***Author's Note***

As promised, here's chapter one of my Sherlock/Thor mashup! This one is purely for fun, and I hope you enjoy it as much as I've enjoyed coming up with it!

***End Note***

Sherlock walked swiftly down the alleyway, John Watson hurrying along behind him. "Come along, Watson; death waits for no man!"

John rolled his eyes and muttered under his breath, "I'm coming, you overgrown bat."

Sherlock continued on without so much as glancing behind him, prompting a small smile form John. It may have been a small victory, but it was a victory – and never mind that it was a bit lacking in maturity – John would take it. The mood suddenly changed as Sherlock and John caught a glimpse of the yellow caution tape and flashing red and blue lights at the end of the alleyway. They passed the officers at the perimeter and crossed under the tape, greeted by an oddly cheerful, "Morning, Sherlock. John." John muttered the socially required response, already greatly distracted by the grisly scene before them. From behind them, they heard a cross muttering, "Good morning, Lestrade. Nice to see you, Lestrade. How's it going, Lestrade? Is really so difficult to be cordial?"

John sucked in a breath and winced as Sherlock stopped suddenly and turned his ice-blue eyes on Lestrade, giving him as steely a gaze as he could manage this morning, which to say, shot him a glare that could curdle milk (he'd been too long without a case and his nicotine cravings had returned). "Good morning, Lestrade. Nice to see you, Lestrade. How's it going, Lestrade? Now, if that is sufficient to satisfy your compulsive urge to force cordiality on those who have little or no interest in adhering to the code of conduct set forth by society, then – if it does not further aggravate your sensitive nerves – I would very much appreciate some blasted quiet to look at the crime scene!"

Lestrade's eyes popped wide and he took half a step back, surprised by the venom in Sherlock's normally-chilly voice, "Oh, yeah. No problem."

John sighed from beside him, "Don't mind him, Inspector. He's been...Well, he's been a bit...bored, I suppose is the best I could explain it." At Lestrade's confused glances, John sighed and tried again, "Well, you see when Sherlock has a case, he finds it easier to function without cigarettes. When he doesn't, well...Let's just say he gets a bit...difficult."

Lestrade's eyebrows winged up, "Difficult? You mean he isn't difficult normally?"

John chuckled, "Oh, he's always difficult. Nicotine cravings just make him more so. At least he hasn't been shooting walls again, though..." he added as an afterthought to himself.

Lestrade shook his head, "Shooting walls?"

"Never mind. So, what have we got here?"

The Inspector cleared his throat, "Well, we were sort of hoping you two might be able to help us figure that out. It's definitely an odd one, though, and every time we have an odd case, Sherlock gets a call."

John hummed in the back of his throat, "Yes, I know. Scotland Yard keeps us rather well-paid."

Lestrade coughed uncomfortably, but was saved from answering when Sherlock shouted from a short ways down the alley, "John! You're going to want to see this!"

John shrugged and jogged over to Sherlock, where he sat on his heels, staring down at a body that had been covered by a large tarp, "What would you say was the cause of death, Doctor?"

John took a peak under the tarp and blanched, "Oh, bloody hell!" He dropped the tarp again and swallowed hard, "It's been a long time since something could turn my stomach, but that definitely does. Alright, let me have another go." John steadied himself and tossed the tarp back, waiting for his stomach and sense of smell to adjust to the stench, not to mention the incredible gore. Once the bile had left his throat, John mirrored Sherlock's position and bent in close to look at the body. It was a young man – probably about twenty-five or thirty, John thought – and to say that he had "fallen" was something of an understatement. To be perfectly honest, John thought it looked like something out of a cartoon. The man had hit the pavement with such force that there was a definite man-shaped crater where he had landed. What remained of the man's head was a mangled, sickening mixture of crushed and broken bone chips, pulverized brain matter, blood, and tangled, matted hair. But from what was left, John could see that he'd been of Anglo-Saxon descent with blond hair; he probably would have been about six-foot-five, or so. "Huh. Whatever happened to this poor chap, whoever tossed him from...wherever must have been pretty big, himself; this man was no pixie. Did you notice this, Sherlock?" Sherlock leaned in closer, gazing where John was pointing, "Around the head here; the crater is deeper here than anywhere else. What do you think caused that?"

Sherlock looked up at John in surprise, "A most excellent catch, Watson. I'm impressed. I'm not sure what caused it, but this man was not dropped from a building; maybe a plane? There's definitely something odd gong on here, though; did you see the ring on his right hand? Definitely Nordic. You're right about one thing, though; this man would have been very difficult to kill – look at the muscle mass. He was a soldier, for certain, and he was well-versed in close-quarters combat, not to mention some type of sword. Take a look at his hands; there are callouses on the palms, as well as the knuckles; this man was very well trained. It would take someone of similar training to kill him, don't you agree, John?

