It wasn't a particularly nice day to start off with. No murders, attempted murders, or even vaguely-thought-about murders; simply very non-murderous people living very non-murderous lives. Of course, thought John Watson as he sat down to a rather sorry looking cup of tea, that wasn't a particularly bad thing, when one considered the situation - a lack of deaths in London would almost certainly be considered a very extremely well-appreciated thing, in most situations. Unfortunately for him, the situation he shared with his flatmate was not even remotely comparable to 'most situations', and thus the bright weather and expressions on the faces of those passing by 221B Baker Street that day clashed horribly with the thunderous scowl and gale-force sighs exuded from a certain mister Sherlock Holmes as he lay on his side (not on the sofa, mind you - merely on the floor next to the sofa), sulking the day away.

"Any plans today?" John took a sip of his tea (he was right in thinking that it didn't look particularly inviting - the taste hardly made up for the dank appearance) and promptly placed the mug back on the table. The empty table. The delightfully, wonderfully, empty table - the sight of which would previously have cheered him up immensely, the flat always being so hideously crammed with things; were it not for the fact that an empty table meant an empty case cache, meaning an immovable object was currently taking up residence in the middle of the floor beside the leg of the sofa. The immovable object grunted in reply to his earlier question. The blogger chuckled in return.

"Don't...mock...me." The voice that rumbled from the dressing gown-clad shape on the floor barely made it out of sounding like a purring car and into human vocal range territory, almost settling somewhere in between as a sort of bass-toned tiger emission. The noise was swiftly followed by a movement that vaguely represented a man banging his head against the floor, excepting the fact that the man in question was acting more like a two year old child. John raised an eyebrow.

Seemingly feeling the expression from across the room, the detective kicked the table away just as his flatmate reached out for his laptop, sending the mug and the tea held within it cascading to the floor like a gloriously dull browny-black waterfall. A puff of breath passed Sherlock's lips to indicate that he had any idea that anything had ever happened, and that the act was indeed a conscious one. John consequently made a conscious decision to kick his flatmate as hard as he could without causing internal bleeding when he walked past to retrive the (now also gloriously empty) mug from the floor where it lay, weeping lukewarm tears in between the floorboards. Sherlock muttered a simple "Ow," and then fell silent once more, nestling his head between the bottom of the sofa and the ground beneath it with some difficulty.

"You know, if you get stuck under that sofa, I'm leaving you there," John sighed, not joking in the slightest. It was surprising how plausible it was that the situation could indeed arise, and how entirely accepting he was of that fact. On second thoughts, he ran around with his flatmate looking at dead bodies and chasing the people causing the problem of the dead bodies every day, so it wasn't really that surprising.

Why couldn't someone just die?

"Someone's died," Lestrade announced dramatically as he bound up the stairs to the flat, his facial expression turning to confusion only momentarily as he spotted Sherlock lying motionless on the floor, and then returning his gaze to John, who closed his laptop with a small sigh, sliding it underneath his chair and rising to his feet.

"I'm surprised it wasn't him. Although, on second thoughts...I haven't actually checked his pulse..." Sherlock gave a tiny snort in response, prompting a grin from John and a roll of Greg's eyes.

"No, not Sherlock, God forbid," he sighed, "But someone whom many would probably regard as being slightly more important than the consulting toddler we have here." Prodding Sherlock's shoulder with his toe and receiving a throaty growl in response, he smirked and continued. "Haven't you seen the news this morning? I'd have thought you'd have guessed by now, otherwise."

"Haven't switched on the telly yet. No cases - I woke up late."

"No cases. Not a single case. Isn't that funny, Greg? No deaths whatsoever on this fine, hateful day," Holmes hissed, his whole body seeming to recoil in on itself. As usual, John ignored him and nodded to Greg to continue.

"The President was assassinated in the early hours of this morning. They've no clue what happened," Lestrade murmured, rubbing the back of his neck anxiously. John gaped, and in the same instant, Sherlock was off the floor (his head miraculously freed immediately from the grasps of the sofa) and shaking the DI's shoulders, demanding more information.

"What time was it? No, don't tell me, I already know - around two-thirty A.M. this morning, no visible bodily wounds, but no signs of blood poisoning or any other internal damage either..." He halted suddenly, searching deep into Lestrade's eyes, hungry for more information, but soon came away empty handed. Taking a step away from the inspector, he snorted, "That's all you know?"

Running a hand along his jaw, Greg hummed, "Well, Sherlock, this is all happening in America, and as you may have noticed, we're in London, in Baker Street, not the White House. So obviously I'm not included in the crime scene assessment, and in this case, we're all nothing more than members of the public. Okay?" Sherlock snarled viciously, turning away and jumping straight over John's chair as a long shortcut to his room. "However..."

"What? What is it, tell me! I need a case, Greg - whatever you have, anything, please."

"He did say please," John murmured, almost resorting to getting down on his knees and begging Greg for extra information to drag the consulting detective out of his mood. Lestrade's face lightened up immediately at the mere fact that he knew more than Sherlock did, but the sudden dropping of his guard revealed all to Sherlock in the blink of an eye; whereas to John, Greg's face barely changed at all.

