Happy Valentine's Disaster
By Nikki Hasselhoff
"Happy Valentine's Day, Sherl-"
John Watson is abruptly smothered by the double-stuffed pillow that had once resided beside his totally-not-gay-crush's head. He struggles vehemently before realizing that Sherlock is still pretending to be asleep on the bed.
"Sherlock, I brought you-"
"Chocolates, yes. You can leave them on the nightstand there."
"But Sherlock, it's-"
"Valentine's Day."
Sherlock's eyes snap open at the sound of that unmistakable Dublin accent. He jerks upright, his 221 Baker Sheet draping unceremoniously over his Adonis-angled face. "The hell are you doing here?!" he demands.
"No need to be rude, Sherlock. I was just wishing you a happy holiday."
"In my flat? John, why is he here?!" Sherlock shakes the sheet from his face to see his friend and totally-not-gay-crush, Jim Moriarty, for the first time that romantic morning.
"Mycroft invited him."
"Mycroft? He's here, too?"
"He's in the sitting room if you want to see him."
Sherlock leaps out of bed so fast, twenty-eight of his forty-three sheets snag on his sharp hips, causing them to tear slightly, but, more importantly, causing Sherlock to keel forward over the edge of his bed, exposing his God-blesséd ass to his best friend and his it's-not-gay-if-he's-wearing-pants crush. There's a peal of laughter from Jim Moriarty, and Sherlock already knows that John is standing rigid with militant stoicism to repress the urge to laugh alongside Jim.
When Sherlock looks up, however, he is surprised to find that John's face is beet red from his ears to his navel, based on the way he's shifting uncomfortably and repositioning his coat.
Oh.
Sherlock quickly rights himself, wraps himself in his beloved Baker Sheet, then strides majestically past Moriarty and John like a prince. As he's making his way into the sitting room, where he sees his brother sitting in John's chair, he feels a tug on his sheet and stumbles forward, only to be caught by a pair of arms around his torso. Righting himself once more, he shakes off the holds of his best-friend-who-totally-doesn't-have-a-crush-on-him and his I-swear-it's-not-gay arch nemesis.
Sherlock is not surprised by the appearance of his brother, but the appearance of nearly the entire B.B.C. Faculty of about eight members is not what he had been expecting. Lestrade stands rigid beside Sherlock's desk, eyeing Jim Moriarty with his hand in his coat. Sally Donovan and Philip Anderson make out in the corner of the room because of their recent engagement over their common dislike of Sherlock—the engagement made obvious by the forty-thousand pound Jared ring on her finger.
The guest Sherlock least expects is Irene Adler, who lounges naked on Sherlock's chair because she knows that her only power comes from her sexuality and her supposed "lesbianism" that is nothing more than an insult to actual lesbians because she only ever hits on Sherlock, then claims to be a lesbian.
Sherlock's precious biological hard drive is spared the loss of brain cells when John asks Mycroft, "Why are all these people here?" he glares murderously at Irene, whose gaze is glassy, and her grin placid. Sherlock immediately understands that she's higher than a plane.
Mycroft simply states, "Consider this a matchmaking."
"A matchmaking?" John repeats, his already beet-colored face attaining a maroon hue.
"Yes. Being that it's Valentine's Day, and my little brother has expressed no interest in acquiring a date, I thought I'd set him up with one of you, since you seem to be the most obvious candidates."
Sherlock's eyes slide to Lestrade and the pair in the corner, where the pair is groping one another in a way completely obscene for the socially-enforced "public" scene.
"Why are they here?" John asks Mycroft.
"For protection and quick procedures, in case someone gets out of line." His eyes fixate on Moriarty, who smiles and waves in return.
"I don't need a matchmaker," Sherlock says in his get-the-fuck-out-Mycroft-I-am-so-sick-of-your-shit manner.
"For Valentine's Day, you do."
"Why?"
"Listen."
Sherlock strains his ears, but hears nothing.
Jim then states, "I hear them."
"Hear what?" John inquires.
"Them. They're watching, listening, waiting, writing, making fanart, Sherlock. Don't you know what happens this day?"
"What the bloody hell are you going on about, Mycroft?" John presses in his I'm-also-getting-fed-up-with-your-bullshit-Mycroft voice.
"The fandom, Sherlock. It's Valentine's Day. This is the day on which all the fans create fanart and fanfiction for all their pairings. It's an obligatory holiday for them."
"Why should I care?" Sherlock says.
"Because the fans love you, Sherlock, and they love you with specific persons, so today, I'm here to play matchmaker with three of the most beloved pairings in your show."
Perplexed by this point, Sherlock decides not to question further for concern of cluttering his Mind Palace with more useless information. "So, what am I supposed to do?" he asks.