John nodded, distracted, "Yeah; probably Special Forces, I think. Hold on; look at this, Sherlock. All these bruises on his torso...He was definitely in a fight of some kind. It almost looks like a billy-club, or maybe some kind of stick? I don't know; you're right, though. Very weird. The other odd thing, though...His injuries just don't seem consistent with a fall."

Sherlock's head snapped up at this, "Explain, Doctor."

John smirked at the directness of Sherlock's tone; he was feeling better. "Well, look; his arms and legs aren't shattered. If he'd fallen, say from an airplane, there would be broken bones all over his body, and I sincerely doubt that his limbs would be perfectly straight like this. Another thing, I don't think his spine is broken; if he'd fallen on his back like this, it would be. The more I look at this body, the eerier it becomes. You said the ring was Nordic?" Sherlock nodded, "You don't think this has anything to do with...what happened three years ago, do you?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "What? The so-called aliens? No, I don't. You know my views on that. Please, let us not get into this discussion again. I have agreed that the Avengers' abilities are supported by science, but aliens? No, not a chance. I have seen many odd things, but nothing to support such an outlandish theory."

John knew he shouldn't; he absolutely knew better, but he just couldn't help himself, "Yes, but you saw it with your own eyes..."

Sherlock sent John a withering stare that stopped the Doctor in his tracks, "Oh, please, John. I do not have the patience to entertain your ridiculous fantasies. Will you please stick to the facts?"

John suppressed a groan of irritation and nodded jerkily, "Alright, fine. But we can at least agree that Thor has legitimate abilities, can't we?" Sherlock nodded grudgingly, "Okay, then. Good. So, I repeat; you don't think he could have had anything to do with this, do you?"

Sherlock thought for a moment, "I'm not sure; it doesn't seem like his style. He wouldn't have dropped this man into an alleyway; he would have done it in broad daylight, in the middle of a busy street. He likes the attention; he craves it. No, this was done by someone who very much prefers the shadows, someone who wants to keep their movements quiet."

John nodded, "Agreed. So, I suppose, what? Rule out the possible before trying to prove the improbable?"

Sherlock grinned toothily, "You're learning, Doctor. Well done. I don't think there's much more we can do here, honestly. There's not a whole lot of evidence here; Lestrade!"

The Inspector hurried over, "So, what do you think?"

Sherlock stood with his hands in the pockets of his ever-present calf-length coat, staring up at the sky, "I think that is a very long fall." Lestrade looked puzzled, "I am going to need you to check for the flight paths and passenger manifolds of any planes that may have passed overhead at...Oh, say about two o'clock this morning, if you please, Lestrade. Is that an accurate time of death, do you think, Doctor?"

John stared at the corpse for a long moment, thinking hard, "Yeah, I think that should do. Between two and two-thirty, I should say, but I'm betting on about...two-o-five A.M."

Lestrade stared at him in astonishment, "What? You're getting as odd as he is!"

John chuckled, "No, it's just his watch...Analog...It says two-o-five. So, either the watch stopped right before he died, or right after. Just a thought. Anyway, I think we've done all we can right now; do us a favor and send all you can find on those flight paths and corresponding manifests, please? I'd way within, what? A twenty-mile radius?"

Sherlock grinned, "Precisely."

Lestrade ran a hand over his face, pinching the bridge of his nose, "Okay, so the flight path and passenger manifests I get, but why a twenty-mile radius?"

Sherlock and John exchanged a look that clearly said he can't really be thatstupid, can he before Sherlock responded with heavy condescension, "Because, Inspector, a body dropped from an airplane is hardly going to fall in a straight line. It is far more likely that the body will be blown off course by the wind, not to mention the velocity with which the plane would have been moving; that's bound to throw off his trajectory a little. Don't be specific with the size of the plane; we're looking for any size plane. Run along now, Lestrade; let Mummy and Daddy get some work done." John snorted out a laugh which he hastily turned into a cough before Lestrade groaned at the pair of them and stomped off, grumbling under his breath.

"You know, you didn't have to be quite so rude to him just there."

Sherlock shrugged off the gentle rebuke, "Yes, I know. But it was more fun this way."

John chuckled as they headed towards the street, hailing for a cab to 221b Baker Street. The pair sat silently in the back of the cab, both thinking over what they had seen, until Sherlock said curiously, "And how exactly do I resemble an overgrown bat?"

John stared at his friend for a moment before his jaw fell open, "You...you heard me!? Why...you...Why didn't you say anything then!?"

Sherlock grinned at the flabbergasted look on his best friend's face, "You're surprised? I was focused, not temporarily deaf, John." John fell silent and glared at his companion for the remainder of the cab ride. At last, they arrived at 221b Baker Street. Sherlock took out his keys, jingling them slightly, still deep in thought, as he fitted them into the lock.

They stepped in, and immediately Mrs. Hudson bustled out of the tiny downstairs kitchen, "Hello, boys! Have a nice time?"

John suppressed a smile, "It was a murder scene, Mrs. Hudson."

