The Butterfly House

by Malicei

Somewhat meta in the context of exploration of multiple universes and the Butterfly Effect. "Sherlock, you can't be bored already. You've only ridden the merry-go-round and seen the petting zoo thus far. I thought you liked them?" "I didn't like it when the bunny wet itself on me!" Sherlock complained. "So I shan't do them again. And everything else is boring."

1. Prologue - Part I

In a universe alike to the one that is known, a young boy of around seven years holds his older brother's hand as the brother leads the child around the local school fair.

From the brother's familiarity of the school grounds, it could be presumed that the brother was currently a student at the public school (or had at some point in the past attended). Chubbier than the dark-haired, stick-thin boy, the pair were looks-wise quite distinct. Nevertheless, their shared ancestry could be deduced from the fact that the younger boy had gone and outright stated it.

"This is boring, Mycroft! Your school is boring. Just because we're brothers doesn't mean I should have to go to the same school you do!" The child pouts.

The older brother, Mycroft, frowns. "Sherlock, you can't be bored already. You've only ridden the merry-go-round and seen the petting zoo thus far. I thought you liked them?"

Sherlock raises an eyebrow at him, a look which rather than convey his feelings of utter seriousness only serves to make him look comical when viewed on his sweet little face. "I did, but repeated experiences will only reduce the pleasure I derive from them as I become accustomed to them. And I didn't like it when the bunny wet itself on me!" Sherlock complained. "So I shan't do them again. And everything else is boring."

Bystanders wondering at the boy's curiously large vocabulary for his age group, would have, if they had investigated, found that the child had read the dictionary multiple times after his older brother had proudly shown off his superior grasp of the English language. Sibling rivalry would always exist to a degree between the two, but Sherlock was at that impressionable age where he wished to one-up Mycroft on every petty little thing.

Despite Sherlock's efforts, Mycroft found pleasure in deliberately needling his brother up on misuse of words ("My words aren't Mally-Proper Izzum's!(1)" Sherlock protested confusedly to Mycroft's hysterical laughter) or grammar to young Sherlock's eternal frustration.

"I see." Mycroft replies, in that deliberately calm manner that proclaimed he was far too mature to deal with Sherlock's silliness. "Your feelings on this matter are noted. Unfortunately, you are still to accompany me around the fair since Mummy and Daddy are too busy to come get you. As such, since you absolutely refuse to make a decision about what we shall do next, I have decided on your behalf."

Mycroft smirks at Sherlock who had suddenly paled. "And we are going to get your face painted whether you like it or not."

"NO! I shan't, I shan't, I shan't!" Sherlock protests (He'd been a big fan of stories set in previous centuries, dressing up as eighteenth century noblemen by pulling his socks over his trousers and insisting on use of somewhat archaic words such as 'shan't'(2)) as he struggled to get free from his brother's iron hold on his arm. "Let go, Mycroft! Leggo! MYCROFT!"

Mycroft was well aware of the fact that Sherlock had a strong aversion to being painted on, after numerous incidents in their early childhood when Mycroft had decided his younger brother would be a suitable canvas and gotten paint into Sherlock's eyes. Tears and bawling were often involved, and though Mycroft always made sure to sincerely apologise (he did care about his little brother, as annoying as he could be) Sherlock had never quite forgiven him on that issue.

But children are often needlessly cruel even when they do care, so Mycroft thought little of scooping his baby brother up over his shoulder and marching over to the face-painting stall. The teenager working the stall looked on concerned at the brothers while Mycroft handed her the money. Sherlock had been struggling to escape all the while, and continued to even as Mycroft lowered Sherlock and held him to the child-sized plastic chair.

"What are you doing, Sherlock?" Mycroft hisses to him. "You're being embarrassing! Stop squirming!"

"You're the one who's forcing me to do something I don't wanna do!" was Sherlock's counterargument.

"Well, I've already paid for it. You have to do it now."

"Do not!"

Mycroft gives Sherlock a disapproving look. "You do."

"Why?"

"Because I've paid for it, and it would be wasteful to have paid for something and not get anything in return." Mycroft replied, in an early show of manipulation that would have gone on to characterise his style as an adult. He knew Sherlock well enough that he was aware his little brother would see the logic in his argument and too, reject the possible outcome of waste.

"…Fine. You win." Sherlock mutters grumpily as he settled down, scowling at the teenager who would be face painting him even as she cooed over how 'adorable and sweet' he was.

