The Artist Aside Related Ninjas

Summary: Let's just say, for the sake of fits and a giggle, Team 7 was related to whoever lived in 221 Baker Street. A disgruntled Artist finds out about the evil of girdles and finds herself keeping a once and still dysfunctional team together. Oh and yes this time the whole wormhole was Sai's fault.

Chapter 1: It fell from the sky

(Watson's Point of View)

An almost camping trip is how this whole mess starts. Yet something plagues me to this very day. The moment when Sherlock was at a loss for words was something that fell from the sky. We happened upon a fishing trip. My wife actually requested that we take Holmes along as she spoke of him being cooped up in his house too long to be of any significant good health to his sanity. I had to bodily . . . remove him actually, to which it made me wonder if his sanity really was actually in question or for naught.

"It's quite irrelevant dear Watson I have no need for any vacation," to which Holmes vehementally replied, "There is nothing out there so as to will get me out that door."

"Holmes," I stated cleanly, "I know there hasn't been any work since the last case with Scotland Yard and her Majesty but you must face facts." Holmes was bustling quickly back to that former parlor he called a laboratory. "If you don't do something to keep your mind occupied you'll start thinking Mrs. Hudson is hiding something again! You almost killed yourself twice with your insane reenactments and personally I think everyone's right. You must get out of the house if not for any sake of mine or yours but at least someone's . . ."

The daggers with which Mr. Holmes metaphorically shot from his eyes told me he didn't have his regular spot of sleep. It's actually quite exhausting having to rescue him from himself, but what else can you do with a friend. He's stubborn, messy, and often pig headed in a charming way if not for the fact that when he gets so obsessed with something that he'll often forget to even eat or sleep.

"The Games afoot come Watson!"

WHIIIIZZZZZZ

CRASH

NEIGH

KLATTA-KLATTA-CRUNCH-TOK-TOK-TOK-TOK

SQUELCH

"What do you mean now Holmes?" I hissed but my next words caught in my throat. A gaggle of limbs lay along the road already damaged from a previous fight and in all my years in her Majesty's service or . . . or even on the operating tables, I have never seen such a ghastly sight.

"My my, such discombobulation!" Holmes happily mused, "There's one skull there and another . . . Bloody Heck."

"These are naught but children!" I conveyed.

"Not all Watson one's well into her early twenties," Holmes dead panned poking the skull of a black haired young woman with his cane, any trace of humor gone and his face solemn as a frowning Mona Lisa, "Take those limbs there. We will need a wheel barrel and a convenient way to transport the bodies-"

"They are still alive Holmes," I corrected the man.

"Oh . . . quite right . . . Well anyway Let's not keep the lab waiting Watson," Holmes announced as if this was his idea of fun, in a burst of stupidity he turned toward me and asked, "By the way how are you at emergency field surgery?"

(Later on in the Dining Area at 221B Baker Str. Mrs. Hudsons Point of View)

Has anyone ever wondered what goes on in my tenant's head? Experts have been yelling about for centuries. Some said it was because of his upbringing. Others say it's apparently genetic. Everyone loves Holmes. Everyone who has never lived with the man can sing praises of his genius.

I for one can tell you one thing. He just loves to investigate. Yes in all business sense he is the tenant from hell but at least doesn't do anything without reason . . . I hope. It scared me half to death when he slung a pile of people onto my dining room table mind you! I have been tolerant. I've been tolerant of the bullet holes in my walls. I've been calm about his turning my whole house upside down to catch flies and watch them spin. I've been amiable about his scratchy violin screaming halfway til dawn and his drugging the Bull Pup of Morphine but I do have rules that draw the line.

"That kills it," I demanded hands on my hips ready to show the boys out, Yes I know John used to live here too once upon a time but he and Sherlock have been practically brothers in all but blood, quarrels and all. I feel like I've raised them myself except when I found them they were already grown men "Boys you know how I feel about Bodies in the Eating area. Take them out into the . . . Oh my word!"

I could only gasp when John had pulled the knives out of the pile of people. Several I didn't recognize actually; round little stars and large looking daggers. Ick, I don't think I'll be cooking tea, on second thought I might as well put on a pot anyway. It's the only coping Mechanism I have for whatever problem ails me.

