Summary: Based on true-life events. Also, this chapter references the flatmate agreement from chapter 1.

Rating: T

Warnings: Not British. Won't insult the country by trying to fake it.

Disclaimer: The idea of me conceiving something as brilliant as Sherlock is laughable.

In Which There Are Flies

Possibly the last thing John Watson had expected to see upon entering the flat laden down with grocery bags was Sherlock Holmes dancing.

Well, that's what it had to be, John figured. True, the random hopping pattern followed by the occasional low leap, combined with the wildly swinging arms did not look like what a normal person would call "dancing." But seeing as practically everything Sherlock did would not fit anyone's definition of "normal," John figured he was in no position to judge whatever was currently taking place in their sitting room.

"Bit short on partners, I take it," John said mildly, trying to predict Sherlock's movements as he crossed to the kitchen in order to avoid a collision.

Sherlock abruptly stopped mid-leap and turned to John, a look of absolute frustration upon his face. "Flies, John!"

"Flies John what?" John asked dumbly.

"Flies!" Sherlock exclaimed again. "In the flat!" He waved his arms in a vague imitation of wings, and now that John was paying more attention, he could see the detective had a magazine clenched in one hand.

Sherlock suddenly twitched his head in annoyance, spun to the side, and with a sharp cry of vexation flung the magazine with both hands at the space where the fly had evidently been buzzing in his ear. Then, swinging his arms in movements far too exaggerated for such a tiny creature, he made his way in lurching steps towards the open window.

John blinked. "Why is the window open? We were both out today. We agreed!" he accused.

"I was..." Sherlock said through clenched teeth. "Doing. An. Experiment!" Each word was accompanied by a swat of the magazine.

"So every item on the twenty page flatmate agreement you made me sign actually had a 'void if Sherlock is doing an experiment' clause attached to it?"

"I thought that was assumed."

"Yeah, well, I think I'm gonna go pencil it in so I don't forget," John said sarcastically, depositing the bags on the kitchen table and heading towards his room. Sherlock's voice stopped him short.

"Your door is locked." John sighed. "And why is that?"

"Because," Sherlock said, now stalking around the curtains with precise care. "I'd forget to keep the door closed if it wasn't locked. And then the flies would get in your room." John hung his head but couldn't stop his grin, because wouldn't you know it? Just when you thought you had Sherlock Holmes figured, when you started taking it for granted that he was always going to be this manic, selfish, logical machine who wouldn't recognize a proper social interaction if it bit him in the arse, he went and did something like this. Something considerate and practical and friendly. John watched the detective persistently swat a fly until it was battered out the window, and looked on with painful sympathy as his triumphant grin changed to a look of incomprehension as two more flies took the moment of distraction to dart inside the flat. These moments of humanity, he realized, were why he was still living in 221 B. They were what made his friend Sherlock Holmes.

As John watched his flatmate continue his futile dance around the sitting room, looking ever more pathetic with each passing second, he looked around for anything he could use to help. Of course they had no fly traps or even a fly swatter. That would be too practical of them. And the shops would be closing up soon.

John's eyes landed on the latest issure of OK!, lying innocently on the coffee table mixed in with old mugs and newpapers and police files.

...

The sight that greeted Mrs. Hudson when she poked her head into the doorway of the upstairs flat was that of two grown men dancing around the room swinging magazines through the air. She was not sure what they were doing, but whatever it was appeared to have a point system based on accuracy and creativity.

She quietly closed the door and headed back down the stairs, unfazed. This was not by far the oddest thing she had seen up there.