AN- Since writing Welcome to the Real World, I've been itching to write a crossover again... then I got addicted to Sherlock (TV). Hopefully fans from both fandoms will find the characters portrayed well, I tried my best.

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia and certainly do not own BBC's Sherlock and am not profiting from this in any way, shape or form.

England sighed as the door closed behind him and he stepped out into the misty night. His damn boss had given him enough work that only two of him could actually finish on time, resulting him having to work late into the night for the past few weeks.

Fishing a cigarette from his pocket, he quickly lit it before taking a drag, beginning to walk to the nearby lot. He felt old on nights like these. No longer was he a knight in a suit of armour with a sword, prepared to defend his fief, just as no longer was he a "barbarian", an imperial power or a pirate, a weapon always with him. His sword was now words written on paper, his spear was sanctions and knife was debate, his shield was alliances with other nations. He wasn't certain he could keep up as with each passing decade; change seemed to happen more and more rapidly (humans having difficulty keeping up, never mind him!), the wide world seeming to close in with no place to hide and everyone was busy and working and there never seemed to be any time, just more and more paperwork...What he wouldn't give to back briefly to his pirate days when the only person he answered to was himself, his only concern was his next target or safe berth and he only concerned himself with the deck under his feet, his crew and the wind in his sails. None of this diplomatic tiptoeing and word twisting; everything was much more clear cut – he either would tolerate you or he wouldn't and would run you through.

Simple.

On the bright side, leaving work at a time like this meant that the streets were quiet and peaceful and looking up, England could slightly make out the stars (which were never as clear they should be, damn light pollution). He passed under the street lights, his feet lightly crunching the gravel, to where his car was parked, letting the cigarette hang loosely from his lips as he searched through his pockets for his keys.

At last finding them, he pulled them out with a grunt and opened the drivers side, he threw his briefcase in just as he felt his head grabbed and slammed into the car's frame. Making spots swim in his vision, however, was no match for a millenia of battle-honed instincts and he retaliated, quickly knocking his assailant on the ground.

"Damn England!"

England froze, no human besides his boss knew that he was a nation. Even all the other nations's bosses only knew what their own personification looked like – it was just safer that way. So how did this human – who was certainly not even one of his people – come to know his secret name?

That moments hesitation cost him as the human got back up and smashed him upside the head with tonfa, drawing blood and cracking bone. England suppressed a groan, not only did that hurt and cause the formation of a violent storm a little way away from his south coast but this would result in more paperwork for him and cause France to mock him from gaining such injuries from a mere human.

Bollocks.

He used the momentum of the blow to get in a spinning kick and knocked the weapon out of his attackers hand before the man was on him, hands around his throat. As he struggled beneath him, he ground out, "What... the hell... do you want... you mewling... lily-livered...canker-blossom fool?"

The man chuckled and simply pressed down harder, "We want to remove your toxic influences from this world. You are a cancer that has been allowed to fester too long, you sit by and watch the everyman toil while you enjoy your luxuries and simply do as you wish."

England brought his knee up quickly, sacking the human and then delivering a wild haymaker to his jaw before kneeling on his stomach and raining down blows. "'Fraid it isn't as simple as that old chap. Kill a nation? You impertinent scut, do you think it would ever be that easy? You could never succeed in killing a nation and even if you could, to do so would kill the vitality of the soil, the economy would collapse as would any semblance of society, storms and natural disasters would be never ending, the very life would disappear, leaving only a barren wasteland behind."

The man smiled up at him through a mouthful of blood, "Who said anything about killing?"

England got up, keeping his foot firmly on the man's back and called his police, keeping an eye on the incapacitated human on the ground. Though, by doing so, he missed the next few words before the man exploded, a hidden set of bombs activating with his failure.

"All we need is the heart to bring you to your knees..."

Lestrade looked at the wreckage with a groan (this just so happened to be in his jurisdiction), a crater from a homemade bomb, blood everywhere along with what would be the coroners nightmare – figuring just who had been caught in the blast – and very little evidence or cause.

Beyond that, all they had to go with was a phone call that cut the caller off seconds after it connected by an explosion. What was left around the epicentre of the blast pointed towards a fight, a half melted tonfa and blood distribution suggested two people and they were presently trying to find the whereabouts of the owner of the blue original 1963 mini.

