The Challenge, as thrown down by Teej: The story must use the words "puce", "viscous" and "puerile" and contain the "Hairy Hands Ghost of Dartmoor". Excellently beta'ed by sarajm.
It Could Only Happen to Sherlock
John was cocooned in his warm bed listening to the wind lashing the rain against the bedroom window. He was in no rush to get up. Instead, he was revelling in the fact that he had no clinic hours that day, the case that had plagued him and Sherlock for the past week had been satisfactorily concluded and, for the first time in a long time, the flat was peaceful and quiet.
Well, until a horrendous bang sounded from the main floor, startling John almost out of his skin. Living with Sherlock had kept his reflexes honed, so in less than 12 seconds he had leaped out of bed, thrown himself down the stairs and had come to a skidding stop in the sitting room, in shock at the sight before him.
Pouring out of the kitchen, in a manner reminiscent of the old "pea souper" fogs that used to envelop London, was a dense, puce-coloured vapour. It was so thick that John couldn't see into the kitchen, let alone determine if Sherlock was in there.
Pulling his t-shirt over his nose and mouth as a precaution (with Sherlock and his experiments, it paid to be wary), John carefully approached the door to the kitchen and called, "Sherlock! Sherlock, are you in there? Are you okay?"
A muffled noise was quickly followed by the sound of a window being shoved up. Following suit, John quickly opened the windows in the sitting room, hoping to create a cross-breeze and clear the air. Turning back to the kitchen, he could see that their emergency air-clearing measures had begun to show signs of working; John could now begin to discern shapes in the room. There was the table with Sherlock's microscope beginning to appear out of the vile-coloured haze; he could vaguely see the outline of the fridge and was now able to discern Sherlock himself standing at the sink, looking down and shaking his head.
"Is it safe?" asked John.
"What?"
"The vapour; is it safe?"
"Of course it's safe, John. I'm still standing, aren't I? My experiment simply got away from me," responded Sherlock in a snarky tone.
"Well, excuse me for being concerned. Are you all right? What happened?"
Getting no response, John straightened his t-shirt and carefully stepped into the kitchen, wary of any potential hazards, like broken glass or spilled acid. Stepping to his friend's side, John put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder and asked again, "Are you all right?"
Sherlock turned his torso towards John and blinked several times. The Detective was covered in a viscous green goop that was oozing down his face to drip, ever so slowly, onto his shirt. It honest-to-God looked like his face was melting! The stuff was in his hair and covered a good portion of his face; Sherlock's eyelashes were even stuck together in spiky clumps.
From the look on the other man's face, John knew that Sherlock was unharmed; embarrassed but unharmed, so he did not bother to try to rein in his peals of laughter. His flatmate looked like something he'd seen in some 1950s science fiction movie that had been playing late on the telly last week. "The Blob", "It", "Creature from the Black Lagoon" – something like that anyway.
Then, suddenly it hit him; John knew exactly what Sherlock resembled!
When he was a kid, their family had gone to visit relatives who lived on the edge of Dartmoor. His sister Harry had overheard the adults talking one night about the latest occurrence of the "Hairy Hands Ghost of Dartmoor". Then, in typical older sibling payback for some long-forgotten event, she proceeded to terrify young John with stories of the Ghost. According to Harry, it was a foul creature that haunted the bogs and marshes of the Moor. She told him that it was covered in a dark, oily substance and was totally devoid of hair, except for tufts of long grey fur that covered its knuckles and trailed behind it as it floated across the land in search of young children because it needed their skin. Needless to say, Harry's stories had given young John nightmares for weeks!
Years later, John had learned the truth about "Hairy Hands", but what impresses one at seven years old apparently stays with you for life. To John, "Hairy Hands" would always remain the nightmarish creature that Harry had spun to life on that dark summer's evening.
As John just about collapsed on the floor from laughter, Sherlock stared haughtily at his so-called friend and said, "You would be of greater assistance if you would turn on the water and fetch some towels so I can try to get this stuff off me."
Giggling and snorting as he tried to control himself, John wandered out of the kitchen towards the bathroom, intent on finding some old towels and whatnot for Sherlock's use.
"Don't move," he called back towards the kitchen, "and please, try to drip into the sink rather than onto the floor. And you do know that you're going to be the one cleaning up the mess, right?" added John as he stepped back into the kitchen, his arms full of towels and some old papers for Sherlock to stand on. A vain attempt to save their floor, to be sure, but "every little bit helps" had become John's motto when dealing with Sherlock's messes.
On seeing The World's Only Consulting Detective, who usually looked so posh and put together, standing by the sink covered in goop and blinking owlishly as his lids kept sticking together, John couldn't help but start laughing anew.
"Just put the towels by the sink and be gone!" snapped Sherlock. "I really do not require your assistance at this time, especially if all you are going to do is laugh. Honestly, John, do you not think your behaviour is rather puerile?"
"You're one to talk, you git!" answered John. "I prefer to think of myself as child-like rather than childish. But at least I don't look like an extra from a bad 1950s sci-fi movie!"