this is something really weird; I was writing for a prompt and it kind of run away from me. as always, comments are love. disclaimer: Green Hairstreak exists, you can look it up on wikipedia. the UK Butterfly Appreciation Club is my own invention. Sherlock waxing poetical about butterflies is shamelessly stolen from the famous 'That which gives extras' speech from ACD stories. Sherlock, John and co. belong to BBC, Gatiss and Moffat.
When crime scenes become an everyday occurence, it might be time to take some time and think about what exactly are you doing with your life.
But honestly, John is far too tired for any of that. He is following a madman, because it makes his blood sing, and he studiously avoids looking for any other reason. It's barely five in the morning and the gentle first light of a spring dawn is sheepishly peeking into the modest hotel room. Lestrade's boys had set up three reflectors, though, and their sharp white light puts the shabby interior and sleepless faces of the Yarders into merciless contrast. Everything looks washed out and dull, except for Sherlock, who manages to look like something dramatic and otherworldly, black and white and grey, twirling around the room like a dervish, with silvery strands of thoughts trailing after him and sharp blades of black shadows stabbing his chest.
Just look at him. He isn't going to die, ever, is he? Dear God, just listen to me. I'm a fucking fool. John yawns and smiles, quietly laughing at his babbling thoughts. Military training had taught him to wake up quickly and efficiently; but it had been a strange night, and the morning was shaping up to be even stranger. He had returned from a chase with Sherlock in the middle of the night and it had been well past midnight when he finally stumbled to his bed and fell asleep so quickly it almost scared him, lying spread-eagled on top of the covers, still dressed, his face in the pillow. He hasn't gotten much sleep the night before, either, or the one before, or the one before that. The case was finished, but another one began while he was sleeping, and Sherlock had burst into his room and dragged him up and into a taxi before John even had chance to ask what the hell was going on. His body had quickly understood he was supposed to be awake and function, but somehow, his brain still feels like dreaming. And it's such a beautiful morning. Bloody cold, though.
Blinding artificial light hurts his overtired eyes and John ducks off to the side and goes to stand by the window, so he has something gentle and soft to rest his eyes on. He yawns again, covering his mouth with the back of his hand. He's so fucking tired. Insanity is contagious, have you forgotten that? You have already stopped sleeping properly, and soon you'll be frolicking around crime scenes like a kid who overdosed on sweets.
Starting your day with a crime scene shouldn't feel so nice, but somehow it does. The victim is an almost decapitated man in his middle ages, dressed in stripy pajamas. His neck's an ugly mess, head connected to the body only with the neck vertebrae. Someone tried to chop his head off, but apparently, they didn't have enough strength to crack the bones, even with multiple blows of what was probably a meat cleaver or a small axe. A very boring murder, according to Sherlock.
"A crime of passion," Sherlock announces with a disapproving sniff. "Really, does it take a genius to know that the easiest way to remove the head from the body is to sever the vertebrae apart? Dear God, could people be any more sloppy?"
John can't suppress his snort of amusement. Anderson's already eyeing Sherlock with his usual horrified disgust, Lestrade's waiting for Sherlock's deductions with a pen, a notepad and an expression of barely contained impatience, and Sherlock himself is rummaging through the victim's personal belongings, which are laid out on the bedside table. God, I really must be going crazy, John thinks, closing his eyes and slowly exhaling through his nose. This shouldn't feel like a morning exercise. It shouldn't feel like home. He wraps his arms around himself and wishes he'd worn one of his jumpers - or that he could at least get a hot cuppa somewhere. It really is a cold morning.
Suddenly, Donovan huffs out a short, disbelieving laugh. "My grandma always used to say that it brings luck," she says.
John opens his eyes and sees Donovan with raised eyebrows and Lestrade with that boyish grin on his face that makes him look about fifteen years younger, and follows their gazes to the other side of the room. When he sees the source of sudden amusement, he can't help but giggle.
Sherlock has frozen in his half crouch, and on the very tip of his nose is a small, bright green butterfly. The wings are that glowing shade of the sunlight shinning through new leaves in the forest.
