(I know it's been forever and a half since I updated, so sorry! Also, my own Russia-obsession is kind of taking over, so, sorry again. Hopefully it's still entertaining.)
"Welcome to the White House, Mr. President. You're late." A little man said, a pug-like frown on his flabby face. He crunched his eyebrows, opened the door and watched as Sherlock and John moved away from him as quickly as possible. Sherlock's experiments with low-level radiation poisoning had taken a little longer that he expected in the hotel room. He'd spilled some formaldehyde on his jacket.
"Now that you publicly forgot the pledge of allegiance, Sherlock, you've got to remember to do your American accent." John said, rushing down the hall, chasing his friend's billowing coattails, making sure the little suspicious man was out of sight. Maybe he wasn't suspicious at all-but John was nervous.
"I fail to see why you think it so essential. And I didn't forget the pledge." Sherlock turned sharply into the Oval Office and began rummaging about some papers.
"Because only Americans born in America can hold the position of President. And you completely skipped the part about 'to the republic, for which it stands.'"
"Do you really think any of them have read their constitution? And I was just editing it-improving the flow. Americans are atrocious poets." Sherlock plopped down in a chair. He flung his arms out. "I am king."
"President."
"Same difference John, why must you be so difficult?"
"Well we hardly want to blow our friends cover. Because they won't be our friends anymore. I don't know why you insist on involving us with such things."
"Shhh." Sherlock waved his hands around. "Didn't you learn anything from Nixon? Besides, it pays well; much better than the other jobs we've been getting. When opportunity calls you must not let society hinder you John." Slipping into a southern drawl, Sherlock said, "Naow. What was that you were saying about mah accent?" John resisted the urge to shudder. It looked so wrong.
"I'd just rather not have the Maple Leaf Mafia at our doorstep if you get my meaning."
"Quit worrying pardner. We can take them." In his regular voice, Sherlock said, "And don't look so absolutely horrifically criminal. You look like a little boy in the naughty corner."
"Me? I'm not the one impersonating the president."
"Well change your face. And quickly." A knock on the door electrified both into assuming unnaturally poetic positions; Sherlock with his hand enmeshed in his head of curls staring into a corner, and John with a deep frown, eyes boring into the carpet. The door swung open.
"President Grotsky is here to see you." A little man with eyes dancing in his skull said. He narrowed his eyes at them, before shuffling out of the way to make room for a big Russian man.
"I don't like him Sherlock. The doorman." John watched his retreating form.
"His mother doesn't either. Just look at his left sideburn."
"I come from Canada to congratulate you. " John glanced at Sherlock. A hideous smile was slapped across his face, as he stuck his hand out.
"Howdy Mr. President." John cringed.
"Ah, my friend." Grotsky's hand swallowed Sherlock's and sent waves rippling through the Englishman's arm as he shook it. "I trust you had pleasant trip from the UK."
"I'm from Connecticut."
"Kentucky." John hissed.
"He he, that's pretty good voice you got. You'll be perfect. Nikolka was right, you are most reliable."
"Who told you he wasn't American?"
"Dammit John, would you not open your mouth? It is a Pandora's box of idiocy. And are you and Nikolka back on speaking terms again?" Sherlock shook his head.
"He he, quite an Englishman at heart. You could say so. It's unofficial of course, but we are all friends here." Grotsky nodded. "I am manager of Canadian mafia. One of my hobbies." After a pause, Sherlock said.
"That's highly logical." Sherlock played with a pencil.
"They outsource job because they are, how you say, incompetent. Too much" he waved his hands, "happy. He he. Who you think write program to skew vote eh? I had whole team of scientists working on it. Resources. So now, you join with us and we become the Soviet States of Eurasimerica, no? And I will be president, and you will be honored puppet." Grotsky smiled. It was intended to be friendly, but somehow, didn't quite come off that way.
"He'll stick us with an umbrella Sherlock, in the back, with ricin, the second he gets chance. You're a dirty nasty communist, you." John stomped around in circles shaking a finger.
"I am not technically communist yet." Grotsky shrugged.
"That's true," Sherlock stroked his chin.
