A/N: Because I just HAD to write something about the new Sherlock tv series.

Severed Limbs with Morning Tea

John made a thoughtful noise as he sipped his tea, straightening out the morning newspaper. "Always did like the underdog," he said, putting his tea down on a coaster as he reached for some buttered toast. "How about you, Sherlock? Any preferences?"

"Hmm?"

Sherlock wasn't listening, but John knew that 'listening' and 'paying attention' were two very different things when it came to this man.

John looked across the kitchen, then put the toast back down. "Oh. No. No, Sherlock – no unattached limbs for breakfast."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Really, John. I'm not a cannibal. I know you wouldn't make it for me, and the nutritional value is just not worth how long it takes to prepare."

"Right. Of course," John sighed, "but still. Look, it's just not an acceptable practice over breakfast. Leave the dead people alone for an hour."

Sherlock glanced in his direction, eyebrow quirked. "John. I'm not having breakfast," He said in that tone of voice that mocked really, John, I can see that the sky is blue.

"You should. It's morning. Besides, I'm having breakfast, and it puts me off my toast."

Sherlock shrugged, but put away the human hand back into the fridge. John felt a little green – it had been moving. No, Sherlock playing with nerves and ligaments just wasn't a nice way to greet the day.

"I don't care for politics," the detective said as he sat down.

"What?"

"Your question, John, really. You asked me two minutes ago."

John looked back down at his newspaper. "Oh! Right. But – come on, Sherlock, politics are important – it's what runs the world. I thought that would be right up your street, figuring those kind of people out."

"Please, they're all so pedestrian. What do I care for men renting porn and having affairs? All politicians do is postulate before the government and the people and act as if they know what they're doing."

"Doesn't your brother work for the government?"

"He's not a politician," Sherlock cringed, as if the word was an insult. He gave a little nod towards John's paper, "The politicians that the media banters about aren't worth knowing. They're all just puppets. This man, for example –" Sherlock pulled the paper down so that it lay against the table, and scrutinised the photo. Sherlock seemed unusually quiet and focused as he frowned, turning his head in different angles. "I don't recognise him."

"The underdog I mentioned. New candidate for Prime Minister. Seems like a pretty decent guy – very charismatic. He's been on the news recently. I'm guessing you haven't watched much TV lately, though?"

"No, I suppose not," Sherlock said with one last frown at the newspaper, before going back to the fridge and taking his hand into another room, away from John's toast. A few minutes later John thought he heard sparks and hisses and maybe even a contained explosion, but by the end of the day he'd forgotten the brief moment of Sherlock's uncharacteristic response to the paper.

"Stop that."

"Stop what?"

"That infernal rhythmic tapping. It's distracting."

"Oh, sorry Sherlock. Hadn't realised I was doing it."

There was silence, as Sherlock went back to his laptop and John back to his reading. Seeing peripheral movement, he looked back up at John and saw, in the moment that John's focus swept completely back into his book, his hand, having been loosely draped about his mug of tea, hovered carefully over the table, fingers descending slowly, hypnotically.

Tap-tap-tap-TAP.

"Stop that."

"Stop what?"

"That infernal rhythmic tapping. It's distracting."

"Oh, sorry Sherlock. Hadn't realised I was doing it."

John went back to his book, and Sherlock kept staring, although tried to be subtle about it. Observation of subjects worked best when they were unaware of any scrutiny.

Tap-tap-tap-TAP.

"Stop that."

"Stop what?"

Sherlock had a theory.

Sherlock frowned as he looked through the cupboards. Where had those chemicals been moved to? Honestly, it's not like he'd mix them up with sugar. Again. Really, having his experiments in the kitchen was just more convenient.

"John, where –"

Sherlock stopped when he walked into the living room and saw a man sat in John's chair. He was wearing John's jumper and John's trousers, and had John's book in his lap. It wasn't John.

"You're not John," he said, because he understood that even if it wasn't John, this man might have the same deficiency as every other man he'd met that necessitated the obvious to be stated aloud before further observation and conversation could continue.

The man's eyes widened, before he grinned, setting John's book aside and standing. This man was taller than John too, with a wilder countenance, a grin on the other side of sanity and eyes that reflected the stars. There was something inhuman about him.

"And you're not me. Well, now this is interesting. I'm afraid I've never had the pleasure of meeting you before, mister...?"

"Holmes," Sherlock replied. His eyes flickered up and down the other man, before smirking. "This is interesting. I hadn't been quite sure before, but face to face there's no doubt about it. So," he sat down, inviting the other man for conversation, his deep baritone voice layered with amusement and curiosity, "Saxon. How did an alien become Prime Minister?"