Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Beta-read by the awesome Katya Jade. Sorry for the delay in updates, but I wasn't feeling very cheerful for a while there, and that's what this one needs. Of course, then I discovered the Ukulele Orchestra of Great Britain and now I'm cheerful again. So enjoy!

~ That Cape Is Not Made From Boyfriend Material ~

"Ok, that's it!"

And Loki practically throws himself between Sherlock and Molly, looking like nothing so much as an overly sugar-hyped toddler. His arms crossed over his chest petulantly, his handsome face puffed with anger. The cape makes it all seem even more ridiculous, his sputtering, furious snarls looking almost comical as he angrily paces between the two, muttering viciously about how Sherlock is a whoreson and an idiot and how the Eighties called and they want their perm back and how Molly is his girlfriend and he's by far the more sexually adventurous and charming option so she's going to bloody well choose him, dammit-

He's moving so fast he nearly trips on the hem of his cloak, just catching himself in time and earning snickers from the Watsons and Sherlock. Holmes grins: He's going to go out on a limb and suggest that His Immortal Gitness is a bit pissed off.

He does not have a problem with that.

One look at John and Mary's amused faces tells him his deduction is completely correct- And that they don't have a problem with it either.

Molly is staring at Loki though, her expression somewhere between bemused and horrified. The last time he saw her look at anyone like that, she was stabbing Tom "Meat Dagger," Jenkins in the hand with a plastic fork, a thought which warms the black lump of tar which passes for Sherlock's heart. After all, we all know how that relationship worked out. At the realisation his grin widens: He knows it's a Bit Not Good that she's upset, but he is having to physically restrain himself from doing his happy dance right now-

Turns out that, despite being courted by a god, all Ms. Hooper really wants is a nibble on the old Sherlock biscuit, he thinks smugly.

John shoots him a look, mouthing, knock it off, wanker, and Sherlock wisely elects to continue the Biscuity Victory Dance inside the privacy of his own mind.

There's less danger of his looking like a pillock that way.

Loki must have read at least some of her anxiety on Molly's face though, because he stops his rant then, changes tack. Kneels down in front of her and takes one if her hands in his, murmurs something quiet and soppy and nauseatingly sincere to her knuckles that Sherlock doesn't understand. (He doesn't speak Tosser, after all.) Molly shakes her head though, gestures to indicate Sig the Dragon and her disappearing act. As she speaks, she gesticulates animatedly and Loki becomes more and more agitated, power starting to glint and spark around his hands, his arms. His fingers.

It looks… It looks more than a little incendiary.

As Sherlock watches uneasily the Asgardian's skin begins to pale, slowly turning blue. Thin, narrow lines of what look like runes running along his cheekbones, the sides of his throat. They raise themselves, like scars, on his hands. It's rather fascinating to watch- some sort of reaction to his emotions? A method of powering up?- but even Sherlock's scientific curiosity can't hide the fact that it looks a bit, well, lethal-

And he is proved right, for as Loki speaks the sparks of power running along his arms begin to coalesce. To move together. Where they were blue and white, scarlet begins bleeding into them, their hue turning darker. Murkier. They begin to merge, buzzing together like bees, and the sound stirs something in Sherlock. It is, he suspects, the same something which the first caveman felt when he realised he had not blocked the opening to his home. Here be dragons, the sound seems to say.

And in this case, that's not just a metaphor.

Molly shakes her head- "No, Loki," she says sharply, "not this time,"- and as she does the sparks suddenly hiss together, their light turning demonic. Brilliant. They look like nothing so much now as the ball of light from which Thor and Sig the Dragon appeared in the Mycroft Cave and look how well that turned out. Apparently Molly thinks the same because her gaze goes to Sherlock, her mouth opening to yell a warning. Loki grins that shark-sharp smile of his mutters a sharp, curt word in his native Tosser. The ball of light widens, darts towards Sherlock though the detective stumbles backwards in his haste to escape it. John and Mary both move to defend him, John looking around for a weapon, Mary murmuring something quick and singsong under her breath which Sherlock can't make out-

But though both his friends try to help, Sherlock feels his feels lifted off the ground, a sensation like a great fist squeezing his insides-

Molly reaches out, grabs the hem of his coat, and as she does so he hears Loki give a furious snarl of "No!"

It makes no difference though. The red ball of light widens suddenly, as suddenly as it did before Sig made her appearance. There is a hiss of burning heat, the buzz of electricity in the air and then suddenly- Suddenly-

Suddenly Sherlock is dragged backwards into the ball of light, his (entirely manly, completely understandable) yelp of surprise swallowed a howling wind. By a sudden, biting cold. For a moment he hangs, suspended in midair, and then, as he had known it would have to do, gravity folds him into her embrace once more. The ground reaching up to meet him and head-butting him by way of greeting.

