A/N: I was going to wait until April Fool's to post this, but with all the depressing news in the world, I thought we could all use a good laugh now. The following is what happened when I tried to combine characters from every fandom I've written for. Any complaints as regards bleeding eyeballs, please direct them to Mycroft's assistant Anthea, who is most relieved that I left her out.
"Well," Foyle said, turning to Milner, "It's clear that we need to have a chat with the victim's husband."
"Clearly, you're all idiots," rumbled a voice from behind him. Foyle, Milner, and Sam all turned around to see Sherlock Holmes, John Watson and Molly Hooper.
Sherlock continued, "It was the sister, even a child can see that! And your driver is clearly in love with you."
Sam went pink and Milner did a double-take. Foyle remained calm and gave Sherlock the once-over. "I suppose you know a thing or two about someone pining after you," he said calmly.
"Sorry, what?" Molly yelped and blushed from collar to hairline. "I, er, got engaged, I mean I'm not anymore, but…"
"I was talking about him," Foyle said, nodding to John.
"Oh for fuck's sake, I'm not gay!" John said, throwing up his hands. "Oi, Sam? Want to get a pint with me?"
Sam glanced at his ring. "Er… aren't you married?"
John shrugged. "It's what, 1943? My wife won't even be born for another thirty-six years or so."
"I suppose I can't argue with that. Would the two of you care to join us?" Sam asked, indicating Molly and Milner.
"I'd be delighted," Milner said, directing a grin at Molly, who turned redder than a beetroot and smiled as she took Milner's arm.
"So, er, do you like cats?" Molly said softly.
"Love them," Milner replied as they walked away. [The author offers no apologies for letting this ship set sail.]
"Someone has a type," Foyle muttered.
"Obviously," Sherlock grumbled. "Now, the murderer-"
"Oh for God's sake, Sherlock, of course it's me!" Jim Moriarty hopped out from behind a bush. "Good Lord, even with 1940s technology I would've thought you'd have figured it out by now! Ordinary Sherlock, duh duh duh," Moriarty said, staggering about like a monkey.
Sherlock muttered something under his breath about nuisances who can't stay dead.
Foyle shrugged. "Right, well, I'll have to ask you to come with me, Mr. Moriarty."
A car screeched up to the scene and a fortyish American with an obnoxious suit hopped out and bellowed, "Not so fast! Jimmy McGill, Esquire; I'm Mr. Moriarty's lawyer and he has rights!"
A well-dressed American in his mid-fifties leaped out behind him. "Charles McGill for the prosecution! Don't worry, Mr. Foyle, I'll make sure this scumbag gets what he deserves."
A blonde woman in a smart skirt and heels scampered after both of them. "Jimmy, are you crazy? This is England; you can't practice law here! Hell, neither of you can!"
"Minor technicality," Jimmy said with a shrug.
"I can get licensed here, no sweat!" Chuck replied.
"You'd have to wear one of those powdered wigs," Kim reminded him.
"Hey, Chuck, that'd be a good look for you! Mom always wanted a girl," Jimmy teased.
"That's it!" Chuck roared, and punched Jimmy in the face. Jimmy returned the punch in kind while Kim and Foyle scrambled to pull the brothers off of each other.
"Fistfights," Sherlock sighed. "Dull."
"I agree," Moriarty said, rolling his eyes. "Ordinary people are so predictable."
Sherlock turned to Moriarty. "You want to snog?"
"Yeah, all right," the Irishman said with a shrug, and the two of them went at it like a couple of teenagers.
No one noticed another car pull up with a white-haired woman in the driver's seat and a tall, muscular blond man riding shotgun.
"Right, this has gone on long enough," the woman said in a clipped upper-class accent, glaring in the direction of the snogging sociopaths and quarrelling esquires. "You know what to do, Mr. Bond."
Bond nodded, stepped out of the car and lobbed a grenade at the fracas, then turned around and without a second glance strode back to the car as the crime scene exploded behind him. [Article 5, Section 3, Paragraph 2 of Action Hero Code stipulates that cool guys never look at explosions. Which is kind of too bad in this case, because the explosion really was spectacular. Jerry Bruckheimer and Michael Bay would've been proud, y'all.]
"Well done, Mr. Bond," M said as he slid back into the car.
After a moment, a soot-covered Foyle climbed into the backseat. "Nice to see you again, M."
M met his eyes in the rearview mirror. "You too, Mr. Foyle. I trust you're none the worse for the wear?"
"'Twas but a scratch," the detective replied calmly.
"He wasn't a target?" Bond said with a cocked eyebrow.
"You thought he was?" M, replied, incredulous.
Bond shrugged. "You said 'do the maximum amount of damage.'"
Exasperated, M said, "Oh for God's sake, Mr. Bond! Clearly you've outgrown your usefulness." With that, she pushed a big shiny red button and ejected Bond through the roof of the car.
Foyle blinked. "Er… and what was the point of that?"
"Relax, Mr. Foyle, he's due for another regeneration anyway," M said in a dismissive tone. "Back to your place?"
"Thought you'd never ask," he replied with a wink. [The author thought about apologizing for this ship, but nope, not gonna happen.]
The happy couple drove off into the sunset, and for a moment all was right with the world. [Or, it will be until Mycroft Holmes gets wind of this, and then there'll be hell to pay… most likely for the author.]