Rated M: for swearing and adult themes.
You also may notice the characters are OOC. You may have noticed this in previous chapters. I even noted the fact the characters are a bit OOC and that this is an AU in the preview. I figured I'd mention in case you don't like OOC, because occasionally, people have complained. Of course it's a little late now. I mean, if you've made to chapter 53, you must not hate OOC too bad...
All mistakes are my own. Except the really bad ones; I blame the really bad errors on a Sendai from a parallel universe. No, really.
Chapter 53
He wore cheap, ill-fitting, scratchy, nauseatingly-green polyester scrubs, which a slightly desperate and wild-eyed nurse had given him. Sherlock ran a finger under the neckline of the hideous green top, trying in vain to stretch it, and then he stretched his own long, stiff neck. He then resumed pacing in the tiny A and E cubical at St. I'd Rather-Be-Anywhere-Else-Than-Here Hospital. At least he wasn't nervous or anxious, despite the lack of information. Angry yes, frustrated most definitely and perhaps a bit concerned.
Obviously, he was annoyed because the scrubs chaffed his still pale, sensitive skin. Plus he knew that he had to look ridiculous in the horrid, too small outfit.
He huffed in irritation and a bit of concern because no one had heard from John since the disastrous meeting at the pool. Make that more than a bit of concern.
The desperate, wild-eyed nurse peeked into the room to make sure that her patient was at least still alive. Probably she was supposed to take his vitals, instead she squeaked, as he turned his full baleful glance upon her. No doubt fearing another round of painful and embarrassing deductions, she quickly withdrew.
Sherlock sniffed his disdain at the woman (Late twenties, poorly dyed red hair thanks to her meddling neighbor who fancied herself a hairdresser. Sadly, the neighbor was not destined to be a hairdresser. Of course, it was Sherlock's deduction, that the nurse was married but cheating on her older husband with another, even older man, upset the nurse. That and the fact that she was pregnant but didn't know who the father was).
He sniffed again. It was almost a shame that the wild-eyed nurse had left so quickly; Sherlock was about to tell her that her paramedic lover couldn't have been the father of her child because of the vasectomy, which he had undergone after the birth of his third illegitimate child.
Bah! Who cares! The nurse was an idiot, as was her unfaithful paramour, and the cuckolded husband was clearly an idiot too. Actually, everyone was an idiot, everyone who wasn't John.
The World's Only Consulting Detective glared at the door; he was disappointed when it did not burst into flames. It really should have.
Sherlock needed to leave at once. He needed to leave an hour ago. He needed to go back to the pool to find the evidence, which would surely lead to John.
He couldn't leave however, because the door was guarded by at least two of Mycroft's moronic minions. Unless… one or more of the minions had left without Sherlock's knowledge, leaving the door unguarded or at least partially unguarded. Mind Palace John, wearing his combat garb and mauve lip gloss, suggested his old stand-by, plan B for run away. Sherlock didn't even quibble with the ridiculous name or his own lack of shoes, which had been soaked and no doubt ruined when he dove in to rescue his imbecilic partner, who thought he could learn to swim serendipitously.
Right, plan B…The World's Only Consulting Detective stormed over to the door and threw it open, ready to run out of the A and E. Regrettably, the minions were still on patrol. His MODs, BJ and Mel, no longer wore their bland smiles nor did they stand easy, at rest. No, they instantly returned his fierce glare and tensed as they prepared themselves to fend off another attack. Mel's hands fisted and BJ raised his good arm as he crouched in readiness (his other arm was somewhat badly sprained after an earlier tussle with the consulting detective).
Mel's dark, predatory narrowed, and she silently waved in additional reinforcements, in the form of three hospital security staff, who also glared their hostility at the consulting detective.
"Let me out of here, now," demanded Sherlock Holmes imperiously, switching plans in mid-mission.
"Orders are for you to wait,' growled Mel. She had developed a propensity to growl in the past few hours. She had certainly growled at him during the earlier scuffle, although that was perhaps understandable, since Sherlock had been pulling her hair. Not that she hadn't deserved the hair pulling; indeed, Sherlock would do it again, as long as she prevented Sherlock from searching for John.
"Whose orders?" asked the consulting detective, with raised brows. "Whose orders are you following now? Are they from my fat brother…"
"Get back in your room," said Mel, growling menacingly.