Sherlock, however, took a far different approach, "A great deal of fun, Mrs. Hudson! It was terribly gruesome – his brains were splattered all over the pavement. Nothing made sense, and the theories range from the impossible to the highly unlikely! I haven't had this much fun since Moriarty! I can't wait to see where this case goes."

Mrs. Hudson nodded genially, "That's nice, dear. Would you care for a spot of tea?"

John turned his back, trying desperately to keep his shoulders from shaking while he laughed silently while Sherlock responded, utterly nonplussed, "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson, but I believe we'll take our tea in our flat. This is going to be one hell of a case!"

Sherlock turned to lunge out of the room and up the stairs, but Mrs. Hudson called out, "Oh, Sherlock? I almost forgot; your handsome friend is waiting in your flat. He said you'd be expecting him, so I just let him up. I hope you don't mind."

Sherlock froze and turned slowly with his head cocked slightly to the side, "So sorry, Mrs. Hudson. It seems the appointment slipped my mind. Which handsome friend?"

Mrs. Hudson giggled, "Oh, you know the one, you sly fox! He's tall, blond, blue eyes, incredibly well-muscled...Is he your boyfriend?"

Sherlock smiled kindly at her, "Ah, yes. I completely forgot; he's an old friend of Mycroft's. He said he was coming by later, at Mycroft's bequest, to see how I was doing. I was so excited by the case that it was pushed utterly from my mind. Sadly, no; he is not my boyfriend, though as John has told you on many occasion, neither of us is now, or has ever been gay. Thank you for letting me know, Mrs. Hudson; I shouldn't keep him waiting. John and I will go up and see him right away. Good afternoon."

Mrs. Hudson sighed, "Oh, I know, boys. But I can keep hoping, can't I? It's just that you make such a nice couple." She waved and tittered to herself as they made their way up the stairs to their flat.

Halfway up the stairs, John grabbed Sherlock by the elbow, "Are you going to explain to me why you just lied to Mrs. Hudson?"

Sherlock turned and glanced down the stairway before answering in a whisper, "Yes, of course. I just wanted to be sure Mrs. Hudson wouldn't overhear. I was not expecting anyone, but this timing cannot be coincidental. This must have something to do with the death in the alleyway. It's just too perfect; also, think about the description she gave us: Tall, blond, blue eyes, handsome...To me, it sounds an awful lot like the man we were just examining. That makes two coincidences."

John nodded, "Yes, I was thinking the same thing. How should we handle this, do you think?"

Sherlock furrowed his brow for a moment, "Genially, I think. We shouldn't become aggressive unless we feel threatened. Who knows; this man may well be the murderer." John nodded and followed Sherlock up the rest of the way up the stairs, pausing for only a moment to open the door. They heard movement in the sitting room, and altered their course accordingly. As promised, an enormous, incredibly handsome man was sitting on their sofa, his long legs stretched out in front of him and his right ankle resting lazily on his left knee. The moment his "hosts" had entered the room, he stood, towering easily over both John (which was not so remarkable)and Sherlock (which was a great deal more impressive). The three men stood observing each other for a long moment before Sherlock smoothly slid his "people are in my home and it's time to be pleasant" face, "Good afternoon. Would you care for a cup of tea?" The man raised an eyebrow and nodded. Sherlock gave a formal half-bow and sauntered casually into the kitchen, returning with a pot of fresh tea and three cups. The three men sat, sipping tea, each party staring at the other. At last, Sherlock spoke, "So; you informed our landlady of your presence, therefore I cannot believe that you intend to harm us – it would be far more expedient to sneak in and sneak back out again once we were dead. So, what is it that you want?"

The man smiled a wide, toothy grin, "You're quite right, Mr. Holmes. You see, I know of a certain...dead man that you were called in on this morning. I had, of course, heard your name before that; I have friends who live – well, have lived, to be precise – in the area, so they had told me of you. I am pleased to find that your reputation has not been exaggerated. As for what I want...I have come to request your assistance. It seems that a murder I have been investigating and this one are connected."

Sherlock leaned forward, setting aside his tea and leaning his elbows on his knees with his fingers forming a steeple. "Go on."

The mysterious man raised an eyebrow again before continuing, "Ah, I see I have your attention. Good. My home is a good distance away from here; I would be much obliged if you would accompany me. Of course, you should inform your good Inspector...Lestrade, was it?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, "It was, yes. Very well; John, please call the Inspector and let him know where we are going."

John made an indignant noise, "What? Why me?"

Sherlock gave John a look that generally meant he was being unusually dense, "Because you actually like people. I don't."

John conceded, "Good point."

He was gone for only a moment as he explained to Lestrade where they were going, and returned just in time to hear Sherlock ask, "So, where are we going? And would it be rude to ask for your name?"

The man blinked, "I apologize, Mr. Holmes; it seems my manners have been lax. My name is Thor, and we are heading to Asgard."

***Author's Note***

Wheeee! That didn't take long! This should be fun, though...Hmmm who could be behind the murders...? hehehe. Thanks for reading, my friends!