A few moments pass and Sherlock still makes no move to chase the butterfly away; in fact, he has gone completely cross-eyed staring intently at the small creature. Sally glances at John and giggles like a school girl.
"Well, freak, I would never have thought you can be funny."
Lestrade coughs, trying to wipe his grin off his face and failing miserably. "Sherlock? I really don't think that little thing did it. Though I'll agree with you it looks mighty suspicious."
By now, even Anderson is smiling, and finally, Sherlock moves.
He stands up with painstaking slowness, still looking at the tiny patch of glowing colour. "Green Hairstreak, also known as Callophrys rubi. Very common in Great Britain. Not so common in the London City. " His voice is quiet and strangely calm and John would call it awed, except for the fact that Sherlock does not get awed because of butterflies. He gets awed when psychopats threaten him, and when he and John are in mortal danger before breakfast, and when there's a crime that takes him more than a week to solve.
Slowly, Sherlock takes one of his surgical gloves off and raises a hand to his nose. John expects a shooing motion, but Sherlock merely holds a finger next to the butterfly's tiny head. Bright wings tremble, and the butterfly slowly climbs on Sherlock's index finger, clinging to the pale skin with needle-thin legs.
John steps closer, drawn to the strange sight. "How do you know its name?"
"There was a case two years ago." Sherlock holds the butterfly to the light, studying it with a rapt fascination he usually reserves for Paganini's caprices and particularly gruesome murders. "You should remember, Lestrade. The holy murders, I believe the press called them."
"Holy murders?" John tries to contain his morbid curiosity. "How is that connected to this little bloke here?"
"The murderer was a psychopat," says Lestrade.
"The murderer had imagination," Sherlock corrects him. "It was a good case, John, you would have enjoyed it. The victims were strangled and each had a collection butterfly attached to their forehead with a pin. A Green Hairstreak butterfly, to be precise. After five corpses in two days, kidnapped victims began to turn up. They were tied up and unharmed, except for a pinprick in the forehead, where the butterfly was attached. The point of the butterfly was that this particular species has wings green on the underside and dark, dull brown on the upper side. They never rest with their wings open. They always have them folded up like this." Sherlock gestures with the finger on which the butterfly's still sitting. "The dead victims' butterflies were attached to them with the dark side up. Those who were merely restrained had butterflies attached to them with the green side up."
"And what was the point?" asks John, feeling a little lost and more than just a little bit fascinated.
"The point, John, was in symbolism. The murderer believed he was riding the world of those unworthy to live. That's why the murdered victims got the brown side of the butterfly. Dark brown meant underworld. He thought that those he killed deserved death, because they were already dead inside. And those he only kidnapped and then released he apparently deemed worthy to live, and marked them with the green side of the butterfly, symbolising life and light."
"Basically, he was a nutter who believed in Rapture," Lestrade jumps in.
"Ah, but he was such a clever nutter," Sherlock whispers, touching the green wings with the very tip of his other index finger, and he is so still and quiet and John cannot look away. Right now, staring at Sherlock feels just as imperative as breathing in and out. "He used a species that's very common for Great Britain. If he had used any exotic species, he would have to ship the larvae in from abroad, which would've drawn attention to him. And he had a wonderful alibi for having a house full of butterflies. He was the president of the UK Butterfly Appreciation Club, you see. He was killing his own colleagues. And then he had to get sloppy. He made it easy for me in the end."
The room is very quiet. Anderson's look of disgust is back and Donovan has long since stopped smiling, and Lestrade is eyeing Sherlock with disapproval. Sherlock, however, ignores them all. Carefully, he walks past the Yarders and the headless corpse and John, who is staring at him, his heart poisoned by all that quiet, shining, crazy beauty; he stops by the window and looks over the rooftops of the great city, reddened by the dawn's fingers.
"The brilliance of this case was that the murderer had chosen to mark his path by one of those rare things that could be interpreted as the proof of God's existence - if one were inclined to do so. A butterfly by itself needs to exist. It has a place in the natural order of things. Its colours, however, are not necessary for performing its duties in the biosystem. Neither is its beauty. "
Sherlock raises the butterfly towards the morning light and smiles, and it's one of those brilliant, glowing smiles that make John's heart stutter. What the hell am I thinking? This man is going to burn me alive. He honestly feels a little dizzy.
