A/N: This story is dedicated to my sister (Happy Birthday girrrrrrrrrrrrl!) because I'm just that nice. *Birds swoop in to land on my shoulders while deer prance over to eat Cheerios out of my hand* ...No? That wouldn't happen? ...Okay...:'(
Disclaimers: I do not own Sherlock, or any of the pairings that appear in Sherlock. *sigh*
Texted Horrors of Fangirlism
"Sherlock! I'm hoooome!" sang John Watson, strolling into their small apartment carrying grocery bags on each arm. "I got the milk, just like you asked...?" He skidded to halt as he came to the sudden realization that there was nobody home.
His breathing quickened as panic seeped in. "Sherlock!" he cried, throwing down the bags (spilling milk in the process) and running all around the room in search of his best friend. "Sher—Oof!" he suddenly tripped over a huddled form sitting in the corner and went sprawling across the floor.
Said huddled form, Sherlock Homes, continued to rock back and forth in fetal position. "What does it mean..." he muttered under his breath.
John scurried over to his best friend and waved his hand in front of Sherlock's face, which was twice as pale as it usually was (and that's damn pasty!). Sherlock refused to respond and instead, thrust out his cellphone that had been hidden under his arm. "Read it," he hissed.
John narrowed his eyes in a mixture of suspicion and confusion (Susfusion? Conspicion?) but slowly opened the latest text message and read its contents. What was inside made his hands shake:
Dear Sherlock Holmes,
I'd just like to say that I've been a HUGE fan of yours for FOREVER, and I'm absolutely PSYCHED that I was FINALLY ABLE to track down your address out of ALL the apartments in London! I also would like to say that I think JohnLock is the BEST PAIRING EVER, just sayin'...
John put the phone down and laughed a nervous chuckle. "I-It's just a fan, that's all," he said, running his fingers through his hair. "Though I wonder what 'JohnLock' means..."
Sherlock, though still in his semi-comotose state, still managed to roll his eyes in annoyance. "Read the next one," he commanded.
John blinked and opened the next message, which happened to be also about "JohnLock". "Huh?" he muttered, flipping open the next one, and the next one, and the next one, until he realized that they were all messages from overly-obsessive "JohnLock" fangirls.
Sherlock shook his head and began nibbling on his thumb nail in concentration. "It doesn't seem to be a secret code word of any kind. Every possible keyword and combination I come up with...just doesn't add up..."
John chuckled a hearty chuckle and sat down next to his friend. Being a part of social networking world, he knew all about this sort of "lingo". "No, no, no, it's a thing that obsessive girls do when they think two characters should be in a romantic relationship. See, they combine the letters of their names to create a-OH MY DAVID BOWIE WE'RE A PAIRING!" John screamed.
His head fell forward and he moaned, the mind-rape of it all too much for even a doctor to take. Sherlock sat there like a dumb rock and blinked a few times. "What's a pairing?" he asked, completely dumbfounded for the first time in Sherlock Holmes history.
Dl Lestrade suddenly waltzed into the room with Sergeant Donovan following close behind. "You called—Waaah!" CRASH! Lestrade took one false step, slipped over the large milk puddle in front of the front door, and fell right on his face.
Donovan delicately stepped over his body and crossed her arms over her chest. "What do you want?" she sneered.
Sherlock, noticing John's incapacity to respond to others of his human species, reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out his phone and tossed it to her. "Read all the latest messages," he demanded.
Donovan shrugged, opened up all his newest text messages-and nearly fell over once reading their contents. "God bless the Queen..." she whispered, her eyes bulging out of her head.
Lestrade, once done composing himself by wiping all unnecessary dairy products off his butt, peered over his assistant's shoulder and gave out an approving laugh. "Ha! I told you JohnLock was real! Now pay up!" he cried, thrusting out an open hand. Donovan rolled her eyes, but stuffed her hand into her purse and pulled out 50 pounds.
John sprung up from where he was sitting. "You KNOW about this?!" he cried.
Lestrade giggled at the large amount of cash in his hand, then cleared his throat and placed the money back into his pocket all man-like and dignified. "Of course, Everyone knows about JohnLock. Why, it's the best pairing in the..." He awkwardly cleared his throat, his excitement quickly plummeting once noticing the stares he was receiving.
John began to wail, "B-But I'm not gay! I have a girlfriend! I wear khakis! I WAS IN THE BLOODY MILITARY!" He then proceeded into bursting into a burst of pathetic tears.
Sherlock frowned and crossed his arms across his chest, feeling a sudden aloneness as he was now, dare I say, out-of-the-loop. "I still don't get it."
Lestrade was just opening his mouth to give a long-winded answer when they heard footsteps coming up the stairs. "Hello? Is everyone alright up there?" Mrs. Hudson called, shuffling up the creaky steps. "I though I heard noises—Woops!" CRASH! She too, slipped on the infamous milk spill and fell on her face.
The gentlemen immediately helped her up on her feet once more and helped to wipe the milk off of her blouse. "Why, I heard a commotion upstairs and I thought I'd check to see—" Lestrade cut her off by thrusting the phone into her open arms.
John's eyes nearly popped out of his head. "Y-You can't show a text like that to a nice old lady! Think of the damage—!"
Mrs. Hudson, upon reading the messages' contents, gave off a wicked laugh. She walked up to Sergeant Donovan and beckoned her forth. "Ha! I told you JohnLock was real! Now pay up!" she cackled. Donovan groaned, but again thrust her hand into her purse and pulled out twice as much as she had to pay Lestrade.
John's and Sherlock's jaws dropped wide open. "M-Mrs. Hudson?!" they screamed.
Their faithful landlord blushed. "What, an old lady isn't allowed to have a few obsessions?" she asked, placing her hand to her cheek. "Besides, it's one of the hottest shippings on the internet!" She gave Lestrade a high-five.
"What do you mean, 'ship'?!" cried Sherlock, banging his fists against the floor in child-like aggrivation.
Mrs. Hudson was just about to answer him when, completely out-of-the-question and out-of-nowhere, came a large bulldozer plowing a giant hole in the wall of their appartment (only two centimeters away from John's face, no less). Out strode Mycroft—mostly because he considers himself just way too cool to use the front entrance like everyone else.
"Hello, little brother, just thought I'd check in on you!" Mycroft cooed, stepping off the giant bulldozer. He paused, glancing up and down at Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. Finally, he spoke. "Why are you two all covered in milk?" he scoffed. After another frightful pause he sneered and took a cautious step back. "That is milk, isn't it?"
Ignoring that comment, Lestrade gave him the phone, in which Mycroft read through the entire thing, gave a creepy grin, and marched towards Donovan. "Ha! I told you JohnLock was—"
"Oh would you stop that!" shouted John, interrupting the déjà vu moment. "Does EVERYONE know about this?!"
Their company looked around, and nodded in agreement (including Donovan, who was now too broke to even purchase a stick of gum). Sherlock shook his head, but no one paid any attention to him at this point.
John moaned once more and buried his face in his hands. "In the military...the military..." he mumbled to himself.
Suddenly, a masked figure swooped down onto their windowsill and landed right next to Sherlock and John. (This happened while Mrs. Hudson proceeded in screaming, "Burglar!" and ran towards the door, again slipping on the milk spill.)
Jim Moriarty pulled off his mask and took his phone out from underneath his shirt. "Did you get my texts?" he asked.
Teehee, I liked the ending to that one! (Though I gotta say, pretty long!)
Please, R/R! Let me know you care! xD