This, friends, will be a multi-chapter series of one-shots, updated at odd times (emphasis on odd) in which I make fun of BBC Sherlock fanfic tropes. It is directly inspired by VivyPotter's The Many Harry Potters of Little Hangleton. I salute her rapier wit and hope to emulate it, albeit in my own style. *Raises glass*

Chapter one: I sink all your ships.

When John came downstairs for breakfast, Sherlock was lying on the sofa looking heartbroken. Or bored. It was hard to tell which.

"You okay, mate?"

"What? Oh, fine," Sherlock murmured, clearly lost in his mind palace. Or angsting. It was hard to tell which.

John had just set the kettle on to boil and was making some toast, because the fandom seemed to agree that that represented the full extent of his culinary capabilities, when an unfamiliar sound assailed his ears. Frowning, he dropped the butter knife and ventured into the living room. Sherlock was on the floor, curled in a ball next to the sofa. John spared a moment to wonder how such a compact specimen managed to monopolize, by sheer effect of brilliance and scorn, every room and conversation he entered. Must be the coat.

His flatmate, as though reading his thoughts, pulled his knees to his chest even more tightly. John took a cautious step forward, as though approaching a wounded animal. Sherlock's fangs didn't look extended, but then you never knew.


Sherlock's shoulders moved slightly.

"You all right?"

John was fairly certain there was a reply, which was enough of a surprise in and of itself. Unfortunately it was muffled against the carpet. He thought he made out a half-hearted "Fine."

John wasn't fooled.

"Are you…crying?"

Another indistinct sound.

"Don't be ridiculous…unfounded assertion…" This time there was no mistaking the muffled sob.

Sherlock rolled over. He was crying. John hardly knew whether to let out a hysterical laugh or to join in. Sherlock's next words only reinforced his indecision.

"You're the only one who can fix me, John," Sherlock sobbed, clinging to the hem of his jeans. John stumbled backward.


"I've been secretly in love with you for ages," snapped Sherlock, as though it were obvious. "Your cruel insistence that you're completely straight—"

"Because I am—" insisted John, in a slightly less apologetic tone than the situation called for.

"—has caused me many an hour of private anguish that I'm too emotionally stunted to handle," his flatmate sobbed. "I just…didn't know how tell you…"

"So…what's changed?" asked John, trying to brush off the uncomfortable feeling that he ought to be falling to his knees and declaring undying and nonexistent feelings of secret attraction.

Sherlock pouted.

"Mycroft said honesty was the best policy."

"Sherlock," said John patiently, "Mycroft's an idiot. Honesty is rarely the best policy where people are involved. Besides, I don't think he's ever been in a relationship in his life."

Mycroft, who had been eavesdropping on the conversation via his hidden cameras, took offense at this and rushed into the room just as Sherlock and John were arguing about whether or not he was secretly in love with Lestrade.

"He's never even met Lestrade—"

"The brand of shoe polish he uses would suggest otherwise," pointed out Sherlock. "Besides, all of the fanfictions say so."

"The what?"

"I won't have your 'flatmate' casting aspersions upon my intelligence," Mycroft told Sherlock, raising his umbrella threateningly. "I no longer approve of this relationship."

"There is no relationship!" roared John.

"That's what you said about him and Irene," Mycroft pointed out. John, who was opening his mouth to reply, stopped short as Sherlock's features melted into an expression more befitting the hero of one of Harry's favorite chick flicks. Not that John watched those. Really.

"The Woman," Sherlock sighed, a reminiscent gleam in his eye. Mycroft gave John a look that said 'told you so.'

"Hang on," said John to no one in particular. "I thought he was madly in love with me?"

Mycroft shot him a pitying glance. "How long did you expect him to wallow in unrequited love?"

"Five minutes?" suggested John.

"For pity's sake, we're talking about Sherlock."

"Well, in the fanfictions, it's usually several years," said John, shrugging.

"The what?"

"Speaking of unrequited love, when are you planning to ask out Anthea?"

Mycroft started visibly, a tinge of red starting to creep up his cheeks. Human after all then, John mused. Vampires couldn't blush, could they? Sherlock, however…well, that remained to be seen.

"I wouldn't have thought you'd appreciate the competition, Dr. Watson," Mycroft said stiffly, when he had recovered. "In fact, my calculations indicated that within an hour of meeting her…"

"I totally did," muttered John, abashed. "But if you ask me, she's waiting on a very specific someone."

Mycroft blushed again. "Speak of this to no one, or…"

"Files will be found on my computer resulting in my immediate and permanent imprisonment?"


"No worries. I can always blame Sherlock for those. And frequently do, in fact."

