Hey, so I started writing this a little bit ago, cause I got the idea in my mind and couldn't control it any longer. And it was before Fargo was finished, so it takes place BEFORE they skip ahead a year.

So I guess it's what would have happened if, A)Fargo took place in like, 2012 and not 2006... and B)If they hadn't skipped ahead a WHOLE YEAR! (that was totally fine though, btw, the show was AMAZING!) and C)If Sherlock and Fargo existed in the same universe! OKAY! YAY!

Enjoy! [=

Sherlock couldn't stalk the backstreets and alley ways of London looking after John any longer. He had a job to do. He was to track down all of Moriarty's network. Find them, eliminate them, return home to 221B. To John. It was simple enough.

After months of fighting his way through petty criminals and minor hit men, he'd finally found the information he needed. He'd found it in the back room of a brothel in Dusseldorf. Sherlock burst through the door, interrupting the giggling and necking that was taking place. He grabbed the supposedly great assassin around his coat collar, the man's trousers dropped to his ankles. Sherlock laughed and pushed the man up against a wall, banging his head against it.

"Sebastian Moran. Where is he?" The former consulting detective growled at the man.

"I don't know what you talk about." The man responded in broken English. Sherlock gave an annoyed eye roll and bashed his head into the wall again, causing a hole to begin to form, he let out a yelp.

"I said, where is Sebastian Moran. Do not make me ask again." He shouted, the woman in the room cried out that he was hurting the grimy pollock, Sherlock turned to her, "I know that, now would you kindly shut up." He growled at her and she shut her mouth, still cowering in the corner.

"He not here." The man answered plainly, Sherlock thrust his forearm into the man's gullet, causing a gag to escape from his mouth.

"Of course he's not here, you imbecile. But you know where he is."

"Minnesota." Came the short answer, the man's breathing became hitched and he looked as though he was going to pass out.

"Anything else I should know?" He pushed the man deeper into the new hole in the wall. He took a deep breath and Sherlock could barely hear the words he said before passing out.

"Lorne Malvo." Was faintly murmured as the assassin's eyes rolled back into his head and his body went limp beneath Sherlock's arm. He rolled his eyes and let the man drop to the ground, turning around and leaving the room as quickly as he'd barged in.

He pulled out his burner phone and dialed the number Mycroft had given him for the week.

"Mycroft. Yes it's me, who else has this number. Don't be an idiot... Yes brother mine I realize it is I who am the idiot. No that's not why I called... Well let me speak and I'll tell you..." His exasperated tone proved that it didn't matter if you were pretending to be dead, your brother could still annoy you, "Mycroft! Listen! Sebastian Moran is hiding out in Minnesota under the pseudonym Lorne Malvo... Well I don't know where in Minnesota, that's why I called you... Exactly... Just get me on a plane there... Yesterday..." He hung up the phone and tossed it into a trash can, opting to buy another one before he reached the airfield in Dortmund.

Well I'm waiting in Dortmund. -SH

Sherlock sent the text to his brother from his new burner phone and glanced around the airfield. There wasn't an active plane in sight.

In the hangar, brother mine. Don't be so vacuous.

The response came in less than a minute, Sherlock scoffed and shoved the phone back into his pocket, trudging across the open runway until he reached the hangar.

"Mr. Holmes." The pilot said, holding out his hand for Sherlock to shake. He did so cautiously. "Right this way please." He led Sherlock to the steps of a small passenger plane. Mycroft stepped out of it and Sherlock shook his head.

"Oh please, Mycroft. Do let me do things on my own. I'm not a child." Mycroft smiled and let out a small, short and meaningless chuckle.

"Yes I know that, Sherlock. I'm here to give you incentive to finish your foolish task." Mycroft handed him a large envelope, "Consider this my gift to you."

"What is it?" Sherlock asked, inspecting the package.

"Open it on the plane, and find out, of course." Mycroft said with a raise of his eyebrows and a twirl of his umbrella, "I suppose I will see you upon your return to London. Do try not to get murdered." Sherlock turned to watch his brother stroll leisurely out of the airplane hangar and he shook his head. He bounded up the steps and into the empty plane, taking a seat he ripped open the package like a child on Christmas morning. He took a moment to scoff at himself but continued to pull out the contents of the envelope.

"Pictures?" Sherlock asked aloud. He flipped through them. There was one of Mrs. Hudson on an afternoon stroll through the park. He smiled at that, she looked sad, but was still out enjoying nature. The next was of Lestrade, he looked angry, but no more than usual. There was an unfamiliar gleam in his eye and upon closer inspection of the photograph he saw it was surveillance footage from Mycroft's personal detail, "Oh really Mycroft? Gareth Lestrade?" He thought to himself for a moment, unsure if that was Lestrade's name.

He then came to the photographs of John. There were quite a lot, and for that he was thankful. Though he would never admit it to his brother. Of the seven or so pictures, there was only one in which John looked remotely happy. He was on his way to the cemetery. Mycroft attached a note to the back of that picture, a transcription of some sort.

"Hello Sherlock... Third time this month I've been here... The days are getting harder... I miss you..." Sherlock spoke quietly to himself, unable to read the entire transcription aloud. He closed his eyes and breathed in deep. Allowing himself to momentarily flash to the pavement. He lay there, unmoving, pretending not to breathe, to be dead. Squash ball in his armpit. He could still feel John's fingers on his wrist. He could still hear the desperate plea's from his flat mate. From his friend.

Taking a deep breath, Sherlock shook off these thoughts and stuffed the pictures back into the envelope. He could not allow himself to get distracted from the mission at hand. But perhaps if he just called John's phone... He only wanted to hear his friends voicemail. He pulled out the disposable and dialed in the number he knew so well.

In this day and age, no one remembers numbers anymore. They're all stored in our phones. It's bloody depressing.

John's voice rang through his mind like an old record and he laughed quietly. He told himself from that day forward that he would not delete John's mobile number from his mind palace. The phone rang three times before it was picked up, an uneasy silence from the other end.

"Hello?" That familiar voice said, Sherlock's breathing hitched and he couldn't move. He couldn't respond, obviously, but he couldn't quite allow himself to hang up, either. "Hello?" The voice asked again, "Look, if this is the bloody papers again, I'm going to say it one last time, I will not give you a story on Sherlock bloody Holmes. He was not a liar, nor was he fraud, nor were we shagging. So forget it." And with that, the line went dead. Sherlock laughed as he removed the device from his ear. He looked fondly at the mobile and then pushed it back into his pocket. For a moment he was mesmerized, then he was furious that the press was still hounding his friend. But the pride he'd felt about John Watson in that moment burned in his chest.

"John Watson, ever the faithful friend." He laughed and closed his eyes, resting his head against the seat. He hadn't gotten real sleep in ages, it was about time fatigue caught up with him. He fell asleep with his former flat mate's voice ringing through his head.

I've written a few chapters already, so expect those soon. [=