"Or did you get these orders from Lestrade? Or... are you still following the orders of Captain Watson. You should know that I have deduced that he is your…"
"Never mind! Never mind! Someone will be along soon to…to explain things to you," said BJ angrily yet looking worried. Oh yes, that man certainly displayed his guilt, which was caused by his split loyalties and…
The consulting detective stumbled backwards into his room after receiving a sharp jab to his chest, courtesy of a minion whose name would now be deleted. In fact, Sherlock decided to delete all the minions' names in perpetuity for their roles in misplacing John Watson, and then compounding their error by preventing Sherlock from finding him again.
"If you are withholding any information from me about John, you will only live long enough to regret it!" Sherlock yelled at the closed door. He kicked the door for good measure, which hurt his foot.
Good, his bloody transport deserved to suffer for betraying him by collapsing at the pool. Had he not blacked out, and then he could have stopped John's mad cavalry charge into the rear of the cursed building. If his transport had not failed him for so long, Sherlock could have at least examined the scene for clues; in fact he probably would have found John by now.
But no, his transport had failed him miserably and for a couple of hours, and as a result, John was now missing.
Like a caged panther, the consulting detective paced across the small room- back and forth, and then back and forth again, turn and repeat ad nauseum.
It was beyond maddening. John had disappeared into a trap filled with Moriarty's gunmen, (turn, continue pacing). John had run heedlessly into yet another storm of bullets, (turn, pace some more). Then, Sherlock had blacked out and awoke in this stupid A and E with IV's, a sutured arm and NO WORD ON JOHN. Nothing. (Stop pacing, smash fist against the wall). (Smash it again, to punish the hospital and his own treacherous transport).
He could only assume that John had not been found in the pool building, because no one would tell him anything and surely someone would have told him if John had been found wounded, or…or…(kick the gurney, punch the wall and throw the plastic urinal which fortunately had not been used. It didn't help.)
BAH! So far, Mycroft had proved to be worse than useless. (Resume pacing). Mycroft had sat by Sherlock's bed and fussed like an old woman. Mycroft had whinged about the terrible mess (a few dead criminals in a seldom used sports facility-who cares) and the disruption of his precious plans (plans were meant to be changed-who cares), and the death of James Moriarty (John had been right all along. Moriarty was insane, annoying and dangerous and should be dead. It was good that Moriarty was dead-and again WHO EVEN CARES!).
What did any of it matter, when John was missing again?
Mycroft had only said that a search was underway and that the natatorium had been secured. What exactly did that mean?
Bah! And only Mycroft Holmes would insist on using an anachronic word like natatorium.
Sherlock turned and paced the few steps to the end of his cubical and turned again. He needed nicotine. He needed a cigarette.
He needed John.
His hands clenched in frustration and in imitation of his imaginary soldier who paced the mind palace, while Sherlock paced the cubical.
But where was John, the real John, the only one who really mattered in this stupid world. John who had been a bit mentally compromised when he had run off to find Moriarty. Apparently John had succeeded, since Moriarty was on his way to the morgue. But what if John had been injured even more during the last battle? What if John was not injured further but what if he was having a flashback? Had Mycroft even checked admissions to mental wards or for short, blond John Doe admissions in general? What if they had found John and lied about it? What if John was actually hurt or dying…or what if they had found John's body and wouldn't tell Sherlock? What if…
"Well, it seems he's made fools of us all," said Mycroft sailing back into the cubical like a pinstriped schooner. "Apparently, John Watson has turned traitor. After making hash of our operation, he has run off with his boyfriend and the Americans!" Mycroft lifted his hands in a gesture of negation. Sherlock was astounded at this excessive, nay hysterical, display of emotion (excessive and hysterical for the British government anyway).
"He's alive? John is alive?" asked Sherlock, finding that he actually felt weak with relief. "Where?" He gripped the side of the gurney to keep himself upright.
"It would appear that the man is indeed alive and reasonably well. I have just received a some limited CCTV footage," said Mycroft, "And it is somewhat difficult to see that it is John Watson, since he was in the embrace of another man, but he was well enough to board a plane, fleeing his homeland for the dubious comforts of the U.S.A."
"But he seems all right?" asked Sherlock.
"You are not paying attention, brother mine," sneered Mycroft. "I said John Watson left. He left you for another man. He left with Oscar Morrison."
