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At one time it occurred to John Watson that death magnifies the eccentricity of his best friend. It was one week after he got home from the PDS rehabilitation facility and decided to embrace the state of his being in its entirety by began self-experimenting on its limits instead of sulking at the wall for the rest of his undead life. Once, John asked him why he thinks being dead is completely boring.
“I’m already dead.”
He drew a silent conclusion from his answer.
With that remark he jumped from his seat and grabbed his coat before practically running out of the flat in urgency. John shook his head and returned to his morning paper, hoping the consulting detective could manage to return home in one piece.
The next couple of days were spent by Sherlock to embark on his non-stop self-experimenting hysteria. First, he tried to determine the state of his sense of taste by sampling the most extreme examples of food and, in some cases, things that can fit in his mouth. Ranging from chewing a handful of Sichuan Pepper along with a couple packages of Pop Rocks (John wasn’t entirely sure why he chose that combination) to a simple garlic mixed with quinine in worrying dosage. He never swallowed any of them, just mulled everything in his mouth for a while and retched (although he claimed earlier that his gag reflex has disappeared completely and John figured he was just being over-dramatic) into a hazmat plastic bag so that he could conduct some ‘further analysis’ with them.
He did put his foot down at his flatmate’s first attempt to chew burning coals from the fireplace, but Sherlock just pouted and decided to stab his tongue with two dozen acupuncture needles instead. He also drew the line at self-multilation after he found him almost cutting one of his toes with a pair of secateurs. John yelled at him and told him to get his thumbs from the usual place, which was St. Barts’ morgue.
“Fine, I need to thank Molly for my autopsy anyway.” Sherlock murmured and swished his coat before disappearing outside the flat door.
“She wasn’t the one who did it, you know!” John shouted as he followed him out hurriedly, hoping to contain the damage of his undead friend’s looming resentment.
“Well, I haven’t seen my death certificate. I need to ask her for it, I might frame it and hang it in my bedroom.”