Author's Note: Hello again, dear readers! This is my first Avengers fic, let alone a crossover, so don't expect a masterpiece. I'll try my best to make it a good one, and the idea popped into my head in a dream. Plus, it is based on the scene where Loki changes form, and Sherlock will hopefully make an appearance in this chapter.

DISCLAMER: Nothing but the plot and Loki's female form is mine, the rest belongs to MARVEL, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

He was a prince, a God, and a King in his own right. Loki, brother of Thor, could do or be anything he wished: A man, a Jotunn, a woman, even a horse for goodness sake. His heart was torn, between the place that he had grown up in, and the place that he belonged to. As the son of Laufey, it was his obligation to take the throne of Jotunheim. His people, histrue people, accepted him more than those in Asgard did, more than the man who he had known to be his father had ever accepted him. He wanted to sit on a throne, wherever it was, and Jotunheim was the easiest way to get it. But he didn't want that one. He wanted Asgard.

Loki's powers of illusion were his greatest gift, and many centuries had been spent on perfecting them. The extent of his lies grew and grew; a few of them had been foiled by his goody-two-shoes brother in the name of the Allfather. The Chitauri had assisted him in the ways of interdimentional war while his trick after the battle with Malekith had given him Odin's throne, albeit temporarily. When Odin returned to find a copy of himself already on the throne, Loki was banished to Midgard for his crime against Asgard. This will cover Thor's goodbye.

Loki: Will you miss me? My lies? My illusions?

Thor: No, but I will miss your presence. You are better than this, Loki. Until yesterday I thought you to be dead! How long do you expect me to take my brother's-

Loki: WE ARE NOT BROTHERS! I should not be here. I want to go.

Thor: You think no such thing. No man wishes for loneliness.

Loki: Nor am I a man, Thor. I am known as the brother of the best. A shadow. I have caused the deaths of many, and continue to ruin the lives of more. Why not start anew? Regenerate, in a way. Leave my dark past behind and take a step towards the light?

Thor: You lie. Why would you, of all people, choose to leave your past? It is who you are, who you choose to be, who you will be?

Loki: Alas, I have a plan. My form will be quite different from this, and difficult to get used to. Now, the time has come for my departure. Do not mourn for me, Thor. Mourn for Frygga. Fairfarren, Prince. See you in a few decades.

And thus, Loki's exile began.

He landed on Midgard in a Bifrost ring, the bustling streets of London allowing him to hide as soon as he touched down. In an alley, Loki grinned to himself as he prepared the incantation, the distant moon shining in his ice blue eyes and on his raven curls.

Men are ever changing,

Their hearts are ever black.

Let the new me be amazing,

But allow this form to come back.

The beauty of a viper,

The ability to fight,

Allow me to be kinder,

But a woman of the night.

Her dark curly hair went down to her hips. Her waist grew thin and her hips and chest grew wider. Her bust grew outwards, confusing her slightly, and the area between her legs changed. Her entire masculinity left her, her armour became a knee length dress and her staff became a ring. On her thigh was a golden knife, also from her spear, and flat leather boots finished it off.

Heimdall had told Loki about a man in this Odin-forsaken place, he was intelligent and self-centred, but brave and true and loyal. He was a man of the law who solved crimes as an alternative to intoxicating himself. His name was Sherlock Holmes, and the address was 221B, Baker Street. Sherlock was alone in his apartment through Johns marriage, and sat playing his violin and telling people about themselves and blogging about two-hundred and forty-three types of tobacco ash. Not exactly the best way of living.

Loki made her way towards Baker Street, changing her form once again into the female friend of Sherlock Holmes, Molly Hooper, who cut open bodies for a living. Knocking on the door, it was soon opened, and Molly stood smiling.

Sherlock stood with a gun pointed to her head.

"Who are you and what have you done with Molly?"