Hello! I should technically put this in the crossover section, but nobody ever checks there, and it's just as much an AU as a crossover... So, here is a Sherlock fic set in a video game slash comic book world, a la Scott Pilgrim! Hope you enjoy it.

John Watson (Age: 39, Rating: Above Average) walked through the park, cursing his Luck. Life after Afghanistan was treating him badly; his leg hurt, his shoulder hurt, and worst of all, he was dreadfully bored. If only something – anything – would happen to break up the monotony of his life.

"John? John Watson?"

Surprised, he turned as the man approached him. "Mike Stamford?" the man prompted. (Age: 40, Threat: Negligible). "We were at Bart's together."

It appeared his wish would be granted. Funny how life works like that.

-x-

When John first met his potential flatmate, he couldn't help staring. Tall, pale, and Christ those collarbones look like he should be carved from marble, and he read John with such terrifying certainty that the doctor couldn't help but wonder if this man had found the mythical Walkthrough. It was incredible, and even though John knew he should probably feel affronted at having his life story laid out by a total stranger, he was simply stunned.

"You are an Army Medic, invalided home from Afghanistan. Your limp is at least partly psychosomatic; the real injury being a tactical crippling of your Defence. You have a brother who cares about you," (here John's mind stumbled, but quickly understood the mistake) "but to whom you will not go to for help, possibly because of his alcohol problem, more likely because he recently left his wife. You are looking for a flatshare because you refused to keep any money earned from defeating enemies, although you kept the EXP, and you cannot afford rent on your own. I think that's enough, don't you?"

The man gave his name (Sherlock Holmes, Rating: 9.5) and winked, and John was his.

-x-

John unpacked his boxes in a sort of stupor, still in shock over the sudden dramatic change in his life. It had barely been two days since he met Sherlock Holmes, and already he had helped investigate a murder, been kidnapped by a 'concerned' individual with some scary connections, and texted a serial killer. Even now, he was just pottering about while they waited for a response from said killer.

After ten minutes or so of fairly ineffective rearranging, he gave up and sat in front of his laptop with a mug of tea. Sherlock lounged on the sofa in a position that could only be comfortable to him, nibbling on a biscuit brought up by Mrs Hudson (Not A Housekeeper). John quickly went through his usual Internet routine – Facebook, email, BBC News – before checking his blog for comments. There were a couple from his friends, one from Harry making a remark about his feelings towards Sherlock that was more accurate than he'd care to admit, and one comment that appeared to be spam.

Sirenofthesea writes:

Hello, John. I have a feeling we will be meeting soon, and I thought I should introduce myself. I am the first of seven, although I doubt you will last long enough to see us all.

You are not worthy. We will teach you.

It would be a lot easier if you left.

John didn't even have time to decipher what this could mean, because the killer called and Sherlock leapt up, dashing around and impatiently waiting for John to get his coat on before zooming out the door, beaming with the thrill of the chase.

-x-

Sherlock followed the cab driver as soon as he realised what was really going on. He sat in the back of the taxi, being driven towards what may very well be his doom.

An unlikely scenario. He could out-think anyone.

"I've got a sponsor," the cabbie explained. "A … fan of yours. He does worry about you so. Doesn't want you to get bored, you know. Very kind, is your fan."

"How very considerate of him."

"You don't know the half of it," the cabbie said, and smiled.

They arrived ten minutes later. The fake gun was ridiculous and unnecessary, but Sherlock played his little game. Two pills, one harmless, one deadly. The question was, why? Sherlock took in the cabbie's appearance; the gloves, the long jacket, the way he covered nearly every inch of skin save his face.

"You're dying," he realises. "De-resolution. Six months at best."

"Well done." The cabbie seemed impressed. He pulled off a glove, revealing mottled and pixellated skin. "Didn't catch it until it was too late. I'm a dead man walking, Mr Holmes."

"And your sponsor-"

"Your fan."

"Yes, yes, my fan – he pays a significant amount for each murder. A trust fund, for your estranged children. You could never break out of your job class, and you want a better life for them."

"You really think you're clever, don't you, Mr Holmes? Well, are you clever enough to beat me?"

He pushed one of the pills towards Sherlock.

-x-

The gunshot took them both by surprise. Sherlock jumped, the pill falling from his hand, as the cabbie crumpled to the ground. He flashed red, but he wasn't dead yet.

