It was beautiful, in a way. Hundreds of tiny threads woven together in a complicated geometric pattern by something with a brain smaller than a sesame seed. It hung there from the ceiling swinging ever so slightly due to the window that had been left open. Again. Using his amazing instinctive powers of deduction which were renowned all over London, England, the world even, Sherlock came to the conclusion that his spider repellent was not working. In the middle of this newly-woven web sat a fat house spider. Ick. He had seen many things, bodies were a common sighting it seemed nowadays for him, things that would make any other man sick, or at the very least squirm. But spiders? They were black, hairy and had far more than their fair share of legs.

Urgh.

He remembered his mother telling him that they were wonderful creatures, God's natural flycatchers. But Sherlock had never agreed. Anyway, he didn't mind flies all that much. Except when they died in his tea. Inconsiderate creatures.

Sherlock sat up in bed and reached for his homemade contraption. It was constructed from a broom handle, a tin can and a litterpicker. If anyone asked as to the purpose of this unusual gadget, Sherlock suddenly developed an interest into the state of the London streets nowadays.

Because of course no one knew about this fear. Not even John. No one needed to.

Taking hold of the handle, Sherlock aimed his weapon at the intruder and pulled the trigger.

The spider looked at him almost triumphantly, delighted with it's excellent timing as to randomly deciding that a few centimetres to the left looking infinitely more exciting than it's previous position.

Furious, Sherlock aimed again, and made another grab for the smug little so and so siitting on the ceiling. His ceiling. Trespasser.

Click. The spider was gone. Ha. Reching for the capsule in which prisoners of this gadget were contained, Sherlock cautiously peered inside the can.

No spider.

Darn it.

Now more determined than ever to capture the ugly arachnid that had somehow defeated the numerous traps laid for the very purpose of showing creatures like this one they were not welcome here, Sherlock looked back up at the ceiling where it had been a few seconds previously.

Still no spider.

Ah.

Sherlock's heart sped up and his breathing got steadily faster as his overactive imagination created many a place the spider could have ended up.

None of which were very pleasant.

To say the least.

Conscious of a flickering on the edge of his vision, Sherlock reached up to remove his misbehaving hair from his line of sight.

Sherlock paused.

So did the flickering.

He moved his hand a little closer.

A movement, tiny, but noticeable.

Slowly Sherlock became aware of a black shape slowly making it's way out of his peripheral vision and

onto

His face.

Sherlock screamed.

Panicked, John and Mrs Hudson hurried into the room.

The chest of draws lay on it's face, the lampshade was on the floor and lying next to what remained of the lamp lay Sherlock, staring up at the ceiling with a grin plastered on his face.

The window was wide open. A vase was missing.

Mrs Hudson stared. And then decided not to ask. She had done that one too many times.

Her tenants were mysterious folk.

However, there was almost never a dull day when one had them two living upstairs, and when there was, it was a well-earned rest.

"Cup of tea?"

Sherlock pulled himself to his feet, dusted off his trousers and smiled at Mrs Hudson.

"Always."

Outside, a small, black, hairy creature with far more than its fair share of legs climbed out of a broken vase, unscathed.