John whistled as he walked up the stairs to his flat. A bag of groceries in each hand delayed him slightly as he dug his keys from his pocket and inserted the correct one into the door. As he entered the flat, he turned directly into the kitchen to deposit the items, still whistling a cheery tune. His eyes glanced over the severed head on the table and he set down one of his bags. Still whistling, he gently placed the large glass bell jar over the top of the head and continued on to put away his groceries.
He opened the fridge and placed the milk next to the bowl of toes. He placed the tea in the cabinet, after setting aside the jar of frogs. Lastly, he removed yet another new kettle from his bag and placed it on the counter. Thinking for a moment, he tucked it under the sink, in the cabinet his tall roommate never thought to bend down and open. Satisfied, he bundled up the bags and tossed them in the garbage, and headed to the living room to write a new blog entry. The latest case had been a little dull, only a four on Sherlock's scale, but he thought perhaps the housekeeping tendencies of his eccentric partner might interest the readers.
Still whistling, he entered the living room and looked around for said partner. As usual, John found him lying on his back on the couch, hands steepled and pressed to his chin. However, he wasn't in his pyjamas as he had been when John left for surgery this morning. He was dressed in one of his immaculate suits, as if he had gone outside.
"Sher," John called, hoping that he wasn't too deep in his mind palace to answer, "Did Lestrade call? Is there a new case?" Sherlock didn't answer, as per usual. John rolled his eyes and crossed the room. Maybe Sherlock's phone would hold the answer.
Seeing it resting on the table beside Sherlock, John swept it up and searched through the messages for a clue as to why Sherlock was dressed and concentrating so hard. Finding nothing, he placed the phone back on the table and turned to Sherlock himself.
John was immediately taken aback by what he saw. Sherlock, whom for all intents and purposes had looked exactly the same across the room, with the exception of his clothing, was, up close, covered in carnival makeup.
His entire face from his hair like to his chin, was painted to look like a purple butterfly. John was too shocked to even laugh as Sherlock's face twitched and the butterfly's antennae moved with his face. Where on Earth did Sherlock get his face painted?
"Mrs. Hudson!" John called, jogging to the stairwell. "Did Sherlock go out today?" He called. Mrs. Hudson's soft voice echoed up the stairs.
"Not that I noticed, dear! I brought him some tea a few hours ago and he was still lying on that couch in his jimjams." Her footsteps could be heard coming closer as her voice grew louder in her approach.
"I do hope he gets a case soon." She huffed as she reached the top of the stairs. "I'm worried for the sake of my walls." She looked pointedly at the yellow smiley face painted above Sherlock's body and at the bullet holes that dotted it.
"Not that you noticed." John repeated. "Right then." He turned and retreated back into the flat, Mrs. Hudson following still chatting away.
"What is the fuss, dear? Why worried if he got out of the flat today? Has he started some awful experiment again? Last time I opened the cupboard an arm fell out, and he yelled at me for disturbing it!"
John vaguely nodded in both confirmation and acknowledgement. He too had been the victim of a good slapping from the disembodied cupboard arm. What a row that had been.
"No Mrs. Hudson, no unusual experiments. At least, not for Sherlock. But, well, there is something you might find interesting." He gestured over at the consulting detective and sank heavily into his armchair, finally coming out of his shock. He started to giggle as Mrs. Hudson approached Sherlock. He began laughing harder as he heard Mrs. Hudson exclaim.
"My goodness!" John bent over and placed his head in his hands as he laughed.
"Where would he even find a place to get something like that done! It's February!" Mrs. Hudson asked. John just laughed in answer. Mrs. Hudson crossed over to Sherlock's armchair and sat, beginning to giggle herself.
"I do hope you've gotten a picture of that." John leapt up from his chair, still laughing.
"Brilliant idea, Mrs. H." John took a quick snapshot of the detective's face and returned to his chair, laughter shaking his shoulders. Footsteps could be heard quickening up the stairs as the two of them laughed.
"Blimey, what's goin' on 'ere?" Lestrade's voice called from the stairwell. He entered the flat to a renewed round of laughter.
John and Mrs. Hudson lost what little semblance they had gained as they took in the DI's stunned face. John just pointed at Sherlock, giggling hysterically.
"Oh god!" Lestrade exclaimed, sending Mrs. Hudson into tears. "Where could he even get that done?"
"Shut up, all of you!" Sherlock suddenly roared. He shot up like a rocket, his purple face contorted in rage.
"I'm trying to concentrate!" The three of them were sent into fits of laughter at this.
"What are you blathering fools laughing about? John, I would think you were above this? What did someone pull a prank on me whilst I was in my mind palace? Perhaps a pen mustache, hmm? Very mature, especially of you Lestrade." Sherlock ranted.
"Sher" Jon managed to gasp. "You're face is painted like a giant purple butterfly." Sherlock's face fell into a neutral expression. The wings on his cheeks hid his blush, but John could tell it was there.
"Oh yes. That." He said plainly. He then stood and practically ran to the loo. John, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade collapse into giggles again for several minutes. By the time their laughter subsided, Sherlock had re-emerged from the loo, face freshly scrubbed. No paint lingered even in his curly locks. He straightened his suit and turned to Lestrade as John and Mrs. Hudson sniggered. Lestrade snapped into professionality when Sherlock inquired about the new case he had brought.
Sherlock and John left ten minutes later, on the way to the scene of a particularly violent double homicide.
John texted Lestrade the picture of Butterfly Sherlock in the cab ride to the crime scene.
It was immediately everyone in Scotland Yard's computer screen.