The Adventures of Sherbock Holmes and John Bockson
A Sherlock Fanfiction and/or Parody
Disclaimer: I DO NOT own the BBC.
Warning: If you hate puns, DO NOT read this fanfic.
Alternatively…what if everyone was a chicken?
It was a glorious spring morning in the city of London. The sun slowly rose over the horizon as chickens large and small woke up. Everything was perfectly, happily, blissfully normal. Except for a single flat on Baker Street.
"AAAAAAAAAH!"
John's beak dropped with shock. A severed foot was placed on a plate in the middle of the refrigerator, right next to the half-full can of baked beans John was intending to eat for breakfast.
The thick scaly foot was oozing blood onto the shiny white plate, the fridge light reflecting off the plastic wrap it was draped in. John gagged and held a wing over his beak.
"I do think I may have lost my appetite," he clucked weakly, closing the fridge.
John Bockson was a small chicken, with pretty silver lacing, a short comb, and large nostrils. A former soldier who had served in the Great Squirrel War, he shared his flat in London with the eccentric, emotionally distant detective Sherbock Holmes. He knew he should have been expecting a wing or a leg preserved in the fridge for one of Sherbock's strange experiments, but it was Sunday. Couldn't Sherbock take a break?
Just then Sherbock came out of his room. He immediately noticed John and waved cheerily.
"Why the shocked face?" The tall, thin rooster was genuinely confused.
"Nothing. N-nothing at all," John stuttered back, knowing that if he even dropped the most obscure reference to any of Sherbock's so-called "research", he'd have to listen to Sherbock explain and perform the experiment in front of him.
"Great. Anything interesting in the paper?" Sherbock reopened the fridge, got out a refrigerated cup of tea, and drank.
"Jeez. Just a minute." John waddled over to the living room, where a stuffed cicada head hung from a trophy mount. He picked up yesterday's paper, sat down in his cushy wingchair, and flipped the newspaper open.
"Hmm. Series of Mealworm Robberies from Convenience Stores –"
"Bo-o-o-oring," Sherbock crowed, walking over to and sitting in his own wingchair across from John's. "Any murders, perchance? I love a good murder."
"I know," John replied impatiently. With a flap of his wing, he flipped the page of the newspaper. "How about this one? Mysterious Murders in Central London-"
"Serial killer, eh?" John nodded. "Let's get to it." He stood up and flapped his wings excitedly.
John's face turned pale. "Sure."
END OF CHAPTER 1