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Description
Sherlock woke up from an unusually long nap with a splitting headache. Wait, a headache? He remembered the nasty fall from the night before, but that was after the gunshot-- he had been shot in the chest while chasing one of Artemis Fowl's nemeses. Yet he felt barely a throb.
He unbuttoned the top few buttons of his clean blue shirt. No bandages adorned his wound, and only a scratch remained of the seemingly fatal blow.
"God," he wondered aloud. "How long was I out?!" He jumped to his feet, which only made his head spin faster. "Have I been in a coma?" He glanced over at the computer table. "No, the newspaper is from only yesterday, so how--"
Then he noticed an alarmingly small figure sitting in his favorite chair, eating potato crisps. From the back, he could tell "it" was actually a "she", mid twenties despite her frame, and had strange, pointed ears. The creature, noticing that his post-traumatic bewilderment had come to an end, turned nonchalantly toward him, her bi-hued eyes half-lidded in boredom. She licked some potato salt off of her lips before stating the obvious.
"Ahh, you're awake."
"You're a fairy," he said in reply. "Not the fairy tail variety, obviously, but some kind of military grade. Pronounced muscles, short haircut, clothes that are creased along specific margins every time you fold them says military. But you're the rebel captain, I assume, by your civilian-- even human-- attire and relaxed stance. Though I don't pretend to know anything about fairy army tactics, I would say by the crease on your left index finger that you regularly fire some kind of pistol-like weapon, though it doesn't confer powder burns like human firearms. You're also cocky, confident, and streamlined so you're probably an adept pilot. However, your weapon isn't on you and you aren't tense, so you're not here to protect me so the question remains-- why are you here?"
The elf began to speak, but Holmes cut her off.
"No no no, the answer is obvious. One fairy plus one mysteriously healed wound equals-- fairy magic. I'm right, am I right?" He looked at her for confirmation, then turned away again before she could answer. "Of course I'm right."
"Wow, Watson was right, I really don't have to say much around you," the fairy smirked. Sherlock waited for the fairy to mention her name, but when she did not offer it he felt somehow indisposed to ask her for it. Instead, he said,
"That's my chair."
"Oh really?" she said, her eyes widened in faux surprise. "I hadn't noticed! I mean, I know this is your flat, but I didn't think the armchair with the skull in it could possibly be yours." Sherlock blinked. It had been a long time since he had talked with someone so quick with sarcasm.
"Yes, well, both the skull and the chair belong to me, so I would like to have them both returned."
"Or what?" Apparently, the small fairy had not noticed the size difference between them. Instead of a physical threat, though, Sherlock simply took her bag of crisps.
"Hey!" she shrieked. Standing on the chair she was still shorter than him. Sherlock noticed that she was curvy for a captain. "Give those back!"
"I'd imagine you rarely get to enjoy human food."
"Usually I hate it, but Artemis's brothers got me hooked--" she made a lunge with her arms for the bag, but failed. "Ugh, you're impossible!"
"You didn't know that? Apparently John didn't tell you very much about me-- what, no!"
She had picked up the skull and now hefted it above her head.
"Give me the crisps, Holmes, or I smash your friend here."
Sherlock paused for a moment, deliberating. The captain was having none of it.
"Man, this human skull is so thick and heavy!" she said loudly, letting the head slip from her hands. Sherlock lurched forward to catch it, and she managed to get her hands on the bag of crisps. Sherlock retrieve the skull by batting it from midair into the cushion of the chair, his other hand simultaneously tightening on the bag as his adversary attempted to purloin it. He easily tore the plastic from her small grip and held it aloft. This time, however, she took the head on approach, and with enormous dexterity, climbed up his shirt to stand on his shoulder.
"Tricky little devil, aren't you?"
"Just give me the chips, D'Arvit!"
But it wasn't about the crisps anymore, it was a competition. And Sherlock Holmes would not lose. Unfortunately, he wasn't used to such close-quarters combat, in which the opponent was female, and clinging to him more than trying to escape.
He was suddenly aware of her warmth; he so rarely touched other living beings that he had come to see them all as walking cadavers, good only for holding information. But this creature that stubbornly remained attached to his arm as he shook it about was warmer than he was, and it was a soothing, steady warmth. He wondered if it was just the fairy, or if any humans felt like this.
Finally, the thin plastic of the crisp bag gave, and both competitors watched as pieces of fried potato scattered across the floor. The fairy, who was still clamped to his arm, looked back at him accusingly.
"You're getting me a new bag of chips." Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"Please," he said.
"Do it!" She ordered, jumping nimbly from his arm to his chest, grabbing his collar and curling her toes in his shirt to gain purchase. Her face was only inches from his and he could smell her; sweat and earth and spices.
"No," he said, throwing her deftly off him and sitting triumphantly in his chair. She landed like he knew she would; on her feet, like a cat, but he wasn't expecting her to attack again. She sprinted back to him and vaulted onto his shoulders, squishing his cheeks between her hands.
"Now, Mud man!"
"Insolent fairy!" he replied, standing to pull her off of him by her arms.
"Holly?" came a new voice.
"Sherlock!" scolded an all-too-familiar one. John Watson ran a hand down his resigned face.
"Oh, this is yours?" Sherlock asked Artemis, ignoring John. He knew he'd get an earful later, but now he just thought,
So her name is Holly.