Sherlock narrowed his eyes.
"Oh yes, we recovered CCTV footage from the airport, which reveals your precious John Watson strolling arm in arm through the terminal with your rival. Then your soldier boarded an American military transport. A diplomatic courier ordered the flight. It just so happened that it coincided with the flight of our four traitors."
"Naturally, I do not believe in coincidences," continued the British government. "Still, the Americans deny everything. They won't even admit that Watson boarded the plane. I shall have to show them the evidence of the CCTV footage. I shall have to speak sharply to my colleague, the ambassador…"
"How?" demanded Sherlock, "How are you going to deal with anyone? Aren't you supposed to be dead?"
"I shall be making my near miraculous recovery from a weeks long coma, which I suffered after being shot by that nefarious hired-assassin, John Watson…"
"He followed your orders when he shot you, and it saved your life. Naturally, you do not feel any gratitude for his service," said the younger Holmes. "But you do fear scandal, so I assume you won't continue your baseless accusations against John. After all, think of the publicity once the trial starts."
"I can eliminate the traitor Watson if need be, and without the bother of a trial!"
"Over my dead body!" snarled the consulting detective. The veins in Sherlock's neck stood out like whipcords, as the brothers faced-off. Mycroft sneered at his slightly shorter brother but began backing away.
"Mycroft, stop making things worse with your threats," said Lestrade, who had entered the room unnoticed by either brother. "And Sherlock, I swear to God, if you so much as touch Mycroft again…"
"What?" retorted Sherlock scathingly. "You'll send in your attack minions to rough me up some more?"
"Gregory, I have merely been the bearer of bad tidings…"
"He all but threatened to kill John!" accused Sherlock, sending a death glare at his sibling, sadly it had no effect.
"John Watson is a traitor, aside from the fact that he betrayed Sherlock, his supposed boyfriend and me, his supposed benefactor!" said Mycroft.
"Oh! Now I see what this is about," said the younger Holmes. "You're angry, Mycroft, because John went around you to accomplish his goals. John didn't play by your rules, and now you want to take you ball and go home!"
"All right girls, that's enough," said Lestrade, running a hand through his hair. "This is not the time or the place to be holding this discussion. Sherlock, since you're all stitched up and since you have already ripped out your IV and since you have obviously recovered enough to attack your bodyguards several times…"
"They started it, when they refused to let me leave, as is my right. Maris growled at me and tried to twist my arm, and PJ practically broke one of my ribs with a vicious and un-provoked jab!"
"Oh, God! BJ was definitely provoked. They were both provoked, many times! We have witnesses! And please don't start pretending to forget the agents' names again; it's so childish," said Lestrade pinching the bridge of his nose.
"I am not pretending. Their names are irrelevant and I have deleted them, in perpetuity."
"Fine. Whatever. Sound like an idiot, if y'like. I'm sure John will be very impressed…"
"John Watson is no longer Sherlock's concern. Watson jilted my brother, and left the country with his co-conspirators," said Mycroft, redirecting the discussion. "Even as we speak, Watson is no doubt revealing official secrets to that so-called courier, Charles Daley, who is, in reality, a CIA operative. Everyone from here to Minsk knows the truth about Charles Michael Daley," sniffed the ersatz deceased, minor British government official.
"John would never betray his country!" "John isn't telling Charlie anything!" said Sherlock and Lestrade one after the other.
Sherlock did a dramatic half turn (Well, it would have been dramatic, had he been wearing his Belstaff instead of the cheap polyester scrubs). He strode forward (two steps only, since the room was so small) and loomed over the detective inspector. Sherlock's glacial blue eyes bored down into Greg's tired brown eyes, as he attempted to exert mind control over the older detective.
"You are very familiar with Charlie Daley, are you not? And you have become fast friends with John. Tell me everything you know about that flight. Tell me everything you know about John! Where is he? How badly is he hurt? Where is he going? What…"
"Oh for Christ's sake," said Greg, "Stop looming over me like an undernourished vulture! I was gonna tell you what I know anyway."
Mycroft, uncharacteristically, huffed and leaned against the gurney.
Sherlock took a step back, pleased that Lestrade had succumbed to his methods so easily.
"But not here," added Greg Lestrade. "Not right now."
The consulting detective stepped forward, once more looming over the older detective.
