A Study in Sherlock

[1]

-Prologue-
Momentary silence echos across the world.
Millions of screens display the confession of Sherlock Holmes to John Watson, followed by a hesitant kiss from the two.
Moffat sits giggling upon his throne as shocked silence rings across every continent.
Slowly, then all at once, a cry rises from every person, the combined noise reaching unimaginable levels of sound.
Countries shake.
Cities fall.
Volcanoes erupt.
Fangirls and fanboys let out their shrieks and screeches, their families huddle in the safest place in their home, having lost all hope for their children's future.
Upon thousands of planes, all converge on Europe, not even bothering the borders and laws.
The horde travels to England.
They take out the government, the Queen lays stunned as a massive army of teenagers overtakes her country, and topples the Parliament in ease.
From all across the world people are lead by their instinct to a singular place.
A place of death and fear, now turned joy and hope.
The residence of Steven Moffat.
-End-

"OH MY GOD! IT'S FREAKING CANON!"

A screech of happiness like no other echoed throughout 487 Bellemeade Avenue, Evansville, Indiana, shaking the window blinds and rattling the glass sheets in their frames with its shill pitch.

Sixteen year old Scarlett Lazarus was perched on the edge of her bed, her long, light auburn hair a mess that hadn't been tended to in days. Her makeup was smeared around her shamrock eyes, and her t-shirt and shorts were wrinkled and in need of change. Her usual medium skin appeared paler from the lack of natural light. A sea of plates, cups, bowls, ice cream cartons, bags of chips, and other assorted food sources washed over the ceramic floor, coating her desk, and reaching all the way to the doorway of the room.

Scarlett had been dying for Sherlock series four to air, and had locked herself in her room for six consecutive days prior to the show's release.
Her mother and father knew the regimen quiet well by now. A few days before any series premiere or finale, they were to leave their daughter be, let her theorize, plan, and obsess.
The screech paid them no mind as they were used to it.
Now, Scarlett watched onscreen as Sherlock turned from the camera's view, leaving the, "I love you.", hang in midair as he turned and gently pressed his lips to John's. John was taken aback, still processing the last few seconds in his mind, but slowly accepted the sudden declaration of love and returned the kiss. Though the retired army doctor did almost have to stand on his tip-toes to reach the consulting detective.
This went on for a few moments, before the other man in the room started to grow uncomfortable.
"Ahem." Mycroft coughed into his hand, interrupting the two men, who jumped apart at the sudden noise.
"Well, that was a bit...late." Sherlock gently scratched the back of his head awkwardly with the gun in his hand.
John gave a small smirk.
"No shit, Sherlock."

Scarlett let out another ear-piercing screech and hugged the nearest pillow to her chest. Back onto the screen, the ending titles rolled and the theme played, leaving the young woman in a happy bliss, still replaying those last few seconds in her head over and over again.
Her phone began to vibrate frantically, getting messages from all of her Sherlockian friends, (all asking if each other had seen the premiere), who had made the poor decision of making a group chat of 5 people.
Scarlett grabbed the erratically convulsing device and opened the message app.
Stephen: OHMYGODOHMAYGOD
Danielle: YASSSSSSOTPISCANON
Michael: HOLYMARYWINCHESTERONTHECEIL-INGSPONTANEOUSLYCOMBUSTING
Marshall: Guys calm down...
Tally: DON'T TELL ME WHAT TO DO MARSHALL

Laughing out loud in her true laugh, the laugh that made her sound like a stereotypical witch, Scarlett quickly responded to the group message.
Scarlett: ASDFGHJKLITSCANONILITERALLYJUSTDIEDOFTHEFEELSINEEDMEDICALATTENTION

Flopping on her back, Scarlett stared at the white ceiling and let her emotions consume her. What was she going to do now? Of course, there was fanfiction to write, fanart to make, and most importantly, Tumblr.

But Scarlett was feeling like she needed to do more than just blog about it. This was too important to just leave to blogging and GIF making. Steven Moffat had actually, legitimately been nice to all the souls he'd shattered and hearts he'd destroyed. This situation couldn't sit there. It felt like...bait. Bait for something major. Maybe it was a scheme to trigger something in her. In every Sherlockian on the planet. That seemed about right. And something had definitely triggered in her. More like exploded in her at the level of an atomic bomb.

After several minutes of pondering, Scarlett knew exactly what she was going to do.

Jumping up from her bed and rushing over to her desk, she shoved aside the mess she'd formed and logged onto her laptop with speed like Hermes' winged sandals.

Man, I probably taught myself how to type with home row keys just then, Scarlett thought as she opened Tumblr and began sifting through her feed. Her friends had most likely started their Photoshop quest, but she had something else she had to get done. And she was going to need some allies.

She would need an army.

Vibrating twice more in a row, Scarlett snagged her phone from her bed and checked the river of messages again.

Michael:
ScarLaz, you're not on Tumblr, are you.
Tally:
GET ON TUMBLR RIGHT NOW.
Marshall:
Calm down, she's probably recovering from a feels attack.
Danielle:
You are literally the most anti-fangirl in existance.
Marshall:
No one asked for your opinion, filthy little Mudblood.
Danielle:
Okay, I'll give you that one.

Sliding back to her desk, Scarlett pulled up Johnlock tags, which continuously multiplied by the second. But as she kept scrolling through, she felt a feeling of elation beyond explanantion begin to burn.

My god, Steven Moffat was actually, legitimately kind to us broken souls. It's like...it's like...

Scarlett's stream of conscious rambled on like a normal girl would rant about her boyfriend. Her emotions were equivalent to a dyslexic person's alphabet, and she needed some serious help with reading them.

Snatching her phone up again, her thumbs darted across the fingerprint-encrusted screen as she sent out another message.

And with every word displayed on the bright screen, a smirk of pure mischief took its form on her face.