Two weeks. Two lousy weeks. Come on, Mycroft, make your move! I wanna see what you'll do now, or try to do! Come on, come on, come on, do something!
Sherlock paced around the flat, bouncing with impatience. He fully expected Mycroft to retaliate; they were uneven again, and Sherlock's last action had been to actually have the gall to go to Mycroft's house, for heavens' sake! He needed him to fight back now, so that Sherlock could either stop the attack in its tracks or retaliate again!
If John had been there, he could have ranted about how unfair it was to him, but John was at work-boring. And somehow, the skull was no good any more. It never gave the same kind of smart-alecky answers John did. It was almost like, now that he'd gotten used to John, or even addicted to John (better not describe himself that way in front of him; he'd frown, and think about drugs and how Not Good he thought they were, and Sherlock didn't like making John unhappy), Yorick just didn't cut it for him anymore. So instead he paced, played the violin, even spent some time standing on his head in the middle of the living room just to try and look at things from a new perspective. He managed to do it successfully after the tenth time he fell down; part of him wondered if this was a little pointless, but he consoled himself by saying that this was a useful exercise. It helped him improve his sense of balance.
When his phone beeped with a text-Lestrade-at about 4 pm, Sherlock could have cried with relief. Another case! He sent a text to John, asking him to prepare to provide assistance if necessary, and dashed off. It was relatively easy to solve-the houseboy did it to keep his gambling debts a secret-and soon Sherlock was once again left with nothing to do. He remembered that John had once strictly forbidden him from coming to the clinic and bugging him while he was trying to work, but what if he just sat quietly in a corner and deduced people? He could hear John's answer to that: Since when do you ever sit quietly? Well, he'd show him he could.
John naturally objected to his friend's presence, but after Sherlock resorted to begging and pleading, he was allowed to stay, on the condition that he keep his mouth shut as much as possible. Sherlock behaved himself surprisingly well, even according to John. He only made one client cry when he deduced that her boyfriend was cheating on her, and even avoided a fistfight with a man who objected to the detective's calling him out on his eating disorder. And after John's work day finally ended, they set off for home, Sherlock practically bouncing to the curb to hail a cab. Life seemed pretty good; now if only Mycroft would do something he could retaliate to!
He had his wish granted, in the most extreme way possible. Just as they were getting out of the cab that dropped them off at Baker Street, John inhaled deeply through his nose, and made a terrible, grimacing face.
"Did you leave a chemistry experiment on, Sherlock?"
"No."
The doctor glared at him skeptically. By now the detective had taken the time to isolate the terrible smell too, and he said, "I promise, John, I didn't. I don't deny that it's coming from the flat, but I'm 95% sure I am not the cause of it."
After another glance at his face, John nodded. "Okay. Then what is it?"
"It smells a bit like-" Sherlock stopped. "Oh G_."
Once again, they raced up the steps to their flat. On the way, Sherlock saw that the group of men had been back, but this time carrying something heavy, maybe a large box or something. Several large boxes. Please, don't let it be-
They opened the door to see that the flat was filled with skunks. Striped, spotted, hog-nosed and hooded, and ranging in colors from black-and-white to cream. Several fights had broken out between some of the creatures, and the two men could practically see their stench hovering in the air. For several minutes, they could do nothing but stand there in shocked silence, watching the mustiline mammals, before John pulled out his phone and said in a resigned tone, "I'll call pest control."
"Don't bother, John. I'll handle this." Sherlock quickly removed his coat and scarf to protect them, and rolled up his sleeves.
"Uh, Sherlock, do you have any idea how to handle skunks?"
"It can't be too hard. I just need your jacket so I can-"
"Nu-uh. Sorry, I'm not letting you use it as a net to trap skunks. You're on your own for this one." John stepped out of reach and began dialing the number. Sherlock scowled at him, and reluctantly removed his own suit jacket, which meant he had to roll his sleeves back down, take it off, and then roll them up again.
"What are you even going to do with them? You can't throw them out in the street."
"Why not?"
"Because there are other people out there who would not appreciate being suddenly overrun by skunks."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Whatever."
Unfortunately, he had not stored on his hard drive the fact that even though they usually don't, skunks can bite quite effectively and painfully. The detective also learned very soon afterwards that they can spray you from quite a long distance away.
