John Watson didn't know how the bloody hell he ended up from drinking a nice, warm cup of tea at 221B to lying on his back in a deserted field that looked like something straight out of Of Mice And Men, but he sure wasn't happy about it.
The sun flooded into his face and he winced, a hand flying up to shield his eyes. 'Aagh..' he moaned as he sat up, feeling his back ache. If Sherlock had bloody gone and knocked him out to drag him to some sodding crime-scene…. He stopped as something caught his eye. It was Billy the skull, sitting quietly beside his leg. 'What the hell…?' John muttered, picking it up. He slowly got to his feet and surveyed the scene, and noticed he wasn't alone.
Dwarves. A crowd of bloody dwarves was standing all around him, little fat faces and patched clothes. He went rigid, trying to think of what to say, but he could think of was, 'Hi…?'
They all stared at him, making him feel very conspicuous. One male one squeaked a bit, then promptly ran off. I'd better be dreaming, John thought, rubbing his throbbing head. This was mad…
He jumped as he felt a tug on his jumper, and looked down to find two more dwarves, dressed in little caps and jackets looking up at him with wide eyes. 'Oh, hello,' he muttered nervously, 'Sorry, what are you-' He didn't have to finish, for before he knew it he was being tugged by the hand and was stumbling across the ground, almost tripping, then suddenly he halted. The dwarf tugged on his sleeve, and pointed. 'Yes, yes,' John said, 'It's a sleeve, now can you tell me-' The dwarf then promptly dragged him a few feet forward.
John could've sworn a house wasn't there before, but, as he stood in the hot sunlight, tired and surrounded by a gaggle of bloody Hobbits, he was too confused to question it. He slowly treaded towards the house, which looked like it had just fallen out of the sky and crashed. He almost jumped when he saw a pair of feet sticking out from underneath it, wearing possibly the campest shoes he'd ever seen. Red, bedazzled and with an inch high heels, they were a bloody eyesore that made his head spin.
Billy, we are not in London any more…
'All right, dears, it's all right, you can go now,' a tinkly voice suddenly pierced the silence. He turned around to see-
Oh dear God. For Christ's sake… This was definitely a dream, because if it wasn't he'd gone insane. His landlady, the little old lady who hoovered her floors while blasting AC/DC and brought him tea every day, was dressed as a fairy and waving a pink wand.
Yes, you read that right. Mrs Hudson was standing before him in a tiara, glittery gown and wings hurting his eyes with their pink sparkle, and to top it all off, she was encased in a bubble. A bubble! John had no idea what was going on, but he was about ready to put his fist through a wall – and, if a wall wasn't available, Sherlock's face.
His train of thought was interrupted by Mrs Hudson's face entering his view, smiling and completely unfazed. 'Oh, John dear, you're here,' she smiled, taking his hand. 'I thought you'd be later, but never mind, this way, dear-'
'Mrs Hudson, just what is going on?' John said, stopping short before she went on talking. 'Has Sherlock gone and done this? If it's a prank or one of his bloody experiments, I swear to God-'
'What do you mean, dear?' Mrs Hudson said, smiling eyes wide and unblinking.
'What?' John almost yelled. 'Mrs Hudson, you're aware we're not at Baker Street?' He looked at her carefully. 'Are you feeling okay? Mrs-'
'I'm sorry John, but I haven't the slightest idea of what you're talking about,' she said.
John almost exploded. She could be slow, but this was bloody ridiculous. 'Mrs Hudson, we are in a field! You are dressed like a mythical nymph and Sherlock- just where the hell is he?'
Mrs Hudson smiled. 'You need to follow the yellow-brick road, dear. Sherlock's somewhere along there - didn't even ask for tea before he went, he must in quite a hurry….'
John sighed. He was going to maim Sherlock when he found him. 'Alright. Alright. Where is the road?'
Mrs Hudson smiled, then opened her mouth. Before John could stop her, she was bloody singing. 'Mrs Hudson, please don't-' he started, but it was no use.
'Follow, follow, follow, follow the yellow brick road!'
Jesus, it was like nails in his ears. John thanked his lucky stars she'd finished. He awkwardly shuffled his feet before stepping forward. 'Well I'll be off, then.'
'Oh, wait, dear!' Mrs Hudson said. She waved her wand, and in an instant John's shoes were replaced with-
Oh God.
John stared in horror at the glittered abominations on his feet. No way. No fucking way! 'Mrs Hudson, really, there's no need,' he said, trying in vain to pull them off his feet, but they stuck like glue.
'Oh, I'm afraid they're yours,' Mrs Hudson said, smiling. 'You killed Moran, now his shoes are yours.'
'Moran?' John said, bewildered.
'Moriarty of the West's top assassin and right-hand man,' Mrs Hudson explained calmly. 'You killed him, dear.'
John almost did a double-take. 'But Moriarty's dead, he shot himself,' he said shakily.
Mrs Hudson paused. 'Oh no, no. Not dead. Now you've killed Moran I suppose he'll be after you soon…' She sighed, then brushed off the comment as if it was nothing. John was ready to throw up. Mrs Hudson put a hand on his shoulder. 'You'd best be going, dear. Remember, just keep following the road and you'll be fine.'
John sighed. This was so bloody stupid. He sighed a put a hand to his head. 'So Sherlock's down there?'
'Most likely,' Mrs Hudson smiled. 'Good luck, dear.' And she disappeared.