"Dearest brother, there is no 'winning' in the acceptance of truth."

It was at such times that Sherlock resented his brother for being older, and annoying, and smarter and better in every way (from Sherlock's perspective.) "You know what I mean!"

Mycroft's expression was already schooled into an innocent blankness that he had already mastered (due to the way he delighted in annoying his little brother.) "No, I'm afraid I don't."

"You-you-argh!" Sherlock cries in exasperation. "Just get the stupid bloody thing done with, already!"

"Sherlock!"

"What? You swear too when Mummy and Daddy aren't looking. And Mummy and Daddy say you ought to act as my role model, so I'm just copying what you do." Sherlock replies smugly.

Mycroft huffs out a sigh. "I don't have the energy to deal with your antics. Just don't do it around adults or we'll both get in trouble."

Seeing Sherlock's triumphant look that indicated he was going to crow out in victory, Mycroft hastens to add: "But since you've been naughty, I'm going to choose what's going to painted on your face."

Sherlock's mood immediately darkens, and he does his best to be difficult as a stylised mockery of a bright pink, glittery butterfly which shimmered specks of glitter all over his clothes was painted on his face.

"I should think you look rather adorable, Sherlock. Stop rubbing your face, it's beginning to flake off."

"Exactly." Sherlock mutters as angrily as he can.

"Sherlock…"

"Fine! Fine. It's fine. It's all fine. Don't worry about my feelings."

Mycroft is too perceptive to be fooled (and Sherlock a bit too obvious to fool anyone.) He squeezes the bridge of his nose and breathes in deeply. "Sherlock, where would you like to go?"

"Home-" Sherlock begins, then quickly amends at the long-suffering look Mycroft gets at his words. "I don't know what there is to look at."

"You mean to tell me you thought 'everything' was boring when you didn't even know what there is to look at?"

"…Shut up!"

Mycroft chooses to ignore that remark, as it had become clear to him that his brother was simply being a stubborn child for the sake of it, and that it would be a futile task to continue antagonising him. "Well, I think you would enjoy the science demonstrations, as you so enjoy hearing about my science classes and experimenting with chemistry."

By 'experimenting with chemistry', Mycroft was referring to the fact that whilst Mycroft was away on a school camping trip, Sherlock had decided to borrow Mycroft's chemistry books and test out 'experiments' unsupervised. These 'experiments' were not, in fact, detailed in any of Mycroft's books but a product of Sherlock's own imagination fuelled by the facts in the book.

Indeed, Sherlock was a very bright boy in being capable of determining the underlying concepts behind the experiments listed in the books and applying them to his own 'experiments', but Mycroft's room had suffered terribly from the property damage.

There was also the disturbing fact (to Mycroft) that the dead bodies of small animals were found ("I've been doing dissections", Sherlock had replied when questioned) in the house but Sherlock had insisted that they'd been dead when he found them and that he knew he had to follow ethical guidelines when doing experimentation. Which was all very well for their budding little scientist, Mycroft had felt, but a practical test of corpse decay in Mycroft's room behind his bed was not, in fact, alright.

Predictably, Sherlock had perked right up at the mention of a science demonstration. "What sort of demonstration? Which field of science? Will an certified scientist be conducting the demonstration, or will it be a teacher or a student or-"

Mycroft interrupts Sherlock before he could continue, as the elder of the two was well aware how enthusiastic Sherlock could become on subjects he cared about. "I'm not sure, so we'll have to see when we get there."

"Alright!" Sherlock exclaims, bouncing around as he followed behind Mycroft (like a hyperactive puppy, or perhaps a particularly excitable duckling.)

Sherlock was suitably entranced by the simple chemical reaction inside a paper maché volcano that followed. Despite the way Sherlock acted mature for his age, he was still easily grabbed by flashy lights and explosions and had insisted Mycroft give him a piggy back so he could have a clear view of the demonstration. When Mycroft had comments that he "thought you said you were too old to be carried on my back?" Sherlock had been too excited to argue as he was usually prone to do.

"Is there more? I'd like to see more science, Mycroft!" Sherlock demands from where his head was sitting right beside Mycroft's ear.

Wincing at his brother's loudness as he glances around, Mycroft notes that most of the surrounding stalls are swamped with people, and seemed an utter pain to wait for. But Sherlock was quickly becoming impatient, and Mycroft was not enough of a saint to be able to deal with that.