"I ought to fix some Mint tea for the boys," I told Pup . . . Well I couldn't think of any other name for the canine whose been given more than nine lives and the patience of Joeb. John has the other Bull Pup with his wife. This brindle one, Pup, is mine.

My Pup whined in understanding.

"Oh you're right," I stated affixing my apron, "Chamomile tea it is then. I'm afraid of what Holmes might've drugged the lemon tea with."

Not that he's addicted to anything, no. He's pungently a risk taker. He's never gone to great lengths to explain himself. At least he'll never explain himself until the very end.

(Dining Area turned Hospital, Watson's Point of View)

I had my button up sleeves rolled right up to my elbows. It was Holmes' idea to wrap a washrag around my head much like the China Men that worked in the railroads or in the mines. I might look ridiculous but right now the extra hands were needed to hold Sutures shut, tighten bandaging and fix stitches. The appalling sight of the damage this group sustained; something awful. I'm counting the damage I was witness too; the hundred foot drop from the sky, the getting run over by an ass were just the icing on the cake to war wounds coming from an all out brawl.

SPINNNNG

One of those metal round stars barely nicked my cheek. Holmes wriggled in his seat much like a child.

"Holmes!" I demanded, "Help me hold this shut!"

"Oh but I am helping my dear Watson," Holmes mused, "I'm finding out how these wonderful metal bits work."

". . . Holmes . . ."I flat lined, "You're impossible."

"Au Contraire I'm perfectly sane," Holmes exclaimed, "I'm just testing these fascinating devices."

Holmes just had to get his hands on the sharp artifacts didn't he?

"Holmes wouldn't you have more fun playing in the young ladies' purses?" I asked to which I'd smack myself if I wasn't using both hands to hold a wound shut that was unbeknownst to me healing rapidly on its own. In fact having Holmes go through some poor woman's purse was worse. My wife still won't let me live down the time Holmes had me steal Irene Adler's purse during that . . . ghastly trip down the Nile. I'm a doctor! I'm supposed to know what women's menstruation toiletries looked like in the first place unlike Holmes who liked to put them in water just to see them expand.

"No can do, one of the bags appears to be . . . sealed shut," Holmes gasped as he tried to wrench the pink haired lady's bag open, he sniffed it, "It has medical supplies . . . Oooohhh this is interesting." He pulled out the Tanto Blade connected to the young lady's Boxy white purse. Here you can go through this woman's bag; it's mostly sketchbooks and a fascinating flash box."

"Holmes!"

"Oh Alright, I'll hold this . . . hello," Holmes acquiesced looking upon my current patient with curiosity, "Are you trying to suture or Cauterize the wound shut?"

"What in blue blazers are you getting-Ah!" I squeaked; mind you it'd take a lot to get me to squeak despite how easily I could get rattled since Afghanistan. "Sutures don't burn shut!"

Smoke was violently hissing through the sutures and burning them away.

"Well that one appears to be an old infection," Holmes observed as if I wasn't having enough trouble trying to keep the Suture from spurting forth a fountain.

"Get me some alcohol Holmes. This wound won't disinfect itself." I told him quite prudently.

To which Holmes replied, "I too, fancy myself a little Bourbon to drink."

"Holmes!"

"But then again, wine was often the disinfectant of choice in the biblical times of the Good Samaritan." Holmes continued speaking, as he swirled the bottle with a mad gleam in his eyes, "I pity you my . . . not-so-unconscious friend but playing possum with a doctor is liable to get you screaming."

As he spoke this I looked down upon which to see two bright blue eyes snap open just when Holmes uncorked the bottle. Holmes strode forward. He dumped any and all alcohol into the wound. The Blue eyed boy sat bolt upright and uttered a scream so loud that I had without a doubt become temporarily deaf. The Blue eyed Boy Sputtered at Bourbon accidentally falling upon his lips. Holmes went to say something but I couldn't hear anything. I went to ask Ms. Hudson for the aspirin; no doubt my pounding headache would multiply within the next few weeks.

Author's Note: I am currently updating my other stories. Update schedule may be sporadic but have a very Merry Christmas.