Chapter 53
BBC writers Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat were having a coffee together in The Year of Our Lord 2015.
"I'm bored," Gatiss sighed. "What should we do today?"
"Tell lies during an interview?"
"Nah."
"Roll around in Queerbaiting Money?"
"No, I just showered."
"Write another Sherlock episode?"
"Bah." Gatiss took a sip of his coffee. "I don't even remember what happened."
Moffat chuckled. "Continuity is for losers. But if you really need a refresher…" He pulled down a projector screen.
"Hey, you can't have that here," the coffee shop owner said. Moffat threw a ceramic lamb at the man, instantly killing him.
"Okaysssso anyway…" Moffat pulled up a Powerpoint that was just a picture of Benedict Cumberbatch in The Fifth Estate.
"That blonde wig is really not working for him," Gatiss said.
"Here we go, Sherlock timeline. 2010: Sherlock meets John, Parliament EXPLODE! There was a plot twist, and then Sherlock had an affair with Irene Adler."
"Wait, but I thought we were—"
"Stop with talk or I kill family."
Gatiss opened his mouth to comment on his cowriter's sudden Russian accent, then decided against it.
"And then we had a really clever plot twist where a dog was actually a person, gotta put that one in our pockets for later. 2014: Lots of nudity. Woman's life is ruined because she can't conceive anymore."
"I'm pretty sure that was actually in Doctor Wh—"Gatiss narrowly dodged another ceramic lamb. "Where are you getting those?"
"So all that happened. And then, uh….Magnussen got shot, BONELESS." He saw that Gatiss was raising his hand. "Yes?"
"So, Moriarty and Magnussen are dead, now. We need to stall for viewership while we come up with other one-dimensional and forgettable villains. Any creative ideas? I was thinking of exploring John's character through a lens of toxic masculinity—"
"NO! WE DO TIME TRAVEL!" Moffat cackled. "ULTIMATE CREATIVITY AND ORIGINALITY!" He ran outside and slammed himself into the nearest telephone booth. "DOCTOR WHO, AWAY!"
Gatiss sighed and dialed 999 on his cell phone. He held it up to his ear. "Yep, it happened again."
-1881-
John Watson was hobbling through the nasty streets of Victorian London. He was planning to spend the rest of the day in his apartment doing literally nothing, but a voice from behind sent those plans down the drain.
"I do say, is that Jonathan Watsonstein?"
John turned to see a portly man approaching him and stared.
The man held out his hand. "Michael Stamfordson! We attended Bartholomew's Educational Institution together, remember?"
"W-Why are your eyes like that?"
Stamford chuckled, making his enormous eyes jiggle a little. "Oh, there was a spill in the Thames and it got into everyone's drinking water."
John glanced around. No one else on the street had such an ocular deformity.
"They sent me to fix the problem, but while I was down there I fell into a vat of something or other. When I climbed out my face was like this!"
"Riiiiiight. Well, I'm off to find myself a flatmate since I'm broke as shit and I can't afford a place on my own."
Stamford chuckled. "You know, you're the second person to say that to me today."
-The Morgue-
John and Stamford walked up to a guy who was beating a corpse with a cane. John immediately zeroed in on Cane Guy's shapely ass. "Damn…"
Stamford nodded, misinterpreting his swear. "He does strange experiments all the time. But I think the two of you will get along just fine."
Cane Guy turned around. It was….Sherlock! Fucking duh!
Sherlock took one look at John and said, "I could shove this entire cane down my throat in one go."
John's mouth dropped open. "Uh…"
"My good friend Jonathan here is looking for a flatmate," Stamford said cheerily, ignoring the sexual tension. "I figured you two would hit it off rather nicely."
"I have my eye on a suite of rooms near Regent's Park. Between us we could afford them." Sherlock walked past the two of them, heading for the door. "I also smoke a pipe and play the violin. I presume that's not a problem?"
John nodded, recognizing the Gay Code. "Well, I do oil pipeline drilling and my favorite hobby is football. I think we'll get along just fine."
"Splendid. I'll see you tomorrow at seven o'clock. The name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221b Baker Street. Good day." He tipped his hat and left.
-A Few Years Later-
A carriage pulled up to 221b Baker Street, and Sherlock and John hopped out.
Mrs Hudson met them at the door. "Mr Holmes, I do wish you'd let me know when you're planning to come home. And I do wish you'd clean up the bedsheets once you and Mr Watson are done with them."
Billy, the houseboy, ran out to help John with their bags. "What were you doing with the bedsheets?"
"Arts and crafts," John said quickly.
They entered the building and went upstairs.
In the living room, they found a woman dressed in black standing near the fireplace.
Sherlock turned back to the stairs and shouted down, "MRS HUDSON, WHAT THE FUCK?"
She shouted back, "YOU CURSE AGAIN UNDER MY ROOF AND I'LL PUT WINDEX IN YOUR FUCKING SOUP!"