It is- unsurprisingly- very sore, but then gravity saying hello always is.

With a great deal more unwillingness Sherlock flops over on his back, blinks up at a jade green sky in which three moons and two suns hang suspended. The air tastes foul, unnatural, and coming from a man who lives in central London that's bloody saying something. He closes his eyes, tries to catalogue any possible injuries as quickly as he can before he gets down to having a panic attack about the fact that he appears to be on another bloody planet-

And that is when he is (literally) smacked in the face with a handful of British womanhood. A very lovely handful, but a handful nonetheless.

For the indomitable, the inimitable, the surprisingly bloody corporeal Molly Hooper lands, quite literally, on his face and Sherlock can't be entirely sure, but he doesn't think this is a good thing.

Although he does have to allow that, if he's exiled her to anther planet for liking someone else better, he probably needn't worry about her and Loki anymore.

Meanwhile, back at Tower Hill Tube Station...

Mary Watson has Loki by the ear.

She's hissing very angry-sounding things at him in a language John doesn't understand. The gist of which is clearly Get Me Back My Sherlock or Face The Consequences, Mullet-Boy, a sentiment which would translate easily no matter what tongue were Git is answering her back, just as quickly, his voice slightly panicked, his expression repentant. Whatever he says must pass muster with Mary though because she releases his ear. Nods to Mycroft. Her look is…. Worryingly intent.

"You need to get back to the Mycroft Cave and get out your books of magic, it's the only way to repair this," she tells him tartly. She nods to Loki. "The Pornomancer here is going to come to Windsor Castle with me and try to fix things with that poor dragon while you go and clean up this mess-"

Mycroft looks slightly affronted (no easy feat when being carried by a burly Asgardian) and attempts to look down his nose at Mary.

The attempt is, needless to say, less than successful.

"And why should I do that?" he asks snidely. "Loki opened that portal, only Loki can close it-"

Mary rolls her eyes heavenward, as if asking for patience. "You opened it first," she speaks over him, "and if it's what I think it is then you'll need to close it to. That's the only explanation for it following us all out here. So look in the books you used, see what you can find on the Siege Perilous. Do you think you can remember that?"

She shoots him a glance of deepest cynicism, one which John can tell is designed to push every button Mycroft has-

And lo and behold, it works.

Because once again Mycroft shoots her his most offended, withering glare. Once again Mary is splendidly unaffected by the endeavour. "Siege perilous," he allows when it becomes obvious his haughtiness will have no effect whatsoever. "It's not so difficult, I have read Arthurian myth, you know." John, Mary and Loki all roll their eyes in mutual disgust and Mycroft shoots them a thin-lipped smile. "Although," he continues, and now his voice is suspiciously innocent, "I don't actually read Ancient Asgardian terribly well: It would go more quickly is I had a translator…"

And he looks up at Thor.

John bloody swears he's batting his eyelashes.

It reminds him uncomfortably of when Sherlock used to try and sweet-talk Molly into giving him body parts, and he suspects it will have a similar outcome, because-

The alien Prince looks down at Mycroft and suddenly… Suddenly a tiny spot of red stains his cheeks. Suddenly he looks almost… bashful. Shy. Which, given the amount of armour he's wearing, is both heart-warming and slightly disturbing.

Actually, make that quite disturbing.

To his left Loki gives a snort of disgust and Mary delivers a short, sharp clip to the back of his head. She shoots him a glare that could incinerate glass and he shuts up promptly.

"Well, I could help you with that, mortal," Thor says hesitantly. "I have no magical abilities to speak of, but I can easily read the texts. Mother made both Loki and I learn…" And he trails off, looks down at Mycroft. Smiles at him.

Once again Loki gives a derisive snort.

If the elder Holmes heard him however then he gives no indication of it. Instead he nods and gestures back to Tower Hill.

"To my office then?" he says. He looks… He looks quite happy with himself indeed.

Mary looks like she doesn't blame him, which does wonders for John's sense of Zen.

Thor nods solemnly. "Worry not. I shall help your translations… And should you require it, I shall defend you from the dragon." He grins at Mycroft. "I shall enjoy the chance to showcase my skills, little one."

John can't be entirely sure, but he somehow thinks that this may be going precisely how Mycroft wants it to-

And one look at his Mrs. tells him that she believes the same.

And in another place entirely…

Molly is starting to panic.

