Disclaimer: I do not own Regular Show or Sherlock. Or the Livejournal Sherlock transcripts used for reference.

A/N: I'll admit it. I wasn't much of a Sherlock Holmes fan until my friend recommended BBC's Sherlock to me a while back. Then I was exposed to the awesomeness that is Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman...Yeah, I'm definitely SHER-Locked now.

Anyway, I've been rewatching Regular Show lately, and have been thinking: There's been plenty of times on the show where Rigby was actually right about something important (like hamboning saving ones' life, not giving that sweater back to Margaret, Thomas' real identity...) What if Rigby was actually a genius? Then "genius" led to Sherlock. And Sherlock led to this story...

So this is a Regular Show retelling of the BBC series where Rigby is Sherlock and Mordecai is Watson (because I believe Rigs doesn't get the respect he deserves and Mordo should take a backseat every now and then). I've been working really hard on getting the characters just right and everything. Well, I hope you enjoy.

Gunshots. An armored soldier firing a machine gun over a sandbag wall. Explosions in an open field. A solider kicking down a door in a remote village. Another solider firing a weapon over a stone wall as multiple soldiers crouch nearby to assist him in battle. A lone solider out in the field, armed with a weapon. All chaos.

Mordecai writhed in bed, tangled in his sheets, tangled in another night of recollection. Flashing images of war interrupting what was just a peaceful sleep.

"Mordecai!" One of the soldiers screamed as he was lying on the ground, face twisted in agony.

The blue jay's eyes snapped open. He shot upright in bed, breathing heavily and glancing about him. No soldiers. No weapons. It was only a nightmare. He fell back onto his pillow in relief, taking deep breaths to calm his nerves...

To no avail. Now Mordecai sat on the end of his bed, the dim lamp on his nightstand illuminating the emptiness of the room. His gaze fell on the metal cane propped up against his desk on the other side of the room, and his right leg throbbed with a dull pang. Ever since his injury in the war, he'd been using a cane to help himself get around. He thought he was strong enough to live a normal life after so long, but times like these left him weak and unsure.

Morning arrived sooner than expected. Mordecai clutched the handle of his cane as he walked across the room and sat at his desk with a mug of coffee. His eyes were rimmed with dark circles, his expression grim. "I hate mornings." A sip from his coffee brightened his demeanor (if only a bit). Mordecai then opened the drawer beside him and took out his laptop. Underneath the laptop was the trusty pistol (named "Brain Explosion" after one of his favorite bands) that he used in the war. Ignoring the weapon and lifting the lid of the laptop, he sighed as he pushed a button that turned it on.

The laptop screen blinked in response, revealing a webpage titled "Dr. Mordecai's Blog to Complete Awesomeness, Dude." Underneath the title was an empty text box awaiting the written form of Mordecai's thoughts and—ugh—feelings. Who would want to read what he's feeling?

Mordecai grimaced.

"So how's that blog? Any 'awesomeness' yet...dude?" A dark-haired woman, Mordecai's therapist, asked. She sat across from the sulky blue jay in a large chair, dressed in a frilly pink blouse, jeans, and heels.

The room Mordecai in was very plain, to say the least. Shades of beige and a simple blue leaf motif colored the walls. While it was supposed to be comforting, all it reminded him of were the camouflage uniforms he wore in the war.

Mordecai narrowed his eyes. Was he being mocked? "Hmph, hmph! It's good. Totally awesommmme!"

"...You haven't even started it, right?"

"Ughh! Whatever!" Mordecai threw his wings up in exasperation. Who cares about some stupid blog? He sat there watching as the therapist scribbled something in her notepad. "Hey! You just wrote I 'still have trust issues'! I do not have trust issues!"

The woman chuckled. "You just read what I wrote. Upside-down. Trust issues, much?"

Mordecai sunk into the cushions of his chair, a blush rising on his cheeks. He focused on his cane beside him. One of his wings rubbed the back of his head.

"Look, Mordecai. You're a solider. A civilian life is gonna take some getting used to. Writing a blog about yourself, whether others read it or not, is going to help you."

Yeah, right. Mordecai glanced up at the therapist, a look of despondency in his eyes. "I'm the most boring person who ever lived. There's nothing worth blogging about!"

-October 12th-

"What do you mean there's no stupid car?" A man named Sir Jeffery shouted over the phone to a sharply dressed woman as she strolled alongside an enormous office window.

The woman sighed. "How was I supposed to know you were going to Waterloo? I'm sorry! Why don't you get a cab?"

"Cabs suck!" Jeffery responded while walking briskly through a crowded railroad terminal, "I don't do cabs! You know that, Helen!" From the way the man carried himself, it was obvious that he was someone of importance.

The woman, Helen, observed the area around her for any eavesdroppers before she whispered into the phone, "...I love you." She knew she was Jeffery's secretary, but after months of having an office affair with him, she could only summarize their time together as being nothing but love. Why else would he run to her if he could be with his wife and kids?

A chuckle from the man, Sir Jeffery, rose on the other end of the phone. "Oh really? When?" His playful tone was apparent.

Giggling like a little girl, the woman blushed. "Just get a cab!"

"All right, all right...fine!" Sir Jeffery hung up and went in search of a cab.

Sir Jeffery opened a prescription bottle and took out one of the three, large white and pink capsules within. The windows he sat around tinted capsule in a ghastly glow.

He stared off into the room, his eyes reflecting pure horror at an unknown source. His shaking hand put the capsule in his mouth as if he were under a trance.

Moments later, Sir Jeffery's body thrashed around on the carpeted floor in front of a glass windowpane. His sounds of suffering echoed through the empty office room. Then his body went completely still.

"My husband...was a happy man...who lived his life to the fullest." A woman's voice wavered with emotion as she read from a paper, "He loved his family and his job. For him to take his life like this...it has shocked everyone he knew..." She was Sir Jeffery's wife, sitting at a table in the middle of a police conference, reading her words of grief for all to hear. Surrounded by a police officer and her brother, she tried not to weep in the lenses of the cameras that recorded her and whose flashes blinded her. Tried not to weep at the projection of her husband's face on the screen behind her.

Helen stood on the other side of the room away from the chaos. While she shared sentiments with Sir Jeffery's wife, she was supposed to be an invisible face in the crowd, a person who didn't-shouldn't—know Jeffery as personally as she did. She tried to contain her feelings; her "Jeffy Bear" was no more. But she couldn't betray the sorrow inside, resorting to closing her eyes and letting the tears run down her face.