Title: A Caper in Crimsun (Because Calling it a Study in Something is Practically a Cliché)
Genre: Humour, Parody, Dramallama
Ratings/Warnings: R because Irene Adler will eventually teach Sex Ed.
Summary: With the success of the modern adaptation of Sherlock Holmes, it was only inevitable that the Baker Street Fanfiction Academy would be dragged kicking and screaming into modernity as well. Those fanbrats never saw it coming.
Disclaimer: The BBC adaptation of Sherlock belongs to Moffat, Gatiss, Thompson, and co and are based on the works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. The Official Fanfiction University idea belongs to Miss Cam. The original Baker Street Fanfiction Academy belong to Juliet Norrington and Lux Piper. The PPC belongs to Jay, Acacia, and the Boarders. Opinions asserted in this fanfic are stereotypes and all resemblances to real people are merely coincidental. The Course Coordinator and the Head of Student Discipline are not who you think they are but rather loose adaptations of who you think they are.
Notes: This fic is cowritten with my partner in crime, evil-john-watson on Tumblr. Registration is open but limited (as opposed to my other OFU project, the IAHF); the form is on my Tumblr. Remove the spaces from the link:
http : / / evil-sherlock-holmes . tumblr . com / post / 22345019743 / the-modern-london-campus-of-the-baker-street
I will accept submissions through both the Tumblr and reviews/PMs on here.
A Caper in Crimsun
It was early evening when a blue doorway flickered into existence right outside 221B Baker Street in Central London and two figures stepped through – two men, both light-haired, one considerably taller than the other.
The shorter one had a more friendly face, but underneath that marshmallow-chiselled exterior he was secretly made of jam, kittens, and rage. On the other hand, the taller man had curly ginger hair, wore Converse trainers and vintage-styled clothing combined in a way that could only mean he got dressed in the dark.
The two men walked up to the door of 221B and rang the buzzer. Almost immediately a middle-aged woman opened it for them, her eyes lighting up as she let them in. Moments later, two other men appeared on the upstairs landing – a tall, dark-haired man who bore a striking resemblance to the tall, ginger-haired man, and his shorter companion who just as easily could have been the spitting image of the shorter man downstairs.
"Mr. Holmes!" the taller man exclaimed with a grin, taking out several sheets of paper and ascending the stairs to pass them over to his lookalike.
"Sherlock," the man called Mr. Holmes retorted as he read through the papers. "This is my friend, John –"
"Dr. Watson, yes, we know," the shorter man said, smiling benignly. "It'll be an honour to serve as your Course Coordinator."
"Or, in the case of Mr. Ben here, Head of Student Discipline," Sherlock remarked with a snicker. "Did you get the Crop of Canonical Characterisation in the post?"
"Just this morning," replied the tall ginger – Mr. Ben, it appeared – as he took out a lethal-looking riding crop from the inside of his vintage jacket. "It's been itching for a test run."
Dr. Watson's eyebrows rose at the sight of the riding crop. "Its name is quite a mouthful," he remarked drily. "Well, shall we introduce you to the others? They've all started bunking at Scotland Yard."
"I'll come along; I've just finished making some nibbles," chipped in the middle-aged woman as she re-emerged from her flat with a covered dish.
"Mrs. Hudson, ever the saint." Dr. Watson smiled at her as he and Sherlock descended the stairs. They quickly left 221B, hailing a nearby cab and managing to squeeze all five of them in.
"The geography of London's been a bit distorted by the Canon," remarked Sherlock en route to Scotland Yard. "People think it takes less than five minutes to get from Baker Street to any given crime scene."
"They didn't have the time to show you and John stuck in traffic," Mr. Ben's companion replied.
"No, thank god," Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Small mercies do exist in the form of rapid transportation."
"Handy escape from pursuing fangirls," chipped in Mr. Ben.
"Tell me more." Sherlock raised an eyebrow at Mr. Ben.
"You have a computer. Surely you've figured it out," Mr. Ben's still-unnamed companion deadpanned.
"Are they really that awful, Marty?" Dr. Watson asked.
The now satisfactorily-named Mr. Marty chuckled darkly. "You've no idea."
Scotland Yard resembled army barracks at the moment, full of lorries pulling in and out depositing crates and crates of materials.
"You'd think we were preparing for war," Mr. Marty remarked as they passed by a crate labelled DANGEROUS: DO NOT UPSET MINI-HOUNDS. The contents within were glowing worse than Bluebell the Luminescent Rabbit.
"Mini-Hounds?" echoed John, tilting his head at the crate. "What, did Baskerville send in some new experiments?"
