ALIEN INVASION

Sherlock lazily fingered a button on his coat, haphazardly lying sideways across the couch. "You all right?" Watson asked. Never felt better, pal.

They hadn't had a case in two weeks. Somewhat annoying, yes, but Sherlock felt great, thanks. There was a sort of… buzz in the air. Something was going to happen today. Something exciting, something that would have the public simply begging Sherlock Holmes to come to the rescue. And what a case it would be! Surely a page-turner in Watson's ridiculous novel. Action, tragedy, casualties, and finally, a glorious triumph. Ah, yes, what a day it was going to be. He could feel it.

Sherlock couldn't help himself; a small smile crossed his lips, and soon enough he was chuckling lightly, re-buttoning his coat again.

"Sherlock, are you sure you're okay?" Watson whispered, poking his friend carefully with a pencil. "You haven't spoken in three hours now, Sherlock. What's wrong? Is something going to happen?"

"Oh, yes, of course something's going to happen, John." Sherlock stretched his long legs, letting them fall over the side of couch. "Things happen all the time, every day, in fact. Are you breathing? Then something's happening."

Watson had to bite his tongue to keep from responding to that right away. He counted to ten in his head. "Sherlock…" he said hesitantly. "I meant something, like… Oh, you know what I meant! Something bad!"

Sherlock stood up briskly and put his scarf on. "Explain 'bad'," he said, and, not waiting for an answer, he walked out the door into the cloudy London afternoon.

Watson swore under his breath. "What kind of a person would do that just for kicks?!" he said angrily, though still under his breath. In fact, he was not referring to Sherlock's upping and going just then, but his behavior a few weeks ago: After taking out the trash, the curly-haired detective had run inside and proclaimed that aliens were about to take over the world.

Of course I knew he was lying, Watson thought, rolling his eyes. But he played it all so convincingly. After staging total terror, Sherlock had showed Watson a terrifying view out the window: a gigantic UFO, hovering right outside 221 Baker Street. "AAGH!" Watson had cried, knocking over a lamp and a glass of water as he scrambled back from the huge machine.

Sherlock had laughed heartily and tugged at the window glass. A poster of a UFO fell to the ground at Watson's feet. "I suggest you pick up that cup," Sherlock suggested, "Before the water gets everywhere."

Watson had to admit, that was embarrassing. He'd get back at Sherlock one way or another, and then the old chap would be sorry he had ever tried to mess with Doctor John Watson.

Just then the door banged open and there stood Sherlock, the wind dramatically blowing his clothes about. "Speak of the devil," Watson murmured, rolling his eyes up to the ceiling.

Sherlock let out an ear-crushing scream that reverberated through the whole building, startling Watson tremendously, as Sherlock was not one to scream. "Sherlock, what's wrong?!" He yelled, not quite aware that he was yelling himself and terrifying Sherlock even more, as he scrambled over to the man. "Sherlock, you can't keep pretending that nothing's wrong!"

Sherlock did not answer, but pushed Watson away, an annoyed expression crossing his thin face. Watson nodded slowly. "I get it," he said, slowly backing out of the room. "You're throwing another fit." He closed the door behind himself.

"Wait!" Sherlock cried, tearing after Watson. "I was just THINKING!"

He could hear Watson's muffled voice reply, "Yeah, that sounded extremely intelligent." Sherlock huffed and ran back out the door again, slamming it behind him.

Out on the bitterly cold London street, Sherlock flipped up his collar against the wind and ducked his head as he walked as fast as possible without running towards the nearest restaurant. Only upon entering and looking around did Sherlock realize that something was terribly wrong. For one thing, the door had locked automatically behind him, from the outside. For another, there were no customers and no waiters. "Hello?" he called, knowing before he did that there would be no answer. The tall man smiled. "Moriarty?" he guessed, feeling excitement coursing through his blood.

"Wrong," came a deep voice to his left. Sherlock whipped around, fingering the revolver he always carried with him in his coat pocket. The voice spoke again. "Though, I suppose you're close."

"Ah," Sherlock racked his brains, trying to think of anyone similar to Moriarty. He drew a blank. "Could you, er… Well, have I met you before?"

A deep laugh rattled Sherlock's bone marrow. "You want a hint?" it asked, an embarrassingly straight-forward question. Sherlock liked riddles, not a plain conversation. And he especially didn't like hints.

