John woke up with sunlight on his face, insistently shining through the sheer curtains on the bedroom window. Blinking, his waking mind was confused momentarily by the foreign ceiling he was staring up at, and the bed he didn't immediately recognize. Sitting up and rubbing his eyes, the appropriate amounts of blood and oxygen balanced out in his brain and he remembered that he had just spent his first night at 221B Baker Street. His "bad" leg was still a bit sore from running around London two days ago, and then moving from one flat to another (he'd had enough stairs for one weekend, thank you). It was a good sort of sore, though, like after going for a good sprint.
He stood up and stretched before walking across the room to pull his dressing gown over his white t-shirt and boxers. He didn't feel particularly hungry just yet, so he decided to shower first, and have some tea and toast after. Kneeling on the surprisingly plush carpet, he lifted the lid to his half-unpacked luggage case and dug out a worn beige towel and the neccesary toiletries. Throwing the towel over his bad shoulder and carrying his bathroom supplies in his right hand and the crook of his arm, he descended the stairs quietly, so as not to wake his new flatmate in case he was still sleeping.
When he reached the bottom of the stairs, however, a voice in the sitting room gave him pause. The door was just barely ajar, where John could see in but anyone in the sitting room would have to be very strategically positioned in order to see out.
"It's got to be in here, in this room," a low voice mumbled. "Oh, don't put on that look. I've not replaced you."
John realized that it was Sherlock Holmes who was speaking, and as far as he could see, there was nobody else in the room. Granted, he couldn't see very far from where he stood about two meters away from the door, as he didn't even see the tall anomoly of a man in the room. He only saw the fireplace and two empty chairs in front of it. Sherlock's voice was coming from the other side of the room, closer to the door.
"It's in here, it must be, but where…? Really now, you're just distracting me and being entirely unhelpful." Sherlock's form passed by the space in the doorway in a blue blur as he strode purposefully towards the fireplace. The man looked very dissheveled, his blue dressing gown hanging precariously off one bony shoulder, his pyjama bottoms were severely wrinkled, and the mop of dark curls atop his head were doing an accurate—and rather fitting—impression of Albert Einstein's infamously chaotic hair.
Sherlock seemed to be staring down the skull on the mantle—John wondered if it was real, and made a mental note to investigate later. After a brief staring contest, where oddly John felt that somehow, Sherlock had won, the consulting detective reached out and turned the skull so that it faced away from the sitting room, towads the kitchen. Sherlock made to turn around, but then stopped, distracted by something at his feet. "AHA!" John jumped at the proclamation of triumph, "There it is." Sherlock bent down and picked up a violin bow from the floor with a smile on his face. Something about the smile looked eerie on Sherlock's face, as if it didn't belong or his face wasn't entirely sure how to produce a smile.
"Morning, Dr. Watson!" Sherlock called out suddenly, without even looking at the door, as he strode out of view.
John blinked and felt a flush rise to his cheeks upon being discovered. He hadn't really realized he'd been standing there for nearly five minutes. "Um, right. Morning…" John replied awkwardly, and took a step down the hall, towards the bathroom. He stopped as a thought occurred to him, and instead walked towards the sitting room. Pushing the door open so he could stand in the doorway, he found Sherlock standing by the window, violin and newly-recovered bow in hand. "Sorry, but… were you just—"
Sherlock interrupted the doctor without even looking up from tuning his instrument, "Talking to the skull? Yes. Old friend of mine." A corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched upwards briefly and he added, "In a manner of speaking."
"Right," John said, clearing his throat and withdrawing to the hall, heading towards the bathroom. After what happened with the Pink Lady case and the mad cabbie, and now the skull on the mantle, John was beginning to wonder what, exactly, he had gotten himself into.