Sherlock rested the violin down gently on the side table, the morning light just barely peeking through the curtains. Looking out of the window, Sherlock sighed at the two figures approaching his flat and replaced the curtain. He knew- had known- all along what it was that was happening. And with the world on its side and its ear to the ground, Sherlock had finally worked out what it was that would happen tonight.
He had deduced it well, but deduced it late.
**************************Earlier that year*****************
"SHERLOCK!," John yelled. It was a morning like to any other when he had woken up, but with the discovery of pickled remains in his mouthwash, John had gotten more than irritated.
John stormed into the front room, one hand gripping his robe around him, the other trembling with fury at the bottle it held.
"William Sherlock Scott Holmes," John said in a quieter voice. Sherlock usually obeyed only when necessary, and John deemed this to be necessary. "Sherlock why- why are there eyeballs floating in my mouthwash?" Just the thought of the contents nearly sent John running, but he held his ground.
"Hmm?" Sherlock hummed, obviously not paying attention to the matter. He didn't see the matter as necessary to divert his attention and so he did not do so. "You heard me, Sherlock. Why are there eyeballs in my mouthwash?" John's patience was stretched thin, nearly at his breaking point. Realizing this, Sherlock sighed before lifting the heat visor he was wearing and extinguishing the flames of his blowtorch previously trained on decayed meat.
"John. Those eyeballs were submerged in an aqueous solution meant only for the purpose of investigation. I assure you that they were not..Floating in your mouthwash. However, had you attempted to cleanse your mouth with that particular liquid, you would not be standing here but would have contracted whatever disease that caused the death of the previous owner of those eyes. But that's the beauty of it, John! Imagine, being able to communicate disease as easily as we communicate emotion or words; the fluidity and definition of life itself will have expanded to such a point that-"
John raised his hand, having heard enough. "Sherlock. I don't- I don't want to give disease, I'm here to cure it. As long as this isn't my mouthwash, I don't truly care what it is you do."
Sherlock stared at John's retreating figure, unconsciously smiling. Sherlock knew that only John would have taken such a matter sweetly, cooling his anger only seconds after it was kindled.
Sherlock flipped his visor down and turned back to the meat.
The mouthwash may have been safe, but Mrs. Hudson's china was quite another story…