Possibly, I'm Insane

“Sorry for dropping by unexpectedly,” Lestrade said as he unwound his scarf. “I was just at loose ends and thought you might be in the mood for a hot toddy or two.”

John was about to say of course when Sherlock said scathingly, “What’s the matter? Is my brother busy toppling another country’s government?”

John said brightly, “Please come in. I hope you don’t mind that you’re just in time for the annual gingerbread decorating.”

“Oh, fun! What are we making?” Lestrade glanced over Oliver’s shoulder.

“Anatomically correct corpses of all the victims of Jack the Ripper,” Oliver explained happily.

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“But,” said Oliver, “what is it made of?” He held a piece of tinsel up to just beyond his nose, squinting at it closely.

“Aluminum,” Sherlock said. “Coating polyvinyl chloride. We can look at it under a microscope.”

“Oh! Yes!”

“No,” John said sternly. “Not now. Now is not the science time, now we’re trimming the tree.”

“You know,” Sherlcok continued, “if we could get some vintage tinsel it would be even more instructive.”

“Why?” asked Oliver avidly.

“Because it used to contain lead. It was poisonous.”

Oliver’s eyes lit up.

John gave up on the idea of the tree.

Requested by anonymous.

John thought there were some things that Oliver should see that were not about murder. Oliver knew everything about every single interesting murder scene in Britain, but John thought maybe he should see some cathedrals, too.

“Cathedrals are boring,” Sherlock complained.

“Look at the stained glass.” John pointed for Oliver’s benefit. “Stained glass is beautiful artistry. These windows date back to medieval times.”

“Boring!” Sherlock called back to them, as he walked along the pews. Then he paused saying, “Hmm. Except this one’s full of poisonous plants. Do you think the artist killed someone?”

Oliver ran over delightedly to see.

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“No,” Sherlock says, “no, no, and no.”

“Hang on—” John begins.

“No, Oliver has rejected all of these.”

“Oliver has rejected all of the Christmas decorations?”

“They’re all tedious, aren’t they, Ollie?”

Oliver nodded.

John didn’t bother to ask why a three-year-old had such opinions on Christmas decorations. “But you love the tree,” he said.

“We’ll allow the tree,” Sherlock said, “but none of the inane elves or grinning reindeer or macabre snowmen.”

“Macabre?”

“That one’s definitely a murderer.”  

“We keep that one.” Oliver pointed.

“Oh, yes,” Sherlock agreed. “That one came from Mrs. Hudson, we’re keeping that one.”

Oliver got the idea while studying their Christmas tree. There was an obvious pattern to the branches. It wouldn’t be difficult to do.

“What are you thinking?” asked Papa. “It makes me nervous every time I see either of you so lost in thought.”

“I’m plotting out climbing the tree,” answered Oliver.

“Not our Christmas tree!” Papa exclaimed.

“Of course not. It’s covered in ornaments.”

Oliver tested his theory when they went on a holiday to the Cotswalds because there was a serial killer there. He was right: Climbing trees was a science.

It was getting down that was tricky.

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“E is for electrolyte,” Sherlock told Oliver. “That’s a substance that dissociates into ions in solution and acquires the capacity to conduct electricity.”

“I highly doubt that is what it says in the book ‘A is for Alligators,’” remarked John.

“I’m not telling him E is for elephant,” Sherlock said. “That’s nonsensical.”

John supposed it was predictable when, months later, Oliver pointed to a picture of an elephant and exclaimed, “’lectrolyte!”

“That’s an elephant,” Lestrade said.

“‘Lectrolyte!” Oliver repeated stubbornly.

“Electrolyte, Ollie,” Sherlock said, “very good.”

Lestrade said, “Is it worth it to argue about this?”

“No,” said John immediately.

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Sherlock came home with finger paint. John lifted his eyebrows.

“What?” Sherlock asked impatiently, because he asked everything impatiently. “Where’s Oliver?”

“Sleeping. Did you buy Oliver finger paint?”

“Yes, of course. Why is he sleeping? He shouldn’t be sleeping!”

“You say that every time he’s sleeping. And finger paint is an astonishingly age-appropriate activity, and that’s the opposite of Sherlock Holmes, so why don’t you tell me what the finger paint is for.”

“We’re testing its toxicity.”

“Sherlock.”

“Not on Oliver! On mice.”

“And, of course,” John mumbled to himself, “I lead a life where that is only slightly alarming.”