But that was it.

There were no terrorists groups claiming responsibility. There was no ruptured gas line or some other such nonsense. So far, his forensics team and officers couldn't even identify the type of explosive used.

He toyed with his cell in his pocket, he didn't want to call the insufferable know-it-all but he was certain he'd hear from the prat sooner or later. A case like this, well, it was right up his alley, too many unknowns, police baffled and a corpse (or what was left of one) when the minimal evidence pointing to there being two.

"Are you sure it isn't nitroglycerin?" He turned to a nearby forensics officer.

"It's...possible." He answered.

Ping

40L of a simple Acetylene and Oxygen mixture.

Lestrade sighed, if the consulting detective was showing interest already without any prompting, this would be a very long troublesome case.

"This is Gilbert, Ludwig isn't home Arthur and considering it's 6 in the morning, this had better be good."

They were so strict about security, nowhere would any of their names be pared with their nations in phone contacts and in case of tracing emails, phone calls, even letters were kept strictly on a human names basis. They would even ensure an even mixing of both human and nation contacts so if the phone were to be taken, it would be unknown as to which were which. So how had that bastard found him?

"This is a code 13029*B Sub-section... Fuck it." England groaned as he pushed his ribs back into place. Why did Germany make these codes so difficult to remember? When Prussia made a snorting sound on the other end of the line he found it in himself to continue. "You try remembering your brother's freaking codes when you would be bleeding to death." The last word turning into a hiss as his skin closed over what used to be a horrific wound. "The whatever-bloody stupid code is the one where I have terrorists on my arse who know about us and seem delighted to use whatever methods to make my life a misery. And likely yours as well."

Prussia was immediately all business. "Alright, I've just sent word out to the nearest signal to yours, Necolai the Romanian ambassador, should be there within the hour. The rest of us should be receiving the alert to go pair off with the nearest representative. Considering the annual meeting is in a few days though Arthur, this will be easier to do but also dangerous; there are far too many of us close together. I don't like this."

Arthur couldn't help but agree as he made quick work of his old phone before he went and hid in a street far away in case the signal was traced. This boded ill.

Russia had just arrived in the airport when his phone buzzed with the simple message:

Code 13029*B Sub-section 45-23 has been activated. Your nearest representative is Matthew the Canadian ambassador, coordinates 51.47° N, 0.30° W . Safehouse is at the Lion's Lair. Follow standard procedure.

Great. This was just what he needed. Not only did he just have to suffer through a long flight but some stupid humans were wanting to play. He was hungry, he was tired, he had dealt with screaming children and whining adults and he had been getting very little sleep these past months. Even worse was the weather out, it was far too humid, seeming to sap at his strength.

Reaching up to loosen his scarf with one hand, he erased all contents of his phone (messages, contacts, etc) with the other before he went outside, disappearing into one of the less used paths, hiding from sight between two dumpsters. Opening his briefcase, he quickly dowsed its contents with a bottle of vodka before lighting the papers so sensitive information could not fall into the wrong hands. He took out his wallet next, there was very little in it but a debit card, credit card and some identification papers. So taking out his pocket knife, he quickly chopped each card up into small pieces before throwing them also into the fire along with his passport. Once he ensured that any sort of thing or document that could potentially be linked back to him and his true identity was completely destroyed, all that was left to do was to take battery of his phone, crush the memory chip and destroy the phone itself.

However, before he could do that, a Molotov cocktail hit him square in the stomach, knocking him back before what felt like a concrete block hit the back of his head, killing him.

Canada was nervous, Russia had failed to show up at the gardens, what would be little more then a 20 minute drive.

It had been an hour.

Acting in accordance to the Code, he was now at a nearby hotel, pacing. He had quickly "obtained" a new phone (he was sure the other man wouldn't miss it) and used it to send an email to the English government's internal affairs officer. The poor man who secretly dealt with nation affairs could then pass the message along to England who could then come with his partner to come get him. If someone had managed to take down Russia then it was assuredly not safe to travel alone.

A ping noise rang out from his phone as his email got a new message.

It was from an unknown sender.