Lestrade unceremoniously shoved a brightly colored, reusable carrier bag into Sherlock's chest (Floral print tote, property of Mrs. Hudson, used to bring groceries to Sherlock, even though she was not his housekeeper).
"Those are your clothes," said the detective inspector looking down at the bag. "I had Sally break into Baker Street to get 'em. I also asked her to make sure that Moriarty hadn't left any traps there. Which he didn't. You can thank me later. Oh, and I have your great coat outside, unless one of the hospital staff decided to pitch it in the bin, in retaliation for your tantrums. Y'know I can't believe you made two different nurses and a doctor cry. That's got to be a record, even for you."
"None of them could face the truth, and anyway, they all deserved it."
"Wait? Sally? Sally Donovan? She's not one of ours!" protested Mycroft.
"She's one of mine!" snapped Lestrade. "She and Philip have been in on this since day one, as I'm sure you'll recall. They'd already worked out that you were still alive Myc, and I think they might even know that John's still alive too. To tell the truth, they volunteered to help me, unofficially, after retrieving Sherlock's clothes. I accepted their offer, on your behalf, Myc. So, Sherlock, if you would just change into your clothes; we can be on our way,""
"Not until you tell me about John. Where is he? Do you know if he's hurt? Wha…"
"Oh for God's sake! We've had no contact from John or the others since that fuck-up at the pool," said Lestrade.
"Others? You mean others fled aside from John and the ox? What others?"
"All right, I'll give you this," said Greg Lestrade. "We haven't received any phone calls. And Mycroft was right; John did board an American C-130 that has since left for the U. S. He boarded it with Oscar, Clancy and Christine."
"Ah, of course, Christine would have been in it up to her neck." muttered Sherlock noting Mycroft's confusion and Lestrade's piercing glance. Clearly, the detective inspector was also in it up to his neck and just as clearly, Mycroft did not suspect a thing. It was all so obvious, now.
With a tilted head, the narrow-eyed consulting detective studied Lestrade curiously.
"Look, all I'm going to say here is that John is my friend," said Greg Lestrade, refusing to meet Sherlock's deductive glare (Clear evidence of guilt). "And I don't know why he got on the plane, Sherlock, 'cause I know…well, I'm pretty sure that John wouldn't have…uh, didn't want to, get on the plane. I mean." The detective inspector scratched at the stubble on his chin, then added, "As a matter of fact, we think someone on that plane needed medical care, because it looked like a medic boarded the plane too, carrying two bags of medical supplies. So maybe John stayed on the plane to provide medical…"
"Poppycock!" said the British government. "That is all the merest supposition based on the presence of a an airman who may be a medic."
"You made that deduction about the medic and the possible injury yourself, Mycroft Holmes!" said Lestrade, rolling his eyes. "Anyway, that's all I can tell you, Sherlock," said the greying detective. "For what it's worth, I think you can trust John. I'm sure he'll be contacting us somehow, and I know he'll return when …"
"Pipe dreams!" the British government spit out distastefully. "You have both fallen under Watson's spell! And I cannot understand why you do not see the truth, when it's staring you in the face. Watson is unfaithful,which to me is his worst sin. But he's also a liar, a murderer, a traitor, and an unparalleled double agent. We can only hope he's working for our American allies and not someone who truly wishes harm to Britain. If he tries to contact either one of you, I should hope that you would report it to me at once. Remember if he does call you, it will only be to manipulate you once more. I thought better of you both! I thought you both considered yourselves serious and intelligent detectives. You, Gregory, are a seasoned member of Scotland Yard. Shouldn't you be a bit more discriminating? And you Sherlock? You are supposed to be a consulting detective, a man of reason and logic, and yet you have let your genius be blinded by sentiment."
Mycroft stood, smoothing the slightly wrinkled trousers of his hand-tailored pinstriped suit. "These are the facts. Watson subverted three of my finest agents. We had plans to dismantle Moriarty's criminal enterprises in a comprehensive and orderly fashion, but instead Watson destroyed all of our efforts when he ruthlessly killed Moran, Moriarty and most of Moriarty's most trusted underlings, all of whom would have provided us with valuable information. He then ran off, with his secret lover, Oscar Morrison, to seek refuge with foreigners, to whom he is no doubt delivering state secrets, because I can assure you Mister Charles Michael Daley of the CIA would not offer sanctuary for anything less than full disclosure of valuable information."
