Poinsettia

[smallhobbit]

Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, Mrs Hudson, Greg Lestrade, John Watson
Rating: PG
Word Count: 500
Summary: Written for methylviolet10b who prompted me with Poinsettia. 
Her present to me is The Mystery of the Mising Mistletoe

Mrs Hudson, there’s a poinsettia on our kitchen table.”

“That’s nice dear.”

“Did you put it there?”

“Me, no, why should I?”

“Who else could have done it?”

“Maybe John bought it.”

“It wasn’t here this morning when he left for work and he told me he wouldn’t be back until mid-afternoon.”

“It’s possible he came back while you were out.”

“Is it likely he would return to the flat just to leave a pot plant on the table?”

“Well, no dear.”

“Precisely.”

The door bell rang, relieving Mrs Hudson of the need to find further reasons for the mysterious appearance of the plant.  She let DI Lestrade in, who ran up the stairs to join Sherlock.  He stopped short when he saw the poinsettia.

“Where did you get that from?  I had one appear in my office this morning and everyone denies any knowledge of it.  I did wonder whether it was a practical joke, but that’s normally mistletoe or a blow up snowman.”

At that moment John arrived home.  He walked up the stairs carrying yet another poinsettia.

“Where did that come from?” Sherlock snapped.

“I found it in my room at the surgery.  I assumed it was from a grateful patient, although no-one seemed to know who had brought it in.  Why?” John replied.

“One has appeared just as mysteriously on our kitchen table,” Sherlock answered.  “And Lestrade received one at the Yard.”

“Oh, that’s odd,” John said.  “There was definitely no label attached to the plant; just the care instructions.”

“That’s more than I got,” Sherlock said.  Lestrade shook his head; he’d not found any.  “Let me see them.”

John pulled the instructions out of the soil and passed them over

Sherlock read through them.  “It says a poinsettia can symbolise good cheer, success, purity and blood sacrifice.  Blood sacrifice has been underlined.”

The doorbell rang again.  John went down and let Mycroft in.  He was carrying yet another poinsettia, which he presented with a flourish to Mrs Hudson.

Sherlock went pale.  “Mycroft, what do you think you are doing?”

“Whatever do you mean, dear brother?  I am merely giving Mrs Hudson a Christmas present.”

“Where did it come from?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know.  I asked Anthea to purchase something suitable.”

Mycroft looked at his watch.  “And now dear brother, it is time for us to depart.  Come along we don’t want to keep Mummy waiting.”

Sherlock looked as if he was going to make a run for it, but Mycroft was blocking his exit route.

“Dear me, Sherlock, you do seem to have fallen for my ploy.  I thought The Problem of the Three Poinsettias might keep you in your flat long enough for me to collect you.”

“But blood sacrifice?”

“We are related by blood, brother dear.  And I know you consider our traditional pre-Christmas tea with Mummy to be a sacrifice of your valuable time.”

Sherlock followed his brother out of the house looking very much the unwilling sacrifice.

Mycroft turned back as they left.  “Merry Christmas, John, Inspector.”