It Happened One Night...Or Did It?: 2/?
Title: It Happened One Night...Or Did It?
Chapter Title: The Butterfly Effect
Fandom: Sherlock
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Wordcount: ~1600 for this chapter, 2700 overall
Rating: T
Fic Summary: Homage to "The Hangover." John and Sherlock wake up together in John's bed after a crazy night of celebrating. Since neither can remember how they got there or what actually happened, the duo are forced on a madcap adventure around London to retrace their steps and solve the mystery of their missing night. But are they ready to accept the consequences of solving this particular mystery?
Chapter Summary: John gets dressed, Mrs. Hudson makes breakfast, and Sherlock finds the first clue.
“Now, then,” Sherlock said, looking intently at Mrs. Hudson, “You must tell us everything.”
“Oh well...” Mrs. Hudson trailed off, consciously averting her eyes as she bent to return the spilled cookies and overturned teacups to the tray.
“Er, yes” John interjected with a pointed look at Sherlock, “perhaps it would be best if you gave us a moment first, Mrs. Hudson.” He began to inch slowly behind the bureau, his eyes wildly searching the room for a more suitable ensemble than underwear and a strategically placed pillow.
“Of course, dear,” Mrs. Hudson acquiesced quickly, grabbing the discarded tray and heading for the door. “Why don’t I go downstairs and whip you boys up a spot of breakfast? Just this once, mind you,” she called out as she made her way down the stairs, and John could just barely make out the words, “not your housekeeper,” before she went out of earshot.
The second she was gone, John dove for the bureau, flinging open the second drawer and grabbing the first pair of jeans he saw. “You really don’t remember anything?” he asked incredulously as he pulled on the jeans, diverting more attention than should have been necessary into putting first one leg and then the other into the denim. “Not even whether or not we...” John found himself completely unable to finish that sentence in a way that made any sense with his world view of twenty-four hours before.
Sherlock was prevented from responding with anything more than an amusedly arched eyebrow by John being too eager to don the accompanying jumper, moving more quickly than was prudent for one in his state, and consequently getting rather hopelessly tangled in charcoal grey wool.
“Honestly, John,” Sherlock’s impatient voice filtered in through the jumper, “I really don’t understand how you managed to obtain a medical degree and yet are continually stumped by tasks which primary school children the world over manage daily with little to no difficulty.”
Immediately after hearing this, John felt Sherlock’s fingers deftly manipulating the jumper into its proper position, working John’s hands through the armholes and tugging the bulk of it down over his torso in a matter a few seconds. Before John could say anything in response, whether it be a few words in his defense or a begrudging thank you, Sherlock had already rolled his eyes, let out a snort of derision and pivoted toward the door, striding swiftly in the direction of his own room.
Only Sherlock could manage to look haughty wearing only pants and a single sock, John thought as he watched his flatmate walk away, smiling to himself until he realized that staring at Sherlock’s barely clothed retreating form was decidedly not something that should be bringing him enjoyment, especially considering what may or may not have happened the night before.
He quickly shook that thought from his head and focused instead on getting dressed, which apparently required far more attention than usual that morning.
Ten minutes, two extra-strength aspirins, and a few more articles of clothing later, John felt at least moderately prepared to face the world. As he made his way down the stairs, he was somehow not surprised to see Sherlock already seated at the wooden table in the kitchen, his eyes darting methodically over the pages of the Telegraph.
“But Sherlock, dear, you must eat something!” Mrs. Hudson scolded as she busied herself scrambling some eggs. “You shan’t be feeling yourself again until you do, I’ll tell you that! Why, I remember when Mr. Hudson used to go on a bender -”
“Yes, thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock interrupted curtly, his eyes continuing to scan the paper, “While I am sure that your undoubtedly top-notch bacon and eggs were of a great comfort to your late husband, they are of little use to me.” He unbuttoned one cuff and extended his forearm toward her, and John could see that it was covered by three large nicotine patches.
“As you can see, I am already possessed of all the curatives I need.”
“You realize that nicotine is not in an appropriate remedy for a hangover, and may in fact exacerbate its symptoms” John said skeptically, trying to suppress a shudder as he gingerly removed the tarantula habitat occupying the other chair before sinking down opposite Sherlock and burying his still aching head in his arms.
“Yes, well, you’ll forgive me if I don’t rush to obey the medical advice of a man with a butterfly stamped on his hand,” Sherlock said dryly, still leafing through the paper.