"Wrong! Wrong! Wrong!" yelled Sherlock.
"My dear brother, you yourself told us that John shot Sebastian Moran."
"After Moran shot at John first and after he ordered John's death," countered the consulting detective. "And after Moriarty all but ordered my own death, I might add."
"And," said Mycroft continuing, "remembering that this is again from your own testimony, Sherlock, Watson also shot the other two alleged snipers…"
"After they blindly emptied their magazines at John, and completely missed, because they were too stupid to aim properly!"
"AND, he shot that older man, a grandfather I might add, down by the pool…"
"Noooo, I shot that one myself, after he shot at John!" retorted the younger Holmes, his face grimacing in fury.
"Look can't this wait…" said Lestrade.
"All of them were murdered without benefit of trial, by John Watson," said Mycroft ignoring both his brother's corrections and Greg's plea. "Then, mere minutes later, your murderous marksman shot Moriarty and two of his henchmen. I make no mention of the men killed by Watson's accomplices."
"You are ignoring several crucial facts, Mycroft," said Sherlock. "I repeat, I myself shot and killed one of the men you mentioned, that so-called grandfather. And I certainly tried to kill Moriarty by shooting him, and only regret that I was unable finish the job, because then, I would not have lost track of John."
"I am sure that we will find that the shots, to which you have just now referred, came from John Watson's illegal gun. The fingerprints on that gun will no doubt belong to Watson and not to you. Ergo, you will not be prosecuted. Watson, however, will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law, unless he cooperates fully with me…and, of course, after he is extradited from the U.S."
"Then you will have removed my fingerprints, thus tampering with the evidence, as my testimony in your kangaroo court would show," Sherlock growled in disgust, "This is ludicrous! John saved my life! You should be grateful, since you love to prattle on about you are concerned for me," said Sherlock. Then he added with a snarl, "Furthermore, John loves me, he is loyal to me and he will return to me, and I will do ANYTHING to protect him, Mycroft!"
"Oh God! Stop it both of you!" shouted Lestrade. "Look, I do actually have a bit more information to share with you both…but not here."
"You can't withhold information about John from me!" "Wait, Gregory, are you keeping secrets from me?" said Sherlock and Mycroft at the same time.
"Yes, actually, to both of your statements," said Lestrade looking grim. "But I can't talk here, and we can't leave until Sherlock changes his clothes. Because it's cold outside, and I will not have John accusing me of causing Sherlock to fall victim to some damned chill."
"Why should anyone care what John Watson wants?" asked Mycroft incredulously.
"Oh what does it matter if I get chilled!" demanded Sherlock.
"It matters, because I say it matters," snapped the detective inspector who was at the end of his rope.
The World's Only Consulting Detective stood straighter and crossed his arms stubbornly. He grimaced slightly at the pain in his arm, but hoped that the face he made could be construed as resolve.
The silver-haired detective looked at the two uncooperative Holmes brothers and rolled his eyes.
"Fine. You can both stay here and argue. I have plenty of things to do elsewhere," said Lestrade, moving as if to leave.
"Your attempts at manipulation are clumsy, childish and patently illegal," snapped Sherlock.
"And I say, I'm dealing with a child, and nothing I said was illegal," muttered Gregory Lestrade.
"Can you assure me that John is safe and that delay will not endanger him?" asked Sherlock.
"Look, Sherlock, John is on a plane with his friends…"
"And his lover, Oscar Morrison," interrupted Mycroft helpfully.
"…and even if he is injured, there's a medic on board," continued the detective inspector.
"Plus a CIA agent," said the smug government official.
Greg and Sherlock both scowled at Mycroft's unhelpful remarks.
"Well Lestrade, up until now, you might have pulled the wool over my eyes," said Sherlock, ignoring his older sibling, "But know this, I now see everything clearly. Including your role in this, your leading role, if you will. I will comply with your request, but I expect you to divulge everything when we are in this car of yours."
Mycroft raised an elegant brow in confusion.
Sherlock simply smirked, dumping the contents of the colorful carrier on the gurney, and then he dropped the pants of his scrubs.
"Oh for God's sake!" cried the detective inspector, turning away from the sight of Sherlock's bits. "Warn a guy would you, Sherlock?" complained the DI.
"Why don't you grow up?" snapped the consulting detective. "It's nothing more than anatomy. Presumably, you have similar genitalia, or else your relationship with my brother would have been short-lived."
