This is it. The long-awaited sequel to "The Curse of Ke$ha." Well, it's not exactly a sequel, but an equal – it's like comparing "Shock Treatment" to "Rocky Horror." Both good, and sharing similarities, but completely different beasts. Enjoy!
Mycroft's umbrella gun was inspired by the ginger chick from Gin Tama. All song lyrics are property of their songwriters. Sherlock is property of the BBC.
Clutching a long-needed bottle of milk in his hand, John Watson opened the door and climbed the stairs up to his and Sherlock's flat.
"Hello? Sherlock? I got the milk!"
No answer. John assumed Sherlock was either still sleeping or doing some experiment in the kitchen, so he opened the door into the parlor, not knowing what awaited him behind the door.
"Hello. Is it me you're looking for?" sung a smirking Moriarty in what could only be described as a perfect Lionel Richie impersonation.
Sherlock was tied to a chair with some rope, his mouth muffled with duct tape. Moriarty stood behind him, the barrel of the gun in his hand pressing against Sherlock's temple.
"Moriarty… I thought… we thought… you were in solitary confinement!" John spluttered, nearly dropping the milk at the sight of his flatmate's archenemy in their flat.
"Sometimes I feel like I don't have a partner," Moriarty began, sounding eerily like the lead singer of the Red Hot Chili Peppers. "But now I do. And he bailed me out. MORAN!"
A muscular, shady-looking man in a wifebeater, camo pants, and steel-toed boots stepped out of the kitchen, smoking a cigarette. His face was scarred, his hair was thinning, and he had a large, army-grade sniper rifle strapped to his back. He took a puff of his cigarette, dropped it on the floor, and crushed it with the end of one of his steel-toed boots.
"You called, sir?"
"Yes, I did, Moran." Moriarty smiled like a Cheshire cat.
"What are your orders, sir?" asked Moran, pulling the sniper rifle out from behind his back and loading it.
"I'll take Sherlock here, you take out his pet hedgehog."
"But he doesn't have a pet hedgehog, sir–"
"I MEANT MR. WATSON! TAKE OUT MR. WATSON!" roared Moriarty, clearly annoyed at the inferior intellect of his partner in crime. Sherlock squirmed underneath the ropes holding him back.
Just then, the window blew open and Mycroft Holmes flew in, clutching onto his open umbrella as a means of transportation. He landed on the floor with ease, and brandished his umbrella as one would a fencing foil.
"Don't you worry, child – Heaven's got a plan for you!" he sang, sounding uncannily like a Swedish House Mafia song.
"Mycroft? How did you learn how to fly like that?" John asked incredulously.
Mycroft closed his eyes and sighed deeply. "Perk of having a position in the British government, I suppose. Now, Mr. Watson, you can stand under my umbrella – or rather, behind me – and hold on tight. This place about to blow!" He pressed a button on the handle of his umbrella, and the top of the umbrella popped open to reveal a machine gun barrel and a full round of bullets.
"IT WAS ONLY NINETY NINE CENTS!" proclaimed Mycroft in the style of a white rapper. "And from the thrift shop down the road, no less."
In a flash, Sherlock ripped the duct tape off of his mouth, jumped out of the ropes, and landed behind his brother's umbrella-gun.
Sherlock grabbed on to John's hand. "Just know you're not alone, 'cause I'm gonna make this place your home."
"It's time to begin, isn't it?" sang Moriarty impatiently, pointing his gun at the trio behind the umbrella. Moran aimed his rifle at John's forehead.
And then the shoot-out began. Bullets flew everywhere; Mycroft's umbrella deflected Moriarty and Moran's shots at an improbable speed.
"SHOTS, SHOTS, SHOTS, SHOTS, SHOTS! EVERYBODY!" screamed Moran, trying to shoot John in the face.
"I knew you were trouble when you walked in." snickered Moriarty, also trying to shoot John in the face.
Suddenly, amid the crossfire, Sherlock donned a pair of sunglasses and leapt into the fray.
"OPPA GANGNAM STYLE!"
With that, everyone in the flat stopped what they were doing and began dancing like insane Korean horses…
John woke up in a cold sweat. That's it, no more jam before bed, he thought to himself.