Billy turned to her. "What's Windex?"
"I'm surprised that's the word you're questioning, but whatever."
Back upstairs, John waved his hand in front of the woman's veiled face, but she didn't respond. "Um...would you like to sit down?"
Sherlock glanced at her dismissively. "Your husband is cheating on you. Case closed, leave."
The woman turned around and pulled the veil from her face.
"...FFFFFFFFFFFFFuck," John and Sherlock said at the same time.
-A Few Minutes Later-
Sherlock was almost finished with his daily skin routine while John and Mary were arguing in the background.
"I couldn't just stay home. It was an affair of international intrigue," John said.
"Oh, I'm sure it was, all the papers will be talking about it by tomorrow!" Mary snapped.
John's face turned red. "I was talking about the case we solved!"
"Enough," Sherlock put down his Cucumber Pomatum 3-in-1 Skin Care Treatment and turned around. "The stage is set. The curtain rises. We are ready to begin."
"Begin what?" Mary asked.
"Sometimes, to solve a case, one must first solve another."
"So you have a new case?" John asked.
"An old one. Very old. I shall have to go deep."
"Deep? Into what?"
Sherlock opened his mouth, then realized Mary was still there. "...Myself."
"What?"
There came three lethargic knocks on the door.
Sherlock turned towards the noise. "I deduce that you can come in."
Lestrade entered, sporting the worst facial hair. "I don't think that's how deductions work."
"Fine. I deduce that you need a drink," he said. John went and poured him a glass. Lestrade took a long gulp, a few drops getting on his awful facial hair.
"So, Inspector, what strange happening compels you to my door but embarrasses you to relate?" Sherlock asked.
"Ah, Holmes, you have misdiagnosed," John said.
Sherlock bit his lip. "Then correct me, Doctor."
John took the glass from Lestrade and flipped it over, showing it was empty. "He didn't want a drink—he needed one. He's not embarrassed—he's afraid."
"Or maybe I was just acting that way so I could get a free glass of brandy," Lestrade muttered to himself.
"Everyone heard that," Mary said.
Sherlock steepled his fingers. "Watson, that was hot, but I'm bored now. Lestrade, get on with the story."
Lestrade took a seat with a sigh. "Alright, so this is what happened…"
"If this story is told in flashback form, I swear to god—" John was unable to finish his sentence because:
-Flashback to Yesterday Morning-
A woman wearing a bridal dress and some pretty fucked up makeup was standing on a balcony above the London streets. She was double fisting, but instead of drinks, she had guns.
"You!" She shot at one of the men on the street, causing him to scream and run away. Without missing a beat, she swiveled and shot at another guy. "You!"
"Crank that soulja boy!" someone shouted back, and was immediately shot.
"Hold on a second," Sherlock said, making the scene pause.
John looked around. "Wait, how the fuck did we get here?"
Part of the Baker Street living room was in the middle of the street, giving them a clear view of the scene.
"Shut up, Watson," Sherlock said. He turned to Lestrade. "The woman's face. How was it described?"
"Pale as death, but contouring was a 7/10," Lestrade replied. "But I think her face got a little fucked up afterwards."
"After what?"
The scene in front of them unpaused, and they all looked up to see the bride shoot herself in the head.
"I deduce that she died from that," Sherlock said.
Meanwhile, a cab driver was glaring in rage at the living room that had appeared in the middle of the street, cutting off his route. "Fucking pedestrians! Do you know how hard it is to turn a horse-drawn carriage around in the middle of the street? It's fucking impossible!"
"So it was death by suicide." Sherlock shrugged. "Where's the mystery?"
"I'm fucking getting to it, Jesus. So that night, Emilia Ricoletti's husband was hanging out near an opium den…"
-Flashback to Last Night-
Thomas Ricoletti was hanging out near an opium den. A carriage stopped in front of him and a figure in white stepped out. He didn't give a shit until he noticed the figure was carrying a shotgun.
He held up his hands in surrender. "Who are you? What do you want?"
The figure lifted her veil, revealing herself to be Emilia. "Don't you recognize me, Thomas? Don't I look as lovely as the day you married me?"
"B-But you're dead! Why are you doing this?"
Emilia cocked the shotgun. "Sorry, Tommy. This is for my Chicago audition tape."
Thomas noticed a camera man standing a few feet away. "W-What?"
BAM!
He had it coming, he had it coming, he only had himself to blame...
And with that, we move into the bullshit Christmas special where things started to go downhill! I couldn't resist the urge to roast Moffat and Gatiss a little at the beginning (I may still be a little bitter). Also, throwback to Chapter 1 with Stamford's crazy eyes. What an absolute madman.
Thanks for all the awesome comments so far! I'm glad you're all enjoying this fic. Feel free to leave a comment letting me know what you guys thought, or what your favorite part was. I'll see you next chapter!
