Bones
Fandom: Sherlock (2010)
Title: Bones
Rating: PG
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Word count: 498
Notes: slight spoilers for Episode 1; a short companion piece to this fic.
Synopsis: You just cannot get a decent cranium these days.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Sherlock said irritably. The skull’s blank eyes stared back at him, and in a fit of pique Sherlock turned its face to the wall. The occipital and parietal bones seemed to look at him in silent reproach, but Sherlock ignored that manfully. The skull was simply not the listener it had been.
Mrs Hudson had given it back to him two days ago.
“I put it in a Tesco’s bag so I wouldn’t have to look at it, but then I just kept looking at the bag,” she explained. “And I couldn’t throw it out - ”
“Of course you couldn’t,” said Sherlock indignantly, “as it belongs to me -”
Mrs Hudson sailed on without stopping to acknowledge his interruption -
“Because can you imagine what the binmen would think if it fell out? No, you keep it, dear. But would you keep it out of sight? It’s awfully morbid.”
People, Sherlock thought, were squeamish about the most absurd things, but he had put the skull in his room. He could not say why he had not insisted on putting it back in its original place. Of course he had many more pressing concerns, which was doubtlessly why he had not gloated to John about Mrs Hudson’s failed resolve.
The parietal foramen had a somehow snide expression, and, wondering if perhaps the nicotine patch on his neck had been a patch too far, Sherlock placed the skull in his wardrobe and shut the door.
It was nearly three am, and Sherlock peeled the patch off the back of his neck. He paced restlessly through the flat, unable to settle. Passing John’s door, he heard a faint murmur, and he paused briefly. The nicotine had made his blood pound, undoubtedly. There was nothing further from the room, and Sherlock resumed his pacing. And there it was again, a short burst of muffled speech, and Sherlock opened the door.
“What are you doing?” John said, clutching the bedsheets to him like an affronted maiden aunt. “It’s three in the morning.”
That appeared a non sequitur to Sherlock, given that what he was doing had no relation to the time of day, and he was surprised to find himself offering an explanation for a perfectly unremarkable action.
“I heard you talking to yourself, so I surmised you were not asleep,” he said. “I still can’t find my skull - Mrs Hudson can be stubborn - and I wanted to talk to it about this speckled band business.” The lie came so smoothly he could almost believe it himself, although he was not precisely certain why he had said it.
“And I will do, I suppose,” John replied.
“In a pinch, if you stay quiet.”
If Sherlock had not known that excessive stimulation of nicotinic cholinergic neurons could cause palpitations, he mght have thought his heart had briefly stuttered with relief. Fortunately he was no idiot, and he began pacing John’s bedroom floor without giving his symptoms further thought.
Title: Bones
Rating: PG
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Word count: 498
Notes: slight spoilers for Episode 1; a short companion piece to this fic.
Synopsis: You just cannot get a decent cranium these days.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Sherlock said irritably. The skull’s blank eyes stared back at him, and in a fit of pique Sherlock turned its face to the wall. The occipital and parietal bones seemed to look at him in silent reproach, but Sherlock ignored that manfully. The skull was simply not the listener it had been.
Mrs Hudson had given it back to him two days ago.
“I put it in a Tesco’s bag so I wouldn’t have to look at it, but then I just kept looking at the bag,” she explained. “And I couldn’t throw it out - ”
“Of course you couldn’t,” said Sherlock indignantly, “as it belongs to me -”
Mrs Hudson sailed on without stopping to acknowledge his interruption -
“Because can you imagine what the binmen would think if it fell out? No, you keep it, dear. But would you keep it out of sight? It’s awfully morbid.”
People, Sherlock thought, were squeamish about the most absurd things, but he had put the skull in his room. He could not say why he had not insisted on putting it back in its original place. Of course he had many more pressing concerns, which was doubtlessly why he had not gloated to John about Mrs Hudson’s failed resolve.
The parietal foramen had a somehow snide expression, and, wondering if perhaps the nicotine patch on his neck had been a patch too far, Sherlock placed the skull in his wardrobe and shut the door.
It was nearly three am, and Sherlock peeled the patch off the back of his neck. He paced restlessly through the flat, unable to settle. Passing John’s door, he heard a faint murmur, and he paused briefly. The nicotine had made his blood pound, undoubtedly. There was nothing further from the room, and Sherlock resumed his pacing. And there it was again, a short burst of muffled speech, and Sherlock opened the door.
“What are you doing?” John said, clutching the bedsheets to him like an affronted maiden aunt. “It’s three in the morning.”
That appeared a non sequitur to Sherlock, given that what he was doing had no relation to the time of day, and he was surprised to find himself offering an explanation for a perfectly unremarkable action.
“I heard you talking to yourself, so I surmised you were not asleep,” he said. “I still can’t find my skull - Mrs Hudson can be stubborn - and I wanted to talk to it about this speckled band business.” The lie came so smoothly he could almost believe it himself, although he was not precisely certain why he had said it.
“And I will do, I suppose,” John replied.
“In a pinch, if you stay quiet.”
If Sherlock had not known that excessive stimulation of nicotinic cholinergic neurons could cause palpitations, he mght have thought his heart had briefly stuttered with relief. Fortunately he was no idiot, and he began pacing John’s bedroom floor without giving his symptoms further thought.