Guy Fieri and Steve Rogers were cruising in Guy's 1967 Chevy Camaro SS convertible.

For a while Steve just sat there in silence, enjoying the scenery of the burning hospital, listening to Guy ramble about his culinary expertise.

"WHOA!" exclaimed Guy suddenly. The 1967 Chevy Camaro SS convertible came screeching to a stop. Directly ahead was a HorseBurger™ (home of the famous Horse Massage combo deal).

"Why are we stopping?" questioned Steve questionably.

"We're gonna get some grub," replied Guy with haughty conviction. "And a horse massage, while we're at it."

"Alright, but who's that?" asked Steve, motioning to the ski-masked man who now held a knife to his throat.

"Oh, him. We're getting carjacked," responded Guy, rubbing the hairs on his chinny chin chin.

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Meanwhile, a rather tall, skinny figure dropped from the sky, like a god descending from heaven to salvage those from tribulation. Although, to one's disappointment, the being fell with less grace, and more like a dead manatee plummeting towards the earth. The body fell through the clouds above a 7-11 and crashed through the roof of the building. It flew through multiple shelves before landing next to the Slurpee machine. If he had bent his knees a little more, it would've been a perfect landing, qualifying for olympic gymnastics. A clerk stood in awe as the figure appeared unscathed. However, it was no big deal, as it was Sherlock. Brushing the rubble and crushed donuts off his clothes, Sherlock emitted an audible groan of disgust. 7-11 coffee stained the front of his 2,000 dollar royal purple suede Versace button-up. It was the worst day ever. Sherlock had to use every last ounce of willpower not to cry. He had other pressing matters to deal with anyway. He frantically looked around the convenience store, in search of Steve. He approached the clerk, mouth still ajar, and grabbed her by the shoulders, "have you seen a man—blonde hair, blue eyes, dresses like an old hag?" The woman winced as his fingers pressed harder into her shoulderblades. Recoiling, she shook her head no, and Sherlock released her from his grip. He cursed. Damn it, I landed in the wrong 7-11. Promptly, Sherlock accessed his mind palace, searching for an answer. He stood in the middle of an open room,

On the street, Sherlock tilted his head back and sniffed the air, as if he were a dog, inhaling the aroma of another's ass. After sifting through different scents, he finally found him. He could smell Steve Rogers' distinct apple pie and freedom essence from halfway across the globe. Locked onto his position, Sherlock leaned forward and broke out into a Naruto-style sprint.

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"GET OUT OF THE GODDAMN CAR! DO YOU THINK I'M FFF-UCKING AROUND HERE?!" The carjacker, now known as Max Wade, shouted. His hand (the one unoccupied by a stocky-ass looking rifle) snapped into a single, pointed finger, as shrieked racial slurs directed at Steve came out of Wade's mouth. Liquid diarrhea cha-cha'd real smooth down Guy's freshly ironed pants.

Guy had never experienced the harsh reality of poverty outside of his pampered lifestyle. As a scream was excreted from his mouth, his mind raced with inquiry as to how anything could drive a man to commit such a crime. Ignorant Guy, he would never understand the troubles of the sub-bourgeoisie. Steve trembled in his seat, using all of his willpower to not urinate in his American flag boxers. The last thing he wanted to do was turn it into the Land of the Pee and the Home of the Brave. Guy had to do some fast thinking. He stroked his goatee and made a halfassed Dreamworks face. He concluded that he could always get another 1967 Chevy Camaro SS Convertible, and thus decided to leave the situation.

"GOTTA BLAST!" exclaimed Guy, taking Steve by the bicep to get the hell out of there. On his third attempt, he successfully hopped the 2-foot tall convertible door and ran as fast as he could to the nearest 7-11. Guy stood in the doorway, breathless, and Steve stumbled in like a confused and frightened duckling in dire need of his mother, and probably Medicare.

Upon seeing the breathless man with liquid diarrhea running down his pant legs, the clerk took off his nametag and exited the building, resigning from his dismal job and vowing to wage war against the bourgeoisie, and maybe take up knitting.

"Guy, what now?" asked Steve. He looked around and couldn't help but notice the sizable hole in the ceiling of the building, and the rubble around the Slurpee machines.

"I'm not sure about you, bud, but I'm gonna get me a Slurpee!" proclaimed Guy, strutting over to the Slurpee machine on the other side of the business. He grasped a cup and lowered it to the spout, eagerly awaiting the frozen nectar to dispense. What he got instead was a remarkable kick in the jaw.

Steve would recognize the sound of that kick anywhere. It was Sherlock! He had been hiding amidst the rubble, waiting to spring on his prey like a panther crouching in grass or something.

"Sherlock!" exclaimed Steve, cautiously approaching the scene where Guy was now out cold. "Wh-what are you doing here?"

Sherlock approached Steve and watched as his watery blue eyes searched his own. "Well," he began, "when you forcefully inserted the scalpel into my loins and escaped with your new lover… the only thought in my mind was… fuck, my genitals are in pain. After I performed a penis transplant on myself using only the scalpel and a ballpoint pen, I realized that I needed to find you. When I thought about your shimmering green eyes, Steve, I knew… I want to win you back."

"But… but… I'm an asshole," whimpered Steve, tears welling in his deep brown eyes.

"Yes, but you're my asshole," assured Sherlock. "Especially considering that now I no longer have one. That stab really messed up my anatomy. Thanks bitch. Furthermore, you may notice the rubble. I actually propelled myself from the heavens into a different 7-11 and came here to find you, but I wanted to make that same dramatic entrance here. For, you know, atmosphere."

Sherlock promptly picked up Steve by the American flag boxers and Naruto-ran out the back door.

"Wh-where are we going?!" exclaimed Steve, unsure of how to feel.

"Burger King," replied Sherlock. "I am forcefully taking you out to have some damn good American cuisine. I know better than that frosty-tipped mongrel."

AN: omg thankz 4 reading u guyz!1 im working really hard on the fic! 33 ^-^