"Er-" Mycroft begins, before spotting an stall emptied of people and hurriedly dragging Sherlock towards it. "What about this, Sherlock?"

Sherlock stares impassively at the person manning the stall. "What's all this then?" he demands.

The man stares back, unperturbed. "This is actually a stall for you kids to meet the police, but the coppers went off for their lunch break so I'm lookin' after the stall."

Sherlock cocks his head to one side. "Why you? What do you do?"

"Me, kiddo? I'm a detective." The man seemed to think that would be enough for Sherlock's irrepressible curiosity, when it was obviously insufficient.

This caused Sherlock to turn to Mycroft, incredulously. "Mycroft, you said there'd be science! Where's the science in a detective?"

There was a reason why, in another universe, Mycroft would grow up to work in government, able to deal with politicians and Sherlock alike. His ability to make up plausible nonsense ('bullshit', in lay person's terms) was incredible, even as young as he currently was. "Of course there's science in detective work!" he declares, shocked, even as he motioned with his eyes for the detective to go along with it. "But I shouldn't expect a little kid like you to have heard of the science of deduction."

Hook, line, sinker. "The science of deduction?" Sherlock asks, eyes wide, looking from the detective and then back at Mycroft.

"Yes, the science of deduction!" Mycroft proclaims confidently, even as the detective raised an eyebrow at the brothers. "You do know what a detective is, don't you, Sherlock?"

Unsure of where this was going, Sherlock gave out a hesitant "Yes…"

"And you remember what a scientist is, don't you."

A bit more confident, Sherlock replies in his childish voice: "A scientist seeks to uncover the truth behind the world, by use of logic and evidence to hypothesise, theorise and prove!"

Mycroft nods. "Well, to figure out the truth behind a mystery, a detective must use logic to piece together the facts of evidence available to prove their hypothesis on what occurred correct."

Sherlock's eyes widens to huge proportions as he instantly made the connection. "Oh! I see now!" He replies excitedly, eyes sparkling and giving Mycroft the sudden sinking feeling that he'd just unleashed a monster. He pulls on Mycroft's top insistently, indicating that he wished to be let down. Mycroft does so, all the while wondering that Sherlock was up to.

"I'm sorry I thought you were a stupid detective before obtaining all the facts!" Sherlock announces a bit too loudly to the detective in front of him (and inadvertently, the entirety of the surrounding crowd.)

"Sherlock-!"

The detective blinks, a little stunned, before giving Sherlock a funny look and dismissing him with an "Apology accepted, kid."

"I shouldn't have besmirched the noble cause of detectives by insulting them by calling a dullard like you one!" Sherlock replies with equal dismissiveness.

"SHERLOCK!"

Mycroft couldn't help but shout (at his wit's end as it were) before making a lunge at his baby brother. Unfortunately, one of the few advantages Sherlock held over his brother was swiftness, smaller size and agility, and he easily darted away into the crowd, Mycroft cursing up a storm behind him.

Giggling as he managed to lose his brother in the masses of people, he makes his escape by ducking under the tablecloth of the closest stall - and decides to have some fun. There's one of those gigantic pencils the school was selling just lying on the ground, and Sherlock finds it perfect for his purposes.

This experiment, he thinks, shall be called 'human reactions to an unknown object physically assaulting their ankles for shits and giggles'.

It takes a while for Mycroft to realise that Sherlock's somehow found the policemen, and they don't look at all happy at having to deal with(babysit!) whatever Sherlock's done now. Mycroft deals with the resultant lecture they dish out, then glares at Sherlock, who is strangely quiet. Even as he starts tell Sherlock off, he can tell something is off and when Sherlock doesn't reply he finally asks what's going on.

To Mycroft's shock, Sherlock slumps a bit and asks quietly, "Do you hate me?"

"What?! Of course not, Sherlock, what brought this on?"

"Well…" he drifts off. "I was doing some detectivey thinking and using my logic to deduce what you thought of me. And I think the evidence says you actually hate me." Sherlock practically whispered, looking away. "Because you're always saying things which show you think I'm dumb, or annoying, and you didn't defend me when the policemen were having a go at me. And I thought, why? Why would Mycroft do that?"

"You didn't even want to bring me along today, but Mummy made you do it. So you value being on Mummy's good side more than your own feelings. And you were obviously annoyed at me earlier, because you kept telling me off, and you think that just because I'm a little kid, I'm not worth treating seriously!" he shouted.

