Hi there everyone, this is my first time writing a Sherlock fanfic and I hope u'll like it! It's based off the Phantom of the Opera with bits of my own added in. Characters of course all belong to Moffat and Company but the rest are mine and so are the mistakes, I still haven't got a Beta Reader though I am in desperate need of one, so here's a shout to all the Beta Readers reading this:

*SHOUT OUT: BETA READERS NEEDED*

Just needs to be able to point out any mistakes I haven't noticed yet and have time to review it quickly and PM me back.

*If you think you'd be able to, be a darling and push on the PM button and send me a message!*

The thing is I'm not a bad speller, but when I'm typing, occasionally I do let a few mistakes slip.

As soon as the young Danish singer announced that she wished to perform at the infamous St. Bartholomew's theatre in London, she was kidnapped and hoisted onto the back of a taxi cab driving along Baker St. after running 5 red lights and avoiding 3 separate collisions.

Molly Hooper wasn't overly surprised by the round of events as she had already had a dozen threatening phone calls, blackmails and intimate photos, the last whom which she quickly disposed of.

She was dragged up the steps and into a room were her attacker undid the knot and sent her sprawling across the lounge room along with bits of lint fluff and a strong odour of potatoes.

'Careful there John Hamish Watson, I just vacuumed the place this morning!' came a voice from the kitchen.

'Sorry, Mrs Hudson, I've just got another case here,' a hand appeared out of Molly's now-blurry line of vision and helped her into a chair.

'Ooooo, what's his name?' John didn't answer the last question.

When Molly's vision came back round, she found herself facing a kind faced man with a mat of blonde hair and bluish boy-like eyes. He reminded her of an older, grumpier looking, English version of Peeta except for the fact he had just kidnapped her in a potato sack.

'Pardon, me about the rough treatment, it was Mycroft's idea, and if you're wondering about the potatoes, well I just ran out of clean sacks this morning,' said the accused, brushing a bit of stray hair from his eyes, he looked worn out and tired, just like that coffee-stained coat he was wearing.

'Who are you? What's this place? And where did you get that skull?' exclaimed a dishevelled Molly.

John laughed, a bright laugh, it surprised Molly how much it contrasted this gloomy landscape, 'First thing's first, I am Dr John Watson, a former British army doctor and the only private detective in the world now, I suppose,' his eyes suddenly grew sad and longing, 'right now you are in my flat on 221B Baker Street, that skull was left to me by an old acquaintance.'

'John, you left a hand in the fridge again!'

'Oh for God's sakes,' he muttered turning to the kitchen, 'and that annoying voice you keep hearing from the kitchen is Mr Hudson, my lovely land-lady and part-time mum…'

'JOHN!'

'Ok,' John replied hurrying towards the source of the ear-deafening yell, 'make that full-time.'

'Now where were we?' asked John calmly, the Danish singer stared back at him in disbelief, well who could blame her after witnessing Mrs Hudson's attempt to throw John's beloved collection of disconnected body parts into their next door neighbour's chicken-pen through the window.

'That was the most hilarious event of my life!' said Molly bursting into tears of laughter, the vision of Mrs Hudson's frying pan flying through their neighbour's window proved too much.

'Look what you did now John! You just had to go and make another girl cry, didn't you!?' said Mrs Hudson indignantly.

John joined into the laughing marathon until finally the neighbour upstairs came down to complain about the noise, 'I haven't laughed like that in ages,' cried John.

'Why not?' smiled Molly, enjoying (and secretly savouring) every minute she spent in that ransacked British flat.

The bright light in John's eyes dimmed quite suddenly and a storm seemed to brew in his sky-blue eyes, 'Before this, I had a friend…' Before Molly could ask any more, he returned to his business-like-interrogation mode, '…but that's not the reason why you're here, I've heard you wanted to join the local opera theatre here.'

'Yes,' murmured Molly still intrigued by the sudden change in the detective's mood, 'I've had word that they've been trying to get a female lead singer for ages with no success. I'm just a little-known figure in the singing establishment and when I heard, I knew this was going to be my big break into the music industry.'

'Haven't you heard the rumours surrounding that place?' It came as more of a statement but not without the raising of the iconic English brow.

'The Phantom? I don't bother with myths all that much, the last thing I need is a Phantom getting between me and my dream of singing onstage.'

'Is there anything I can do to stop you? I have been tracking this case for ages without success, but if you want I can be your escort…'

Molly couldn't to hold the relief and gratitude in her voice back as she turned to go, 'Thanks John!'

John Watson tried to hail her a taxi but she refused, 'I've had enough of taxis for one day,' she replied hastily.

John sat by the glow of the lamp as he fingered the skull and drank black coffee, the stuff sloshed around noisily in his mug as he drank. When he was finished the coat had a new stain at the front on his right breast area, 'Now, that could be my new soul patch,' he muttered.

'John, you're ruining the coat! Sherlock would be furious if you had another stain!' sighed Mrs Hudson coming into the room.

'Well, he's not here anymore to complain anymore, is he?' murmured John.

'Honestly, you shouldn't be taking up cases in this state, what you really should be doing is settling down and building a family, that girl you interviewed today was quite pretty, and what a lovely French accent!'

'It's Danish and no, no Mrs Hudson, I promised to stay a bachelor and you are not making me break that promise anytime soon, besides, family never worked out for you much either,' John pauses, licking his sugar coated lip.

'Well you must care about her if you can remember her accent. And John I told you not to doublecross me in a conversation like that, how was I to know that my husband was a drug dealer?' tutted Mrs Hudson, trotting out hastily.

John looked at the mirror that overhung the mantelpiece, and he tried to smile at his reflection. It didn't work. He sighed. It was at these numerous times that he felt like punching Sherlock. Only last week he had gone up and kicked his grave a couple of times and swore at it until some frightened passer-by rang up the police.

It had taken an awful long time for Lestrade to convince the police he wasn't some drunken hobo, the station was still threatening him about pressing changes. And then Mrs Hudson had made a mighty fuss of it and made him go back and mop up the urine from the pedestal.

Gosh, he must have gotten pretty drunk that time.

Did you all enjoy it? Originally, I had Irene Adler in mind because I usually ship Sherlock/Irene but I thought Molly would fit the characteristics more. Comment below and tell me what you thought of it or PM me. Me out:)