Once upon a time, there was a jam-obsessed man who was loved by everyone who looked at him, most of all by his flatmate Sherlock. There was nothing that Sherlock would not have given to him. Once, he gave him a little striped riding jumper, which suited him so well that he would never wear anything else. He was soon called "Little Striped Riding Jumper" wherever he went.
One day, Mrs. Hudson said to him, "Come, Little Striped Riding Jumper, here is Chinese takeaway and black coffee, two sugars. Take them to Sherlock upstairs; he hasn't eaten or slept in days and they will do him good. Remember to tell him that I'm not his housekeeper, and to stay to the stairwell and tread carefully."
"I will be very careful." Promised Little Striped Riding Jumper with a smile to Mrs. Hudson, and he opened the door of the flat.
Just as Little Striped Riding Jumper entered the hallway, he met Jim from IT. The Jam-lover was not aware of the insanity and changeable-ness he faced, and so was not at all afraid of Jim and the neon underwear protruding from him trousers.
"Good day, Little Striped Riding Jumper," said he, staring through his tired clubbing eyes.
"Thank you kindly, Jim, and good day to you."
"Where are you off to so early, Little Striped Riding Jumper?"
"To Sherlock's."
"Ah. What have you got there?" Jim asked, gesturing at Striped Riding Jumper's parcels.
"Dim-Sum and coffee. Poor Sherlock needs something while he's on a case, to make him stronger, you see."
"Where does Sherlock live, Little Striped Riding Jumper?"
"Up a couple flights, behind a door marked 221B; surely you must know it."
Jim from IT thought, "This soft little man will be a good, jam and tea-filled morsel! He will be tastier than Sherlock, who is mostly cheekbones and legs. I must be cunning and snap them both up."
Jim walked up the first set of stairs to the landing with Little Striped Riding Jumper. He took a seat at the small round table there and gestured for Striped Riding Jumper to sit opposite.
Jim leaned in closer to the other man with a wolfish grin. "Look at the front door there, unopened as of yet to-day. You should see if the post has been picked up or not."
Striped Riding Jumper obeyed, looking over at the door. He thought, "I'm sure Sherlock would be pleased if I took him a bundle of fresh mail with the possibility of cases. It is still quite early. I shall have plenty of time to retrieve them."
So he left Jim from IT and wandered over to the front entrance. He stepped outside to face the black mailbox. To Striped Riding Jumper's astonishment, each time he picked out an envelope or flier, a new one seemed to appear in its place. He went on retrieving like this for much longer than he had anticipated.
In the meantime, Moriarty went straight off to Sherlock's flat and creaked open the door without knocking. He was met with the lean, straight back of Sherlock, frozen in mid violin-stroke.
"Most people knock," The detective's shoulders shrugged, "But then you're not most people, I suppose."
"No, I'm Little Striped Riding Jumper," Moriarty said playfully, not even bothering to hide the true tenor of his voice.
Before poor Sherlock could even turn around or make a snippy deduction, Moriarty and his Westwood suited body had taken two surprisingly long-legged strides over to the detective, and ate up the man, violin and all. He had had to stretch his surprised face to an almost-painful degree in order to fit it all in. Moriarty then put on Sherlock's great long coat and blue scarf, and faced away from the door as Sherlock had been standing just before he had been gobbled up whole.
Striped Riding Jumper had stacked as many letters in his arms as he could fit until he could carry no more, and then remembered Sherlock again. He was astonished when he walked up the 17 steps to the flat and found that its door was wide open. When he entered the home something felt strange, and not in a dead body parts way. It was more like an "I'm-going-to-try-to-blow-you-up-and-then-make-you-jump-off-a-roof" kind of way. It was eerie.
Then he went up towards Sherlock, who had not moved at the striped man's entrance.
"Good morning, Sherlock." He ventured hesitantly. He received no answer.
He reached his hand up to the man's shoulder, which didn't seem as far away as usual, but before he could make contact, Sherlock turned around to face Little Striped Riding Jumper.
There was a sudden and long-forgotten pain in the Jam-connoisseur's left leg, and he licked his lips nervously. Sherlock looked very odd, and he was sure that his flatmate would mock his lack of deductive-reasoning, but he had to ask about his appearance anyways. He was ordinary, after all, not a proper genius like Sherlock.
"Oh Sherlock, what a lack of cheekbones you have." He said.
"The better to not cut you with, my dear."
"Sherlock, what dark eyes you have."
"The better to deduce you with, my dear."
"What a large coat you have, Sherlock."
"The better to hide you with, my dear."
"But Sherlock, what a long smile you have."
"The better to skin you with, my dear!"
Before the doctor could shout out "I'm not Jam!" Moriarty's hands clamped over the man's mouth and he swallowed poor little Striped Riding Jumper. When the criminal mastermind had satisfied himself, he went and lay down languidly on the couch, falling asleep.
Just as the sated cannibal had dozed off, Lestrade was coming up the stairs to tell Sherlock the happy news: a string of violent unsolved child abductions were ripping through London. He opened the door to the flat with no more on his mind than solving this case.
He called out "Sherlock?" and "Little Striped Riding Jumper?" but no answer came. He walked further into the living room, feeling like an intruder, and then spotted Moriarty, lazing fast asleep on the couch. This was not Lestrade's division, but he had to act.
"Do I find you here, you sodding lunatic!" He said. "Long enough have I tried to catch you!"
He raised his gun to shoot, when it occurred to him that perhaps Moriarty had eaten up Sherlock, and that he still might be saved. So he grabbed the knife affixing the detective's mail to the mantelpiece, and began cutting open the sleeping criminal. At the first cut he saw the little striped jumper, and after few more slashes, the short man sprang out and cried, "Oh, how frightened and yet steady-handed was I! It was so dark inside the Irishman." Next, Sherlock came out, alive but hardly able to deduce.
Little Striped Riding Jumper promptly brought all the jam from his fridge which they filled Moriarty with. When he woke and tried to spring away, the viscous jam in his stomach cavity dragged him back and he fell down dead.
"We will make shoes out of you!" Sherlock remarked, his foot heavy on the carcass of the man and hands on his hips. They all laughed heartily, and drank coffee and ate dim-sum. Lestrade skinned Moriarty, and made good on the detective's promise. From then on, they all wore their James's Moriarty shoes with pride, even Mrs. Hudson got a pair.