It didn't take long for Sherlock to reach John and Steven Moffat. He was irritated and partially embarrassed that he had gone running off and John had just walked (well, hopped) three feet over to where Moffat was standing. It was the sort of thing that always seemed to happen with John, which was unique, because everyone else knew that he, Sherlock Holmes, didn't make mistakes. Luckily, no one seemed to notice that he was winded and confused, despite the direct return route he had found in his mind palace.
"Hello, Moffat," Sherlock the otter said crisply, treating the man like an enemy.
"Oh, great," replied Moffat, mumbling to himself. He was starting to get unnerved by all the talking animals.
"Well, here he is," John squeaked, panicking. "Now can you please help us?! We don't know what's going on! Our flat, 221B, just disappeared, we both turned into animals, and we've just found out we don't exist! That is NOT the way I want to spend my Friday!"
Moffat laughed, and surprisingly, Sherlock guffawed (in the most otter-like way possible).
"John, relax…you're with Sherlock Holmes!"
"—and Steven Moffat!" Moffat interjected.
"Whatever, the point is, what could possibly go wrong?"
They soon found out.
Moffat carefully led his two companions through London, ignoring the strange looks that his group triggered. He was personally annoyed that at least ten women had come up to them and begged for a photo—not with him, but with the animals. He supposed it was the risk of being a producer, that much fewer people knew your name, but there was always somebody that would recognize you. Oh, well, he thought. Attention's not exactly what I want right now, with this lot in tow.
Finally they arrived at 187 North Gower Street, the real location of the iconic Baker Street façade. John was nonplussed at the sight.
"What're we here for, exactly?" the hedgehog said, hopping around in a circle so that he could see everything.
"Seriously? You don't know where we are?" Moffat and Sherlock cried at the same time. They looked at each other, and Sherlock humphed.
Suddenly, two familiar men appeared by Moffat's side. There was an awkward moment as the two sets of doppelgangers stared at each other.
Then Sherlock wrinkled his nose and spoke.
"God, it's like looking at me. But stupid," he scoffed.
"Well, thank you very much," laughed Benedict Cumberbatch. "But, really, Steven…is this a joke? Talking animals? …With my voice?"
Moffat didn't respond.
"What…what is going on?" said Martin Freeman.
"John, can't you tell? There's been some kind of mistake. This must all be a distraction…We have to get back to the flat!" Sherlock yelled. He started circling Benedict and Martin, paws raised threateningly. "You go on without me! I'll hold them off—"
"I didn't say anything," John interjected.
"That was me," said Martin.
"John?" asked Sherlock.
"Benedict?" asked Martin.
"No, Sherlock!" cried John.
"Martin?" asked Benedict.
Sherlock looked down at John, confused. John looked at Martin, who stared back at him, then turned to Benedict, whose eyes were fixed on Sherlock, until he noticed his colleague's gaze and responded with an inquiring one of his own. Martin had no answers, and looked at Sherlock to see what the fuzzy little otter was thinking. Meanwhile, Benedict looked at John, who looked at Sherlock, who looked at Benedict and Martin at the same time.
Then, Sherlock stomped over to where Moffat was watching, amused, and threw his magnifying lens at Moffat's kneecap. It bounced off, undamaged, which made Sherlock both duly relieved and irritated.
"You're a producer of 'Sherlock', John said. Obviously. Only a member of the BBC or any television-related group would wear a tie that garish. But what's interesting about you… well, you're married, of course. But's that's uninteresting."
"Of course? Why of course?"
"It's simple, really. Your shoes. They're newly shined, yet your socks don't match. You remember to shine your shoes, yet you can't manage matching socks? Unlikely. Your wife had it done; only she's off traveling so she can't oversee your clothing choices now."
"That's enough, Sherlock," John said, hoping to keep the braggy deductions to a minimum.
"All right then, so we're at the filming site for 'Sherlock'. What's going on? And how can he look exactly like me?!" Sherlock questioned irritably.
"I'm sorry, little me, but we don't have any answers either," said Benedict. "You're a fictional character, while Martin and I…we're actors."
Sherlock glowered.
"But we'll help, of course," saved Martin, feeling generous. "I have to meet Amanda later, but if you two want to catch a drink or something now, with Benedict, Steven, and me…"
"Sure," laughed John. "Two famous actors, a producer, a hedgehog, and one grumpy otter sitting together in a bar… What could go wrong?"
"It's a date," said Moffat, still chuckling.
A/N: Sorry about the BBC comment. That was Sherlock talking, not me! (Remember, read and review!)