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The fairies were thick on the ground; John accidentally kicked one on his way home from the clinic. Her wing was bent, and John’s apologies didn’t stop her from following him clear back to 221B, chittering angrily all the way.
Sherlock was in the kitchen with his microscope, and looked at the fairy with distaste.
“Did another fall in love with you?” he asked.
“Opposite, actually,” said John, and slammed the lavatory door on the fairy’s face. It was bad to be rude to fairies. Mycroft had a slew who trailed after him, chittering endlessly amongst each other. Some had even learned a few English phrases; their favorites were “Imbecilic berk” and “That’s not on your diet, is it?”
John collected the box of fairy first aid supplies from under the sink, and headed back into the kitchen.
The fairy was gone.
“It never left, did it?”
“Not quite,” said Sherlock, still peering into the microscope.
“I don’t hear it.”
“Well, you wouldn’t now. Rather pity Mycroft, actually.”
John’s gaze fell on the mortar and pestle on the kitchen table. He was fairly sure they had not been there before.
“Sherlock,” he said slowly. “What are you looking at?”
“Fairydust doesn’t actually shimmer,” said Sherlock, and adjusted the focus.
“Oh, Christ,” said John, and went to cover the windows with brick.