"Not—no. Of course not." Sherlock popped his collar again; it had flopped down as he walked inside. "Hints are for amateurs and babies. I am neither, thank you."

The voice laughed that rumbling laugh again. Whoever it was was seriously getting on Sherlock's nerves. "You're welcome." It said.

"Come out; stop hiding," Sherlock said, gritting his teeth. He was gripping the gun so hard his fingers had turned white. "Hiding only makes me think you're afraid of me."

"Afra—afraid?" The voice spluttered, for once taken aback.

"Yes, that's right, that's what I said, now come on out, Moriarty!" Sherlock knew all too well how good his arch nemesis was at putting on voices; the man could have made better use of himself by becoming a voice actor rather than an evil villain. And it was obviously Moriarty talking to him now, the little devil. "I know it's you, I'm not stupid."

"Evidently, you are stupid. Pity; this will be much too easy." Now the voice was getting louder; closer. "Come here, Sherlock Holmes."

"Oh, he remembers my name, how scary…" Sherlock muttered under his breath as he cautiously took a few steps towards the mysterious voice, which was now accompanied by a shadow. "Okay, Moriarty. I'm here. Now what are you going to do, set a load of dynamite off—?"

"You're afraid, Holmes," the voice interrupted, whispering into his ear. Sherlock froze where he stood. "You're afraid because you're so… successful."

"What? That doesn't make any—"

"You're afraid that you'll slip up. That's why you haven't taken on any cases lately; you've been creating one of your own… After all, why in the world would you want to ruin your own reputation?"

"Okay, Moriarty, that definitely gave you away," Sherlock began slowly taking the gun out of his coat pocket. "And it's been fun, but the game's up—"

Thwack! The gun clattered to the floor as an arm tightened around Sherlock's chest, keeping him from moving to get it. "You're not going to be up to anymore tricks, Mr. Holmes," the voice whispered directly in his ear, causing Sherlock to shiver. A sweat had broken out on the back of his neck. "Because you're not going to be alive."

There was a pop! and Sherlock went limp. But not before making sure: There was no one behind him.

….

Watson, finding nothing better to do, turned on the radio. He relaxed upon hearing Beethoven start up and was lulled to sleep by Mozart. He was quite shocked, therefore, when he was woken up to the sound of voices in his room: "Many people are actually heading to the mountains—"

"We advise that you evacuate with your friends and family immediately—"

"It has been confirmed that a UFO was actually spotted hovering above Baker Street just hours ago—"

"Yes, aliens do exist, and they're much too close for comfort—"

"John, wake up. John, we have to get out of here!" Watson opened his eyes groggily and was confused to see Sherlock—his hair flying every which way and his face shining with terror—standing over him, already clutching two suitcases and a grocery bag full of food.

"Sherlock… what…?" Watson rubbed his face and finally realized that it was the radio, not a bunch of people, in his room.

Sherlock, seeing that Watson was awake, dragged him out of his armchair and heaved him across the room. "Come, Watson, stand on your own two feet; you're not a toddler!" Watson tore from Sherlock's grip and stumbled towards the door. "That's the spirit!" Sherlock forced a smile and ran after Watson, locking the door securely behind both of them.

"Sherlock, would you mind telling me what is going on?!" Watson demanded, grabbing Sherlock's shirtsleeve to keep him from running ahead. "I mean, you've been going through this sort of alien faze lately, but I didn't expect you to hack into the—radio—network or whatever, and pretend there were aliens. It just isn't like you!"

"KEEP RUNNING, WATSON!" was all the infuriating detective said in reply. "I SHALL EXPLAIN LATER, WHEN I AM CONFIDENT THAT WE ARE STILL ALIVE!"

"Wait—" Watson stopped in his tracks again, making Sherlock literally scream in frustration. "You think we're dead?!"

"PRECISELY, JOHN! YOU'RE FINALLY CATCHING ON! NOW MAYBE YOU CAN RUN!"

Watson rolled his eyes but continued running, now clinging to a stitch in his side and wishing he hadn't had that double-decker sandwich for lunch.

Suddenly, a car dropped directly in front of the two men, who barely managed to stop themselves from crashing straight into it. "What the—" Watson stopped talking and instead yelped in pain as Sherlock grabbed a handful of his hair and dragged him—without mercy—away from the car and down a side street.

"Some sidekick," Sherlock muttered, taking long, fast strides towards an abandoned building marked with a gigantic red sign that proclaimed: DO NOT ENTER – TOXIC CHEMICALS INSIDE.

