Title: Fireworks
Author: Anon
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Rating: G
Pairings: None
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: These characters aren’t mine, and I’m not using them for profit
Summary: It’s November 5th, but John comes home to the wrong kind of explosion in the kitchen.
Bunny: #15
Feedback: Comments are always appreciated!

It had been a long day at the surgery, but John felt cheerful as he walked home. It was a crisp November 5th evening, and he could already smell the pleasantly dark and rich scents of exploding fireworks and burning leaves. The streets were filled with excitable children tugging their parents along with their gloved hands, eager for pork baps and sparklers. John had thought about buying a pack of the latter for old time’s sake. That was until Sherlock had responded to John’s throwaway remark at breakfast about always enjoying Bonfire Night with a roll of his eyes and a sigh that suggested that Sherlock found the whole occasion tiresome and dull. Never mind. Maybe they’d be able to see some fireworks from the windows of the flat.

Arriving home, however, John’s good mood quickly took a knock. He knew that he shouldn’t have been surprised at the state of the kitchen. After living with Sherlock Holmes for almost a year, nothing should have been a surprise. Still, a smashed flask, upset Bunsen burner (thankfully, unlit), and a fine dusting of white powder covering every possible surface ranked pretty highly on John’s mental list of Messes That Sherlock Had Made - and left for John to clear up. Mrs Hudson was going to have a fit when she saw this.

“What’s happened here?” he said, mostly to himself, allowing his medical bag to slip from his hand and land with a satisfying thud.

To John’s surprise, his question did receive a response - albeit a rather cryptic one.

“Heh-yissshuh! Eiyishhheuh!”

Looking over his shoulder towards the sitting room, John saw Sherlock, hunched in one corner of the sofa, and clearly feeling the effects of the pair of harsh sneezes. Judging from the tear-stains under Sherlock’s rather pink eyes - not to mention the look of absolutely frustration on his face - they weren’t the first of the day.

“Hihh-eiyshhhheuh!” The sneeze threw Sherlock forward with such force that he had to catch the back of the sofa to stop himself from tumbling off it altogether.

This time, John couldn’t help but chuckle. Sherlock looked at him murderously, the effect only slightly undone by the dusting of white that, as with the kitchen, covered his hair and clothes.

“This is intolerable!” he snapped, swiping at his nose with the sleeve of his shirt. John slipped off his jacket and slung it over the back of a chair.

“Am I to assume that this” - he gestured to Sherlock - “has something to do with the state of the kitchen?”

Silence. John turned back to the kitchen.

“Even if it doesn’t, I’d like to know how you came to make such a bloody awful mess of the place. What on earth is this white dust that’s everywhere?”

Still no response. John was losing patience.

“Sherlock, I’ve had a long day at work and I come back to a flat that looks like a bomb went-” Looking back at Sherlock, John stopped mid-sentence, as he realised that he wasn’t being deliberately ignored. Sherlock had his head titled slightly back, and looked as though he was concentrating very hard on something. Then, his breath hitched several times, before a very pregnant pause that seemed to herald another fit. However, after a moment of silence, Sherlock shook his head and groaned.

“The only thing worse than the sneezing, is not sneezing,” he muttered, wiping back tears that threatened to overspill his eyes. His nose, John noticed, was still twitching. Clearly, the problem wasn’t solved.

“Time to tell me what’s going on now?” John suggested. This time, the silence he got was deliberate. Sherlock pursed his mouth shut and folded his arms in front of him. John mirrored the gesture.

“Unlike you, I don’t much care for guessing games,” John said. “I can only help you if you tell me what happened.”

“Experiment,” Sherlock said sullenly, after another long pause. Sighing, John picked up the medical bad that he’d hoped to avoid opening this evening.

“Yes, I’d got that far,” John said, going Sherlock on the sofa, his back to the opposite arm. “The mess in the kitchen gave that away.”

“It was stupid,” Sherlock said. There was more silence, interrupted this time by a damp sniffle.