Sherlock can tell because he really would like to panic too, but he thinks he should try to hold it together for her sake. After all, a Sherlock Biscuit never crumbles under pressure, now does it? Dunk it in the tea of life and it soldiers on regardless.

And one of them should do the whole stiff upper lip routine, even if it's a bit of a fake right now.

So he takes a deep breath, forcing it in through his nose and out through his mouth. Molly has managed to scramble from his grasp and is pacing, desperately, muttering under her breath about red Star Trek jerseys and Bond villain minions-

"Doomed," she's saying, "Oh God, I'm doomed! We're doomed!"

Sherlock sits up, grateful that he hasn't hurt himself further in his little altercation with gravity. Not so grateful that she's panicking which means he has to be the grownup.

"Do pull yourself together, Molly," he snaps in irritation. "I'm sure that Mary Watson and the Avengers are merrily beating the reversal procedure out of Loki even as we speak-"

But this does not calm the lovely Ms. Hooper. Instead Molly turns and looks at him. Kneels down before him. It is only now that he realises that she is no longer wearing the jeans and jumper outfit she'd put on this morning. Oh no, now she's wearing kitten heels. Delicate, silver jewellery. This beautiful, diaphanous, barely-there gown that sweeps to her toes and somehow manages to be both backless and sleeveless, somehow manages to be there and yet so transparent that he's amazed it stays on at all.

Maybe it's the very happy thoughts he's thinking right now that's keeping it on her, he muses.

Molly follows his line of sight, realises that he's noticed. He half expects her to slap his face for staring but instead she gestures desperately to the dress.

"You see?" she demands. "You see? You see what's happened?"

"I see that I never should have implied your breasts were too small," he says distractedly- he's been recently concussed, after all- and is rewarded for this attempt at a compliment with a sharp slap to the back of the head.

"Focus, Sherlock," she hisses. "I'm glad you finally noticed the girls here-" she gestures to her chest- "but, but that's not what's got me so upset."

And she takes a deep breath, blinks those great big brown eyes at him. Suddenly, just as she had back in the Mycroft Cave, she manages to make Sherlock's heart twist most peculiarly, hot, black mess that it is.

"What's wrong with the dress, Molly?" he asks quietly. "Why- Why does it upset you so?" And he leans in towards her, tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. Miraculously, his irritation is forgotten.

Just for a moment he doesn't care for anything else.

Molly looks down, her words mumbled. Shy. "It's- it's the Diaphanous Dress of Doom, Sherlock," she stammers. "Don't you know..? But of course you don't. I doubt you or Mycroft ever watched any normal movies as children. Every film, every TV show… Once the girl in the story gets put into a dress like this, she always ends up being eaten by a monster…" She shudders. "Or getting cleaned up and sent to the villain's chambers-"

Sherlock straightens up. He doesn't care where they are, he's not bloody having that. "No villain is going to be taking you to his quarters, Molly," he says sternly. "I know we may be on a-" He casts around for a definition of their current location, but all he can come up with is Not-Earth, which hardly narrows things down any- "Another place, but I won't let anything happen to you-"

As he says those words however, Sherlock hears a terrible commotion in the bushes to his right.

He forces himself to his feet, Molly pulled behind him, determined to protect her from any foe.

What he sees though ... What he sees is a nightmare from his childhood, a thing he didn't think could possibly exist, no matter what Mycroft may have told him…

For standing before him, their eyes glowing red, their teeth spattered with blood, their rainbow-hued manes dripping with gore, stands a pack of… A pack of feral unicorns. They look just as Mycroft used to describe them to his baby brother before bedtime, like the offspring of one of that beastly Gwendolyn Sparks' My Little Pony collection and a rhinoceros. An irritable rhinoceros.

And all of them appear to be angry. At him.

The lead unicorn looks at him, draws its teeth back. The eyes remind Sherlock a little of Jim Moriarty, and he knows that can bode no good. The creature darts forward, intent on Molly, intent on hurting Sherlock's Pathologist. She can't run, not in those shoes, and as she scrambles back she falls on her backside-

"Now do you believe me?" Molly mutters as she tries to scuttle backwards. "The Diaphanous Dress of Doom never lies!"

Sherlock however, isn't quite ready to believe that yet-

So he does the only thing he can do: he hoists her over his shoulder and takes off for the forest, the herd of feral unicorns in hot pursuit.

A/N There now, what could be going on, dun dun duuunnn! As always hope you enjoyed. And thanks for their reviews go to likingthistoomuch, miischall, LadyK1138, Renaissencebooklover108, lavanyalabelle, Poodle warriors, Dometheus, VampireHuntress79095, ImmunoMaster and Katya Jade. Until next time, hobbits away, hey!