Honestly, this is sort of a trial run. Depending on response, I may or may not post much more of this.

I'm enjoying writing for other fandoms now. I've kind of run myself dry on Death Note.


It wasn't that John hadn't expected to find something odd and out of place in the kitchen. He was used to finding fingers, toes, eyeballs, tongues, and the occasional severed head placed casually on the counter, or in the fridge or microwave. It was still rather disgusting, and he didn't think it would ever stop being disgusted, but at least he wasn't surprised. So he walked through the kitchen without looking at the countertops or the floors until he opened the fridge, at which point he noticed an almost disturbing lack of body parts and dangerous chemicals on the shelves.

John could hear Sherlock in the living room, reciting every detail of John's day while he plucked at his violin. John, having already lived out his day, decided that it would probably be alright to cut in and see what had gone wrong with Sherlock's.

"... and judging by the knuckles of your right hand, you've dealt with a large number of patients today, especially patients with infectious diseas -"

"Sherlock," John interrupted, feeling rather unpleasantly surprised (not, of course, that Sherlock had noticed he'd dealt with a few cases of the flu today; that wasn't at all surprising). "Sherlock, did you forget to pick up those ears you kept going on about?"

"Ah," Sherlock said, and John closed the fridge, snacks of all manner forgotten. He turned and watched Sherlock put away his violin. He looked positively delighted, which was disturbing enough by itself. Doubly so since he obviously wasn't working a case at the moment, and there were obviously no experiments to occupy him at that moment. John felt very uneasy and nodded, as if to prod his flatmate into continuing. "I was otherwise occupied today."

Otherwise occupied?

"Otherwise occupied?" John asked, trying to sound casual, though his brows were raised.

"We have a guest," Sherlock proclaimed, glancing down to a spot on the floor somewhere between the lower half of the bearskin rug and the couch. John wondered if Sherlock was experimenting on a cat or something. Perhaps he was trying to see whether it liked his constant violin playing, or perhaps he was trying to find another substitute for his skull in John's absence. After all, Mrs. Hudson did have a habit of whisking the thing away and hiding it somewhere until Sherlock found it again. Evidently she didn't think skulls were proper decor.

But the skull still sat in its proper place on the shelf, and John thought that it must be the first reason; he was experimenting on whatever it was he'd brought in from the street. He took a few steps closer to the couch and something sitting on the floor by a chair caught his attention. He gawked at it: a small black suitcase, shabby and apparently very full. His mind flashed rapidly between Irene Adler and the pink woman's suitcase. Was it possible that the guest was the Woman? Or a dead body? Well, a dead body either way, but - "That's luggage," John said dully.

"Obviously," Sherlock said smugly, and looked down at that same space again. Before John had a chance to wonder whether or not he should get close enough to the couch to join Sherlock in staring at the spot, the other man continued. "Stand up now. John, this is Harry. Harry, John."

And John was speechless in the face of a skinny teenage boy with wide green eyes and a small smile, who rose slowly from the floor and held out a hand, looking hesitant and almost frightened. "Sherlock?" John began. "What have you done now?"