You're An Idiot, Sherlock Holmes (OC x Sherlock)

Rich Brook

"You okay?" I asked Sherlock as I walked out of Scotland Yard. He stood near the curb, looking out into the road as I hailed a cab.

"Thinking." From here I could see his mental cogs turning. 

The cab pulled up, and still looking away from me, Sherlock decided, "This is my cab, you take the next one. You might talk."

before he could step in, I placed a foot in front of him. "Thinking or not, I'm still going into this cab with you. I won't say a word," I said slowly. I slid into the cab, and so did Sherlock. 

I ran my fingers through his messy curly hair as he was lost in his thoughts, looking at him worriedly.

The TV on the back of the driver's seat flickered on, startling me, and Sherlock snapped out of his thoughts. 

"Can you turn that off, please?" I asked the cabbie politely. The advert kept running, and the driver didn't reply. After a moment, I asked again, "Can you turn it off-" I closed my mouth shut as another channel broke through the first one, face flickered between frames of the jewelry advertisement. Moriarty's face. 

Static interrupted both signals until Moriarty's excitedly joyful face popped up on the screen. He on the screen asked, sing-song:

Hello, are you ready for the story?

Animated white clouds and a clear blue sky were behind Moriarty. I sat up in my seat and looked over at Sherlock's alarmed expression.

This is the story of Sir Boast-A-Lot and his annoying princess.

"Sherlock . . . " I said warily, my voice in a whisper. He took my hand into his and I squeezed his grasp. We couldn't do anything but stare at the screen as Moriarty's face smiled maniacally.

Sir boast-A-Lot was the bravest and cleverest knight at the round table, who loved his princess very much. but soon, the other knights began to grow tired of his stories about how brave he was and how many dragons he'd slain to save his princess. Even she couldn't stand the stories.

I shook my head at Moriarty's not so subtle nod at me. Sherlock's skin had gone ghostly pale and he gripped my hand as if his life depended on it.

And soon the knights began to wonder . . . are Sir boast-A-Lot's stories even true?

On-screen Moriarty tapped a finger against his chin like he was pondering as the clouds became thunderclouds. He shook his head slowly and drawled:

Oh, no . . . So, one of the knights went to the princess, who always stood by Sir boast-A-Lot's side. Even she began to doubt her knight in shining armor. So, the knights and the princess went to King Arthur and said, "I don't believe Sir boast-A-Lot's stories. He's just a big old liar who makes things up to make himself look good." And then, even the King began to wonder. And the princess, too.

Static crackled the screen, cutting to a close up of Moriarty's face pondering the thought.

but that wasn't the end of Sir boast-A-Lot's problem. 

An animated thundercloud behind him shot thunder and it started raining.

No. That wasn't the final problem. 

The program flickered back to the jewelry showcase and Sherlock demanded to the taxi driver, "Stop the cab! Stop the cab!"

The cab stopped and Sherlock and I got out.

"What was that!" I demanded, pressing my hands against the door of the driver's seat. The cabbie's head was turned away. He slowly turned his head to us, and it was Moriarty with a small smile.