A/N Inspired by, funnily enough, my butterfly print scarf and a scene from The Magician, part of the Nicholas Flamel series by Michael Scott. Neither The Magician nor BBC Sherlock us mine, but thankfully the scarf is.
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It is common knowledge among the Ordinaries that there walk among them those of the Elements. They hold within them, in their soul, the attributes and faculties of water, air, fire or earth, and it shows in their air and their very being.
John Watson works with water. Obviously, really, because he's a doctor; less obviously, because he's a soldier. Most people know water to be for healing – all the best doctors are Water at their core – but most people also forget the undertow that maims and drowns and kills. Most people forget that water is both life-bringer and life-ender, that water can be as soothing as it is deadly. In John Watson, armed doctor on the front lines of a battlefield, water has found the best personification of its paradox. John has hands that have purposely shot to kill as well as keep alive.
This is why when John gets shot, it is the worst thing in the world for him, because everything around him is dry and barren and hot and it all feels as if the world is leaching his very core from him, sucking it out with his blood. He lays there for what feels like lifetimes under the hot sun, surrounded by air and fire and earth but no water, never any water in something like this. When he is finally rescued water is one of the first things he asks for, and when he gets it, it is cool and clear and tastes of life.
Water has never dealt well with being still, no; when stagnant it becomes restless, searching for something to stir it up. John's brief period of stillness nearly drove him mad. With nothing to fill his days, nothing to keep him moving, flowing, stuck in a Spartan bedsit with no purpose in sight, John had felt like he was drying out. And therefore he will never completely be able to explain just why he is so grateful to Mike Stamford for recognizing him that day, and introducing him to Sherlock Holmes.
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At first, John thinks Sherlock works with fire.
It would make sense: the consulting detective is bright, exuberant, all-encompassing and enigmatic; he takes up all the space in the room like light. He illuminates the shadows, though for crimes instead of literal dark. He can warm and he can burn, and his warmth is the kind that stings if you get too close. He is impulsive, horribly so, and volatile, and so passionate about everything he does. And if not contained or controlled can cause near-irredeemable damage. Even to keep him in check is like controlling a fire: you can keep it from being too damaging but it will always be sure you know what it can do to you if you let it. You can keep in check but it will still be burning bright.
Sherlock is also as subtle as fire, and no matter how low he simmers you can still see his light.
John is thus surprised when the butterflies begin to appear.
He doesn't notice them at first, not really. They are just a scant few scattered over the walls of the flat and on the mantle: deep violet and looking very real, but ever unmoving. Sometimes the light plays on them, making their wings look like they shift and shiver.
Then three weeks after John's moved in, they are numerous enough for him to wonder. He's never seen this many before, and certainly not in central London. They never move, never take wing and flutter about. They are simply there, peppering the surfaces of the flat with the delicate velvet of their wings.
Sherlock never mentions them, and since the consulting detective would never miss something, not when John himself has seen it, John simply takes his lead and keeps quiet.
It gets to a point where John cannot find a surface where there is not at least one tiny butterfly resting. They don't cover the flat, thank god, but their presence has become significant and quite obvious. His wrist brushes against three as he reaches across the breakfast table for the jam, his elbow grazes six more as he reaches up into the cabinet for the box of tea. His fingers skim over a handful as he hangs up his jacket by the door. There is even one on the polished wood of Sherlock's violin.
Sherlock still says nothing. John still doesn't ask. Weirder things have happened to them both, and John prefers butterflies decorating the flat than bullet holes or chemical stains, on the whole.
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They take a minor case that ends up being not-so-minor, and culminates in a very thrilling chase throughout Vauxhall Arches. The criminal, an Ordinary, turns out to be rather proficient with knives, and when Sherlock razes up to him he hurls a knife that slices through Sherlock's coat and catches his arm. John crashes down on the man and pins him to the ground and doesn't notice Sherlock's bleeding until the Yard gets there and herds them off. He catches the trickle of blood on the back of Sherlock's hand and flips.
"Sherlock, stop. You need to let me–"
"Back at the flat," Sherlock cuts over him, taking him by the shoulder and steering him toward the main road so they can catch a cab.
