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This is a story about a prince and a princess.
("That's bloody ridiculous," fumes the princess, when DI Lestrade makes a comment to aforementioned effect.
"And a bit sexist," observes the prince mildly.
The narrator forges on, undeterred.)
They meet under the ascribed circumstances; villains capturing the princess ("Please be specific, they were a gang of internationally wanted diamond thieves," says the princess, still seething from the fairytale comparison. The prince makes an attempt to look apologetic about his error, but largely fails. Knowing smirks from the respected bystanders of the Yard.) and the gallant prince, Browning drawn, swoops in on his white steed.
("You came in a cab with an alcoholic driver, sitting on the left side of the seat, by the looks of it," protests the princess, somewhat distracted by the sight of the prince chatting amiably with Sally Donovan, who, for allegorical purposes, shall be called Ugly Sister #1 henceforth, despite strenuous protestations against being related even in the remotest of ways by all parties concerned.
The narrator strives to continue.)
Further inquiry on Lestrade's part (who, for lack of a decent father figure in this tale, shall be called the King, with apologies to the democrats among us.) reveals that while the thugs who set upon the virtuous and fair princess have been arrested, the brains of the operation (one John Clay, who, obviously, will be the Wicked Witch. The narrator apologizes for the unoriginality of the moniker, but would like to point out that it ain't a story without a good ole' Wicked Witch, y'all.) has so far managed to elude the combined efforts of capture of Scotland Yard and, more importantly, our sweet-natured and gentle princess Sherlock Holmes.
A net is duly drawn: the King, the princess and the prince will await the arrival of the dastardly villain in the bank that he plans to rob, now that he thinks that his evil schemes have come to fruitition and the innocent and kindly princess is no more.
("Why him?" asks Lestrade, eyeing John Watson doubtfully from a distance. As far as he's concerned, John's just the guy -ex-military with dubiously permitted 9mm Browning- who happened to live in the flat directly opposite the abandoned building where Sherlock, bound and gagged, had been taken to.
Sherlock bristles under the DI's twinkling gaze. Twinkling. Bloody streetlights. "Him, because he's the only decent shot within a ten-mile radius, present company included."
Lestrade holds up his hands, but he's still smirking. There goes Sherlock's reputation as an ice-cold bastard. Just because of an army doctor with a gentle smile. Sherlock scowls; he fumes.
"Anything the matter?" asks John, approaching them. He has, bizarrely, a small leaf stuck in his hair and Sherlock is suddenly overwhelmed by the urge to pluck it out.
Sherlock's glare, he's dismayed to find, has receded to the point of near non-existence. He hangs on to it, barely. "No. Lestrade was just being tedious. Let's go."
He leads John away, hailing a cab as he goes. John's eyes drop to where Sherlock's hand is clasped firmly around his, and he grins brilliantly.)
("What the bloody fuck was that?" asks Ugly Sister #2 (Anderson. Obviously.)
"I think it's romantic," sighs a pretty girl from the forensics team.
Lestrade rubs his nose warily. It greatly helps him recover his Zen. "Alright. We've a criminal mastermind to catch."
"Bet you twenty quid they'll be shagging by the time you get there," prophesies Ugly Sister #2 darkly.)
(The narrator apologizes for the tangents. They're necessary, you see, for establishing the backstory. If you don't, you can bloody well fuck off.)
The prince and the princess, much to the King's relief and good fortune, aren't making fierce and declarative love in the bank lobby. Instead, they're caught up in the preliminaries of what promises to be a spectacularly complex mating ritual.
(Lestrade clears his throat pointedly, and Sherlock throws him an irritated glare before looking back at John with terrifying intensity as John relates a life story that Lestrade -and for that matter, Sherlock himself- had already guessed at: doctor, soldier, gunshot, retirement, and a quiet apartment with a view of the building opposite.)
Time wears on grudgingly as the king, princess and prince await the fiend. The king finds that he has to avert his eyes politely each time the well-loved and gentle-hearted princess gazes upon her noble and courageous prince, for fear of intrusion (and of getting his eyes singed. "Seriously, Sherlock, mind turning it down a little?")