“I’m going to need more than that,” John said. Sherlock rolled his obviously-irritated eyes.

“I was heating something over the Bunsen and I must have had the flame turned up too high. I’d only turned away for a second to fetch the strontium chloride when the beaker smashed. The noise - startled me. I dropped the bag I was carrying, which unfortunately… hhhh-happened t-t-to… ihhh… be ope-ehhh-n…” Sherlock’s usually clipped monologue had reached an even more frantic pace, but still he didn’t managed to finish before - “Ehh-yishhhhegh!” John reached into his bag and pulled out a pack of tissues. Sherlock accepted them with a grateful nod.

“It seems that I inhaled the irritant,” he added stuffily.

“Is it poisonous?” John asked sharply.

“Not in the quantities we’re talking about.”

“And this was how long ago now?” Sherlock glanced at the clock on the wall.

“About forty minutes.”

“Symptoms? Apart from the obvious,” John added, as Sherlock sneezed again, snuffling into a tissue.

“Itchy eyes. Headache,” Sherlock said, sullenly.

“Well, it’s probably just a mild reaction to the irritant,” John said, amused at Sherlock’s disgruntled reaction to the word “mild”. He drew out a small torch from his medical bag. “But I’ll have a look anyway - just to be sure.”

Reluctantly, Sherlock shuffled forward and allowed John to tilt his head back. Seeing the petulant expression on Sherlock’s face, John felt very much like telling him no, this wasn’t how he envisioned spending his Friday night either.

“Hmm… Looks rather inflamed but you’d expect that. Otherwise, not much damage. No nose bleeds or anything?”

“No,” said Sherlock, adding darkly, “Not yet, anyway.”

John turned off the torch and slipped it back into his bag, standing up to hang it by the door.

“Is that it?” Sherlock asked. John shrugged.

“The reaction will calm down eventually. Just give it some time.”

“But the sn-sneezing…” As if the word itself was enough to bring forth another paroxysm, Sherlock muffled another sneeze into the tissue. “Hehhh-Eitchhheh!” He scrunched the tissue into a ball and threw it angrily at a waste paper basket. It missed. “This!” Sherlock said, flopping back onto the sofa. “It’s exhausting! I can’t think! You’re a doctor - you have to do something.”

John sighed and delved back into his bag, eventually pulled out a blister packet, popping out a small white pill and handing it to Sherlock.

“It’s an antihistamine,” John said, pre-empting Sherlock’s interrogation. “Might stop your body being quite so keen to expel whatever’s got into your system.” Sherlock scowled but swallowed the pill, before sneezing again.

“Eishhhhh! Eiishhhuh! Eitschhhh!” The sneezes tumbled rapidly over each other, without a second for Sherlock to draw breath in between. John grimaced sympathetically, as Sherlock shot him an incredulous look through bloodshot, tear-filled eyes.

“It’ll take at least 20 minutes to kick in,” John explained, gently. “Have you had a shower? That might help a bit.” Sherlock scowled, but nevertheless hauled himself up from the sofa and in the general direction of the bathroom.

For the next fifteen minutes, John listened to the steady pattering of the shower being interrupted by Sherlock’s sneezes echoing around the small bathroom. Thankfully, they seemed to be growing less frequent. Returning to his original intentions upon arriving home, John took the chance that putting a little of the white powder into the water system wouldn’t do too much harm. He wiped down the kettle and part of a worktop, fished out two mugs from the protective confines of a cupboard, and made some tea. John had just sat down with his mug in the living room when Sherlock re-emerged, slightly damp and in pyjamas and a dressing gown, the corner of a white handkerchief peeking out of each pocket.

“Better?” John ventured, handing him a his tea. Sherlock sniffled pointedly, but nodded, cradling the mug to his chest as he sat down.

“You still haven’t told me what your experiment was about,” John ventured.

