AN: This is crack, and the definition of crack is that it fails on every level to make any kind of sense. Please, please don't attempt to place this in any kind of rational universe. Objections to characterisation are more than welcome, however. Flame loudly and often, but bring a fire extinguisher because I do bite back.
Two weeks after their introduction, Sherlock and John had mostly settled into their lives as cohabitants of the Baker Street window sill. John quietly went about his business, and Sherlock- rather loudly- went about his. They were still fleshing out the mechanics of their friendship, but they'd worked up quite a good rapport.
John was reading the paper that had been flung to the floor in one of the pale man's flights of hustrionics. He liked to keep abreast of human news. There had been a spate of what the police were calling "serial suicides." A string of unconnected suicides within a week? That was very suspicious.
"Sherlock, come and have a look at this," John said. "It's right up your alley."
"Busy, John," Sherlock muttered.
John turned around to look at what Sherlock was doing. The plant was peering attentively at what looked like- yes. Those were flies.
"Sherlock, why are there suddenly a lot more dead flies on the sill?" John asked suspiciously.
"Experiment," Sherlock said with relish, poking a dead fly with one long stem.
"Jesus," John muttered. "Sherlock, that's horrid. You can't poison insects just so you can experiment on them."
"Why not? Flies are my natural enemy. If I didn't kill them, they'd kill me. Besides, it's not my fault they tried to take a bite out of me."
John glanced at the poor little dead things littering the sill around Sherlock's pot. "Alright, fine. Just don't kill the bees, okay? Poor things are only trying to do their jobs."
"Bees? Why would I kill bees? Wonderful creatures."
After ten minutes of careful study, Sherlock wrapped up his experiment and stretched his long stems. "I'm bored," he said loudly.
"Why don't you read the newspaper? There's an interesting case going on about serial suicides."
"Human crime. Dull. It's not suicide, anyway, don't be daft. It's murder."
"Really? How do you know?"
"Victims had no relation to each other, came from different parts of London, and died miles from their houses. Most people like to die at home, they feel safer there. Anyway, it's all incredibly trite."
John sighed. "Okay, if you say so."
Later on, the flat's human occupants showed up briefly and there was some fuss about drugs and suitcases that John listened to with interest. Apparently, the pale man was a detective and he was helping the police with the suicides. Mrs. Hudson came up and made conversation about her potted plants, which seemed to be dying off.
Sherlock perked up at this. "John, did you hear that? Mrs. Hudson's plants are dying!"
"Sherlock, I hardly think that's anything to get excited about."
"No, no, John, don't be slow. It's a case!"
"A ca- really? You're interested in mysterious plant deaths, but not human ones?"
"Of course! Plants I can actually do something about! Come on, John, we have to get down to 221A!"
"Get down? What on earth do you mean? It's a whole floor away, and we're not vines!"
"There's a lift, hardly used, installed in the 80s by the overweight landlord. The door's still open. If we can sneak past the detectives, we can highjack the tea trolley, push it through the door when they're not looking, climb up and press the button, push the trolley into the lift, press the button again, get out at the ground floor, and- and- sneak into Mrs. Hudson's flat. Somehow."
"Sherlock, we're plants. We can't walk."
"Course we can. You have stems, don't you? Come on! We're waisting time!"
"Okay, I'm with you. Just one thing, though. How are we going to get down from this windowsill?"
"I-oh. Um..."
John suddenly caught sight of a large, furred thing sneaking among the shadows towards them. He was instantly on high alert.
"Sherlock," he murmured. "There's a cat approaching us."
"Oh, that's just one of Mycroft's minions. He works for the British National Confederate of Felines, but he sends other people to do his dirty work. He spends most of his time at his exclusive club, eating horrendous amounts of tinned tuna and arranging assasinations."
The cat sauntered towards them and jumped up onto the sill. She was pretty, with dark eyes and slender limbs. She carefully picked Sherlock up in her mouth and deposited him gently on her back, then reached down to do the same for John.
"Mycroft likes to think I can't be trusted, so he sends a cat every so often to give me a lift," said Sherlock as they clung to the cat's fur, trying not to spill any soil. Well, at least John tried. Sherlock seemed spitefully amused by the idea of Mycroft's employee having to lick dirt out of her fur.
