a/n: Crack. Pure, unadulterated crack. I have no excuse, other than it's 11/11/11 today and I wanted to post something cracktastical.
Neither Sherlock nor Hetalia are mine—I just borrow them and return them slightly dented. I apologise for any inaccuracies or completely absurd things in this story.
Lestrade sighed and rubbed his temples in a vain attempt to drive away the oncoming headache. This was the fifth murder in a very peculiar set of killings, all characterised by a strange message left on a card by the body (all different, thus far) and the peculiarities of the victims themselves—each of a different nationality and each dressed strangely. The newest one was English, named Arthur Kirkland—they'd been able to identify him from the various personal effects left on the body. On the card was written "PUB AND GO—Draw a Circle, that's the Earth" in red. It utterly perplexed Lestrade—the messages were nonsensical, the victims seemed to have been selected solely for nationality and name, and they had all been dressed by the killer in strange costumes, wigs, and occasionally coloured contact lenses. The current one was wearing a blonde wig, green lenses, and what looked like a World War Two-era British Army uniform.
The Met had been working on the case for nearly a month, now, with no leads at all. It was usually at this point that Lestrade would ask Sherlock for help, but the DI was determined to solve this case by himself for once.
Five days later, when a Finnish man was found dead with a card inscribed "MOI MOI!—Draw a Circle, that's the Earth" in his hand and a white beret on his head, Lestrade gave in and texted Sherlock. The detective appeared about ten minutes later with John in tow, took one look at the crime scene, and froze in place.
"It's Finland…" he muttered to himself. To Lestrade he said, "You have photos of the other crime scenes?"
Lestrade supplied them.
Sherlock flicked through the photos, his sharp eyes rapidly taking in every detail. "Remarkable," he muttered. "They were able to recreate them perfectly, down to the name."
John limped forward to inspect the photos. "Hey, isn't that that one character from that show you like? What was it—Hertaly?"
"Hetalia, John, do try to keep up," Sherlock said absently. "And yes. All of these victims are near-perfect recreations of the characters. Most peculiar."
"What's—Hetalia?" asked Lestrade.
Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. "Japanese television show. No plot to speak of and the characters are all walking stereotypes. Very popular on the Internet, but not exactly the sort of thing the mainstream audience prefers."
"And you watch this…Heta-thing?" Lestrade said slowly.
"As a last resort against boredom, yes." Sherlock sniffed in disapproval. "Honestly, didn't you try running the phrases through a simple Google search? These phrases are memetic, particularly the signature—it's the title of the opening song. Can't you idiots do anything for yourselves?"
"So that's what that damned song is called!" John looked quite pleased. "It's been stuck in my head all week!"
"Moving right along," Lestrade said hurriedly, "is there any way to identify the killer, Sherlock?"
Sherlock, who had been poking gently at the body, glanced up, the card in his hand. "The killer's exceptionally stupid—this card has their tumblr account written on the back. Also, they're female and about 168 centimetres tall, judging by the stab wounds on the body. Very pale blonde hair. Track them down that way." With that, he dropped the card, got to his feet, and swept out, his long coat flapping behind him. John followed him, humming under his breath.