"Er… Ergh…" Watson tried to drop subtle hints that he was in quite a bit of pain, but Sherlock paid no heed. In fact, if Watson didn't know better, he would have said that Sherlock had a look of grim satisfaction on his face.

"Come, you wait here, I'll be back… probably, anyway…" Sherlock shoved Watson into the Very Dangerous Building and ran away at top Sherlock the Greyhound speed.

"What the…" Watson was desperately confused. He wandered out of the building to try and find Sherlock, who was angry at him for reasons the doctor could not comprehend. "Think, John. Think… Where would he go?" Watson could not think where.

Just his luck, though, because right then Sherlock ran back, carrying five sticks of dynamite. "Back inside, John!" he cried, and for the umpteenth time that day he threw his partner about like a ragdoll.

"Sherlock, when did you get so bloody strong?!" Watson asked, getting up with just a slight bit of difficulty.

"Hit puberty the other day." Sherlock replied, earning him several curious looks from Watson to him. "Now," the detective clapped his hands together and began pacing back and forth amongst the glowing barrels full of who knows what. "Why would aliens invade the Earth? No; why would they choose to do it now?"

"Sherlock, what are you on?!" Watson burst out: there was a manic glint deep in his friend's eyes. "Seriously."

"Ah, nothing much," Sherlock answered briefly, not bothering to look up. "Nicotine, mainly… But how, Watson, that's the question. Or is it? Perhaps it is where—?"

"Sherlock!" Watson grabbed his partner by his shoulders and swung him around, forcing eye contact. "Answer me!"

"Watson, just half an hour ago I was nearly murdered by an extra terrestrial; I saw it with my own eyes. And you know what? They're invisible. So will you please just listen for onc—?"

"Sherlock! Sherlock, look into my eyes!" Sherlock instead pulled away and began pacing again, ignoring the repeated commands, then eventually begs, for Sherlock to please go see a doctor, and would he please just listen to his only friend? and ON and ON it went, Sherlock pacing feverishly, Watson trying to get his attention.

"I HAVE IT!" The detective yelled suddenly, startling his partner into silence. "I FIGURED IT OUT!" He cupped his hand around his wrist to take his own pulse; he was curious about how much faster his pulse got when he figured something out. Strangely enough, it seemed slower, to him.

"Okay, Sherlock," Watson sighed, "What did you figure out this time?" Sherlock did not reply right away; instead he shook his head mutely.

Finally, he said in a somewhat quiet voice, "John, have I ever seemed slightly… manic? To you?"

"Yeah, maybe just a bit…? Is that what you figured out, Sherlock?" Sherlock possibly admitting his own insanity freaked Watson out quite a lot.

But that was not what Sherlock was doing. "Ah-HA! So it's WORKING!" He joyfully kicked one of the buckets; there was a heart-stopping moment when it looked like it would fall, but the deadly chemical-filled death-trap stayed upright. "You think I'm absolutely INSANE, don't you?!"

"Well, yeah, right now, but—"

"I don't care when you think I'm absolutely insane, all I care about is the fact that you do!" Watson raised his eyebrows at this. "What I'm saying, John, is that it's just Moriarty again—there really are aliens, but you won't believe me because of my devil-may-care reputation! Ha!"

"All I could make of that was that you're extremely obnoxious." Watson patted Sherlock on the top of his head.

Sherlock absentmindedly waved him away, biting his lip. "Watson…" Sherlock threw the doctor a stick of dynamite. "We're missing one."

"What are we missing now?" Watson carefully set the dynamite on top of the suitcases.

"One of the dynamites, John—"

"I don't think 'dynamites' is a word, mate—"

"See, don't you see? Someone came in here while I was thinking and you were pitching that fit—yes, a fit, John, a big, ugly fit—and they stole one of my dynamites! And that can mean only one thing: The aliens were in here, and they are invisible, just like I said, and one of them, most likely the one that tried to kill me before, sneaked in while I was distracted and it slipped one of the dynamites straight out of my hands!"

"But, Sherlock, just a second ago you were saying that this was all Moriarty's doing!"

"No, I wasn't—wait. I was?"

"Yes."

Sherlock paced a bit more, then stopped dead in front of Watson. "I know…" Sherlock took his pulse again. "I am insane. I've finally gone loony, John… Was overworked, now I'm burned out and hallucinating." Sherlock collapsed into a heap on the floor.