"No, John, they're what happens when people misspell our names," Sherlock replied, nodding at a not-so-mini mini-Hound leaping from the back of a lorry. It resembled a Neapolitan Mastiff puppy (albeit this particular one seemed highly overgrown) – that is, if said Neapolitan Mastiff puppy bore red eyes and had recently swallowed a load of radioactive waste.
Said mini-Hound bounded over to them and nuzzled John affectionately. John raised both eyebrows and reached down to pet it. Its fur was soft and silky and tinged lightly with green at the tips.
"That's Jawn, I believe," Sherlock said, nodding at the nametag on the collar. "Everyone purposefully uses this misspelling, so he's become quite large."
"Cute lil' bugger," John remarked, scratching Jawn behind the ears. The mini-Hound followed them into the building, where they were promptly accosted with the words 'I BELIEVE IN SHERLOCK HOLMES' spraypainted across the wall behind the receptionist's desk in the most disturbing combination of hot pink, lime green, and orange.
"That's the legendary Crimsun, correct?" John asked, shielding his eyes as he pointed to the message.
Mr. Marty nodded. "Although I hear you lot might be making your own signature colour?"
At that moment there came a crash and a scream. Without warning, Anderson came tearing through the hall with a look of pure terror on his face.
"What did you do, Anderson, take an IQ test?" Sherlock demanded.
"Forensics lab," snapped the analyst before he rushed away. Sherlock raised his eyebrows but headed off in the direction of said forensics lab nonetheless. John frowned, looked between Sherlock and Messrs. Ben and Marty, and decided to follow Sherlock into the lab.
"Come along," Mrs. Hudson suggested as the consulting detective and the army doctor disappeared 'round the corner. "We've got some introductions to make."
The two newcomers nodded at each other, squared their shoulders, and soldiered on after Mrs. Hudson through the halls of Scotland Yard until they reached Detective Inspector Lestrade's office. Mrs. Hudson knocked and opened the door, revealing Greg Lestrade sitting behind his desk with a doughnut in his hand, Mycroft Holmes sitting across from him twirling his umbrella, and Sergeant Sally Donovan talking to pathologist Molly Hooper next to the nearby filing cabinet.
"This isn't everyone," Mrs. Hudson remarked.
"No, Watson and the Freak aren't here," Sally snapped.
"They've gone to investigate something," Mr. Ben replied. He was shoved aside by Anderson, who rushed into the room with a cup of coffee and a wild-eyed expression. "But there are others missing, still."
"Harry and Clara couldn't make it. Therapy with Ella," Irene Adler's voice cut in as she entered with Jim Moriarty and Kitty Riley. "Mike's tied up at Bart's –"
"Oh, what've you done to him now?" Molly demanded.
Irene ignored that. "Kate's coming in a moment, Dimmock's running late, Soo-Lin's avoiding Andy –"
"All right, so we have at least the major players aside from Sherlock and John in here," snapped Mr. Ben, clapping his hands. "Good. Let's begin the introductions. I'm Mr. Ben."
"And I'm Mr. Marty."
Donovan frowned. "You two don't happen to be…"
"The actors? No. Obviously not." Mr. Ben laughed. "But we do look like them, don't we?"
"Scarily so," whispered Molly Hooper, turning pink.
A quick pause. "Well, in any case, we're going to be helping you lot run this campus," Mr. Marty said, coughing slightly. "I'm the Course Coordinator, and Mr. Ben's Head of Student Discipline."
"How exciting," purred Irene, winking at Mr. Ben. He looked away with a chuckle.
At that moment, however, Sherlock came storming into the office, the remains of a silken shirt in his hands.
"I thought I told you lot not to go through my things!" he hissed, directing it pointedly in Anderson's direction. "You can't just waltz into my closet and steal my shirts –"
"You can't withhold evidence!" Anderson retorted.
"Withold evidence of what? Of my increased appeal to the fangirls no thanks to Benedict Cumberbatch? What, are you jealous?"
Anderson spluttered, his face turning a wondrous shade of Crimsun. The others averted their eyes.
"In any case, this thing's ruined beyond salvation," sighed Sherlock, looking down at it. "What is this colour?"
"I dunno; I combined it with the yellow spray paint left over by the Black Lotus blokes," Anderson admitted. "That plus the purple shirt makes it… well… yellow-purple."
"Congratulations," deadpanned John as he caught up. "You've created Yurple."
Within the week, in a different form of reality, a young woman named Rose Ellis sat down at her computer and began to write.
