Teeth, on every available surface, grinning eerily at John. He rubs his eyes, tries to focus again, and realises there are fucking dentures all over the kitchen. At least three dozen sets, covering every available surface. He shudders, feeling the gooseflesh crawl up his spine and down his arms. Why did it have to be teeth?
Sherlock's sitting at the table, a tub of alginate at his elbow as he meticulously presses yet another pair of false into a tray filled with gel.
"Oh, John, you're awake! Excellent, you can help me with this."
"No thank you, Sherlock. Teeth give me the willies."
"Nonsense. These aren't real teeth, they're just polymer. Except that set," Sherlock points vaguely in the direction of a particularly stained and old-looking pair, "those are old, and made of ceramic."
John makes the mistake of looking where Sherlock is pointing, and cringes.
"I suppose this is for a case, right?"
Sherlock nods, pressing another pair into a tray. "Cannibalism at a retirement home."
At this, John can't help but laugh. It's so ridiculous. Has his life really come to this?
"Alright then, I know if I don't help you, you'll just make my day miserable."
"Excellent, then you can help me with these." Gleefully, Sherlock upends a box on the table, spilling out several partials and bridges.