"Who sent you? Who?" He ground a foot into the cabbie's wound. "Give me a name!"

"Moriarty."

Sherlock fell back, horrified.

No. Not him.

He ran out of the building, but he couldn't outrun his fear.

-x-

It took a while for Sherlock to be done with Lestrade and all his questions, but the detective finally walked over from the ambulance, discarding his shock blanket on the way.

"Good shot," he mused.

"So I heard."

"Not bad for a man with +20 Accuracy."

"+23, actually," John said, and winced.

Sherlock just smiled. "Fancy going for a drink?" he asked, and John really didn't want to think about how his heart leapt at the implications. "I could really use a double scotch right now."

The pair walked off into the sunset, and John half-expected Sherlock to take his hand.

-x-

They had barely sat down before the doors flew open with an almighty CRACK, the violence of it vibrating around the room and knocking over John's beer. He turned – the whole pub turned – to see who was there.

It was a woman, tall and sophisticated, her white blonde hair in a tight French braid and her rather impractical corset squeezing out more bust than should be physically possible.

"John Watson!" the woman cried, venom lacing her voice.

John opened his mouth to make a comment, but all he could manage was a rather incredulous "What?"

"John. Watson," she repeated. "I warned you. I told you to stay away from Sherlock Holmes!"

John glanced back at the man in question, who was casually leaning back in his seat and texting. "Sherlock?"

"I think you'll find it's you she's after, John," the detective said, still not bothering to look up.

"She seems to know you as well."

Sherlock finally looked up, giving the woman a quick once-over before resuming his texting. "Yes. She does."

John knew better than to expect Sherlock to elaborate without prompting. "Mind explaining why?"

The woman, who had been waiting impatiently at the door, took this opportunity to speak up. "I am his ex-girlfriend! The first in a line of seven vengeful exes, all ready to destroy you for daring to consider yourself worthy of his attention." She marched across the pub, her ridiculous boots clacking on the floor. "Sirena Lied, hello."

"Um, okay..." John was at a loss. "Sherlock, is that true? You dated her?" He was fairly certain that he'd gone insane some time last Thursday.

"If you'd call it that. Sirena attended Cambridge at the same time as I did, and required a partner for an assessed musical examination. I was the only person who could play the violin whilst wearing earplugs. She attempted to thank me with a grope behind the rose bushes." He looked vaguely affronted at the memory.

"Why would you need earplugs? Was she that bad?"

Sherlock started to explain, but Sirena interrupted, smiling sinisterly. "If you must know, Dr Watson, I can give you a practical demonstration."

"Quick, John, cover your ears!" the detective yelled, panicked. It took a couple of seconds for the command to register, and that was long enough.

Sirena sang.

It was like being wrapped in a big, warm, fuzzy blanket. Sherlock was saying something, trying to get his attention, but all John could hear was the song. He just needed to rest his eyes, just for a bit, and wow that table looked so comfortable, why had he never noticed this? A nap, yes, that was exactly what he needed after this ridiculous day. He could feel himself slipping, sliding down the table as he slowly lost consciousness, but then there were hands, hands grabbing him, pulling him up, covering his ears–

He came back to awareness with an almost audible snap. Sherlock had fought against the lethargy long enough to put his hands over John's ears, but he was clearly losing the battle, eyelids drooping as he struggled to stay awake. John was surprised that Sherlock hadn't just protected himself and left John to succumb, but he didn't have much time to reflect on that because Sherlock's hands were falling away and the song was seeping back in. He cupped his own hands over his ears, wincing at the crack Sherlock's head made as it hit the table, sleep finally taking him. John stood up and away from the table, glaring at Sirena.

The fight was on.

Sirena sang louder, trying to get through to him. All the people in the pub were asleep now, and probably half the street to boot. The doctor in John quietly warned him about dropped glasses and possible injuries, but he ignored that voice in favour of his army-trained side, because he'd got himself into a bit of a dilemma.

How the bloody hell was he supposed to fight with both hands clapped over his ears?

The answer came to him as he stumbled, momentarily losing his footing as the song washed over him. Sirena looked triumphant, raising her hands to deliver the killing blow as he fell.

Don't get ahead of yourself, he thought, and then he moved, fluid and quick and unexpected, delivering a devastating roundhouse kick to her throat.

The singing stopped.

