Hello! So, this is something my friend Anna and I wrote back before season 3 aired. Its based on a few memes, and the whole thing is pretty OCC. Please don't hate me after this, there is another 2 chapters (3 in all) that will be posted probably right after this. Finally, we are good writers! Please don't hate over a spoofy story that was written through text(I mean we tried lol). If you dont believe me, feel free to check out my other stories in my author's page! Thanks for reading!
He looked out the picture window with a confused expression and a tear in his disappointed eyes. Had the fudge really been that bad? The recipe was simple, and he followed it perfectly. This was the making or breaking of his cooking career and he lost his battle with his "awful" fudge. He didn't mean to send Emril to the hospital with food poisoning, but he thought the recipe said petroleum not peanut butter. There was a little too much BA BAM in the fudge for Emril. And now Pedro had the daunting task of telling the family about the murder. Hopefully the detectives wouldn't catch on, but of course, Sherlock Holmes. But Sherlock had been dead for two years, so there was nothing to worry about. He would never be caught. Until, of course, that faithful day when the train rolled in with the man that would put Pedro in jail. Sherlock rolled into London and cleverly hid himself in a cake to surprise his best (and very alive) friend John. John sat at home drowning his sorrows in a fancy hot chocolate with whipped cream and miniature marshmallows, thinking of his long deceased friend Sherlock. Then there was a knock on his door. He went outside and saw that the local bakery had delivered an enormous box which contained an elaborately decorated cake. Sherlock jumped out of the cake and screamed, "JOHN HOW IVE MISSED YOU!" John attempted to protect himself from the cake-covered stranger, and managed to give him a great punch to the face. Sherlock recoiled. "What the hell, John? Aren't you happy to see me?" "I don't know you!" Screamed John Foreman, who was very surprised by the curly haired man who popped from the cake. John was the distant cousin of george Foreman the successful panning maker man and did not appreciate his new suit being ruined. Oh how his best friend Sherlocka Zoo would laugh at his appearance. "Wait where's John Watson?" asked Sherlock. "Oh the previous owner? He moved out ages ago." Sherlock said to himself, "He moved out? What is this?!" With one last glance at the door of apartment 221B, Sherlock advised his victim to keep his fist away from handsome faces and walked into the streets of London. The search for John had begun. In contrast to what everyone seemed to think of Pedro's "fudge accident" what he had done to Emril was done on purpose. All his life the large and boisterous chef had haunted Pedro with loud BAM!s and cheesy band music. Now he had gotten his revenge from all his sleepless nights at university. To escape the eyes of the cops, and Sherlock, he assaulted the boyfriend of Emril, John Watson. John had started drinking and partying ever since Sherlock died, and with him, John's life. Emril and John had only been seeing each other for eight hours, but that was no excuse for the excessive amounts of 80s music being played throughout the dormitory. Pedro had reached his limit and decided Emril must die. Now with the deed done Pedro could live his life quietly until another person had to go. Unfortunately, that person was John Watson.
Sherlock's search for John had begun. It had been two years, and John had completely changed. He no longer lived at the 221B apartment, so he was most likely on the other side of town. John Watson hadn't really cared for Emril and had only been with him to try the gourmet food. Now that he was gone john was some what indifferent towards Emril's family who had been ignorant of johns existence. This whole situation just reminded him of Sherlock Holmes who he was still mourning. After six hours of walking to the other side of London, Sherlock arrived to apartment 122A. He looked quite terrible, for he was still slathered in cake, but his terrible taste in cake frosting didn't hurt his deduction skills. John had obviously picked this apartment out. There was the mandatory Chinese shop down the road, and even the grocery shop besides. It was just like 221B, minus the memories. Sherlock stared at the apartment door debating on going in or not. He took one step towards the door, Then another, until he was in front of John's door. Sherlock hesitantly raised his hand to knock. From behind comes a voice. "Who are you?" John Watson. Sherlock best friend. The question was directed at Sherlock, yes, but John didn't need an answer to know the back of that head. The dead man turned around slowly and as he did so John's heart stopped. His head went heavy, and his eyes rolled up in his head. John's unconscious body would have hit the pavement, had Sherlock's reflexes not taken over. Remembering where john kept the spare key when they had occupied 221B, Sherlock easily found the key to John's current residence and carried john over the threshold. Inside, the apartment was nothing like Sherlock thought it would be. It was clean. And modern. Nothing like their home on Baker street. Had John changed since Sherlock had last seen him? Was he still the friend Sherlock loved? Sherlock set his friend on the white couch and tried to find the kitchen. The layout of the apartment was exactly the same as 221B. Sherlock found a washcloth and ran it under the sink faucet. He folded it up as he walked back into the living room. He placed the cloth on John's forehead and for the first time, noticed his mustache. Subconsciously, Sherlock gave the mustache a pet. John was slowly becoming conscious when he felt his mustache being stroked. It felt odd. He slowly opened his eyes and saw a ghost. Sherlock, his dead friend was looking at him. "Good you're up," said Sherlock when he saw John's eyes open. "I've got a case and I need your help." John jumped back against the couch. "WHAT THE HELL SHERLOCK?! ITS BEEN TWO YEARS! TWO YEARS! Two years of visiting your grave, two years of rebuilding my life, two years without my best friend." John's voice trailed off, and he suddenly tackled Sherlock in an embrace. "I'm glad you're not dead." Sherlock returned John's embrace and was disappointed it did not last longer. "Im glad I'm not dead either. But someone else is also very not dead. Mortiarty. He is very alive and waiting for us." "Excuse me, what? Are you seriously-just what even?" John stammered. Sherlock had stood up and begun pacing the room, much like old times. "Do you by any chance know a Pedro? He lived in your dead girlfriend's dormitory." the very blunt statement and change of subject had caught John off gaurd. "Yeah I met him a few times... Why? Speaking of whys, why are you here, alive?" Sherlock ignored him. "He has been watching you for Moriarty. You're in grave danger John." On the street outside apartment 122A a taxi was parked. A dark haired man with a sexy but evil glint in his eye sat in the car looking at the stone and brick building. He twiddle his cane and laughed and said "Let the games begin" he motioned to the driver and the car slowly pulled down the street toward the center of London.