The Case of the Cotton Eyed Joe
Author's Notes: I've had this idea for a while. And its slowly been coming along, as I've been thinking about and writing down little bits of different scenes and dialogue. My summer project is to write more and this will defiantly be a fun way to start. This is a total crack fic. Be prepared for Johnlock, ironic hashtags, and long metaphors. I'm not sure exactly where this is going and it may not make that much sense. I don't know how long it will be, I'll just keep going until I run out of ideas. I'm hoping to add a new chapter every week.
Please enjoy and leave a comment letting me know what you think or maybe with some suggestions for stuff you'd like to see happen. Follow and share. All credit goes to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (#donthateme) and BBC Steve Moffat (#pleasestop) and Mark Gatiss (#thebest). Thank you for reading!
Chapter 1
It was well into the evening's festivities when a night out turned into perhaps the greatest case the famous detective Sherlock Holmes would ever encounter. A mystery so taxing and mystifying that it would test the limits of Sherlock and his partner, John Watson.
Scotland Yard's officers were celebrating closing a case after months. Greg Lestrade's position was on the line, since Sherlock had helped him solve every case for the past four months. When Lestrade was assigned to track down a rapid alpaca that was terrorizing the people of London, he was warned that he had to do the work on his own. The detective inspector argued that animal control was not his division, but was soon forced to agree to the wild alpaca hunt, without the help of Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock laughed and laughed as he watched live video on the news of Lestrade chancing the alpaca down the London sidewalks. One instance Sally Donovan had managed to mound the beast in an attempt to tranquilize it, but failed when she was thrown off and hit by a double-decker bus. She died. The case went on for five endless months when Lestrade finally caught the alpaca during a standoff in King's Cross Station. So they were now celebrating the fact the Lestrade finally proved he could do something on his own, overlooking that in the process a quarter of London was destroyed, dozens officers and civilians were killed, and the Queen is missing in action.
The party was really poppin! The DJ was blasting music all around the club. It seemed like everyone in the police department was there. The room was filled with dancing guests, beeping and bopping to the beat. Lestrade ordered another drink after each failed attempt to flirt with someone. Molly Hooper and Mary Watson were taking shots at the bar trying to forget the fact that the two men they loved were more infatuated with each other than them. Mrs. Hudson was snorting cocaine through hundred dollar bills in the bathroom. Everybody was having a fantastic time!
John and Sherlock drowned a few drinks and hit the dance floor. #TurnUp #TGIF #Blessed #YOLO #Ballin #WithTheBea
"Dance with me, Jawn!" Sherlock said, as he tossed his scarf around John's neck like a feather boa and sensually pulled him closer. The music was flowing through their bodies like a turd flows through the asshole of a lactose intolerant old man on laxatives who just ate a burrito with extra cheese from Taco Bell. Under the spiraling lights from the disco ball, the boys twirled, gyrated, and krumped with each other.
Sherlock had to raise his voice over Ke$ha's We R Who We R, "I'm going to get us another drink." John nodded in agreement, without stopping his offbeat dancing.
Leaning against the bar, Sherlock watched the guests dancing freely, talking, eating and drinking, and making complete fools of themselves doing things that everyone would vaguely remember in the morning. Just as Sherlock had turned around from getting John and his strawberry daiquiri martinis the music changed.
The sounds of a vitalized fiddle filled the busy room. The party goers cheered in rapture and complete liberation. Like clockwork the chaotic horde of people began organizing themselves into single file lines. Drinks, coats, purses, and all seats were left unattended as the remaining crowd swarmed to the dance floor. Sherlock had never seen such a sudden jubilation of humans, nevertheless ones who just a second ago could not even stand up straight. He gawked at the extraordinary scene.
Within a moment, the mod had structured itself. The lyrics pierced Sherlock's ears like a Swiss Army Pocketknife. All motion in the room slow around him, the neon lights and disco ball stopped spinning, and the music dimmed to a faint whisper. As Sherlock's heart was beating faster and faster his perception on reality decreased. The two martini glasses crashed to the floor. He could no longer tell what was real or what was his imagination turning the club into an old western American saloon. A distressing image overwhelmed his mind. The only thing he could still hear was an echo. The echo of a question. The question that had been asked a countless number of times, yet never answered. He heard the voice repeat over and over.
"Where did you come from? Where did you go? Where did you come from Cotton Eyed Joe?"
Suddenly Sherlock's mind snapped back into reality. The room was once again raving, but the guests were still dancing like puppets as if the music harnessed some kind of controlling power. Sherlock felt very scared and very sweaty. He plugged his ears with two napkins from the bar, so he would not be tempted by the siren's song. Becoming hysterical, he searched the room for John. He pushed his way through the dancers who were all reluctant to let him pass. He rolled his eyes when he finally spotted his friend at the front of the line leading the mad frenzy. Sherlock's large hand grasped John's shoulder and forcefully spun the doctor around.
"John! John! We have to go!" he said, shaking the man to have him realize the dire urgency of the situation.
"What? Has something happened?"John finally responded; ready to follow whatever Sherlock had to say.
"Yes. Something terrible. A long time ago." He looked John straight in the eyes with a look of total desperation. "John, we have to find the Cotton Eyed Joe."