"Yes, very true. See why you care which organized crime you deal with?"
"No!" The little man burst into the room as if declaring war, a four foot tall, bespectacled Leonidas.
"Oh God no." John said, covering his face. "It's over, Sherlock." He fell into a chair, white and clammy.
"Aha! you do have spy in house Mr. President." Grotsky kicked Sherlock under the desk.
"Er, um yes I beloive we do. Haow unfohtunate." Grotsky's eyebrows twitched as Sherlock scrambled to reconvert his British accent, to a Jersey accent, and finally,
"Hey fella, naow what exactly arrrr you doin' here. Listening in on the Pres'dint."
"B-b-ut you aren't the president at all-you're working for him." The little man shook a finger at Grotsky.
"It was test. See if eavesdroppers, you know? You fail. Ivan, Vassily-get over here." Two large Russians appeared from behind the door. "This why you don't say no. Just suggestion." Grotsky said to Sherlock. They picked up the little man, and walked away with him as he struggled.
"What are you going to do with him?" John said.
"What makes you think we do anything? I am civilized; my crime, organized." Grotsky looked deeply offended. John stared at Sherlock, who shrugged.
"He was rather irritating." He then turned to Grotsky. "You have six children, all illegitimate, though you have been married for twelve years, your favorite animal is the capybara, you have a twin brother who is an Orthodox priest, and a cat named Wilbur Henry. You have a fascination with Napoleon and Joan of Arc, you think that colors are a social construction and if you drink more than one cup of tea at tea time you have night terrors concerning Baba Yaga. Tell me I'm wrong." Grotsky turned pale.
"How he knows this?" Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows and smirked up at the ceiling.
"Let's say that I have friends too." He winked at John as Grotsky scratched his head.
"I don't know if I like your attitude-"
"I'm simply alerting you to your vulnerable position. I. Know. People. Good old Nikky must have told you that." Sherlock bugged his bright eyes and leaned forward into Grotsky's face before leaning back. "Leave the room John."
John scurried out. Surely there was some important reason that Sherlock would want him gone. Perhaps he would hypnotize Grotsky and save the West by obtaining his secrets. Or perhaps John was there to stop Ivan and Vassily from reentering-yes that must have been it. John was proud of his patriotic friend, conveniently forgetting the circumstances of his "election." There had of course been that incident with Nikolka. And the head of the Russian mafia. And the suspicious telephone calls. But that was to help friends-but Nikolka was friends with Grotsky-but not officially-but-well, John could trust Sherlock. Right?
When Grotsky came out, John was bewildered to see a giant smile on his face. He bounced a nod towards John and floated out the door. Ivan and Vassily popped out of nowhere to escort him to the helicopter planted in the middle of the front lawn of the White House.
"Well how'd it go?"
"Well. Sherlock seemed to think the answer sufficient as he looked down on some irrelevant paperwork.
"Well what did you say?"
"I managed to convince him that becoming the sole ruler of Eurasimerica would not happen while I was President."
"And he accepted that?"
Sherlock shrugged, absorbed in the papers.
"There's something you're not telling me."
"Not a thing. Don't be a suspicious old woman."
"You amaze me Sherlock." John stared in admiration. Sherlock nodded uncomfortably.
Vassily appeared in the door. Sherlock jumped.
"Before we are leaving, check flag design. As co-dictators of Eurasimerica, must decide together."
"Uh right." He handed Sherlock a roll of papers before grinning and saluting at John, whose look of horror must have confused the Russian very much.
(Un)luckily the NSA was watching, (Sherlock should've remembered the part about Nixon) and Sherlock and John had to make a speedy getaway to Uruguay. The plane ride seemed very long because John refused to speak to Sherlock the entire time. Membership of the Canadian mafia would have dropped by half when the members were informed on television who their leader really was in the middle of the Saturday night hockey game, but those involved were too lazy to bother. The little man managed to escape amid the confusion and wrote a three-thousand page best-selling memoir, won a medal, became a millionaire, and his mother began to tolerate him. It also helped that she had gone deaf and blind since the last time she had seen him.