Springtime was upon the English countryside, and it was a glorious affair, indeed. The country estate to which my companion and I had been summoned was awash in verdure, surrounded by a garden that stretched on as far as the eye could see. Drops of water glittered upon many a petal and leaf, the only reminder, it seemed, of the rains that had plagued the area for the last week. The air was crisp and clean, with a gentle breeze wafting many a floral scent past.
In short, it was as lovely an April morning as one could ask for. I was surprised, therefore, when Holmes excused himself from the breakfast table that morning and retreated to the library, the only room in the house without an outside window. I chalked it up to his working on the case, however, and after checking to ensure he didn't need me, proceeded to spend the entire morning strolling through the gardens.
Our hostess provided a lovely tea on the patio. Holmes did not emerge; it wasn't until nightfall when he finally appeared, and to my trained eye he seemed quite put-out. I inquired later, before bed, but no answer was forthcoming.
The next morning was a nearly exact repeat, with Holmes retreating immediately to the library and refusing to leave until the sun had set. He seemed even less pleased this time. I resolved that I would drag him outside the next day whether he should like it or not, as a little sun and fresh air would do him good.
When I suggested this after breakfast, he dismissed my concern. "No, Watson, a turn in the garden will not help me." He made his by-then customary way to the library.
"Well, what then?" I demanded, following. "Your time in the library is affording you nothing - don't think I can't tell, Holmes. Why are you so averse to a little nature?"
"It's not nature, my boy. Had we come here in the fall, I would not hesitate to accept your offer. I could do with a good look about the grounds in daylight."
"Then why not take one? I don't understand your reticence at all."
"It's springtime."
I stopped in the library door and folded my arms. "Holmes, that is not an answer."
"On the contrary."
"Perhaps if you suffered hay-fever or other springtime allergies, but I think I'd have-"
"My family suffers from the much rarer affliction of chronic nasal lepidoptery."
His voice was so grave, I spent a moment actually trying to remember such a disease. Then my Latin schooling took over. "Chronic... nasal... you get butterflies in your nose?"
"On. But, yes. Butterflies are rather drawn to my family, particularly these rather prominent facial protuberances of ours."
"...Holmes, stop being ridiculous. If you don't want to answer-"
"Ridiculous!" He spun to face me. "It may seem trivial to you, my friend, but you've never tried to be taken seriously despite a large fritillary perched in the middle of your face."
I tried, and failed, to imagine a butterfly coming anywhere near any Holmes I knew, much less landing upon them.
He pursed his lips, scrutinizing my expression in that way he does. "You don't believe me."
"No, I daresay I do not."
"You believe I'm taking a few isolated incidents and blowing them entirely out of proportion."
"I didn't say that."
"I know."
We stared each other down in silence. Finally, Holmes huffed. "Very well. I can see that there is only one way to convince you. Let me fetch my hat, though I doubt I will be out long enough to need it."
I waited by the side-door for Holmes to appear, half-expecting him to find some way out of it, what with the way he had been acting. He came down shortly, though, armed with hat and stick and shoulders squared as if facing some terrible hardship. "Let's get this over with."
"Holmes, really."
We stepped out onto the patio together, our sticks tapping in time as we crossed to the beginning of the garden path. I turned to Holmes and smiled. "There, now see, Holmes? Outside, fresh air, and not a butterfly in sight."
No sooner had I said the words than a flash of blue caught my eye, and I found myself watching in fascination as a gorgeous blue-scaled butterfly emerged from the azaleas and fluttered over to Holmes. It circled him once, as though in appraisal, and then lit square upon the point of his aquiline nose. Holmes' brow furrowed, and he coaxed the insect gently onto his finger and then back into the air. With a single glare my way, he turned and walked right back into the house.
I'm afraid his mood was not improved by my bursting into laughter behind him.
The boys do not belong to me.