Rose Ellis was a Sherlockian. Not the Victorian type, mind you. Not the type with an Irregular Shilling in her pocketbook and a subscription to the Baker Street Journal. Not the type who curls up to watch Jeremy Brett and read The Hounds of the Baskervilles while wearing a deerstalker and blowing soap bubbles from a pipe. No. Rose Ellis was a fan of the shiny and modern BBC Sherlock, and quite frankly one of the worse fans of the lot.
After all, just a couple of days ago she had written and posted a 'wonderful' (in her terms) story where her kick-ass original character Rosie Watson-Holmes had bounced out of nowhere and killed Irene Adler in the name of HMS Teh Holy Jawnlock, the Ship to End all Ships. And now our delightful authoress was going to backpedal and attempt to explain why Rosie was the lovechild of John Watson and Sherlock Holmes and why she was sixteen while they were only in their early thirties.
Hi my name is Rosie Watson-Holmes and this is my story! I'm a sixteen year old girl and I'm the daughter of John and Sherlock! Yeah that's right my daddy John got pregnant –
"Hold up. Hold up! How is that even biologically possible!" someone demanded. Startled, Rose whirled around in her chair to gape at the woman standing behind her, reading her writing over her shoulder. Recognising her, the rabid fangirl's face broke into a scowl.
"SARAH SAWYER YOU SLUT, GET AWAY FROM MY JOHNLOCK!"
The woman, Sarah Sawyer, blinked. "Oh wow, you lot are more militant than I thought."
Rose crossed herself. "What do you want? What do you want, huh? I'm not backing down! I will have my –"
"You've been accepted," snapped Sarah, crossing her arms and scowling at the fangirl, "to the Baker Street Fanfiction Academy, Modern London Campus."
"What?" Rose demanded, frowning.
"I'm not repeating myself!" huffed Sarah, pulling a giant envelope coloured in the ugliest combination of hot pink, lime green, and orange. Rose gingerly took it from Sarah, handling it as if she had been handed one of Moriarty's bombs.
"Tell me I'm hallucinating," she snapped, staring at the envelope. It read ROSE ELLIS, COMPUTER DESK, HER ROOM, and the rest of her address in spidery capital letters. "Are you guys stalking me? That's creepy!"
"We also read your fanfiction and laugh about your terrible writing," retorted Sarah. "Fill it out quickly; I'm going to help myself to some tea."
"I don't have tea."
"Shame on you." Sarah left the room; Rose turned to the horrendous envelope, reached in, and pulled out equally horrendously-coloured forms.
"What the hell is this colour?" she demanded as she grabbed her purple – purple for the shirt of sex! Yay! – pen and began to read.
The Baker Street Fanfiction Academy, Modern London Campus
221B Baker Street, London
It is with a heavy heart that we take up our pens to inform you that you have been accepted at the Baker Street Fanfiction Academy, Modern London Campus (Modern Baker Street Fanfiction Academy for short). However, this is an acceptance letter that you cannot refuse, because whether or not you want to you will attend a semester at the MBSFA to learn how to write good fanfiction for the BBC Sherlock fandom. And chances are you will want to come, because your professors will be the characters themselves. Do not irritate them or the mini-Hounds, because you will regret it otherwise.
MBSFA is a selective and very small offshoot of the 1895 Baker Street Fanfiction Academy, and you will be one of only a hundred students attending the first semester. Passing one semester and the exit examinations are mandatory for you to obtain your license to write more BBC Sherlock fanfiction. With that at stake, please fill out the attached form and sign the waiver. We hope we will not see your face at the MBSFA tomorrow.
Mr. Ben, Head of Student Discipline
Mr. Marty, Course Coordinator
Rose got to the form and began filling it out, frowning at the odd questions. Why were they asking for her species? Why did they need to know about her worst fears? And who the hell cared about the original stories written by some old dead geezer from the boring Victorian era? Modern Sherlock was just so much cooler!
Rose viciously wrote 'IRENE ADLER AND ANY BITCH WHO GETS IN THE WAY OF MAH JAWNLOCK' under the question for her least favourite character, predictably answered 'JAWNLOCK THEY NEED TO BE TOGETHER FOREVER' for favourite ship, and replied with 'ANYTHING ELSE INVOLVING SHERLOCK AND JAWN NOT BEING TOGETHER' for least favourite ship.
Had she written porn? Rose frowned, and then remembered the fic she wrote a couple months ago of Sherlock using the riding crop on John in a way that a riding crop should not be used. She blushed and grinned and answered in the affirmative.
The next question made her bristle. Rosie was not a Mary Sue! She wasn't! Everyone was just jealous of her! She could hear Sarah returning, so she quickly continued along until she hit the 'characterise the following characters in six words' question.