Eventually, after some good-natured reasoning and camaraderie ("You're a bloody pillock, Lestrade, don't pretend you're actually being useful." "Calm down, both of you. Sherlock, d'you mind telling us how you know he's going to use this entrance?") they settle into companiable silence. The moral and just princess, with rosied cheeks after receiving the prince's praise ("Brilliant," John says, sincerely, after Sherlock outlines a series of -in his opinion, rather unextraordinary- deductions. But John's eyes are bright and very blue, and Sherlock is shocked to find no traces of mockery or resentment in them. It's a miracle, is what it is. He can't help blushing violently. He can feel it. Lestrade will never let him live this down.) is speculative and demure.
The villain, when he arrives, is rather unconventional himself, but passable according to the series of behavioral quirks that dictate his dealings as a criminal. He has flaming red hair and disconcertingly clear green eyes; when the barrel of the king's gun drives emphatically into his cheek, he raises his hands gracefully and asks to be addressed as 'Your Majesty', citing royal blood in his veins.
(Which is a nightmare, allegorically speaking. However, the narrator is quite determined to see this through.)
He seems mostly unfazed, though mildly intrigued, by the princess' presence: "Oh. You're alive. That, that's good. How'd you manage?"
(This is followed by Sherlock and John Clay discussing the relative likelihood of John seeing, then rescuing Sherlock, while Lestrade cuffs Clay. Clay is then frog-marched off the scene after an apologetic "Gotta go. Catch you later, Sherlock.")
The fiend successfully captured, the princess looks over at the prince. He's flushed from the exertion of capturing the villain and his varied minions (including, curiously enough, a man dressed as an accurate interpretation of an eighteenth century pirate. This story's timeline is fucked all to hell by now, might as well go with it, proposes the much put-upon author.) and looks, for want of a suitable adjective, quite dashing.
"Let's go home," the princess says imperiously.
The prince starts. "Pardon?"
The princess makes a (rather fetching, in the prince's opinion) dismissive gesture, complete with petulant downturned mouth. "It's obvious you don't feel comfortable in your own flat. Come live with me."
(Readers must rest assured that co-habitation prior to wedlock was indeed rather common in this day and age we speak of, and thus no eyebrows were raised at the suggestion from an ethical standpoint.
That being said, this was rather forward of Sherlock.)
A slow, measured blink from the prince. "Why?" he asks cautiously.
(Protestations from the peanut gallery: he's supposed to jump at the chance!
Our prince is virtuous and noble, dammit. Get over it.)
"Because you're interesting, and I need someone who can tell a corpse from a papier-mâché cutout handling forensics." The princess offers.
The prince smiles, rolling his eyes. "Thanks, I think. But, Sherlock," he adds as the princess turns to swoop out with him trailing behind, "you should at least buy me coffee first. I'm not that easy, you know."
The princess disappears.
The prince is left blinking at the spot where her gown ("greatcoat!" Sherlock cries, scandalized, when Donovan implies otherwise) swept off with great flourish.
Soon enough, she reappears, bearing refreshments. "Move in with me," she says, employing feminine wiles and charm, in the face of which the prince's valiant mind stumbles. (Sherlock's big, imploring eyes are a force to be reckoned with. John will soon find himself primary grocery-supplier to a shared household.)
The prince grins up(?!) at her. "You make a pretty strong case, but,"
And Sherlock kisses John.
The prince, after some initial hesitation (the sound John makes is somewhere between an undignified meep and an oomph of sheer surprise.) responds in kind (John's tongue tracing Sherlock's lower lip, then licking unabashedly, begging entrance) and the world slows fractionally (just enough to let John tilt his head, and oh God, the angle's perfect, and Sherlock whimpers a little into the kiss.)
There’s more to it than amazing sex, the narrator hastens to assure disillusioned readers. There are crime scenes and bullet wounds and corpses with interesting organs missing. There is tea in the morning and the dragon’s lair (Mycroft becomes quite fond of the nickname) and smiley faces drawn in fresh blood and…
Suffice it to say, they live happily ever after.