Mycroft is understandably more than a little stunned, that Sherlock would be perceptive enough to see the little truths behind his feelings towards Sherlock, or that Sherlock could come to such an inaccurate conclusion of the truth. "Sherlock," he begins gingerly. "While it's true I feel you can be a little slow, or irritating, or that you prevent me from taking my first choice of action-"

"I KNEW IT!"

"Sherlock, let me continue."

Sherlock glares defiantly, though Mycroft is dismayed to note a wet sheen to his little brother's eyes and feels abominably guilty.

"Sherlock, despite this, I don't hate you. If I hated you, I would have refused to put up with you at all. But I do, Sherlock, because despite all those things, I do like being with you and teaching you things, and seeing you have fun."

Though neither Mycroft or Sherlock have ever been particularly touchy-feely in their form of expression, Mycroft deems it appropriate for the situation. He opens his arms wide to invite his little brother into a hug, and, miracle of miracles, Sherlock does without even the semblance of a fuss. In return, Mycroft doesn't tease Sherlock about the growing wet patch on Mycroft's shirt.

"Whr ba the buddy fly?" Mycroft hears mumbled into his chest.

"What?"

"The butterfly!" Sherlock says as he looks up, face blotchy and red where his fair skin can be seen, and face paint flaky or running from where he'd been crying. "Why did you make me get my face painted with a stupid butterfly? I didn't even want to get my face painted, but I did it for you, Mycroft. I wanted something cool to do with science, but a butterfly has nothing to do with science apart from biology!"

Oh dear, Mycroft thinks. Sometimes I forget how young Sherlock is when he acts so much wiser than his years, and I'm taken off guard when he acts his age. I didn't think he'd be so hung up on something that petty. Then: I should give him something to placate him.

"Have you heard of the Butterfly Effect(3), Sherlock?" he says, surprisingly gently.

"Are you making something up to humour me, Mycroft?" Sherlock asks suspiciously, voice cracking slightly from his earlier waterworks.

"It's real, Sherlock. You can confirm my words with an outside source, and they'll say the same thing. It's so called because of the example given: a butterfly, given a single flutter of its wings, may consequentially create a hurricane on the other side of the world."

Seeing that he now had Sherlock's undivided attention, Mycroft elaborated. "It's to do with chaos theory. Don't you think it's interesting, that even such a little thing as a butterfly fluttering its wings could possibly alter the world so significantly?"

"I…guess so." Sherlock admits, grudgingly.

"Imagine - if that butterfly had not fluttered its wings at that exact moment, or if had done so at a different moment, or if perhaps the butterfly had not existed at all, what do you suppose would be the possible consequences?"

"Well…maybe the hurricane wouldn't have happened, then."

"Exactly, or maybe an earthquake would have happened instead, or the apocalypse, or the prevention of the apocalyse. Do you see now? There are so many possibilities that could arise because of the actions of one little butterfly."

Sherlock was looking at Mycroft in open wonder. "Is that why you chose a butterfly, then? To say you believed I could do anything?"

Well, no, Mycroft admits to himself. I hadn't thought of that, but if it pleases you…

"Of course, Sherlock."

Mycroft feels a bit dirty for manipulating his baby brother as he does, but he doesn't know how else to handle Sherlock. Sherlock isn't the only one in the family who has questionable social skills. In any case, Sherlock's happy, he thinks, so the ends justify the means.

Don't they?

On the topic of the reasons behind the prevalence of the exploration of the theme of 'multiple universes' in fiction in regards to fan-made works set within the Sherlock universe.

By Neal T. Shepherd.

The possibility of multiple universes (though commonly explored in fiction, with an emphasis on fan-created material) remained theoretical at best in the minds of most. It is an intriguing idea, to be sure, but it is currently unlikely for methods to prove the existence of (or lack of) such within the current resources available to science.

Its prevalence in fiction may be attributed to how the theme can …

…Still, probability and possibility could allow for some unreal sounding ideas to be seriously considered. That even if the universe we lived were not part of a 'multiverse', that there could not be the potential for one floating around somewhere.

(If you hadn't quite figured it out already, our story takes place in such a place which could and did have multiple universes.)

If we were to take a look at one of these multiple universes, one could observe for themselves the Butterfly Effect. The Butterfly Effect refers to …

…For example, take the case of a universe where the older brother of the titular protagonist of the Sherlock franchise, Mycroft Holmes, was never born and Sherlock grew up an only child.