Nervously opening it, Canada's eyes widened with horror. It was a picture of Russia, clearly dead (why was he not reviving?) before his heart just about stopped when he saw the simple message that came with it.

You're next. You cannot hide from us.

There was no way.

The ping noise rang out once more and Canada opened the message with shaking fingers.

Hotel by the Kew Gardens, room 206.

He threw the phone against the wall, smashing it, before opening the window and hopping out of his room and running. He could not let them catch him.

Lestrade was not a happy man.

First there had a murder and an explosion. Then there was an explosion and a murder and the victim's heart was gone. In only three days. Sherlock was already involved, having almost gleefully searched around both crime scenes for any signs, or rather, lack thereof. He had already said that those responsible were very thorough in their crime,leaving behind very little evidence.

As neither victim had any confirmed identity yet, all that even connected the two was that the small carving of an unshackled chain on both the tonfa and on the remains of the bottle label... This was understandable in the case of the former, but the second body was intact and yet they could not find a match in the British records. They had sent out appeals to other countries systems to see if he could not be identified but the only response had been from the Russians who had sent a garbled email saying that the fingerprints and DNA matched the entire directory. They received a follow up email moments later saying that there had been a computer error, the technician responsible had been fired and that there had been no hits.

Besides there victims being mystery men, it was also becoming frustrating as far as any of them could tell, there wasn't even a motive and that the one responsible was just killing at random.

These were the hardest and most dangerous kind of killers to catch.

His thoughts were interrupted though when Sherlock called out, "John, give me your phone."

As Dr. Watson begrudgingly did so, Lestrade hurried over in time to see Sherlock clean off what appeared to be a cell chip and put it inside Watson's phone.

Moments later, Sherlock said "We need to move!" He got up and began to run westwards. "Our killer sent an email with this phone to another person. He has a new victim already picked out!"

In the ensuing hour, Sherlock with all the skill of a blood hound - along with an actual bloodhound - managed to track down the man who had been in room 206. They passed through the hotel, the gardens, backyards, a house, doubled back through a river.

The man clearly knew that someone was after him (not surprising considering the messages sent) and was skilled enough to trick both Sherlock and the dog once or twice before they came at last to an old abandoned building.

It was a near thing as upon bursting in, a figure was seen crouched over a still figure before quickly fleeing out the window. As Lestrade sent out officers after him, Watson ran to go look after the downed man on the ground but it was too late.

The man was gone.

Sherlock paced the floor at St. Bart's, Lestrade and Watson watching him wearily. It was getting late, but as Sherlock seemed on the brink of an epiphany and Lestrade's shift wasn't yet over, they remained.

Just as Watson was about to convince his flat mate to call it a night and at least return to Baker Street, two men entered, a number of men in suits behind them. The one man was tall, slightly tanned, had blonde hair and striking blue eyes behind glasses while the other was albino with white hair, white skin and blood red eyes. Both looked exhausted.

"Are you Sherlock Holmes?" The red-eyed man said.

"Who's asking?"

"Doesn't matter. Are you or are you not?" Came the terse reply.

"Yes."

"Mycroft speaks highly of you." Glasses said, shoving his hands in his pockets.

"Mycroft?" Sherlock said, before turning, striding towards the door. "I've heard enough, not interested. Goodbye."

Men in suits, stepped in front of him, blocking the doors.

"We can't have that." The blonde with glasses said, his voice weary. "This is a matter of international secrecy and the Queen herself is counting on you as is practically every nation leader in existence. I personally was asked by the President to ask for your help just as my companion was asked by the Bundespräsident to do the same."

"Just who are you?" Asked Lestrade, annoyed.

"I'm afraid we can't tell you that..." The albino said, his ruby red eyes roaming over them all. "In this our Rules are clear and if we break one, well, what's to say we won't go against them all. We need something to trust, to bind us, so sorry but you must guess."

"Guess what?" Watson said irritably, likely annoyed that they weren't being allowed to leave. "Your names?"

"Why?" Sherlock said sharply at the same time, curious.

The blonde opened his eyes and looked over, allowing them to see them truly for the first time. The youth's blue eyes were overcast and deep, if eyes were the mirror to the soul then the boy's was scarred, having evidently seen a lot. Too much perhaps. "No. Who we are, because otherwise we can't tell you and you'll never be able to solve this."

