Yes, I've started dabbling in the Sherlock TV series. 'Tis my new drug of choice, I suppose. Since this is meant to be a collection of random stuff, I'll happily expand on any one-shot or drabble if you'd like me to. ;) Updates will be just as random, since I am a procrastinator by nature who suffers from chronic writer's block.

As always, constructive criticism is welcome. Flames, on the other hand, just make me drink more tea.

John Watson had thought he'd known what he was getting into when he agreed to room with Sherlock Holmes. Of course, he'd thought he'd known what he was getting into in Afghanistan, but that was irrelevant now. The first tip-off should have been the skull on the mantle. No— the first tip off should have been the fact that Sherlock had left a riding crop in the mortuary, of all places. Yes, that was the first clue. Then the skull. And the fact that he could apparently tell you your life story just by looking at you. And the fact that he'd ensured Mrs. Hudson's husband's execution in Florida. And the fact that he considered his own brother to be his arch-enemy. Despite the warning signs, John hadn't noticed any of them. Or perhaps he'd been so desperate for something interesting to happen that he'd ignored them. Either way, he told himself he could handle it, and moved in to 221B Baker Street.

Now that he'd had a while to reflect, John realized that absolutely nothing could have prepared him for a life with Sherlock Holmes. Nothing could have prepared him for finding a jar of human eyeballs in the microwave, or chasing down a serial killer on his very first night at the flat. Nor could anything have prepared him for his first real date in years being ruined multiple times in the course of one evening. Nothing could have prepared him for opening up the freezer and discovering it had become Mrs. Hudson's new hiding place for the skull, along with what appeared to be some poor chap's left shoe. Over the past couple months, John had found all kinds of things in places they really shouldn't have been: a dictionary in the cupboard, a box of teeth in the breadbox, eggs in the window, and poisonous mushrooms in the toaster, for example. Which is why he really shouldn't have been surprised when he grabbed the margarine for his toast one morning and discovered it had acquired another occupant.

"Sherlock, why is there a finger in the margarine tub?"

"Don't touch it! A man's alibi depends on it."

John said nothing, merely closed the lid, wrote "Do not eat!" with a permanent marker on the outside, and returned the tub to the refrigerator. Nothing would surprise him after this. Nothing.

That is, of course, until he found the severed head on the middle shelf a few days later.