Sirena hunched over, coughing and choking and clutching her throat as she tried to make a sound. The patrons began to stir, no longer affected by the melody. Sherlock was, naturally, the first to rise.

"John? You can probably put your hands down now."

But John couldn't hear him because – Oh. Right. He lowered his arms and then went to check on Sirena. She swiped his hands away, trying to growl menacingly but only managing a painful-sounding rasp. Her eyes drilled into him, giving the message that her voice could not convey.

"You know the rules."

Yes, he did. This was a duel, a challenge, and whilst the official words had not been spoken there was no real debate about it. Two enter, one leaves. To survive after being defeated was considered the ultimate shame.

He turned away.

This wasn't like the cabbie. Sirena was just a girl, confused and angry. She didn't deserve to die.

Then she charged at him, tackling him to the ground with a startled "Oof!" She pulled a flick-knife out of nowhere and went to stab him with it, but John twisted underneath her, grabbing her wrist and breaking her grip.

"Stop!" he shouted, and the power of it stilled her. "This is ridiculous. You're fighting me over a guy you barely even knew, willing to risk your life over a snog behind the bike sheds!"

"Rose bushes," Sherlock corrected.

"Whatever! The whole concept is absurd! Look, just forget about it, ok? We'll call it a draw. Go and live your life, do something with your singing, try not to send people to sleep, anything. Just not this. Don't throw it all away."

Sirena just stared at him, stunned. After a few seconds, John carefully extricated himself from her grasp, giving her what he hoped was a reassuring smile. He reached out to her throat and she flinched. "It's ok, I just want to make sure you're not badly hurt." He examined her and she watched him all the while, studying him, waiting to see him change his mind, decide to kill her.

He didn't.

"You'll be fine. You've got some bad bruising, but nothing's torn. I'd suggest not speaking for a few days." She nodded, finally standing and slowly tottering out of the pub, suddenly unsteady on her feet. John considered following her, taking her to hospital for a second opinion, but Sherlock stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

"Don't," Sherlock warned. "She might not be quite so agreeable when she regains her senses."

"Mind explaining why she challenged me in the first place?" John asked.

Sherlock glanced around the pub. Every person in the building was staring at them. "Not here," he said quietly, grabbing John by the wrist and practically dragging him into a cab waiting outside. John tried to ignore the sparks that shot up his arm from the contact, instead glaring angrily at his flatmate, who refused to talk until they were safely behind the locked door of 221B.

-x-

"Well?" John prompted as soon as they were inside.

Sherlock sighed. "It would appear that Jay is not as willing to give me up as I'd previously thought."

"Jay? I thought her name was Sirena?"

"Not her, you idiot. She was barely even a youthful experiment. No, Jay was my last partner. We didn't exactly split on amicable terms, and it would appear he does not appreciate anyone else pursuing a romantic relationship with me." He flopped down on the sofa, clearly irritated.

John cringed. Sure, he'd known that he could hardly hide his massive man-crush from a genius like Sherlock Holmes, or apparently restaurant owners, but he didn't realise that he was so obvious that people who had never met him could see it. "So he's gathered all your exes to try and kill me?"

"Jay has been known to be a little over-dramatic."

"A little – Sherlock, he wants me dead! I've heard of jealous spurned lovers, but this is ridiculous." He pauses, realising something. "Hang on a minute. That girl who brought you coffee at the Morgue, Molly – she has a crush on you too."

"Obviously."

"So why doesn't she have some League of Exes after her?"

The look Sherlock gave him was one of total confusion. It was as if he couldn't even comprehend how John could be that stupid. John looked down, unable to deal with Sherlock's condescension, but the other man stood and walked towards him, capturing his face and forcing John to look back at him.

"Because," Sherlock explained, his eyes flicking down to John's mouth, "I'm not interested in Molly."

John froze. "You're not… but that means..."

"Yes?"

"You... you are interested in me?"

"Knew you'd get there eventually."

"Um, I didn't – I never – oh."

"Alright?"

"Do you know, I think I am," John said, and kissed him.

The kiss was deep and powerful and John was fairly sure he could hear a choir of angels singing somewhere, except there's nothing angelic about what Sherlock could do with his tongue and oh God he's good at that.

"Mrs Hudson?" Sherlock called down, breaking away for air with a predatory look in his eye. "I don't think we'll be needing that second room after all."

-x-

Reviews are much loved.