"I don't care who you are. Clearly some hot-shot to big for his breeches considering the American secret service is interfering and an German albino tag-along. Better question is why you are trying to interfere in a simple murder investigation in London?" Lestrade asked, clearly very annoyed that he was being kept from returning home and his bed.

"Because it is necessary." The blonde answered again. "This is much bigger then a plain murder, no, the scale is enormous, bigger then you know. An international incident. We all work for our nations respective governments. Any of you been watching any news? What's happening in Russia? What's happening in Canada? Your simple murder case has everything to do with what is starting to happen on an international scale. Do you think England won't be affected by what is coming? You must guess."

Watson sighed. "And we'll not be allowed to leave until we do?" The albino nodded. "Do we get any hints?"

"We've already hinted a lot, think at anything you've already discovered." Blue eyes mumbled.

Albino interrupted him. "I'm guessing you haven't been able to track down those two yet." He said waving his arms at the autopsy tables. "Officially, they're Ivan Braginski and Matthew Williams respectively, though like us, that is not who they are. Personal relationship wise, I knew Matthew when he was a kid through his Dad and I worked (here he shivered)...under Braginski for a while. We didn't get along very well, before that we had had a long relationship of tolerance and mutual hatred and abuse. Al here is Matt's twin and he also didn't get along well with Braginski, even having a feud that lasted years. Does that help at all with your analysis?"

Well, that was a curious introduction, with it they had both become suspects having had a feud with one of the deceased and had told them who two of them were, which seemed to ruin the purpose of the "exercise".

Sherlock sighed, going along with it. "You are both an abnormalities. You are both young, far too young for the amount of scars and old wounds that can be seen or alluded to by your posture and movements – you carry yourselves like old men! The scars that I can see have clearly been made by weapons differing by centuries in technology or caused from what appears to be within, with no blade or other such thing. The way you act and hold yourselves, you are both soldiers, yet could also pass for diplomats or politicians with how you speak and yet, to contradict those ideas, you dress like unruly and act like rebellious university students."

He began to walk again as he continued to speak. "The way you stand and the callouses on your palm claim you are used to warfare and holding a weapon but others still on the fingers claim that they are more accustomed to holding a pen. Your accent is both from the South of the US, though you do not look like a Southerner, while also sounding from the American East Coast, though you act somewhat like someone from the central states but you lack the attitude or drawl that is normal for the area. Your companion is even worse, speaking with every regional accent in Germany, though by his mannerisms I would say he is from the East part. Between the two of you, your tones and intonations cover nearly thirty-two different speech patterns from what I can only assume are your respective nations."

He took a deep breath before whirling to point at the white haired man. "You are albino and thus thrice more difficult to tell what region you are from while he is entirely too pale for the South and the countryside, yet too tan for urban sprawl and the Northern States and yet, seem to share all of their mannerisms. Your aviation jacket is old, looking to be one of types initially handed out to World War One pilots yet it doesn't look like it has ever had another owner while the German has a Iron Cross dating back to when they were first awarded in 1813 and has been wearing it so long the chain had worn into his neck, something that would not have occurred if you are as young as you look. Besides the sheer difficulties present in determining your origin, it is even more so with where you have been recently. You both have mud splattered on the hem of your jeans from Plymouth which is absurd considering it is hours away and the dirt is fresh. In the American's jean pocket, I can see the stub of a ticket sticking up from the New York transit system, for an hour ago. Finally, you want us to figure out who you are but you just told us two of their full names and gave me his nickname and yet the game is still afoot. You are engimas, paradoxes."

Blue eyes, who had been named as Al by the albino, began to speak. "That was more then I expected, but you are thinking too rationally, too narrowly. Think outside the box then Mr. Holmes. Gil and I can give you Matthew's personal history, even our own if you choose, though my brother's should be enough as he shares our... fate if you will. We're twins, though it's kind of funny, our nationalities are different. They were visiting family in Stanstead, Québec / Derby Line, Vermont (AN-town is divided by Am/Can border) and were in the Haskell Free Library when Mom went into labour with us. A month premature, neither she or Papa were prepared and she ended up having Mattie on the Canadian side of the border in the library and me on the American side. Both of them got really sick and died when me n' Matt were about 6 and we lived on our own for a while. I remember that at one point we got in a fight with some Nordic kids in the area – we were pretty wild then."

