The God Damn Green Fairy

Sherlock blames the absinthe. And John. And the fucking fairy. In that order.

The problem is, it never gets old. It never will. As long as John loves Sherlock, John'll love the lisp. He'll seek it as a hungry man seeks food, as a bored consulting detective seeks stimulation.

So when John bought the absinthe he knew it would appeal to his lover's fascination with chemicals caustic or criminal. And he was right. Glowing a mad-scientist green, the absinthe took Sherlock's indecent passion for the weird and goosed it. He happily drank a glass, relishing the burn. He willingly drank another, presuming it harmless—it had a winged little fairy on the label for god's sake.

Sherlock can't say if it was the fourth glass or the fifth that put him under the table, then under John, and he honestly can't remember anything he said that night. He only knows John woke up giggling the next morning, giggled through the afternoon, and in bed that evening all he said by way of good night was, "You're right, 'Thomtimes thome perthonths find thpectactularly thtupid thtuff thexy.'" And then giggled himself to sleep.

Later Sherlock used the remaining absinthe in an experiment involving a great deal of fire. With malice aforethought he also burned that little god damn fairy right off the bottle.


This 221B (221 words, the final word starting with B) brought to you by a friend throwing down the words purple, notebook, golfball, cucumber, and absinthe and demanding a fic from her peeps.