“What?” John exclaimed, his eyes instinctively darting downward; to his utter horror, he saw that Sherlock was indeed correct - on his right hand was clearly visible the faded outline of a purple butterfly. “Bloody hell! Where did that come from?”
“Presumably it used to be a purple caterpillar,” Sherlock said sarcastically. “Really, John, you must write the scientific journals and tell them you’ve discovered a new species of the order lepidoptera whose metamorphosis is triggered by the consumption of large quantities of alcohol.”
Before John could stimulate his battered brain into coming up with an appropriate retort, Mrs. Hudson swept over to him. “Now you must have some of my eggs, dear,” she insisted, placing a heaping plate of them on the table in front of him. “They’ll do wonders for that head of yours.”
John obediently dug into the pile of eggs and was pleased to discover they did, in fact, alleviate the dull throbbing in his skull.
Sherlock, meanwhile, finished flipping through the final few pages of the Telegraph and deposited it triumphantly on the table, declaring, “Yes, all good; Armenia’s possible, but it’s probably just a routine uprising.”
“Are you sure you’re feeling all right?” John asked doubtfully, placing a hand on Sherlock’s forehead.
Sherlock batted it away impatiently. “I was merely making sure that whatever we got up to last night didn’t result in any sort of international incident.”
“And Armenia?” John inquired, a little scared of the answer.
“Probably nothing,” Sherlock said absently, “the ambassador almost always ignores my texts.”
“Oh, well, that’s all right, then,” John said, throwing up his hands, although he was sure the sarcasm eluded his flatmate.
“With that taken care of, we can move on to other areas of inquiry,” Sherlock said decidedly. “Now, then, Mrs. Hudson, what exactly do you remember from last night? Remember, the most seemingly insignificant details may be the most pertinent.”
"Oh, well, let me see now..." Mrs. Hudson began, her brows drawing together in concentration. “It must have been three or four in the morning - I’d been having some trouble with my hip, you see, and I’d just taken one of my herbal soothers and settled back into bed when I heard this...din in the hallway.
“What kind of din, precisely?” Sherlock probed inquiringly.
“I remember hearing the door slam open, followed by some muffled voices - I think they were laughing. Then there was a crash, some more laughing and shushing, and the sounds of two pairs of feet running very quickly up the stairs.”
“How could you tell there were two pairs?” John asked.
“You don’t rent a flat to Sherlock Holmes without learning a thing or two,” Mrs. Hudson said, crossing her arms proudly.
The corners of Sherlock’s mouth quirked up into the hint of a smile. “Anything else?”
“Now that you come to mention it, there was one more thing. Just after the door slammed open - it sounded like someone singing.”
“Singing?” John asked incredulously.
“Yes, quite boisterously in fact! How did it go now? Something like,” Mrs. Hudson began to sing lightly, “Love me, love me, say that you love me. It was quite off-key, but very sincere. That’s really all I recall, dear.”
“Yes, thank you, Mrs. Hudson, that was most helpful,” Sherlock said briskly before whipping his head round to face John. “John, do you have your mobile?”
John shook his head. “I had an exhaustive look-round before I came down, but there was no sign of it. Yours?”
“Nowhere to be found,” Sherlock replied, “so I suppose I’ll have to resort to slightly more outmoded methods.” With that, he sprung up and sprinted over to the computer.
“Let me see,” Sherlock muttered to himself as his fingers dancing gracefully over the keys, “if I narrow by shape, color and probable geographic area...a-ha!”
He immediately leapt up and ran to the foyer to grab his scarf, shouting, “Come, John, there’s work to be done!”
“Work?” John asked incredulously. “You cannot seriously be thinking of a case at a time like this!”
“Of course I am, John!” Sherlock exclaimed excitedly, grasping him by the shoulders. “The most thrilling one I’ve had in months - the case of the missing night!”
“You’re not serious!” John exclaimed.
Sherlock stared at him in disbelief. “We finally get our hands on a proper mystery, and you want to, what, sit at home and watch telly?”
“Sherlock, this isn’t some logic exercise, these are our lives we’re talking about here,” John said, exasperated.
“All the more reason to get to the bottom of it, then!” Sherlock responded impatiently, shoving John’s arms into his overcoat despite his very vocal objections.
“What’s got you so excited, then, Sherlock?” Mrs. Hudson called from the kitchen where she was finishing the washing up.
“Butterflies, Mrs. Hudson!” Sherlock shouted back as he pushed a still protesting John out the front door, “Specifically, purple ones.”
“But what does that mean, dear?” Mrs. Hudson asked, confused.