Al looked sad, pausing before he pressed on. "One night, it was really stormy and we got separated. A British man found me and took me in, he tried to help me look for Matt while raising me as his own. It was at a family reunion years later that I saw Matt again, he had been found by my guardian's brother, a French man and raised in Québec. Now Arthur (my adoptive Dad) and Francis (Matt's adopted Dad) were quarter-brothers (they shared the same grandfather) of a sort and they hated each other. I forget what started it, but the reunion became a bit of a war zone and at the end of it, Matt came into the custody of Arthur with me. Those years were great... " The boy took a deep breath before continuing, it was evident this was hard for him to talk about, regret clear in his eyes. "If only they had stayed that way. As I grew, I began to find Arthur to be too overbearing and stifling, it felt sometimes that he favoured Matt over me...So I took all his tea one day and flushed it..."

Everyone looked at him, waiting for him to continue but it soon became clear that he was lost in memory. The albino cleared his throat. "Yeah. Hmm. Well then. Anyway, it didn't go over well. It resulted in Francis and I going and helping the boy set up his own place and move out, he tried to get his brother to come with him but Matt refused, deciding to stay with the Brit instead. Arthur and Al have only recently begun talking again. Let's see, anyway my Bruder and I are they're second-cousins or something...Just a warning, our family is really extended and fairly messed up, we have at least a relative in each country and micro-country and we all seem to have love/hate relations. It gets confusing." He seemed to think about it for a moment before saying. "Okay, I think we're their second-cousins thrice removed? Fuck if I know, anyway that's how I know this stuff. Anyway, a little bit after that Francis and Arthur began fighting and Arthur would sometimes go to Al's house to "borrow" some things (which he claims were his to begin with) to prank the Frenchie and Al ended up getting really upset and tried to take over Arthur's house while he was beating up Francis but Matt held him off, though he got really upset when Al burned the garage down and in retaliation, set his kitchen on fire...Hang on a tic, I'm their Uncle cause Francis and Ludwig* are brothers...or are they half-brothers? Step? Wait...I'm Ludwig's brother, does that mean Frenchie's my half-brother then too? Hmmm."

Lestrade and Watson (Sherlock looked minutely bored) were now openly staring at the German, how the hell had these people gotten away with all this without a criminal record (which they could find) or being imprisoned and why were their family relations that bad?

"Then there was that time he was involved in a fight with our cousin from the Netherlands over this kid he was looking after from South Africa...oh! And that time when one reunion resulted in an enormous fight between me and my Bruder and a bunch of our relatives and he sided with the Brit... Poor Ludwig had to make Francis so many coocoo clocks to pay him back for the damage done to his house, then Ludwig flipped his lid and... "

Al interrupted, his voice cracking and clearly barely holding it together. "'Cause we were so young and we never really celebrated, we actually don't remember our birthday – Matt insists...insisted that it was on July 1st while I think it was July 4th... I wish now that we just picked a date in-between so we could celebrate together. See, C-Matt is frequently overlooked because of me and sometimes those we cared about would forget about his birthday and I know it hurt him. M-Maybe if we had done that he wouldn't have felt so lonely, he wouldn't have been alone that night."

"Hold on." Lestrade spoke up. "Quite a bit of that sounds familiar. Why can't you tell us directly again?"

"Because no one can be told directly, you must guess. It's the Rule." Gil said.

"Who's rules?" Watson piped up.

"Can't tell you that." Al said, having collected himself.

"How old are you?"Sherlock suddenly asked, his eyes sharp.

"A lot older then I look." Gil said wryly as Al nodded, both of them seemed to have a different air about them then before, their focus visibly narrowing to only Sherlock, like a cat watching a mouse.

"I don't suppose either of your fingerprints would also match an entire national directory as well would they?" The consulting detective continued, clearly on to something.

"Likely," Al said. "Though I'm not so sure about Gilbert – his may match only those of East Germans..."

