Summary: A short drabble in which Sherlock pukes butterflies and John finds out... yup.

AN: Talk about weird internet prompts and the backfires of having no sleep.

Also- the possibility of this turning into the strangest (and only) drabble-dump is likely. So... more weird prompts, yet to come.

Look, I don't usually write this stuff, anyways. Check out my profile for a better portfolio of what I write.

I hope you enjoy it, anyways.


He can't believe he managed to deleted this feeling.

Sherlock heaves again, wondering how he's forced himself to forget the feeling of the butterflies catching his throat and into the toilet.

Yes, every decade, he manages to regurgitate a kaleidoscope of butterflies, and no; the reason is still unknown to him.

The thought of taking one and studying it has occured to him, but each sample alsways ends up either too damaged to study or takes the normal appearence under his microscope, leaving no clue as to how or why they ended up in his stomach.

"Sherlock?" John peeks in the bathroom- damn it, he didn't lock the door. (They usually never do, though; John was awkward about the 'lack of privacy' [as the doctor liked to call it] first, but after a number of... comprimising situations, he slowly adjusted to the lifestyle.)

"Sherlock- what the hell?" John says. Sherlock's curls pass oper the rim and he hopes his roommate doesn't see a single monarch pass his lips.

"No!" Sherlock exclaims hurriedly. Another set of butterflies pour out and he has a brief pause to sigh. "Just-" he breathes, "-go-" he feels those damned creaturs crawl up his throat, "-away!" he retches.

Without flinching, John is by his side rebelliously.

Sherlock retches, again. It'd be boring if it wasn't painful.

A simple glimpse in the pocelain bowl makes John look twice. "What-"

"Not-an-experiment," Sherlock rushes and bends his head over again.

Before John can open his mouth to begin his questioning, Sherlock managed a quick, "Later," before continuing.

Well, Mrs. Hudson wouldn't be happy about the soon-to-be-clogged toilet. Again.

.

"So you're saying you puke out butterflies every ten years."

"Yes."

"And you're not joking?"

"John, you just saw me hurl my insides into-"

"I get it, I get it. But you never told a doctor?"

Sherlock gives a flippant sigh. "Do you think they'd believe me?"

John considers the statement. "Still, though. You-"

"I'd be labeled a medical freak."

"Or a medical wonder." John sighed, though, giving up at even the thought of gettign Sherlock to see a(nother) medical professional about his... problem. "What does Mycroft think?"

"He laughs as hard as a sexist man does over a woman's menstration cycle."

John paused, opening his mouth to reply before choosing not to. After a pause, he replied witha "Pardon?"

"Don't make me repeat myself."

"Does he have any other medical abnormalities too?" John asked sarcastically.

"Well, he's allergic to water."

This caused John to spit-take his tea. It went all across Sherlock, who was unfazed for a morment. "That was my favorite purple shirt."

"You're brother's allergic to water?!"

"And nothing else. His skin will have rashes if he even touches it, and don't get me started if he drinks it."

"...How is he alive?"

"Oh, he can drink other liquids; even juice and tea."

"...How is this possible?"

"How can I puke butterflies?" Sherlock follows with a smooth retort.

A pause; John almost considers carrying on the topic, but didn't. He rises from his chair and sighed. "Milk, right?"

"And eggs."

A shuffle of feet. The door opens slightly, creaking. "Why didn't you mention this before?" John asks.

"Unimportant."

"... Of course."