What John Saw and Katy Did
by Taz (aka Quisp)
John dragged his wheelie up the escalator, and out the into Baker Street and the neon and sodium glare of the London night. There was no cab at the stand. Of course there wasn't. Not when he was tired and off-kilter, and his equilibrium was still in a holding pattern over Gatwick. He cursed all air-traffic controllers. He cursed all cabbies. He cursed all politicians and all climate-change deniers. No such thing, uh? Then what accounted for these white weeks, these endless perfect facsimiles of the good old London Particulars of centuries—well, decades—gone. Nostalgia? At least this stuff came in skeins of grey and white, and you didn't have to wash your face 10 times a day. It was nothing like those filthy old buggering peasoupers the bloody pensioners were always on about.
Home at last, he fumbled his key the in lock. The vestibule light was out. Eighteen steps. You see but you don't observe, Watson. Who gives a rat's arse! At least as long as Mrs. Hudson hasn't found that half bottle of Glenkinchie. He parked the wheelie in the hall, observing—note that 'observing'— that Sherlock was home; there was light under his door. And still a third of the bottle left! There is a god of weary travelers. John threw himself on the sofa, and let the waters of life restore his soul. Ah, peace. And all manner of things shall be well.
There seemed to be a pleasant sort of multi-toned humming coming from down the hall. Very pleasant. Very soothing. What had Sherlock got up to while he was away? Some experiment with layered sound? Maybe he'd like a taste of the Glenkinchie. Maybe he'd like a taste of…
The first words that occurred to John were Brilliant disguise! No one's going to notice a six-foot green katydid. Not a green one. The brown one, though…
The brown one was mounted on the green one's back, clasping the thorax and the wing bases of its mate with its barbed forelegs. Its arched abdomen was thrusting powerfully, rhythmical pum-pum-pum...
That moment, with the momentum building and the humming reaching a crescendo, it wasn't the wisest thing for John to have whispered, "Sherlock?" Even as softly as he whispered it, it tripped the final drive—pum-pumpitty-pum—as the brown mantis deposited its sperm in the female's chamber.
The humming stopped and in the moment after, the brown one turned its wedge-shaped head and looked straight at John. The creature's eyes took on the gleam of old gold coins. It clicked its mandibles, and fluttered its wings. The humming started again, but this time it wasn't soft and pleasant; it was high-pitched, shrill and demanding! The door to the apartment flew open.
"Oh, John! How could you?!" Mrs. Hudson said. "You said Aberdeen was socked in. You weren't to be home until tomorrow!"
He came to on the sofa, to hear Mycroft saying, "Blast it! Must you keep them for pets? I could have bitten your head off!"
"I don't care!" Sherlock said. "It's mine, and I'm keeping it!"
"Here we go." Mrs. Hudson set the tea tray down. "Nice herbal soothers all round. That's what we need."
Finis
5/12/2014