"I'm Prussian damn it." Gil said. "Don't give me this East German crap, that's Ludwig's job."

"Speaking of jobs," Sherlock said. "You say you both work for your nations' respective governments, do Ivan and Matthew as well? For Russia and Canada...no don't answer that. I don't suppose you could repeat some of that background with just your nationalities could you?"

Gilbert smirked at him, "Oh-ho~ I think he's got it...I don't think that breaks the rules, Al?"

"Sounds good, let's hurry this up." Al was beginning to look very twitchy, constantly shifting his weight and looking over to the door leading to the autopsy tables.

Gil, rubbed his hands together before gesturing dramatically. "Okay. Canada's background, the abbreviated version. He and America lived on their own for a while after their parents die. They're separated, have a bit of a run in with some Norsemen before England finds America while France finds Canada. England raises America then he and France have a fight resulting in Canada being handed over to England's custody. Shortly after, America got tired of living under England who was getting overbearing and dumped his tea. France and I, Prussia, helped him move out and live independently while Canada stayed with England. France and England began fighting again and England kept going over to America's house to borrow some things (which he claims were his to begin with) to use against France. America, annoyed, goes to England's house and ends up fighting with Canada and sets the garage on fire. In return Canada burned his kitchen. Canada also got in a fight with England against the Netherlands over South Africa and then another time ended up fighting me, my brother Germany and a few others like my cousin Austria and his wife Hungary which ended up with my brother having to pay France back for damages and a long standing grudge between them..."

Sherlock interrupted dryly. "You expect me to believe that your countries? That is most illogical."

"Bingo! And hell yes I expect you to believe it! You're supposed to be, like, like the smartest person in the world or something!" Al said, whirling around and pointing. "Now, will you please let me see my brother?"

"Prove it." Sherlock said, his voice holding a challenge while Lestrade and Watson just looked between the two, somewhat confused and startled.

"Fine." Prussia said, with an enormous grin. "Hey America!" He called to the pacing blonde who then stopped and turned to glare at the albino.

"What." he snarled.

"Sorry in advance." Then a whistling sound rang in the air for but a moment a silver blur made contact with the blonde's shoulder. The three stared as Alfred nonchalantly drew the thrown blade out of his shoulder and watched as the wound began to close the instant it left his body.

"Holy shit." Watson hissed, his eyes wide.

"Well, that proves you at least have some unknown major science on your side." Sherlock responded drily. "That or you've found the fountain of youth, which in all honesty I find more plausible then the personification of nations."

America ignored him and instead hissed at Prussia. "Prussia, because of that Ohio just experienced a minor earthquake. This results in me having quite a bit of paperwork. Which I will have to do with time. I. Don't. Have. Right. Now. I don't need anything more on my plate right now, thank you very much so kindly refrain from doing that yet again for a third time today."

"Get over it, stop acting like you're only a decade old. It was only a dagger, and the first time you totally deserved it too." Prussia smirked before he chose to address Sherlock's concerns. "I expect you to at least take it as a possibility because the sake of the world depends not only on the capture of these men but the recovery of Russia's heart. The collapse of the government followed by insurrections and anarchy that is occurring in his lands right now is happening because of the theft and it will spread. Like a disease, chaos contaminates everything it touches; citizens will become increasingly paranoid, there will be increased suspicion of foreigners, nationalism will be on the rise, the building of armies,weapons and factories, distrust of the government, frustration over recent changes on borders, trade, military, anything. It will build and build until there is nothing but hate and distrust which will consume everything. Don't believe me? It has already begun! and before the end of the decade, we will have World War Three on our hands. I don't care if you believe us or not, but we need your help in this – if you help us, you will see the proof you require."

America, clearly having had enough of the discussion and was at the end of his rope turned and ran through the door that went to the autopsy area.

"Hey! You can't go there!"

America plainly couldn't care less, and it became obvious that neither did Prussia as he went over to join him to stare down at Canada.

"There." America said quietly pointing at a spot above the skull. Prussia leaned over before muttering his agreement. The blonde turned to the the three that had followed them and who were staring at them with astonishment. "Hey...docs, do you think you could remove a bone fragment from his brain?"

"What!"