"That's a knife wound, Sherlock, and it looks bad, at least let me–"
"Back at the flat." John finds himself bundled unceremoniously into the back of the first cab that passes them by, Sherlock slipping in gracefully after him. Water is tenacious and so John manages to get Sherlock to acquiesce to his pressing his scarf (which John has promised to wash) onto the cut to staunch the blood. Sherlock shows no signs of being dizzy when they get back home, but is somewhat reluctant to be led to the bathroom to be patched up.
John sits Sherlock down on the closed toilet lid as he hunts down the first aid kit and checks for the antiseptic, the needle and thread in case he needs to stitch his pigheaded flatmate up. He heads back into the bathroom and drops the bag in shock.
Sherlock has his suit jacket off and the sleeve of his button-down rolled up to the elbow. He runs his finger over and over the long, thin cut on his arm, and slowly, with each pass, it seals up. Not water, John would think if he were capable, water doesn't heal that way, fire does. But he can't think, can't even notice Sherlock healing himself, can't do anything but look at what Sherlock has exposed.
John stares in wonder at the violet butterflies spinning up Sherlock's arm. They are almost exactly like the ones all over the flat, translucent on his skin, ranging from the size of a thumbnail to half the size of his palm. They stain his skin, layered, overlapping, curling around and over, dozens of them. He kneels before Sherlock, eyes wide and lips slightly parted. Slowly, wordlessly, he reaches across and unbuttons the cuff of Sherlock's other sleeve. He rolls it up and sure enough, there are butterflies on that expanse of skin as well.
"What–" He doesn't quite know what to ask. He's always thought fire; it's always seemed to be Sherlock's element. He can't quite imagine Sherlock with anything else. But butterflies are not fire, no. He meets Sherlock's gaze, bewildered and curious. What are they for?
In response, Sherlock smirks and lifts his arm up. He puffs out a breath of air in a low whistle. There is a rustle – the softest sound of paper crumpling and leaves crunching and shoes scuffing the cobblestone paving – and the butterflies explode off his skin. They lift off one after the other, streaming from Sherlock's arms, fluttering delicately around them, and where they touch John he feels a pleasant, warm tingle, as if the spot has just been kissed. The air turns a shifting, shimmering purple from their diaphanous wings, and the white tiles of the bathroom floor are bathed in violet light.
The rustling is coming from behind John as well, and he suddenly remembers the butterflies all around the flat. He stumbles into the living room and yes – the butterflies from the wall, the table, the sofa, the telly have all lifted up, hovering in the air, more opaque but no less beautiful. John crosses to the middle of the living room and finds himself surrounded by a whirlwind of violet, of butterflies dancing all around him. It is almost heartbreakingly beautiful, and the fact that something like this comes from Sherlock is – well –
"I thought you were fire," John whispers, staring around himself in awe. "I never thought – not air – it never seemed–" He turns to Sherlock, smiling in amazement. "It figures you would be this brilliant. It really does."
Sherlock's smirk widens and he steps up to stand next to John. The butterflies surround them, strangely not overwhelming in the slightest. They bathe Sherlock's dark curls in a purple glow and give an ethereal tinge to his fair skin. He gives John a little bow, then lifts his hands, claps them once. Speaks. "Ignis."
The air around them reverberates, sends a shiver down John's spine. Then after a heartbeat, the butterflies burst into flame all around them, in a dazzling display of light. Not just red fire, but brilliant orange and palest yellow and, from the tiniest of the butterflies, sunny sky blue with the faintest edges of white. The flat is a riot of color and splendor, and John thinks he has never seen anything so beautiful in his life. Butterfly after butterfly comes alight, warming John with the secret happiness one usually only finds as a child.
"Air and fire?" he asks, when he finally finds it in him to speak. The explosions of color and flame light up his face, making him look much younger and so different. Sherlock watches John watch the spectacle, and his heart decides that after three decades of steady beats, it can afford to skip one or two. "Two elements? I didn't – does that even really happen?"
"Mummy always did say I was special," Sherlock replies, and his smug grin is ruined by his flush and his laugh at the delighted expression on John's face.
"Bastard," John cheerfully shoots right back, surveying the bursts of color around the room. They stand close, the scant inches between their skin electric, as the butterflies begin to fade into the ether. Finally the last of them go out, and the flat smells faintly like how the world does after it rains.
John looks at Sherlock and Sherlock looks at John, and in their eyes are the remnants of soft, lilting glow. When Sherlock bends down to kiss John, the touch of his lips is light as his butterflies, and just as warm. It makes John think of spring.