Sherlock, still gazing into the distance, revived slightly at the mention of his name.

"It's hardly my fault your password is 'MaryxJohn4ever'," he pointed out.

"Hang on," Mycroft interjected. "I totally thought he was going out with Sarah."

"Ages ago," groaned John.

"Yes, that was several girlfriends ago," Sherlock agreed.

"Mary's the only one your brother hasn't managed to scare off yet. Mostly because he was dead."

"He does run through them rather quickly," mused Sherlock.

"I'm not as bad as you," John defended. "A minute ago you were tragically in love with me."

"You're never going to let that go, are you?"

"Any other secret crushes we should know about?"

"There's always Molly," Mycroft suggested helpfully. Sherlock glared.

John groaned. "Anderson told you his theory, didn't he."

Sherlock shrugged helplessly. "Deficient though he is in brain cells, Anderson has excellent taste in romantic drama."

"I hope he didn't mention the one about Mor—"

"Ah, yes," interjected Mycroft hastily. "While we're on the subject, and speaking of romantic drama, I think you owe Miss Hooper a few sincere…"

"…choice words," growled John, obviously still miffed about the whole 'dead' thing.

"I was going to say 'thank you's'—" but Mycroft's timely elucidation was drowned in Sherlock's snarl.


John's mute entreaties for an explanation met, most fortunately, with more success than his attempts to pry Sherlock's fingers from his larynx.

"How dare you insult Molly!" Sherlock hissed. John thought he glimpsed a flash of red in his eyes, and took the opportunity to check for fangs, but nope. Disappointing.

"She's secretly my soul mate!"

"Yeah, well," John choked, and broke away. When he had put several bulky items of furniture between himself and his flatmate, he ventured, "Two minutes ago you were pining for—"

Sherlock let out a roar and vaulted the armchair.

"I have to admit," mused Mycroft, examining the handle of his umbrella as chaos descended around him, "I was a hard-core Adlock shipper for a while there, but this Miss Hooper…"

John meanwhile had seized the poker from the fireplace.

"Mate, I think you're being a tad sensitive—"

"Emotionally stunted, remember?" said Mycroft to no one in particular. "It was probably that tragic affair when he was a young man—"

"I loved her!" cried Sherlock, lunging across the sofa in his continued attempt to strangle John for his slight against Molly.

The doorbell rang. It was Molly.

Sherlock straightened his scarf and brushed a few flecks of nonexistent dust from his cuffs.

"Hang on," John complained. "A second ago you were wearing pajamas."

"One musn't disappoint the ladies," sniffed Sherlock.

"He's always doing that," sighed Mycroft. "With great brainpower comes excellent fashion sense."

"Is that why your tie is covered in umbrellas?"

"Molly Hooper," said Sherlock loudly, over Mycroft and John's argument regarding the pros and cons of wearing sheets to Buckingham palace ("It's artistic!"). "How lovely to see you."

Molly opened her mouth and closed it again, several times. Quietly she debated twisting off her engagement band behind her back. "It's lovely to see you too, Sherlock...I was just coming by to drop off that pancreas…" her voice trailed off as Sherlock gave her his best 'no one understands my broken and sensitive heart' look.

"Erm…nice scarf," she threw wildly into the wilting silence.

"Molly," said Sherlock hesitantly, "I was wondering if you'd like to—"

"—have dinner—"

"—solve crimes."

An awkward silence fell. John felt totally betrayed.

"I haven't even deserted you for a life of marital bliss yet," he complained.

"John, you are a terrible wingman," muttered Sherlock out of the corner of his mouth, while Molly wilted under his soulful silver gaze. Janine chose this moment to emerge from the bedroom, and Mycroft put two and two together instantly.

"I see Lady Smallwood has been to see you about Magnussen," he said wrathfully, getting to his feet. Sally Donovan burst into the room to communicate her awful realization that microwaving eyeballs was much less off-putting than it should have been, if only because "that bloody coat is so attractive". Luckily, no one noticed.

"Lady Smallwood?" mumbled Sherlock, wrapped in Molly's arms. "No, way too old for me, thanks…"

"MAGNUSSEN, SHERLOCK!" Mycroft bellowed. "How dare you—"

"Gross. No."

"Not everything is about your love life," John reprimanded, just before he was engulfed beneath the rising tide of squealing fangirls who broke through the fourth wall to swarm the world's only consulting detective. Molly looked suddenly murderous.

"Apparently, it is," smirked Sherlock, disentangling himself. "Now if you ladies will excuse me, I'm off to investigate the beautiful and mysterious woman who just moved into 221C. She's the one person I can't figure out."

"Well, hello there," Mycroft said to Molly in the ensuing silence.