"No," Sherlock whispered, the blood draining from his face before Greg even noticed he'd given the game away. "No, it can't be true. You're bluffing! You're bluffing..." Lestrade raised an eyebrow. John was still speechless, and added to his utter confusion was another layer of bewilderment as he was once again excluded from the conversation and train of thought. "He'd never make it. Would he? Oh...no, no! Oh, that's...oh! Stupid, stupid...of course, he could, he definitely would do a thing like that, certainly...if given the chance, I'm sure anyone would, especially a blithering idiot like Anderson...oh, fools! Imbeciles!" With a distressed snarl, Sherlock disappeared into his room, leaving John behind both mentally and physically to allow his brain to even attempt to catch up with everyone else in the room.

"Did...he say something about Anderson? What's going on? Has something else happened, or are we still...on the same subject?"

"Come on, John, we have to stop this catastrophe before something truly awful occurs," muttered Sherlock under his breath, his face still an unhealthy shade of white as he grabbed his coat and slung it on, glancing up at John for approval that they were indeed both on the same track. When he met a face of someone who was in fact on quite a different track, or rather a train speeding right off a cliff and in the opposite direction to any track whatsoever, he merely huffed and grabbed hold of the rather lost looking blogger's elbow and dragged him out of the door, giving Lestrade the tiniest of nods to acknowledge his existence before leaping down the steps four at a time, ensuring that John wasn't falling over himself when they reached the bottom.

As they hailed a cab (or rather, Sherlock hailed a cab whilst John stood on the pavement next to the flat, staring at the ground before him with a deep frown etched onto his features), the situation seemed to become less and less obvious, until every word anyone had spoken within the flat that morning became quite skewed. "Um. What...where...? What's going on, Sherlock? Where, in God's name, are we going?" John breathed with some difficulty, still trying to get over the jumble of words in his head (and the rather unreachable spaces between steps on the journey downstairs). Watching a taxi pull up to where they were standing, Sherlock turned, gave him a withering glare (the reason for which John wasn't quite sure) and beckoned for him to follow him in.

"Anderson's going to become President of the United States. He had no part in the assassination of the previous President, but it appears that a loophole has been found and he has the rights and reasons to take on the role."

"Wha - "

"Never mind. We're only going a few blocks away, I need to consult Jim."

"J - "

"Moriarty, yes, obviously," he interrupted, an irritated expression plastered over his face, as though John were the one not making any sense. John blinked, turning his head to the side slightly and screwing up his face as he tried to make even remote sense of the current situation. Failing to do so, he turned back to his flatmate and raised a questioning eyebrow. Sherlock sighed deeply, the weight of the world seemingly on his shoulders. "I'll explain later. We're here." Tapping the back of the cabbie's shoulder, Sherlock produced a fifty-pound note from his pocket and whispered something in the man's ear, taking a nervous glance at John as he did so. John failed to notice anything too suspicious until the cabbie gave his answer.

"Which favour? I remember all your favours, Lockie...darling, you'll just have to remind meeee." Sherlock's cheeks tinged red, and he shifted away from John slightly, causing him to tune into the conversation a little more. For some reason, he felt as though the driver wanted him to listen, absurd as it was - besides, the voice was familiar, and John Watson had never been one to give up on a recognized voice or face until he had remembered said person's identity. Sherlock muttered something else in an almost silent tone, prompting a deep, throaty chuckle from the driver, and a slight turn of the head and a twinkling of his eyes. "Certainly, I remember it. The screaming...was quite something. Magnificent, some might declare."

"Excuse me, but could I ask who you are?" John asked, not at all intending to sound apologetic, and achieving the desired effect. The cabbie turned his head and smirked at him, donning a pair of sunglasses at the same time, and then gestured to the door of the cab.

"You won't hear of it again, Lockie, daaarling. It practically never happened...as long as you do me one more favour. Next Sunday, midday. You know the rest. Bon chances, mes petits copains," he drawled loudly as Sherlock dragged John roughly from the taxi and out onto the street, slamming the door shut a little too hard behind them as the vehicle drove off at a speed which was certainly not appropriate for the streets of London. As John squinted up at Sherlock for some sort of confirmation that the event had even happened at all, he saw a rather red and completely embarrassed looking detective, who coughed quickly and turned away, walking quickly in the opposite direction to the one in which the cab had headed off.

"Sherlock?" No answer. "Sherlock!"

"It was no one," he called back just a little too quickly, shoving his hands into his pockets.

"Well, it must have been someone, Lockie," John teased as he ran to catch up with the man's impossibly long strides, taking pride in the way that Sherlock's face turned a lovely shade of purple at the sound of the nickname. "Hmm? Who's your boyfriend?"

"He's not my boyfriend," Holmes snapped viciously, turning up his coat collar and quickening his pace. "All that matters now is that we stay in the shadows and wait for all this to blow over. Jim's taking care of it."

"And you trust him with that?"

"Obviously not, I was hoping you'd say that," Sherlock chuckled, grinning at John widely. Placing a hand on his shoulder and laughing confidently, he steered him back around the corner to Baker Street.

"Now, let's go end a Presidential campaign."