"Hey, hey, hey, hey, Sherlock! You're okay, come on now, you're not crazy…!"

"Ah, but that's my POINT, John! I'm NOT crazy! IT'S ALL A TEST, DON'T YOU SEE?! I'M NOT CRAZY YET, BUT I COULD LOSE IT ANY SECOND! IT'S ALL A TEST!" Sherlock banged his fist on the floor, tears in his eyes.

"What. Is. Wrong. With. You." Watson kneeled down and felt Sherlock's forehead. "You don't have a fever… Maybe it's some kind of poisoning…"

"John… John, listen to me! JOHN WATSON, I HAVE NOT BEEN POINSONED!" Sherlock abruptly stood up and brushed the dirt off of his clothes. "It's all a test my dear old Moriarty came up with, see? He thinks that if you think I'm crazy, everyone else will, and then my 'image will be ruined' and blah, blah, blah, etcetera, the list goes on and on on on. Now. Moriarty thought that a good way to do this would be to invite some aliens down to Earth, and then to have me be the only one to see them."

Watson gave Sherlock a blank stare. "I—I'm really not understanding this, Sherlock, maybe if you explained better…?"

Sherlock ignored this completely and plowed right on. "But this is where the little mister made his mistake, and oh ho, it was a fatal one. As you may have noticed, my dear Watson, Moriarty wants to destroy my good reputation. But, obviously, he will not have achieved this until if and when his plan succeeds! So, me having a glorious reputation, I simply had to go to the Prime Minister and explain that there are aliens on Earth. So easy. So easy."

"Okay, Sherlock, first of all that makes ABSOLUTELY no sense, and second of all… Since when have you had a glorious reputation. And—third of all—since WHEN in the BLOODY HECK have there been ALIENS on EARTH?!"

"Just ask the Ancient Astronaut Theorists, John. They'll tell you exactly when in the bloody heck aliens have been on Earth before. And of course I have a glorious reputation; you've been at the photo shoots and the interviews and such! Just because I decided to use a particular adjective over other options does not make what I'm saying incorrect. And I am NOT insane. I will drill this into your skull: I am not insane, I am not insane, I am not insane, I am not insane, I am NOT insane, I am not—"

"Then maybe you'd better start acting sane, Sherlock, because as of this moment, Moriarty seems to be having me quite convinced."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, shocked. "Really? He's got you… You really think I'm crazy? No, no, no, no-o-o-o-o… Do you know what this means? Do you realize what a tremendous effect this will take on humanity? On mankind itself?!" Sherlock lowered his head into his hands, shaking with laughter or with sobs, which Watson did not know.

"Er… Sherlock? You all right, pal?" Watson poked his friend with a pencil for the second time that day. "I mean… I'm sure you'll get better…"

Sherlock looked into Watson's eyes then, and the doctor was disturbed to see that his friend had been crying. "No, John. It's all right. I'm okay… It's too late, though, John. He's won." Sherlock flipped up his coat collar. "I have something to do. Someone to see."

Watson ran after him, alarmed. "Wait! You mean Moriarty?! You're not going to—you're going to be okay, right, Sherlock?!" By the time he got to the doorway, which was no time at all, Sherlock had disappeared from sight. "SHERLOCK!" the crazed man ran down a random alleyway to look for his friend.

….

"Hullo, Jim. You've gotten thin. Slim Jim Jim."

"You really are insane, you know that?" Moriarty patted Sherlock on the top of his curly hairs. "But you're smart… Why are you giving up, Holmes?"

Sherlock gave a watery, ironic smile. "My only friend thinks I'm crazy. The world's been invaded by aliens. My career was going to end anyway… Might as well make it exciting. Right?"

The two men laughed heartily. "Nice knowing you, pal." Moriarty laser-beamed Sherlock to death.

….

Watson took a rest beside a large, green dumpster. Tried to catch his breath. "Sherlock," he muttered, and found new strength upon hearing the name alone. "FOR SHERLOCK!" he showed the devotion of a hobbit. "WHO WILL GET BETTER once he sees a psychiatrist…" The man ran on, made it another mile, heading towards open country.

A crazed Watson finally fell to the ground beside a very large tree. He felt like a wild animal, tearing through the city like this.

"Greetings," said a deep voice that somehow echoed, even though there was nothing for it to echo off of. "I come in peace."

Watson looked towards the heavens. He saw an invisible alien. His creepy human eyes rolled into the back of his head when he fainted.

END