Orbis Non Sufficit:
Involving shameless bashing of Bond, TMNT and Discworld. TMNT was by accident, I swear! Bond fans may recognise the title.
A spin-off of the Battle Butler series. More crack than action, I'm afraid.
This fiction is written under the premise of the Creative Commons.
"Do not," John Watson growled, "say it."
Mycroft Holmes had the grace to smile back as he reached for another chocolate digestive. "What exactly, Doctor Watson, are you referring to?"
"You were going to make a espionage joke," John shot back. "About our situation, first of all, since you're Mycroft, your research scientist goes by the name of Quincy, and Moran acts like a cat in heat on two legs with Moriarty around. And because my name is John does not give you the right to say I'm a womanising spy who takes Martinis shaken, not stirred. I don't even like Martinis."
Mycroft shook his head sadly. "Much as I might be amazed at all the coincidence between our current situation and Mr Fleming's novels, I assure you that I do not touch anything so crass. I was merely going to say..."
"Yes...?"
"That Moriarty has been conducting information trafficking into the area of rail guns..."
"What did I say...?" John warningly replied as he reached for his tea-cup.
"A rail gun and a death ray are two very different objects, Doctor. Or should I say, Mr. Vinci?"
John choked on the tea he had just swallowed. "You know that was meant as a joke, right?"
"Yes," Mycroft replied, deadpan as ever. "Just as I know how the weapons technician on your team was Raphael, your information technician was Donatello, and your backup was named Michelangelo. Although who April and Casey were escapes me, Splinter was no doubt the team's handler and Shredder the enemy in Afghanistan. Your team's code-names were no doubt amusing, but childish at the same time."
"We were keeping in touch with our inner children," John defensively replied, but Mycroft had already moved to retrieve a thick cardboard folder from his tray.
"Well, in your team's coded parlance in this case, Splinter and his...Foot Clan..." there was a slight snicker from John's direction which Mycroft pointedly ignored, "have been consorting with the enemies unaffiliated with the United Nations in the weapons trade. Their target is New York City...again. You would have to eliminate Splinter such that the deal does not fall through."
This entire speech which could either be taken as a discussion of mutated ninjas from the order Testudines acting against an evil ninja master between two men acting in place as a mutated rat and a mutated reptilian ninja or as a request more accurately placed as an order to kill Jim Moriarty as soon as possible before he could start a weapons transaction with international terrorists was delivered with a completely impeccable poker face. John was pretty sure he had never laughed so hard in his life before.
"So Sherlock..."
"Might take the place of your missing Donatello and oblige you by leading you to Moriar- Shredder." Mycroft answered.
John shook his head sadly. "We might as well stick with Bond. It's patriotic that way."
"Or we can choose another topic," Mycroft wisely pointed out. "But then again, si non confendus, non reficiat."1
"Well in that case," John retorted, "Nil Mortifi Sine Lucre. If I have to kill him, I might as well be paid for it. Sherlock's in one of those mood swings again." The unspoken implication bespoke of bullet holes in walls and several other items of unspeakable things Sherlock had dragged back in a moment of boredom.
"I'll deposit the money in your bank account," Mycroft offered immediately.
"Thank you, Patrician of London,"2 John shot back, tea-cup dangling dangerously from his hand. "This makes me wonder if I'm Vimes, and who on earth would Sherlock be."
"Oh no, Sherlock would no doubt be Mr von Lipwig, Vimes would of course be Detective Inspector Lestrade, and you would be Captain Carrot, of course. After all, if I have to face anyone with a gun, I would rather it be Moriarty than you."
The unspoken implication was clear: because a good man would kill you with a hardly a word.
John sighed as he finally put his cup down. "And Moriarty is...?"
Mycroft began to smirk. "Whoever it may be."
"And why do I have to do this?"
"You mean, aside from the obvious reasons of Moriarty having threatened you?"
"Yes."
"Quia ego sic dico, I'm afraid."
"Damn!"
"Yes, I knew you'd say that. Q would outfit you easily enough."
"Oh, we're back to Fleming, eh?"
Finding Moriarty was easy enough; it was isolating the man that proved difficult, much like the dangers the Silver Horde found when trawling through the Agatean Continent and conquering it in the process*, but finally John had him cornered in London.
"You know," Jim Moriarty, Certified Criminal MastermindTM and psychopath, commented as he hung suspended over a hole in the floor about twenty stories above sea level. Much as it was a classic, John really have no time to find the crocodiles to eat him. "I think I've seen this movie before. So, tell me, Johnny, what do I have to pay for you to switch sides?"
John said nothing as he leaned forward and whispered into Moriarty's ear: "the next time you find the urge to traffic with terrorists, or cross my path, remember this quote: Ab hoc possum videre domum tuum."
Moriarty frowned. "'I can see your house from here'?" he translated.
John could only smile as he aimed at the rope that was the only lifeline between Moriarty and a lesson in Pancake Impersonation 101. Suddenly, a shot rand out, severing the rope and sending Moriarty accelerating down at a rate of nine point eight one metres per second squared into dark shadows.
"The world is not enough," John softly whispered.
*A reference to Terry Pratchett's Jingo. Which is to say, not that difficult, and pretty ridiculous in Roundworld context.
1 a Shout Out to Lord Havelock Vetinari, Patrician of Ankh-Morpork.
2 Another Shout Out