Worst Birthday Ever
A little bit of crack fluff no one was asking for to cheer up my beloved writing partner who is down in the dumps.
I don't own BBC's version of the Sherlock Holmes canon, nor Hetalia. I don't even know how the hell this works.
Don't sue my ass. Or do anything else to it without asking first. I'm watching you, Greg.
As he sat alone in a booth meant for two, the young man sighed an old man's sigh and dreamed of a day before his life had become so complicated. Not that he actually remembered a time like that. Uncomplicated days were like Father Christmas or the Tooth Fairy, something half-forgotten, whispers to a child that could not possibly exist.
He shifted in his chair, trying not to worry. After all, Sherlock had asked to meet him here three hours ago. He had at least two more to go before he should worry.
"Why, of all days," muttered John under his breath, "why did it have to be my bloody birthday?"
Suddenly, he was tackled from behind. In a blind panic, he back-punched his assailant, driving them to the floor. This knocked several chairs and a rather vexed server out of the way.
As he straddled the figure and prepared to bring his fists home, he suddenly noticed that everyone was staring at him in shock and horror. It was then that he realized that the assailant he was about to knock unconscious was a bit too small to be an assassin.
The young boy shifted under him, protecting his face with his hands.
"Oh, I am sorry, signore! I thought you were someone else! Do not kill me! Oh please, oh please!"
He sighed, dismounting and helping the boy to his feet.
"What were you thinking? I nearly killed you." He looked around anxiously. So much for uncomplicated. Still, most everyone had resumed their lunches as if such outbursts were commonplace. If Lestrade wasn't exaggerating about his time in Domestic Affairs, perhaps they were at that.
"I am sorry. But you see, you look just like England, well not so much now that I see you from the front but with your coat on - hey do you like pasta? Anyway, I was trying to capture you so maybe Germany would let me come inside tonight but you don't even have green eyes. Maybe we could paint them and he won't notice then, ve?." The young man blushed apologetically.
"I'm sorry, what?" John looked at him, unsure whether the boy was speaking in code or simply a lunatic. He was leaning towards lunatic. "Who are you?"
"I'm Italy!" the youth announced proudly, beaming up at him with deep, kind eyes.
"Right. Yeah. And I'm France."
"Oh, no, signore. France is much more scary and creepy and tries to do things to me." he shuddered.
John sighed. This was all just too bizarre. "Who put you up to this? It was Mycroft, wasn't it? Bastard's still trying to get back at me for not forcing Sherlock to take that case of his. You would think stealing my birthday cake would have been enough," he added bitterly, licking his lips subconsciously. "Not your baker, dear" Mrs. Hudson's lemon buttercream. It would have gone so well with his tea. . .
"Who? I do not know a Mycroft. Is he a new country?"
John smirked briefly as he imagined the look on Mycroft's face upon being called a country. But it was quickly replaced with frustration once more as the young man stared hungrily at the menu. No. No, he was not getting conned into. . .
Puppy dog eyes.
He sighed. "What do you want?"
Italy gestured at a picture of pizza, his face lighting up as he realized the man was going to treat him to some food.
This delight changed to disgust as the plate arrived and he took the first bite. "This food sucks."
John threw some money on the table and walked away. One annoying picky eater in his life was enough.
Speaking of that, where the hell was Sherlock?
"Huh," muttered the consulting detective, eyeing the strange room he found himself in. As he was about to flop down in a nearby armchair to text John and wait for him to figure out what had happened, a frantic blonde man burst through the door, gesticulating madly.
"Hey, you! What are you doing in here?"
Sherlock sighed. "You act as if I came here of my own free will." He patted about for his Blackberry. Rats. It was nowhere to be found. "Did Moriarty put you up to this?"
"Moriarty? Jim Moriarty?" The man's eyes went wide. "Oh. Oh my word. You're. . . you're Sherlock Holmes. Yes! Look, Flying Mint Bunny! We have a new friend to play with!"
Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Who are you talking to?"
"Why my dearest chum, Flying Mint Bunny! Can't you see her?"
"No. Now, if you wouldn't mind returning my phone. . ."
"How queer. My other friends all see each other. But you, the Great Detective. . . Oh, this is brilliant!"
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Magnificent. Undisclosed location, totally delusional man next to me. . . I've been committed again, haven't I?"