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This was not good. This was more than a bit not good. It was a lot not good.
Sherlock sat with his back to the door of his bedroom, his knees up to his chest and chewing his lower lip. John wouldn’t be home for hours.
He glanced across the room at his phone sitting, as phones tend to do, very sombrely on the bedside table. Could he risk moving from the door? He glanced up at the handle. There was no way that it could…
Could it?
Warily, Sherlock slid himself up the door into a standing position. If he put his foot on the door and stretched… No. He extended his lanky arms towards the table. Still no.
He sighed and brought his foot to the floor.
He’d have to run for it. One, two, three. Sherlock bounded across the area from door to table, grabbed the phone and scampered back to his position with his back against the door.
Come at once. – SH
‘Sherlock?’
John hadn’t hurried home, then, Sherlock thought bitterly. He glanced at his phone. It had been 40 agonising minutes and John hadn’t even bothered to text him back. He turned, pressing his mouth to the crack where door hinges met wall.
‘In my room. Don’t let it follow you.’
‘Let what follow me?’ John’s voice became clearer as he made his way down the hall, stopping at the closed door. ‘Let what follow me, Sherlock?’
‘The..’’ Sherlock quirked his mouth a little. Should he tell him? ‘The butterfly.’
Silence from the other side of the door, followed by a series of deep breaths that Sherlock knew would be followed by a stifled laugh. He frowned.
‘It is not funny.’
There it was, the little snigger. Sherlock could just imagine the doctor’s face.
‘Scared it might flutter up into your face, impede your skills of deduction?’
John’s voice was muffled. No doubt, Sherlock thought grumpily, due to the tremendous effort it was taking the short man to not double over and laugh.
‘Oh, yes, butterflies are hilarious. Especially when they’ve been frozen and painted in ethylene glycol and then somehow reheated and brought back to life, flapping their poisonous little wings around the flat. I think that is absolutely, belly achingly humorous.’
Sherlock was snarky. If John wanted to stand out there, in the territory of the butterfly, then he could do as he damn well pleased. Sherlock Holmes was not afraid of butterflies.
He was a little afraid of madly dangerous butterflies that had unexpectedly come back to life.
Two minutes later, John had joined Sherlock – after much persuasion on his behalf for the detective to open the door – with his back pressed against the wooden door.
‘So, you’re telling me that you’ve created a mutant butterfly?’
John wasn’t sure whether to laugh at the detective, or punch him in the face. He contemplated doing them in the opposite order.
Sherlock turned his head to look at the doctor, frowning.
‘Well, obviously I didn’t ‘create’ the butterfly – it was simply floating through the flat. And it’s not mutant, either. It’s just..’ He struggled for a moment. ‘Highly dangerous.’
John nodded slightly, his face unreadable.
‘So, is this the plan then? Hide in your room until the deadly butterfly drops dead from the air?’
Sherlock shrugged.
‘It’s not ideal. If it happens to land on the food, we’ll both die terribly painful deaths.’
Paling visibly, John glared at Sherlock.
‘And that doesn’t bother you? Jesus, Sherlock. What the hell are we supposed to do?’
‘Of course it bothers me.’ Sherlock frowned. ‘Hence why you’re here, to kill it.’
‘Me?’’ John laughed shortly. ‘Why me? You’re the mad bastard that decided that coating a butterfly – a butterfly – with ethylene glycol –ethylene glycol – would be a tremendous idea on a Friday afternoon.’
‘You’re a soldier, John. I don’t doubt that you’ve faced more formidable foes than a butterfly. And, you have a gun.’
‘So do you.’
‘Mrs. Hudson’s keeping it in 221A.’ Sherlock’s lips curled in distaste.
‘Therefore you must, for the sake of England, Baker St and your continued health, go out there and kill the damn thing.’ He prodded John’s side.
John stood, his expression stormy.
‘You owe me s-’
‘Yes, yes.’ Sherlock dismissed him with the wave of a pale hand. ‘Now, go. And try not to destroy the body. I’d like to ex-‘
He paused at John’s face, the doctor’s eye twitching a little. ‘Killing it will be fine.’
Sherlock crawled across the floor, pushing himself into a small space next to the wardrobe.
‘Go.’ He motioned, ushering John with his hands.
‘Oh, splendid, let’s just run a series of highly dangerous experiments in a contained space where three people have to live. Sound good, John? Oh, excellent, Sherlock!’
John muttered under his breath, quietly closing the door behind him. He stalked up the stairs, eyes darting across the airspace on the look out for a butterfly.
Would it look evil? Would it have, say, glowing wings and red antenna? John shivered a little.
Come on, Watson, it’s a goddamn butterfly. You invaded Afghanistan. You live with Sherlock Holmes. You can handle a butterfly.
He reached his own room, fumbling in the drawer and extracting the small hand gun.
Bang, bang, bang.
Sherlock smiled and unfurled his legs, standing up.
‘Got it, then?’
Sherlock looked bored, standing in the door way to the kitchen, his arms folded across his chest. John shot him a glare, his gun still in his hand.
”No, I thought I’d just shoot the wall for fun. The killer ‘fly is still on the loose.”
John shot back, snarkily.
Sherlock’s eyes widened and his arms flew from his chest, his head darting from one wall to another and taking a step back.
‘I’m joking. It’s there.’’ He gestured to a sorry little lump on the linoleum, two feet under three impressive bullet holes.
Sherlock breathed out. ‘Oh. Right.’ The bored expression flew back as quickly as it had left the angular face and he leant over to observe the little corpse.
”Very good of you to leave it mostly in tact, although I would hav-”
”Sherlock, need I remind you that you were the one that thought th-”
‘’JOHN WATSON, WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO MY BLOODY WALLS?’’