“Nothing. It was stupid, really. And useless now.” Sherlock scrubbed at his nose, frowning. John wasn’t sure if it was the failure of Sherlock’s experiment or his itching nose that was irritating him more.

“For a case?”

“No.” No, of course not. Sherlock wasn’t usually this taciturn about his work.

“Well, what then?” Sherlock huffed and took a sip of his tea.

“If you must know,” he replied. “I was making fireworks.” John nearly dropped his mug in shock.

“Fireworks?” he repeated. “In our kitchen? Sherlock, isn’t that very dangerous?” Sherlock gave a derisory sniff.

“Not if you know what you’re doing - which I do. This,” he gestured to his now pink and slightly-swollen nose, “Could have happened during any number of procedures.”

“But why were you making fireworks if not for a case?” John said, still not quite following whatever logic was operating. Sherlock stared intently at his cup of tea and remained silent. “Sherlock?”

“If you must know,” Sherlock began, not looking up. “It was a surprise for you.” Well, John thought, he’s succeeded there.

“For me?”

“You’re beginning to sound like an echo,” Sherlock snapped. “Yes, for you. The other day, you said how much you liked Guy Fawkes Night; how you’d missed celebrating it when you were serving in Afghanistan. Fireworks and a war zone obviously not a good combination. I thought it might be fun to let a few off in Mrs Hudson’s g-gar-garden…” A familiar quiver had returned to Sherlock’s voice. Sherlock only just had time to place his tea on the table, and steeple his hands over his nose and mouth, before the sneezes started again; a veritable fit this time. “Hehh-heh-hehh… Heh-Itschhheihh! Yishhhehh! Yitchhheuhh! Ihhhh-Eiyshhhheuh! Heh-yissshuh!”

Carefully, John reached over and pulled one of the handkerchiefs from Sherlock’s pocket, wordlessly pressing it into Sherlock’s hands. Sherlock quickly closed his fingers around the cloth and, at the first instance he had to draw breath, blew his nose; this seemed to halt the spasms enough for him to repeat the action, and bring the fit to an end. Sherlock flopped back in the chair, sniffling and growling furiously.

“Bless you,” John said sincerely. “Honestly, I’m sure it’ll stop soon.”

“It had better,” Sherlock muttered, still snuffling into the cloth.

“But why didn’t you just buy fireworks?” John asked. “They sell them in the Tesco down the road.”

“Tame,” Sherlock said. “Anything they sell in a supermarket wouldn’t entertain a five year old.”

“You wanted to impress me?” John said, smiling shyly.

“Of course not,” Sherlock snapped. Before adding unconvincingly, “I just didn’t want to be bored.”

“All right then,” John allowed. “But, thank you, anyway. It was a nice gesture - would have been, I mean, if it had worked. I would have… appreciated it.” Sherlock nodded curtly, but said nothing. Nevertheless, when he reached for his tea again, his shoulders didn’t seem quite so tense. That was enough for John.

“Dinner time,” he announced. “And I suppose there’s nothing in the cupboards? Not that I could cook in that kitchen; we’ll have to clean up first thing tomorrow before Mrs Hudson sees. Takeaway ok for tonight? A curry might help clear your sinuses a bit.” Sherlock shrugged what looked like an assent.

“There’s a menu by the phone,” he added, watching John reach for his coat. John shook his head.

“I fancy the walk,” he said. “Any requests?” Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, just as another sneeze overpowered him.

“Yishhheughh!” Sherlock groaned and scrubbed at his nose with a sleeve. “Ughhh… Not to sneeze again for a month.” John chuckled.

“Not sure I can manage that. Might be able to do Lamb Rogan Josh though.” Sherlock waved his hand theatrically, signifying that anything would do. “All right. See you in a bit.”

There was a spring in John’s step as he tripped down the stairs. The curry could wait for a few minutes longer; he had an errand to run first. Hopefully, Tesco wouldn’t have sold out of sparklers this early on Bonfire Night.