Sherlock Holmes and the Candy Sniper
John stared apathetically at the half-mangled sandwich on his plate. it looked like it had been picked clean by blind vultures who couldn't even be bothered to do the job properly.
Three years ago, Sherlock had jumped from Barts' roof, arms windmilling like a particularly ineffective windmill, and had landed in a way that would not have gotten him a gold medal in Gymnastics. John didn't think this was very nice of him. So he had said so, in a letter he had written, sealed with a loving kiss, put under his pillow, put under his bed, forgotten about, found again, dropped in a puddle of tea, and finally speared to the mantlepiece with Sherlock's penknife.
John stared at the aforementioned knife woefully, remembering how Sherlock had stabbed the pile of letters with theatrical flair, as if he was stabbing John's heart. Then he had collapsed into his chair, artistically disarrayed curls tumbling across his pale, Byronic forehead like unicorns.
Suddenly, the door crashed open! Sherlock appeared in the doorway, his wild curls tumbling around his beautiful face like a gaggle of adoring schoolgirls. John gasped in abject wonderment, throwing a hand across his forehead for no apparent reason except that it looked dramatic and seemed to be the appropriate thing to do. He considered fainting, but decided that would be too emasculating and out of character.
John flailed in a complex pattern of graceful, jellyfish like movements, which Sherlock was immediately able to interpret. Sherlock was an expert in animal communication, and he recognized John's movements as the mating dance of the sulphur crested cockatoo. John was obviously trying to tell him that he was glad to see him, but to please move because he was blocking John's view of the imaginary flying goldfish on the landing. He also rather fancied a chip sandwich. Sherlock attempted to convey his own feelings in the same manner, and they began an intricate synchronised dance, like two Navy Captains exchanging semaphore signals.
Finally, Sherlock whipped off his scarf in a dramatically fluid movement and sashayed into the flat, winking at John coquettishly with one eye and then the other.
"John," he purred lasciviously, "I'm home."
"Sherlock!" John squealed, fanning himself with a conveniently handy newspaper.
"Jooooohn," Sherlock crooned, stalking forward like an attractive goat.
Suddenly there was an explosion! The roof disappeared in a shower of pink glitter and flames. John threw himself at Sherlock, tackling him to the floor, determined to protect his fragile cheekbones from the flying rubble.
When John had managed to pull them both out from under a mountain of detritus, he saw that there was a stranger in the room! He was wearing a violant orange jumpsuit and his hair had been teased and strangled into a gravity-defying tower of spikes.
There was glitter everywhere.
John gaped at the strangely flambouyant man. "Who the hell are you?" He demanded.
"He's the Tooth Fairy, John," Sherlock said. "One of Moriarty's henchmen, known to his friends as Sebastian Moran. I've been tracking him across London, but he's devilishly tricky to get ahold of. Wings, you know."
John nodded sagely, like a sage.
"You won't get away this time!" Sherlock righteously exclaimed, clutching John to his manly bosom.
The tooth fairy/Moran laughed maniacally. "That's where you're wrong, you supercilious mandible! Because I have this!"
He held aloft the gaudiest sniper rifle John had ever seen. It looked like an entire birthday party's worth of children had thrown up on it after eating too many Skittles. Nevertheless, John was mortally afraid for his recently resurrected friend.
"No!" He wailed, flailing his arms in lieu of doing anything useful.
"Hush, John," Sherlock said manfully, patting him on the foot. John trembled gallantly, but subsided.
Sherlock glared hatefully at the fairy sniper. "What you fail to realise, Moran, is that I knew you were planning to come here today, so I broke into your flat and replaced all the bullets in your gun with small, chocolate covered sweets the same name. Your weapon is useless!"
Tooth Moran gasped in enraged shock. "How dare you!" He cried, and made to lunge at Sherlock...
...when suddenly a blurr of furr and snapping teeth crashed through the window and pinned him to the ground. John gasped voluptuously and clung to Sherlock's manly thigh.
"So nice of you to take time off sponge bathing Donovan to back us up, Anderson," Sherlock said cuttingly.
Lestrade arrived in short order to take Tooth Moran into custody. Sherlock watched him go with a smug look, then turned to John, his dark eyes swimming with passionate concern.
"John!" He ululated, his voice tight with barely reigned emotion. "Are you alright?"
"Yes, Sherlock!" John cried, trying not to faint. Sherlock looked so dashing when he was running on high emotion.
"John!" Sherlock bawled, his voice undulating with deep and tempestuous manpain. "Can you ever forgive me for leaving you?"
"Oh, Sherlock!" John sobbed. "How could I ever stay angry with you! Of course I forgive you!"
They ran into each others' arms and embraced desperately, falling into a muddle of entwined limbs on the floor. And then they had sex.
•The end•