Mycroft huffed at his sibling's crude remarks. Sherlock began dressing as quickly as possible, while Lestrade grumbled incomprehensibly under his breath.
"Well, perhaps you will deign to answer me this," said Sherlock pulling up his trousers. "Who is Philip?"
"Philip? Philip is Anderson! Philip Anderson!"
"You let Anderson in my flat?"
"Yeah, with Sally to get you some clothes. And now he and Sally are down at the pool gathering evidence and helping with the cleanup."
"Anderson's an idiot," protested Sherlock while buttoning his shirt.
"Oh, everyone is an idiot, according to you," dismissed Lestrade. "Y'know, Anderson is actually quite competent, even if he isn't a genius. So is Sally, for that matter."
"Good grief," said Mycroft in dismay as he stared at his phone. "You really do have non-team members at the natatorium. And there is no one is at the bunker. Everyone is at the natatorium! Even my PA is there! I never gave her any orders to…"
"Greg gave her the orders, obviously. He's clearly staged a coupé," said Sherlock calmly. He slowly pulled a shirtsleeve over his bandages.
"Don't be ridiculous!" snapped Lestrade. "I gave a few orders to speed things up, which is why Derek is at the natar…nattaor…at the pool. If we want to keep this operation secret, the cleanup needs to be done quickly and thoroughly, and of course we want all the pertinent evidence collected, which is why we're lucky to have Phillip Anderson working there with the others."
"Lestrade has become power-hungry," continued Sherlock. "You'd best keep an eye on your crown, Mycroft. Lestrade sent Anderson to the scene without letting me see it first, and now any evidence will have been destroyed. He sent all of your agents and your PA to the natatorium,without telling you. You would have observed this, had you not become emotionally compromised. Really, Mycroft, do try to keep up."
Mycroft huffed again, which was the emotional equivalent to a tantrum in somebody else. "I'm not emotionally compromised, and she's supposed to be my PA. She's not supposed to follow anyone else's orders."
"Oh please! You need to grow up too, brother dear," said the tall brunet, speaking dismissively to his older brother. "You are so upset over what you perceive as John's betrayal that you cannot think clearly. You are severely compromised by irrational sentiments." Sherlock hissed that last bit.
"Myc, we are really short on manpower-and womanpower for that matter," said Gregory, raising up his open hands. "I mean, several agents have skipped off to America, although I'm sure that they have good reasons," Sherlock shot another piercing look at the detective inspector, who added quickly, "And I'll have you know that Anthea volunteered to coördinate the cleanup, and naturally, I agreed. To be honest, Mycroft, you were a bit distracted for a while there. You were worried sick about Sherlock, after he collapsed," said the DI. "Anthea and I could see that you were in no condition to be giving orders…"
"I'm always in a condition be giving orders," huffed the tall ginger.
Lestrade rolled his eyes.
"Well, let's go," said Sherlock attempting to smooth his curls. "I can't abide Mycroft just now. His persistent huffing reminds me of a steam train. And if someone doesn't tell me everything I need to know about John, as soon as we get into the car, then I shall be forced to provide additional bodies for your minions to clean up."
Lestrade blinked, and Mycroft huffed.
"Well come along!" demanded Sherlock. "I haven't got all day!"
A/N I am sorry again for the delay in updating. But ARGH! Editing has been a real bitch! And real life was a bit of a bastard. Between the two of them, I am once more very late in posting, and I am truly sorry for the delay. (I really am sorry. Mrs. Hudson didn't have to ask me to apologize or anything)
I'm also sorry that this chapter lacks the wonderful and very BAMF John Watson, but there is lots of talk about the wonderful and very BAMF John Watson, so hopefully that was good enough. (John made me say this).
Thank you so much to everyone who has followed or favorited this fic. I am grateful to each and everyone of you.
Thank you especially to those of you who sent in reviews. I appreciate your compliments, comments, questions and con-crit. Thank you for the recent reviews from: Lysbethrachael, SoulAlchemist9320, 107602, dana-san, JC Black, Quiet Time, EJ 12212012, meep484 and Kitsune Spyk
Disclaimer: In this universe, I do not own the rights to Sherlock in any media or any form.
I am certain that I do own the rights to Sherlock in some parallel universe, and that is a comfort to me. :D