Given the known Sherlock universe (in which their lives have always been fictional, and adapted into a television show on the BBC) is used as a baseline, the following differences are noted:

The most striking difference is that the characters of the BBC Sherlock franchise are not, in fact fictional. The Baseline Universe (as it will be referred to henceforth) is considered a poor example of a baseline, as it is the exception in this matter rather than the norm. However, as this is considered the 'originating' universe of the author (and readers, unless some dimension hoppers happen to coincidentally be reading), it is being used as such.

Sherlock is seen to be more socially well-adjusted but acts in a manner considered within typical societal norms. This Sherlock never had the motivation to nurture the same lightning fast mind without the influence of an older brother, though still considered highly intelligent. He becomes a doctor for the prestige and then continues for the sake of a former trauma surgeon co-worker whom he works with at the same clinic. Dr John H. Watson befriends him but marries a woman whom John believes more 'interesting' than Sherlock and they drift apart because of it.

It can be concluded from this that Mycroft Holmes is therefore a major influencing factor on the development of Sherlock's character.

We may also observe John Watson's influence on Sherlock in a universe where the likely scenario of Captain John H. Watson being shot fatally in Afghanistan occurs.

Sherlock Holmes never meets John, and his scathing remarks and cold attitude snowballs to the point that the London Police are no longer willing to cooperate with him (despite the efforts of one Detective-Inspector Greg Lestrade.) Eventually, Sherlock moves into one of his family's isolated holiday homes in the mountains and is known as a brilliant, if eccentric hermit. He is an active voice in the scientific community of a range of topics (though he never willingly leaves his mountain or interacts with more than one person for weeks on end) and maintains a hobby of bee-keeping.

Not all the 'turning points' , so to speak, have to be immediately significant, however.

Take a universe in which a seemingly insignificant event holds some major consequences: a cashier forgets to give a family nuggets with their order in the drive through. The family, when speeding back, skids off the road in bad weather and hits a petrol station. The resultant explosion affects the surrounding area and kills or injures many with the shrapnel. It disables a young adult Sherlock searching for purpose in life (through the use of illegal drugs) by paralysing him from the neck down and he later manages to overdose from sheer boredom.

…

…However, none of these preceding universes are relevant to this Sherlock's universe.

In the Baseline Universe, Mycroft never attended his school fair with his little brother. Mycroft goes into government, whilst Sherlock eventually goes and creates his own job of a 'consulting detective', having discovered a love for detective work through other means. He meets John Watson when a mutual acquaintance introduces them, and together they solve crime. Sherlock becomes John Watson's best friend, fakes his suicide, and then is forgiven for doing so. It's an action filled life, but one both are happy with.

But the case was that in this particular universe (known henceforth as the Fair Universe) Sherlock did attend his brother's school fair with Mycroft. Sherlock did get his face painted, see a science demonstration , meet a real-life detective and believe his brother hated him (temporarily, of course.)

It was the case that Mycroft did indeed explain the butterfly effect to his little brother in an effort to placate him and that by taking this extra time they were caught in a sudden downpour. Due to the downpour, they were slightly late in meeting their parents. Because they were late, Sherlock had run ahead of his slightly unfit older brother, forcing Mycroft to focus his attention on keeping an eye on Sherlock.

Because Mycroft was focussed on keeping an eye on Sherlock, it was the case that he forgot to look both ways when he followed his little brother onto a blind corner, and was killed instantly by the lorry that he didn't hear in the storm.

As such, it was the case that little Sherlock, a boy of no more than seven years, saw his older brother's body flung off the road and decapitated by the side of a road sign, traumatising even such an emotionally resilient boy as he.

As this was the case, little Sherlock, lost in his shock and grief, eventually kept going over the last significant words he shared with his brother … attributing emotional significance … and that those words happened to be on the Butterfly Effect.

This was this little Sherlock's reality, but those words led young Sherlock to wonder about the pivotal event which consequentially led to his brother's death. But without comparison, there was no way to prove any singular event or events had been the cause…

…What Sherlock had not accounted for was the presence of an independent variable which would serve to remedy this problem…

The Sherlock who stands wide-eyed at his kitchen table is quieter and more subdued than he should've perhaps been if he had never attended that fair, but still recognisably 'Sherlock'. At the very least, the therapy sessions forced upon him had improved his social skills somewhat, though his emotional health had plummeted drastically.

