Disclaimer: I own nothing, none of this is true.
Summary: Sherlock was bored. Halloween had passed and gone, but what happens to all the left over pumpkins?
Author's Note: We had a Moriarty pumpkin on Halloween, so the crack cabbage in my head (I call him Fred) decided that Sherlock makes a Moriarkin, crack ensues, well, that's what's supposed to happen.
Edit: It doesn't want to let me have page breaks, keeps taking them out. Attempting to correct that. I think it is fixed now, *crosses fingers*.

Moriarkin: Mark 1

Sherlock was bored. He'd been stuck in the flat with nothing to do for the past few weeks and John's nagging was really starting to get on his last nerve. He'd needed to get out, and so here he was, wandering the streets. It was equally as boring as being back at the flat, but at least there was no John grumbling in the background.

He needed a case - desperately, but right now, that seemed unlikely, so if not a case, at least a distraction, something to keep his mind occupied until Lestrade called.

After the pool incident, Lestrade had been a bit more careful in deciding what cases he let Sherlock help on. Sherlock found it very frustrating, he didn't understand where Lestrade was coming from at all, but according to John, he thought he was helping. In reality, he was doing the complete opposite, and now, Sherlock believes that John thinks so too, even if only because he finds Sherlock insufferable when he's bored without a case.

Glancing around at the people walking past, he dismisses them all, one by one as dull, dull, dull. He carried on walking swiftly down the road, not very hopeful, but still keeping an eye out, for something that would take and hold his attention.

As he passed by a supermarket, a sign caught his attention: 'BOGOF on Half-Price Pumpkins'. He paused, eyes scanning the sign and the pumpkins piled underneath. Sherlock never participated in Halloween, but he knew the tradition of cutting faces into pumpkins.

The image of Moriarty's 'shocked' face appeared in the fore front of his mind. In his mind's eye, it merged onto the face of the pumpkin.

"Moriarkin," he muttered as he glared at the pumpkin directly in front of him. "I could have some fun with you."

Break.

When Sherlock finally managed to get up the stairs, without killing himself with the massive box that the supermarket had been kindenough to 'lend' him, he collapsed gratefully onto the sofa.

Listening carefully, he deduced that John had gone out himself, soon after Sherlock had. Most likely to that pub he likes.

Taking advantage of the fact that he was alone, he stashed the box of pumpkins in the corner of his room, a place he knew that John would never go without express permission.

He pulled out the top one and, cradling it to himself, made his way back into the kitchen.

Placing the pumpkin on the table, he riffled through the draws, looking for an appropriate knife and a bowl for the insides. Finding those, he hurried back to the table, placing both carefully beside the pumpkin.

He stretched out carefully, cracking his knuckles above his head before shaking his hands out, down by his sides. He picked up the knife, and attentively cut off the top. After he'd thoroughly scooped out all the seeds and stringy flesh, he painstakingly began to carve out the face.

His knife slipped a few times as he was trying to carve the eyebrows into the perfect curves he could still picture clearly. When he was satisfied with the eyebrows, he moved onto the eyes. He began to get frustrated as he seemed to be unable to get make the eyes the same size and shape. This was harder than it looked.

Next he decided to do the mouth. It should be relatively easy to just cut a circle. It wasn't. After attempting to fix his wonky circle, he stopped to consider the nose. Sherlock found it difficult to stay patient. He didn't like the fact that it wasn't as easy as he expected it to be, he shouldn't be finding it difficult to cut a face onto a pumpkin, but, frustratingly, he was.

He took his time deciding how he was going to cut it and the shape as it looked like it would be quite awkward to cut. Unsurprisingly, it wasn't easy, but he thought he was managing well enough. At least it was actually looking like how a nose was supposed to look.

It was when the knife ripped through the flesh between the base of the nose and mouth that his patience finally snapped. He stepped back, throwing the knife onto the table. The pumpkin looked a mess. A terrible, hopeless mess. It looked nothing like a face, it was almost unrecognisable as anything other than a wreck of blobs.

He was disappointed and angry that his attempt had failed. He, a grown man could not carve a face onto a stupid pumpkin, when every year, little children could and did. In his anger, his mind disregarded the fact that those children have adult help, and those adults have probably been doing it for years, and so have had practice.

But no, he was Sherlock Holmes. He would not let a pumpkin, especially a Moriarty pumpkin, defeat him. He picked up the pumpkin and flung it at the wall with all his strength.

He watched with a satisfied smirk as it broke into pieces and splattered to the floor.

"Sherlock?" A voice called from the doorway, turning, he saw John stood there. "Sherlock!" John exclaimed as he looked at the mess of pumpkin on the table, before his gaze moved to the wall with the pumpkin splat and then the floor where the remains lay.

"Oops."

"'Oops'? Is that all you can say? 'Oops'?" Ah… John was angry. Not good.

"I'm sorry, John, it wasn't turning out like I'd planned. I got frustrated. Won't happen again."

"Frustrated? You-" John sighed in exasperation as he looked away from Sherlock to take a calming breath, but his gaze caught on the mess and his anger re-ignited. His glare shot back to Sherlock. "You're damn right it won't happen again. I don't care if you were frustrated and angry, or what the hell ever, you don't throw it at the bloody wall, Sherlock! I'm not cleaning it up, by the way, you can clean it up yourself, and then maybe you'll think twice about throwing pumpkins at walls in the future."

Sherlock glanced at the mess disdainfully. "Dull." He said simply, before turning and striding down the hallway to his room, the door slamming behind him.

John stared after him, shocked. "Well, I'm not cleaning it up, so it'll just have to stay there!" he yelled after his flatmate, before he too, turned and stormed off to his own room.

Break.

Moriarkin lay in a pool of its own juice and waited.