably give them twenty legs and make them the size of the microwave.

So padlock on the spider cage. Check. Nothing falling from and/or stuck in the ceiling. Check. Head still in the fridge, with no accompanying body parts. Check. This was getting to be a daily check-list for John, and it wasn't helping that it was growing.

He saw immediately that Sherlock wasn't in, which made him feel a whole lot better, because it meant there were no experiments running at the moment, and so less chance of him getting chopped in two or poisoned.

Dropping the bag, he felt his legs buckle from exhaustion and made his way over to the couch – if anything was going to be dangerous, Sherlock wouldn't make it the couch that had been inaudibly claimed as his own. Slumping down into the cushions, he closed his eyes, hoping for some kind of rest.

That thought was stopped when an alarm started blaring loudly from the kitchen. He got up slowly and walked through to find the source, stopping dead in his tracks when he saw that Sherlock was indeed home.

He stood at the other end of the kitchen, by the oven of all things, several pots and pans littering the surface, and none of them filled with anything that was in the slightest bit ordinary. In one of the pans, a bright green liquid bubbled and boiled, hissing at the heat. In another lay a collection of dead beetles, are simmering gently in a puddle of water. And in the black pot, the one that Sherlock was holding in his left hand, tilting slightly. The one that was singed on the bottom and just ever so slightly on fire around the edges. In it were...No, he couldn't be serious...they were...

John held his hand up to his mouth, nausea suddenly overcoming him, "Oh my go-. Sherlock? Is that – Are they...Are they FINGERS?". With a brief glance his way, Sherlock cast him a look of puzzlement before nodding.

"Why are there human FINGERS in a POT on FIRE!"

"I was experimenting", Sherlock answered simply, and activated the fire extinguisher with his right hand, aiming it for the pot. As the smoke and flames cleared, John decided he didn't want to go any closer to the cooking fingers, so he moved around the other side of the kitchen.

Sherlock stopped him before he got to the counter, actual, genuine concern showing, "Um, if you were feeling slightly sick because of the fingers, you might want to stop there".

"Why, what else have you got in here?". A voice in the back of his head told John that that was not the right question to be asking, but he ignored it, curiosity and experience pushing him forwards.

Of course, he regretted it. And of course, Sherlock was right. He turned and fled the kitchen, running straight to the bathroom to be sick.

Sherlock paused from his 'cooking', and peered into the sink, a slightly sad expression on his face, "I wonder what's so bad about that?", he wondered, gazing fondly at the pair of fingerless (apart from the thumbs) hands that sat quite contently in their new home.

oOo

Hmm...Yes, now I'm thinking that the ending is slightly disturbed in some way, but for the life of me I don't know why.

Now I do realise the possibility of Sherlock actually using the oven is very unlikely, but then again unless he's going to eat the beetles then it's not for conventional use, so it is in fact VERY like Sherlock and I'm going to shut up and pretend I never raised this point.

Reviews...Reviews are like...cotton candy. Very, very sweet... full of sugar...hard to actually eat without growing a cotton candy beard and...bright pink.

Yes...Anyway, I LOVE cotton candy, so please and please and please again show YOUR love through reviewing, and maybe John will get some cotton candy in the next chapter. Or maybe a toffee apple, they're nice...ACTUALLY, yes, if you like, please tell me which one you prefer (or suggest another) through your adored reviews, because now I've got a sweet tooth and am going to find some sugar, and after that I'm going to sleep for a week so I don't have time to make these decisions...

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