Yay for long description! But I had to. Sorry if there is OOCness. It's late, and I dun wanna proofread.
Sherlock (C) BBC and Sir Doyle
Artemis Fowl (C) Eoin Colfer

Description
Sherlock woke up from an unusually long nap with a splitting headache. Wait, a headache? He remembered the nasty fall from the night before, but that was after the gunshot-- he had been shot in the chest while chasing one of Artemis Fowl's nemeses. Yet he felt barely a throb.
He unbuttoned the top few buttons of his clean blue shirt. No bandages adorned his wound, and only a scratch remained of the seemingly fatal blow.
"God," he wondered aloud. "How long was I out?!" He jumped to his feet, which only made his head spin faster. "Have I been in a coma?" He glanced over at the computer table. "No, the newspaper is from only yesterday, so how--"
Then he noticed an alarmingly small figure sitting in his favorite chair, eating potato crisps. From the back, he could tell "it" was actually a "she", mid twenties despite her frame, and had strange, pointed ears. The creature, noticing that his post-traumatic bewilderment had come to an end, turned nonchalantly toward him, her bi-hued eyes half-lidded in boredom. She licked some potato salt off of her lips before stating the obvious.
"Ahh, you're awake."
"You're a fairy," he said in reply. "Not the fairy tail variety, obviously, but some kind of military grade. Pronounced muscles, short haircut, clothes that are creased along specific margins every time you fold them says military. But you're the rebel captain, I assume, by your civilian-- even human-- attire and relaxed stance. Though I don't pretend to know anything about fairy army tactics, I would say by the crease on your left index finger that you regularly fire some kind of pistol-like weapon, though it doesn't confer powder burns like human firearms. You're also cocky, confident, and streamlined so you're probably an adept pilot. However, your weapon isn't on you and you aren't tense, so you're not here to protect me so the question remains-- why are you here?"
The elf began to speak, but Holmes cut her off.
"No no no, the answer is obvious. One fairy plus one mysteriously healed wound equals-- fairy magic. I'm right, am I right?" He looked at her for confirmation, then turned away again before she could answer. "Of course I'm right."
"Wow, Watson was right, I really don't have to say much around you," the fairy smirked. Sherlock waited for the fairy to mention her name, but when she did not offer it he felt somehow indisposed to ask her for it. Instead, he said,
"That's my chair."
"Oh really?" she said, her eyes widened in faux surprise. "I hadn't noticed! I mean, I know this is your flat, but I didn't think the armchair with the skull in it could possibly be yours." Sherlock blinked. It had been a long time since he had talked with someone so quick with sarcasm.
"Yes, well, both the skull and the chair belong to me, so I would like to have them both returned."
"Or what?" Apparently, the small fairy had not noticed the size difference between them. Instead of a physical threat, though, Sherlock simply took her bag of crisps.
"Hey!" she shrieked. Standing on the chair she was still shorter than him. Sherlock noticed that she was curvy for a captain. "Give those back!"
"I'd imagine you rarely get to enjoy human food."
"Usually I hate it, but Artemis's brothers got me hooked--" she made a lunge with her arms for the bag, but failed. "Ugh, you're impossible!"
"You didn't know that? Apparently John didn't tell you very much about me-- what, no!"
She had picked up the skull and now hefted it above her head.
"Give me the crisps, Holmes, or I smash your friend here."
Sherlock paused for a moment, deliberating. The captain was having none of it.
"Man, this human skull is so thick and heavy!" she said loudly, letting the head slip from her hands. Sherlock lurched forward to catch it, and she managed to get her hands on the bag of crisps. Sherlock retrieve the skull by batting it from midair into the cushion of the chair, his other hand simultaneously tightening on the bag as his adversary attempted to purloin it. He easily tore the plastic from her small grip and held it aloft. This time, however, she took the head on approach, and with enormous dexterity, climbed up his shirt to stand on his shoulder.
"Tricky little devil, aren't you?"
"Just give me the chips, D'Arvit!"
But it wasn't about the crisps anymore, it was a competition. And Sherlock Holmes would not lose. Unfortunately, he wasn't used to such close-quarters combat, in which the opponent was female, and clinging to him more than trying to escape.
He was suddenly aware of her warmth; he so rarely touched other living beings that he had come to see them all as walking cadavers, good only for holding information. But this creature that stubbornly remained attached to his arm as he shook it about was warmer than he was, and it was a soothing, steady warmth. He wondered if it was just the fairy, or if any humans felt like this.
Finally, the thin plastic of the crisp bag gave, and both competitors watched as pieces of fried potato scattered across the floor. The fairy, who was still clamped to his arm, looked back at him accusingly.
"You're getting me a new bag of chips." Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"Please," he said.
"Do it!" She ordered, jumping nimbly from his arm to his chest, grabbing his collar and curling her toes in his shirt to gain purchase. Her face was only inches from his and he could smell her; sweat and earth and spices.
"No," he said, throwing her deftly off him and sitting triumphantly in his chair. She landed like he knew she would; on her feet, like a cat, but he wasn't expecting her to attack again. She sprinted back to him and vaulted onto his shoulders, squishing his cheeks between her hands.
"Now, Mud man!"
"Insolent fairy!" he replied, standing to pull her off of him by her arms.
"Holly?" came a new voice.
"Sherlock!" scolded an all-too-familiar one. John Watson ran a hand down his resigned face.
"Oh, this is yours?" Sherlock asked Artemis, ignoring John. He knew he'd get an earful later, but now he just thought,
So her name is Holly.

Yay for long description! But I had to. Sorry if there is OOCness. It's late, and I dun wanna proofread.
Sherlock (C) BBC and Sir Doyle
Artemis Fowl (C) Eoin Colfer