"Soooo. Let me get this straight. You cannot be killed unless your are officially dissolved or your country destroyed."

"Ja."

"So you revive when you are otherwise injured."

"Yes."

"So why do we have two of you dead?"

Prussia sighed, borderline exasperated. "Do I really need to reiterate? First, because Russia's heart was stolen. That corresponds to his government and capital, which is why Russia is presently falling into a state of anarchy and until it is returned, he won't wake and whoever has his heart...well, let's not go into that just yet. Needless to say, it's unpleasant. Second, Canada is still dead because there is a bone fragment imbedded in his brain which is continuously killing him. So he's reviving and dying probably once every three seconds, that why we asked if you could remove it."

"Right...You do realize we're not brain surgeons?"

"Watson was a Field Doctor once and any damage you do will be repaired as long as that bone fragment is removed. Yes, it may cause a tree or bridge to fall down or something, but in the grand scheme of things it is much better then what will happen if this continues. Canada's GDP will continue to plummet, his citizens will begin to loose their drive, those with weaker wills have already likely succumbed to feelings of depression and hopelessness and the life, the vitality, in the very soil also suffers. Please."

"Why can't you do it?" A very nervous Lestrade asked.

"Because," Prussia said, weary. "As the personification of a nation and the present situation, if America or I make a mistake when doing this, bruise the brain tissue or anything of the sort, it would transfer as our nation attacking Canada. The governments of the Commonwealth and England will immediately support him, as will France and much of the world would as well as America or Eastern Germany would be considered the insurgents. Many would side against America simply due to past grudges, you've seen the state of international politics, all they need, all they want is an excuse. Some might even try to connect our lands with what is going on in Russia. And Voila~ Once more, a major war will result, one that will perhaps completely destroy this age. So, no matter how much we want to, we can't do anything."

The trio looked at them and saw, perhaps, for the first time just how tired and helpless the two felt.

"I'll do it." Watson suddenly said with confidence he didn't really feel.

As they sat above the autopsy room, looking in through the windows and waited for Watson to begin, Lestrade, clearly uncomfortable due to America's pacing and Sherlock's intense stare below, turned to talk to Prussia.

After a while, Lestrade, clearly curious and having been thinking about it for a while asked him, "So since you're a nation and ridiculously long lived, what was World Wars II like, I mean, what role did you play?"

Prussia looked uncomfortable and ran a hand through his hair. "Why is it whenever people learn of our secret they never ask about Old Fritz or the Teutonic Knights but always about him? Why are you asking me? I'm sure you knew the bastard was Austrian... Besides, the Rule applies for everyone, even our bosses, and Hitler never guessed who we were. Not the Priss (Austria), Herr Stick-in-the-Ass (Germany) or yours truly. He knew we were important but we didn't leave many hints as we had read his book** and had a good idea of where his extremism would lead. Then, after my denunciation for what his government was beginning to do with "undesirables" such as the mentally ill and the camps made for political prisoners, I was sent to Dachau for being an Anarchist and a threat before the war even broke out. I spent the entire war there, in pain for the battles fought in my name, my people dying both on and off the battlefield and from being dissolved into little more then a province. Germany followed a few years after (he didn't know where I went, he thought I'd died with the dissolution) having been found out for his love for North Italy, a man. Austria himself had had to go into hiding when he publicly burned the flag of the Reich (Specs did have his moments of ballsy-ness, he would give him that). So of course as soon as he did this he began to lose the war; nothing helps this more then imprisoning and abusing the very nations you are trying to strengthen, the moron. Happy?"

Before Lestrade could say anything, Sherlock sharply said "Quiet! He's starting!"

*At one point France and Germany's lands (parts of it) were united under the Carolingian Dynasty.

** Mein Kampf, which if you have ever read any excerpt you will know as a very disturbing, racist book.

I have no idea what I'm doing when it comes to chemistry...YouTube shows it as explosive in small quantities so I'd imagine it's dangerous in large quantities and wouldn't be the first guess of any investigator.

Once again, I tried my best, I hope no one is two OOC. This will be a two-shot, part two should be up whenever I have time to finish it.

Two-Headed Eagle is Russia's Coat of Arms

PLEASE REVIEW!