Sherlock Holmes: Yummy sex god with gorgeous cheekbones!
John Watson: Snuggly hedgehog and Sherlock's true love!
Mycroft Holmes: Fat cakesexual brother sleeping with Lestrade!
Greg Lestrade: Not my division – go ask Mycroft!
Satisfied with the rest of her answers, Rose then turned to the giant block of text known as the waiver. Naturally, her eyes skimmed right over it, not noticing the rather ominous and threatening messages hidden within its lines.
Permission Waiver for MBSFA
By signing below, I hereby resign myself to a long and gruelling semester of terror, hatred, and fear at the MBSFA and thus waive my rights to sue them for any damages inflicted upon me during said semester (and possibly beyond). As I Learn through Pain how to write good, or decent, or semi-decent, or meh-ish, or at the very least comprehensible BBC Sherlock fanfiction, I will acknowledge that any pain or trauma – physical, mental, or emotional – inflicted upon my person by the Staff members or the mini-Hounds is for my own good and I deserve it because of my own stupidity or irrationality. I can always complain to Messrs. Ben and Marty, but they will laugh and send me back for more.
By signing this waiver, I put myself into the hands of the MBSFA Staff and will now waive all personal rights ever granted to me. The Staff are hereby given the right to do to me as they see fit, which includes but is not limited to mental and emotional abuse, torture, and death. This contract will be legally binding the moment I sign this and will not break even in the event of my death because the MBSFA will most likely be able to resurrect me. I will not be allowed to leave the campus until I pass the courses and obtain my license, and dropping out will involve a lengthy bureaucratic process that would annoy even Mycroft Holmes so therefore Mr. Marty will not drop me unless I provide a particularly good case. Chances are I am not reading this contract at all, because I am far too excited at the prospect of being taught by my lust objects or getting the chance to Canon-ise my favourite ships to read this. Besides, I am just a foolish fanbrat about to give MBSFA my soul, and I regret absolutely nothing.
(Oh look, did that just go over your head? Well, sign automatically on the space provided, and thank you for making this a very efficient and painless procedure!)
Messrs. Ben and Marty, Head of Student Discipline and Course Coordinator
By the time Sarah Sawyer returned from wherever she went with a cup of whatever she got instead of tea, Rose had quite effectively signed away her soul to the establishment. With a grin, the doctor took the papers from her and tucked them back into the plothole.
"What next?" Rose asked, but then she noticed that her keyboard looked extremely comfortable. Sarah shrugged.
"Sleep's always nice, I think," she replied. "You could do that."
By the time Rose fell asleep, Sarah Sawyer had disappeared, and Rose's story about Rosie Watson-Holmes was utterly destroyed.
"Jawnlock. Wow, that's disturbing now," Mr. Marty snorted as he read through the student registration forms.
"What's so disturbing about it?" Sherlock asked innocently as he scratched Jawn behind the ears. Jawn slobbered all over him.
Mr. Marty looked at them, laughed bitterly, and continued to read. "You're provoking me."
"Jawn is a very loveable mini-Hound," Sherlock retorted drily. "But in all seriousness, though, where is John?"
"Being crushed under the weight of a thousand jars of jam," Mr. Marty replied offhandedly. "You know how it is. Ever since Kate Beaton drew that comic strip…"
"Didn't help that the rail bloke in 'The Great Game' referred to blood and brains as strawberry jam," John added from the doorway. He looked slightly winded.
"Got away from the jam?" Sherlock asked, flicking his eyes up and down his friend's body. "Ah. Ran into Shelrock, did you?"
"What gave it away?"
"The fact that Shelrock is literally as hard as stone, which accounts for those lovely bruises all over your face," Sherlock replied with a grin. "That and he drools viciously enough to put the Reichenbach to shame."
"We are not talking about Reichenbach," snarled John.
"We aren't," Sherlock pointed out, grinning. "At least, not the one from our Canon –"
"I can't believe you just –"
"Shush!" Mr. Marty glared at them. "Take your discussion of what happened during Reichenbach somewhere else!"
The two glared at each other. "Fine," huffed John. "We'll discuss it later. Hey, Mr. Ben!" He waved at the passing Head of Student Discipline. "What are you doing with those crates? I thought the shipments of mini-Hounds ended on Wednesday!"
"No, no, these are hedgehogs and otters," Mr. Ben replied with a snicker. "I was thinking about training them to attack incoming students. Care to help?"
Sherlock grinned and got up, wiping excess Jawn-drool from his trousers. He and John then followed Mr. Ben and the animals down the hall.