Admittedly, his memories of Mycroft before the accident are vague and distant, but Sherlock remembers that day in vivid detail. It's hard to forget the sight of someone you care about get killed in front of you. Sherlock is eleven now, but he still keeps having dreams in which he relives every moment he can remember of that day.

He doesn't think it's right to call them nightmares, though the inevitable conclusion is always distressing. In his dreams, Mycroft is alive (even if that fact always changes.) He's alive for Sherlock to annoy and be told off by, he can give Sherlock piggy backs and teach him stories.

Mummy and Daddy don't quite understand why he keeps those dreams close to his heart. It seems obvious to him - because he'd be likely to forget the way Mycroft really was if he didn't. Mummy and Daddy already have, though they always pay tribute to his photograph and claim that they'll always remember him.

But they've turned him into something other than a person. He's more story than human now, if you would take Mummy and Daddy at their word. If so, you would be led to believe that Mycroft could do no wrong, that he was a perfect student, that he was always kind and caring and patient and always had time for his little brother.

Sherlock's brother got annoyed easily with Sherlock's antics, condescended at and teased Sherlock, was sometimes cruel and threatened other students that were bullying Sherlock. The real Mycroft, Sherlock had even thought, had hated him, which made it feel all the more real when Mycroft revealed that he hadn't.

The real Mycroft was not, as his parents seemed to believe, to be immortalised in a photograph. It was simply that: a photograph. But even Sherlock, with his famous apathy towards finding sentiment and great meaning in inanimate objects, was not going to be happy to find a giant bloody barn owl had knocked his brother's photograph down and shat on the frame.

"You great big stinking bird!" Sherlock shouts, flapping his arms at it in an effort to shoo it outside. "How on earth did you even get in?!"

He scowls. Perhaps he's just projecting onto the bird unwittingly, but it almost seems as if the owl is laughing at him. When he throws a bowl at it, it simply hops out of the way before returning to its original position. It continues doing so with the rest of the things in the kitchen he can find to aim at the thing.

It is utterly infuriating. He can't think of any other reasonable option at the moment except to take his lab rat and sacrifice it to the Great Winged God. It doesn't appeal to him, not only because it would be rewarding the nuisance for undesirable behaviour (4). Simple operant conditioning. Duh. Sherlock had read up about behavioural modification techniques because he'd read every last page of Mycroft's books (and Mycroft had been an incredible manipulator for a reason) and positive reinforcement of something he didn't want was only going to hinder his cause.

Namely, getting the giant flying vermin outside.

"RARGH!" He cries, leaping towards it. "What do you want?! You MUST want something."

He stops to consider it, tilting his head to the side as he scowls at it. He huffs, thinking. "You've obviously been trained to do this, though it seems not very well if the bird poo is any indication. Unless they trained you to do that too, in which case they could be hateful, immature idiots. Still, unlikely. So for what reason?"

The owl coos.(Hatefully! Sherlock thinks, taunting him!)

He throws a fridge magnet at it, but misses and only succeeds in getting it in the pot of boiling water on the stove with a plop. Oops, he thinks as the owl just gives him an amused stare and hoots loudly at him.

"Sherlock! What on earth is going on down there?"

"Nothing, Mummy!" He's too quick to reply. "Just… knocked some things over!"

"You've been making a racket for the last ten minutes and I'm pretty sure I heard a bird!"

Ah. This… was not good.

"Sherlock, I'm coming downstairs, and you'd best not have captured a pigeon again for one of your experiments!"

It'd been three years and yet Mummy insisted on bringing it up every time she suspected he'd been experimenting again. It was for science! He'd protested, but Mummy didn't seem to understand how important such a noble cause was, focussing on minor inconveniences such noise and hygiene concerns regarding Subject 004, code named 'Flying Rat'. He'd thought it terribly clever of him, combining the slang term for a common pigeon with its role as a flight-capable lab rat, but Mummy had still made him release it and banned him from feeding the birds at the park.

This beast was far too evil to compare to his poor, neglected park birds. ("Hoot!")

There was no way he'd be able to hide all this in time.

Stupid owl.

So when Mummy came into the kitchen disaster zone, Sherlock had already crawled into a space under the sofa - and finally discovered a curiously old-fashioned looking envelope addressed to him, and a letter on parchment (!) which claimed the most peculiar things.