221A was larger than 221B, and decorated in whites and pale greens. Mrs. Hudson had upwards of ten flowering plants of varying species. The most recently dead plant was sitting on the kitchen table, ringed with yellow tape. Sitting on the table and the floor variously were two rats and a large grey cat.
"Sherlock," said the grey cat tightly. "Come and have a look at the body."
The female cat jumped onto the table, scattering the two rats and making them chitter irritably. "So sorry," she said smoothly as John and Sherlock slid from her back.
"Where are the other bodies?"
"Mrs. Hudson got to them before we could. And before you ask, no, this one hasn't been tampered with. As far as we can tell, they were all healthy plants. This is the fourth death so far."
Sherlock bent his stems to examine the body, beckoning for John to do the same. "What do you think, John?"
"Hang on!" Said one of the rats indignantly, scrambling back onto the table. "He's a civilian! You can't bring him here!"
"John is my assistant. I need him."
"But you can't-"
"Donnovan, leave it alone," said the grey cat irritably.
The rat huffed, but made no further comment.
"John?"
John bent to examine the plant, gently lifting a leaf to look at its underside, poking around in the soil.
"Hmm," John said. "Asphyxiation, I'd say. Dead a couple of hours."
"Good."
Sherlock bent over the plant, prodding and testing with deft efficiency. "She's lived here most of her life, given to Mrs. Hudson by a neighbour. She didn't die naturally- there are no signs of disease- but she didn't put up a fight. So, the murderer somehow got her to comply."
"How do you know that?"
"She's healthy and gets a lot of light, she's not scrawny or malnourished like nursery plants usually are. # The only begonias of this exact species and colour in London belong to Mrs. Turner, so she must have gifted the victim to Mrs. Hudson. There's no displaced soil or broken stems, so it's obvious she cooperated. Simple."
"Fantastic."
"You know you do that out loud."
"Sorry, I'll stop."
"No, it's- fine. Wait a minute, what's this?"
Sherlock touched a small green nub at the end of one of the victim's stems. "There should be a flower here. It hasn't been cut off, it's been pulled off. Why would the murderer do that? Unless it wasn't him- ohhhhhhhh!" Sherlock clapped his leaves in delighted surprise. "Oh, she was clever, this one."
"What do you mean?"
"A flower, only a small thing, but brightly coloured, obviously identifiable as a begonia. She planted it on him."
"But that still doesn't tell us much about the murderer," Lestrade pointed out.
"Oh, I wouldn't say that. Help me up to the window."
Lestrade gave Sherlock a lift so he could scrutinise the kitchen window closely. "Excellent. People hardly ever dust their windowsills. You're looking for a monkey, a smallish one, almost certainly a Bolivian squirrel monkey going by the size and shape of the feet and hands."
"A monkey? In Marylebone?"
"Yes, of course. Most likely he escaped from the zoo- or maybe a travelling circus, considering the fact that he knew how to open a locked window. Send some officers to the zoo to see if he's turned up, and find out if there are any travelling circuses in the area. I'll send my network ou to have a look around. John and I'll stay here tonight in case he comes back. Post some officers at strategic points along the street- he might decide to widen his kill zone."
"Right. Everybody out, do as he says!"
John watched the police officers carefully remove the tape from around the crime scene.
"John. Can I talk to you for a moment?" said Donovan.
"Okay."
She pushed him into a corner away from Sherlock, who watched them go disinterestedly.
"Don't trust that guy. He's a psychopath."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean he gets off on it. The crime, the murder- it's like an aphrodesiac to him. Just keep your wits about you, yeah? There's something not right about him."
"Okay, I'll keep that in mind," John said, trying to be polite. She did seem to mean well.
"Interesting conversation?" Sherlock asked casually when Donnovan had left.
"Not really," said John lightly. "What did you mean when you said you had a network?"
Sherlock smiled, brought two leaves to one of his flowers and blew.
There was a low buzz, and a fat yellow bee wandered in through the window. Sherlock spoke to it, in a pattern of strange vibrations that made no sense to John. It turned and left, looking determined.
"Bees," John said slowly.
"They're my eyes and ears in London. They should get back to me before the police do."
"Why send the police off to look for him, then?"
"There's nothing wrong with covering all your bases. Anyway, it gives them something to do."
"You're terrible."
They settled in to wait for the killer.
#I appologise to anyone who owns a nursery. This is complete crap and not actually a legitimate deduction someone could make.