LINDA, THE GUEST THAT IS CURRENTLY BLOWING THROUGH EVERY SHERLOCK STORY I'VE WRITTEN AND REVIEWING TO EVERY CHAPTER. I NEED YOUR ATTENTION!

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Okay that's all.

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

I know. I've not posted a new Johnlock in an age. And I make my comeback with this crack fic. Infinite apologies. My AUs get more and more ridiculous over time. I can't help it. They're so much fun. If you don't like it, don't read it. If you do, then here's my madness all laid out for you.

Basically what happened was I watched The Prince And Me (2004, Julia Stiles, it's really cute and chick flicky don't judge me) and decided for some reason that it was a great idea to put John and Sherlock into the same context. Don't ask me. I just. Yeah. You don't have to have seen the movie to understand the story though, which is why I'm not labeling it a crossover. Just know that the premise of this is based on a film and it wasn't my idea.

So that's my explanation for this story.

American!John, Nymphomaniac!Danish!Prince!Sherlock, AmericanCollegeAU.

Oh, another warning. I've never been to Denmark, I've never met a Dane, I know nothing about Danish culture. I did a little research, but that only goes so far. Sherlock is only the prince of Denmark because that's from the movie this is inspired by. I will try to make no assumptions about the culture or anything, and if I accidentally do, please don't be insulted by the inaccuracy. He could be prince of Zimbabwe for all it matters in the context of this story. So ye be warned.

Rated T for language of the coarse and/or sexual variety. Because I'm not going to smut this story up. Worry not, I've got a smutty story in the works after I finish this (I'm going to finally post the next chapter of Stealing Toys soon).

Anywho. Longest Author's Note ever. Without further ado, enjoy.

"Of course, Your Highness."

When Sherlock heard this, he didn't know whether to smirk or growl. Because on the one hand, it meant he was right, but on the other hand, for probably the first time he didn't want to be.

Sherlock had to admit that for once in his life, he had been really stupid about something. I mean, it had to happen sometime. Even he wasn't perfect—though he would never admit it aloud.

But Sherlock had been under the naïve, slightly ridiculous impression that people were intrigued by him. By all he saw. He spouted off deductions left and right since he was small and people around him had ooh-ed and ah-ed and he was sure they were actually captivated.

What a dunce he had been. Eight whole years of living before he realised the truth.

People were just humouring him. Nobody thought his deductions were interesting. Many people thought they were clever lies, or that he somehow found ways to snoop secrets out of people's lives. He was the prince, after all. He had to have ways of getting information he shouldn't have.

But even people who knew he wasn't making it up hated them. They thought he was a little brat and were never once impressed by all the things he knew just by observing.

But they always acted like they were.

Maybe Sherlock could handle it if they had always told him how they thought he was lying—or if they knew he wasn't, that they just thought he was a big prat—but no. Every person in his life had pretended to enjoy it because he was the prince and they couldn't say otherwise. Even Mummy and Father didn't care. In fact, especially them. They were too busy being monarchs. God, it was all so tediously boring.

But anyway, Sherlock had finally realised the one thing he had always been missing. He had the hypothesis formulating for months now, but it wasn't until his eighth birthday that he tested it out.

And what he did was say the cruelest thing he could imagine to his personal servant, Geoffrey. He was one of those people that looked far older than he was due to an unfortunate life story—he wasn't even twenty five yet at the time and he looked like he was at least thirty. And Sherlock told the man that his wife was cheating, that his father never loved him, that his brother was never going to call back, and that most of his friends only still spent time around him because they pitied him.

He had already known two out of four of those things. The other two had knocked him in the gut. Sherlock watched it happen.

And still, he said: "Of course, Your Highness."

God, Sherlock was an idiot. Mycroft had been telling him for a long time that nobody actually could stand the sight of him and that if he wanted to make any political standing he'd best watch his tongue. Not that Sherlock cared about the last part. With an elder brother, he never had to worry about ascending to the throne. But he had been sure that other people were amazed by his intellect… and they weren't. Not one.

Mycroft would immediately know and Sherlock would never hear the end of it.

But the realisation was enough to make Sherlock decide that there was even less point in having a filter than before. If people were insisting on lying to his face his entire life, there was no reason to spare their feelings.

And Sherlock certainly didn't.

Sherlock spent his teenage years doing whatsoever he pleased, not caring what his parents or the tabloids or the whole bloody country thought of it. He had his string of male lovers in open public, fucking them and then forgetting them just for the thrill of it. He showed up at crime scenes to deduce them with an added bonus of annoying the hell out of the police. He spat in the face of every tradition just because he could and none of it really even mattered because Mycroft was to be King, not him, so what difference did it make?

Well, until it did make a difference.

Kind of like how Mycroft was completely healthy… until he wasn't.

Sherlock didn't really forget names on accident. Come on, of course he didn't, not with a mind like his. He purposely deleted them, just for fun.

This one was burly and chiseled and hardly talked. Fairly decent in bed. Sherlock almost regretted seeing him go, just because a good fuck who didn't try to talk before or after was basically what Sherlock had always dreamed of.

But Sherlock was the prince. The truth was he could be the biggest prick on the planet and men would still line up to bed him.

He was watching as the man made his walk of shame out of the hotel when he got a call. He rolled his eyes and answered, "You know I prefer to text."

Sherlock had assumed it was Mycroft.

Incorrectly.

"You're needed at the palace, Your Highness. Immediately."

It was Geoffrey. The poor sod had detested Sherlock for fifteen years for what he'd said about his wife/father/brother/friends—he was now an almost forty year old that looked almost fifty—and still had to pretend he didn't. It was almost funny to watch.

"Mycroft doesn't usually make you do his dirty work. What's this about?"

"I've been asked not to disclose that."

"Mycroft's got no power over you, you're my—"

"Not by His Royal Highness. By the King."

Sherlock stopped short there. "Wait. You mean Father needs to speak with me?"

Sherlock could feel Geoffrey getting impatient, which made Sherlock want to chuckle.

"Immediately, if you please, Your Highness."

"Right, right, yes." Then Sherlock paused before adding, "The fact that you're calling means you couldn't find me this time."

See, Sherlock wasn't supposed to go anywhere without Geoffrey. Because of this rule, it'd become a hobby of Sherlock's to get away from him as often as possible, but the desire to escape his clutches was less casual if he was going to meet someone for sex. Some warped form of decency? Maybe. Or maybe just a new formula to torture his servant. Either one, really.

But anyway, Geoffrey had an annoying knack for being able to find him most of the time. Probably he had someone tailing Sherlock almost all the time—almost being the operative word. Even when you were a genius, there was only so much you could do to hide from an entire secret service. But Sherlock finally got lucky and nobody was watching when he left.

Sherlock thought he heard a sigh through the phone. He must've been really peeved now. Geoffrey didn't usually let himself show emotion. "True, I couldn't. Does that mean you would like to walk back, Highness?" Sherlock rolled his eyes and told Geoffrey the address he should be picked up at. "Very good. I shall arrive shortly."