“It means, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock replied, eyes alight with anticipation, “that the game is on!”
Chapter Title: The Butterfly Effect
Fandom: Sherlock
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Wordcount: ~1600 for this chapter, 2700 overall
Rating: T
Fic Summary: Homage to "The Hangover." John and Sherlock wake up together in John's bed after a crazy night of celebrating. Since neither can remember how they got there or what actually happened, the duo are forced on a madcap adventure around London to retrace their steps and solve the mystery of their missing night. But are they ready to accept the consequences of solving this particular mystery?
Chapter Summary: John gets dressed, Mrs. Hudson makes breakfast, and Sherlock finds the first clue.
“Now, then,” Sherlock said, looking intently at Mrs. Hudson, “You must tell us everything.”
“Oh well...” Mrs. Hudson trailed off, consciously averting her eyes as she bent to return the spilled cookies and overturned teacups to the tray.
“Er, yes” John interjected with a pointed look at Sherlock, “perhaps it would be best if you gave us a moment first, Mrs. Hudson.” He began to inch slowly behind the bureau, his eyes wildly searching the room for a more suitable ensemble than underwear and a strategically placed pillow.
“Of course, dear,” Mrs. Hudson acquiesced quickly, grabbing the discarded tray and heading for the door. “Why don’t I go downstairs and whip you boys up a spot of breakfast? Just this once, mind you,” she called out as she made her way down the stairs, and John could just barely make out the words, “not your housekeeper,” before she went out of earshot.
The second she was gone, John dove for the bureau, flinging open the second drawer and grabbing the first pair of jeans he saw. “You really don’t remember anything?” he asked incredulously as he pulled on the jeans, diverting more attention than should have been necessary into putting first one leg and then the other into the denim. “Not even whether or not we...” John found himself completely unable to finish that sentence in a way that made any sense with his world view of twenty-four hours before.
Sherlock was prevented from responding with anything more than an amusedly arched eyebrow by John being too eager to don the accompanying jumper, moving more quickly than was prudent for one in his state, and consequently getting rather hopelessly tangled in charcoal grey wool.
“Honestly, John,” Sherlock’s impatient voice filtered in through the jumper, “I really don’t understand how you managed to obtain a medical degree and yet are continually stumped by tasks which primary school children the world over manage daily with little to no difficulty.”
Immediately after hearing this, John felt Sherlock’s fingers deftly manipulating the jumper into its proper position, working John’s hands through the armholes and tugging the bulk of it down over his torso in a matter a few seconds. Before John could say anything in response, whether it be a few words in his defense or a begrudging thank you, Sherlock had already rolled his eyes, let out a snort of derision and pivoted toward the door, striding swiftly in the direction of his own room.
Only Sherlock could manage to look haughty wearing only pants and a single sock, John thought as he watched his flatmate walk away, smiling to himself until he realized that staring at Sherlock’s barely clothed retreating form was decidedly not something that should be bringing him enjoyment, especially considering what may or may not have happened the night before.
He quickly shook that thought from his head and focused instead on getting dressed, which apparently required far more attention than usual that morning.
Ten minutes, two extra-strength aspirins, and a few more articles of clothing later, John felt at least moderately prepared to face the world. As he made his way down the stairs, he was somehow not surprised to see Sherlock already seated at the wooden table in the kitchen, his eyes darting methodically over the pages of the Telegraph.
“But Sherlock, dear, you must eat something!” Mrs. Hudson scolded as she busied herself scrambling some eggs. “You shan’t be feeling yourself again until you do, I’ll tell you that! Why, I remember when Mr. Hudson used to go on a bender -”
“Yes, thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock interrupted curtly, his eyes continuing to scan the paper, “While I am sure that your undoubtedly top-notch bacon and eggs were of a great comfort to your late husband, they are of little use to me.” He unbuttoned one cuff and extended his forearm toward her, and John could see that it was covered by three large nicotine patches.
“As you can see, I am already possessed of all the curatives I need.”
“You realize that nicotine is not in an appropriate remedy for a hangover, and may in fact exacerbate its symptoms” John said skeptically, trying to suppress a shudder as he gingerly removed the tarantula habitat occupying the other chair before sinking down opposite Sherlock and burying his still aching head in his arms.
“Yes, well, you’ll forgive me if I don’t rush to obey the medical advice of a man with a butterfly stamped on his hand,” Sherlock said dryly, still leafing through the paper.
“What?” John exclaimed, his eyes instinctively darting downward; to his utter horror, he saw that Sherlock was indeed correct - on his right hand was clearly visible the faded outline of a purple butterfly. “Bloody hell! Where did that come from?”
