A friend of mine suggested "brontosaurus" for today's word and I couldn't resist indulging myself in a little bit of ridiculous fanon crack.
The crime scene had a sort of vulgar beauty to it, you had to admit. Some sicko had broken into the Natural History Museum and strung up a series of skeletons in poses from the mundane to the obscene.
Thankfully, one of the night watchmen had noticed the new addition to the display before the museum was opened for the day, and now the experts from NSY, one consulting detective, and one army doctor are crawling carefully around the exhibit.
"Judging by the abhorrent condition of their teeth and the various numbers of badly-healed injuries, I suspect these victims were homeless, which is going to make identification difficult." Sherlock mutters, his gloved fingers deep inside the mouth of one of the skeletons.
Lestrade groans. "That also probably means nobody will have filed missing persons reports, so we've got no idea how long some of these people have been dead for. I'll get Anderson to try to extract DNA from teeth or bones."
"Where the hell is that infernally useless man anyway?" Sherlock snaps, whipping his head and torso around with such violence that his hair and coat take a second to catch up.
Sniggering, John points in the general direction of the dinosaur exhibits, where Anderson is staring up fondly, rapt gaze fixed on the skeleton of a particularly spectacular brontosaurus.