"Seriously, though, who invited her?" John interupts, pointing to Irene.
"She's one of the popular characters." Sherlock clearly reads the control in Mycroft's tone. He doesn't want Irene here, either.
"Get out." John's voice is strained.
Irene's gaze focuses on him. "What?"
"You heard him." Jim's voice is pleased. "Get out. Nobody wants you here. So-"
"Just look frightened and scuttle," Mycroft says.
When she doesn't move, Jim strolls forward, takes Irene Adler by the wrist, lifts her from Sherlock's chair, and throws her carelessly out the window. She sighs wantonly she flies through the air like a hypersexualized eagle. There's a crash, the ferocious cry of a startled cat, police sirens, fans screaming in the distance, and a fire spontaneously catching like candelight outside Sherlock's shattered window. Damn movie windows always break too easily, but even Sherlock is happy she's gone, if only so he can have his damn chair back.
Sherlock strolls to his chair and sits down in it. Jim and John take their places standing beside him as Sherlock death-glares his brother, hoping for submission.
"Well on you go."
"Go to what?" Sherlock asks.
"Courting."
"What?"
"Oh, for the love of god, Sherlock, he means this."
Sherlock is startled when Moriarty's fingers are holding his chin. His eyes go wide, and he shakes himself free of the man's touch. "You can't be serious, Mycroft. This is—I'm not-"
"Of course, dear brother, but the fans have already determined this. There's no escaping the consequences of what they write. It's an undeniable fate."
"You can't do this to me. I won't do it."
"It's not in your power, Sherlock. If the writers want it, it's what will happen."
"Writers?"
"You've got to be kidding me," John murmurs.
"I refuse to stand for this, Mycroft."
Mycroft cocks an eyebrow and says, "You can try, but it's bound to happen, Sherlock. I can't stay any longer." He rises, looking down on his brother and his brother's companions. "The ships will sail," he says ominously before turning and leaving without another word.
Lestrade looks a bit dumbfounded at the unexpected departure, but his gaze immediately returns to Moriarty. Donovan and Anderson are completely oblivious to everything occurring in the world about them.
"Sherlock, I think we all know," Jim breaks the silence.
"Know what?"
"That you've had a crush on me for a long time, and I'd love to finally act on it. How is it you put it? The stage is set. The curtain rises. We are ready to begin, hmm?"
Sherlock scuttles away from him, but he finds that the bum of his 221 Baker Sheet has been glued to the chair.
The tugging that had caused him to stumble on his way to the sitting room.
Moriarty.
Sherlock scrambles away from Moriarty, only to find himself leaning against John. His friend catches Sherlock and holds him around the torso. "John!" he cries.
Moriarty chuckles. "Is that what he sounds like in bed?"
"No!" John cries before scrambling away from Sherlock.
"NO, JOHN, DON'T LEAVE ME."
"But I'm not gay, Sherlock," John restates for the four-hundredth time just before doing the ridiculously gay thing of taking Sherlock in his arms once more.
"C'mon, Sherlock, I'm not bad. How about this: we don't have to have sex. We don't have to date. We don't have to do anything serious. All I want is one little kiss, and we can pretend like this never happened."
"Will the fandom accept that?" John inquires.
"If it's a great kiss, they'll love it. Besides, I already got a nice view of that pert ass of yours."
"Jim!" John cries.
"Alright, fine," Sherlock agrees. "John, let me go."
John hesitates, but releases his not-gay-crush. "Just one kiss," he says.
"Just one," Moriarty replies with a grin.
Sherlock leans in to make his face more accessible. Jim closes the remaining distance and presses his lips to Sherlock's. They're warm and smooth, and the kiss is surprisingly chaste for one as devious and conniving as James Moriarty. Sherlock finds himself enchanted by the sweet taste of those gentle lips, and he presses slightly for more from the teasing villain. Of course, Moriarty will not grant him what he wants, preferring to leave Sherlock on the edge of craving more. As Moriarty pulls away, he whispers, "Happy Valentine's Day, Sherlock Holmes."
Sherlock is not sure what to say in return, so he merely stares as the consulting criminal swivels on his heel and his gone out the door with a faint click.
That's when John says, "I don't think the fans are entirely satisfied yet, Sherlock."
"What more could they possibly want?"
"One for...me," he says hesitantly.
"Another?"
"Well, you don't have to. I'd understand if you don't want tmmph."
John is cut short by Sherlock's lips on his own, pressing firmly, but remaining chaste all at once. John's lids slip closed as he absorbs his best friend's warmth, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's back and pulling him closer for the all-too-brief moment that it lasts. When Sherlock pulls away, all he says is, "Happy Valentine's Day, John."
"You too, Sherlock."
There's a crashing sound as Donovan and Anderson fall to the floor.