"A butterfly," Sherlock whispers, "is the nature's equivalent of art." And he gently blows on the little green wings. The butterfly finally relinquishes his hold on Sherlock's skin, taking flight and disappearing in the pale dusk of the morning.
And Sherlock himself turns back to the room full of gaping Yarders, and he's still smiling, looking directly at John now, framed by the pale golden and pink light, hair afire, eyes shinning, and John can't stand it. He can't. It's like staring at the midday sun.
Lestrade loudly clears his throat. "That was very nice, Sherlock. Now, if you wouldn't mind ..."
"The wife did it," Sherlock interrupts him, briskly taking off the other glove and handing both of them to the nearest forensics bloke. "You can see the line of his wedding ring. It's still strong, so he must have took it very recently. They agreed on divorce and he came to stay at this hotel while he was looking for a place to live. Then, the wife decided she didn't want to suffer through the equable division of the assets, especially because she's unemployed and doesn't have enough money for a decent lawyer. So she decided to get rid of him, and she took his money to make it look like a burglary. The murder weapon must be at her house. A meat cleaver, I'd imagine. John, let's go."
And he strides out.
John catches up with him in the hallway, feeling vaguely lightheaded and without any idea whatsoever what, if anything at all, should he say. Sherlock is still smiling, his hair is still afire, he's glancing at John out of the corner of his eye, and John stays silent until they already in a taxi driving them to Baker Street. His mind is a jittery mess of glowing eyes and black shadows and brilliant brilliant brilliant, and so he keeps his mouth shut. He felt like he was dreaming before - now he has hard time convincing himself he's even awake. It truly feels like a dream: the half-empty streets, soft light, such a charming corpse, and Sherlock in the middle of it, talking about death and beauty and blood and butterflies like they were things that fit together. Sherlock, God, his eyes, the green ball of light in his hands, twisted black-and-white angel of dark streets of London, what am I going to do if he gets tired of me? I can't live without him anymore, I can't.
"Why don't you spare yourself the pain and just say whatever is bothering you, John?" Sherlock is staring through the window.
John coughs. His throat feels raw. "It's not ... I mean, I'm not ... I was just ... surprised. I guess."
"Surprised."
"Yes. You ... " John coughs again. His throat hurts. And he's dreadfully cold. "I've never seen you look so ... gentle. You don't go around looking at anything like that. Except your violin, but that's a thing. Small butterflies don't fascinate you. You are ... you."
Sherlock frowns lightly. "You aren't making any sense."
"I know." John wraps his jacket tighter around himself. I'm babbling. I've been babbling all morning. "Am I crazy or it's bloody freezing today? I think I have a fever. I've been feeling ... strange all morning."
Sherlock stares at him for a long second. "I should say that's obvious. I don't know why I didn't notice. Why didn't you stay at home if you don't feel well?"
"It was worth it," John mumbles, closing his eyes. The next words are out of his mouth before he can stop them. "You aren't always so beautiful. I'm glad I saw you."
The silence that follows is shadowy and soft with shock.
But then, Sherlock is leaning over him, eyes bright, grinning like a madman he is, and John wonders, terrified, what exactly is he so happy about. The closeness is making him tremble; fine tremors that turn his knuckles white with the effort to hide them.
"We really need to get you to bed, John," Sherlock says, and kisses him.
His mouth is cool against John's overheated neck, and then his jaw and finally his lips, whispering crazy things (I'm going to take you to bed, I'm going to make love to you until you fall asleep, you'll be so sensitive because of the fever, I'm going to drive you crazy) and John moans like a man dying, feverish and feeling crazy and completely unable to help himself. He reaches up and buries a hand in Sherlock's hair, trying to keep himself from shattering to pieces from sheer amount of sensation, drinking clouds and blood from Sherlock's glorious lips.
He doesn't let go until taxi stops in front of their home.
fin