“Presumably it used to be a purple caterpillar,” Sherlock said sarcastically. “Really, John, you must write the scientific journals and tell them you’ve discovered a new species of the order lepidoptera whose metamorphosis is triggered by the consumption of large quantities of alcohol.”
Before John could stimulate his battered brain into coming up with an appropriate retort, Mrs. Hudson swept over to him. “Now you must have some of my eggs, dear,” she insisted, placing a heaping plate of them on the table in front of him. “They’ll do wonders for that head of yours.”
John obediently dug into the pile of eggs and was pleased to discover they did, in fact, alleviate the dull throbbing in his skull.
Sherlock, meanwhile, finished flipping through the final few pages of the Telegraph and deposited it triumphantly on the table, declaring, “Yes, all good; Armenia’s possible, but it’s probably just a routine uprising.”
“Are you sure you’re feeling all right?” John asked doubtfully, placing a hand on Sherlock’s forehead.
Sherlock batted it away impatiently. “I was merely making sure that whatever we got up to last night didn’t result in any sort of international incident.”
“And Armenia?” John inquired, a little scared of the answer.
“Probably nothing,” Sherlock said absently, “the ambassador almost always ignores my texts.”
“Oh, well, that’s all right, then,” John said, throwing up his hands, although he was sure the sarcasm eluded his flatmate.
“With that taken care of, we can move on to other areas of inquiry,” Sherlock said decidedly. “Now, then, Mrs. Hudson, what exactly do you remember from last night? Remember, the most seemingly insignificant details may be the most pertinent.”
"Oh, well, let me see now..." Mrs. Hudson began, her brows drawing together in concentration. “It must have been three or four in the morning - I’d been having some trouble with my hip, you see, and I’d just taken one of my herbal soothers and settled back into bed when I heard this...din in the hallway.
“What kind of din, precisely?” Sherlock probed inquiringly.
“I remember hearing the door slam open, followed by some muffled voices - I think they were laughing. Then there was a crash, some more laughing and shushing, and the sounds of two pairs of feet running very quickly up the stairs.”
“How could you tell there were two pairs?” John asked.
“You don’t rent a flat to Sherlock Holmes without learning a thing or two,” Mrs. Hudson said, crossing her arms proudly.
The corners of Sherlock’s mouth quirked up into the hint of a smile. “Anything else?”
“Now that you come to mention it, there was one more thing. Just after the door slammed open - it sounded like someone singing.”
“Singing?” John asked incredulously.
“Yes, quite boisterously in fact! How did it go now? Something like,” Mrs. Hudson began to sing lightly, “Love me, love me, say that you love me. It was quite off-key, but very sincere. That’s really all I recall, dear.”
“Yes, thank you, Mrs. Hudson, that was most helpful,” Sherlock said briskly before whipping his head round to face John. “John, do you have your mobile?”
John shook his head. “I had an exhaustive look-round before I came down, but there was no sign of it. Yours?”
“Nowhere to be found,” Sherlock replied, “so I suppose I’ll have to resort to slightly more outmoded methods.” With that, he sprung up and sprinted over to the computer.
“Let me see,” Sherlock muttered to himself as his fingers dancing gracefully over the keys, “if I narrow by shape, color and probable geographic area...a-ha!”
He immediately leapt up and ran to the foyer to grab his scarf, shouting, “Come, John, there’s work to be done!”
“Work?” John asked incredulously. “You cannot seriously be thinking of a case at a time like this!”
“Of course I am, John!” Sherlock exclaimed excitedly, grasping him by the shoulders. “The most thrilling one I’ve had in months - the case of the missing night!”
“You’re not serious!” John exclaimed.
Sherlock stared at him in disbelief. “We finally get our hands on a proper mystery, and you want to, what, sit at home and watch telly?”
“Sherlock, this isn’t some logic exercise, these are our lives we’re talking about here,” John said, exasperated.
“All the more reason to get to the bottom of it, then!” Sherlock responded impatiently, shoving John’s arms into his overcoat despite his very vocal objections.
“What’s got you so excited, then, Sherlock?” Mrs. Hudson called from the kitchen where she was finishing the washing up.
“Butterflies, Mrs. Hudson!” Sherlock shouted back as he pushed a still protesting John out the front door, “Specifically, purple ones.”
“But what does that mean, dear?” Mrs. Hudson asked, confused.
“It means, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock replied, eyes alight with anticipation, “that the game is on!”