Name's Holmes. Sherlock Holmes

Sherlock tugged at his bowtie. His neck felt oddly exposed and he itched to pop his collar but John slapped his hand away,

"Sherlock, you're my Best Man and you are going to wear that suit properly, whether you like it or not"

Sherlock growled. This was not what he wanted. Sarah, stupid Sarah. Why her? Why go for the daft, normal girl when the wonderful and enigmatic Sherlock Holmes stood behind her?
Sherlock leaned forward to tap the limo driver's shoulder,

"How much farther?" he demanded

The limo driver turned to face Sherlock and Sherlock jumped: it was the crazy old taxi driver!

"'Ello, Sherlock 'Olmes"

Jeff Hope took a gun out of his pocket and pointed it at Sherlock but Sherlock was too fast. He grabbed the gun and threw it out the window. He leapt on top of Hope and they grappled with each other for a moment before Sherlock threw him out the door. Jeff Hope fell through the air towards the ground, which was 50,000 feet below them. Sherlock looked back at John and saw he was strapped to one of Moriarty's bombs.

"John!"

He grabbed John and together they jumped out of the plane. The ground was rushing towards them and Sherlock knew that if they even wanted the slimmest chance of surviving, he'd need a parachute. Somehow he deduced that Jeff Hope would have one. Sherlock dived after the cabbie. Being heavier, Sherlock overtook Hope and he wrestled the parachute pack off his back. Jeff Hope screamed as he fell to his death,

"MORIARTY!" he shrieked as he became smaller and smaller

"I was right, wasn't I?!" Sherlock jeered

He looked up to see where John was. John was some metres above him but soon they were falling side by side.

"Hold on to me!" Sherlock yelled above the roar of the wind

John wrapped himself around Sherlock like a monkey and Sherlock pulled the chute. They landed dramatically at the altar, to much applause, where Sarah, dressed in white, was waiting for them.
Sherlock stood next to John, glaring icily at him and his fiancé, while they made their vows,

"If any man knows any reason why this couple should not be married, speak now or forever hold your peace"

Sherlock raised his hand,
"I OBJECT!"

Suddenly Anderson jumped out of the crowd and threw a toy tyrannosaurus at the groom before tackling him to the ground. Angered, Sherlock grabbed Anderson's neck and pulled him off his John. Anderson turned to Sherlock and stared at him acidly,

"Freak," he muttered and ran off

Sherlock didn't know what to do, other than to chase him down. They ran through streets and parks but no matter how hard Sherlock tried, he could not run fast enough to catch Anderson.
Anderson ran into the Shan Sanderson bank and up the escalator. Sherlock cried in frustration as he tripped over the moving stairs and Anderson got away. Puffing frantically, Sherlock awkwardly stumbled up to the next level and searched in agitation for the slick-haired dinosaur-lover.
Anderson appeared at the desk. Sherlock took John's gun out of his pocket and shot Anderson, who fell to the ground, dead. The detective's mouth curled in malice.

"He's a psychopath," Anderson's voice drawled

Sherlock turned in surprise. There stood Anderson, in the doorway.
But, he was dead. Sherlock had shot him!
Anderson cackled and he ran away. Sherlock darted after him and they entered a factory of some kind. Chasing him on one of the metal walkways, Sherlock fired randomly at the Anderson in front of him, but he kept missing. Roaring with aggravation, Sherlock jumped off the bridge and fell to the ground level. When he stood back up, he found himself surrounded by at least ten Andersons.

"Freak" they all sniggered

Sherlock made to pull out the gun again, but found that it was gone. Sherlock's heart skipped a beat. Little red lights were dancing all over his suit. He looked up to see all the Andersons pointing snipers at him. He swallowed.
What could he do now?
The ground shuddered as he heard heavy footfalls and he spun around in time to see another Anderson riding a giant stegosaurus.
This was the real Anderson, Sherlock knew it.
All the Anderson test subjects seemed to disappear as Sherlock charged the stegosaurus-riding Anderson and pushed him into a vat of boiling strawberry jam.
Finally, he was dead.

Because he had thrown the cabbie out of the plane, Sherlock had to walk home. He didn't mind, he would be seeing John soon. John would be so proud of him, killing Anderson. Sherlock had done it for him, so he should be pleased. Sherlock walked up the stairs to 221B Baker Street and entered the living room. He went to leap on the couch but Sarah's dead body was already there.

"I gave you my number," came a whiney voice

Sherlock turned to see Jim Moriarty walking out of the kitchen.

"Are you proud of me, Sherlock? I killed John for you"

Sherlock's insides shrivelled. He felt as if a cold hand had grabbed his heart and was trying to tug it out of his chest.
John's dead?
Jim grinned manically as Sherlock spluttered on the spot. An angry beast reared its head in Sherlock's stomach and Sherlock teared after Moriarty, swiping at him with a machete that had appeared in his hands.
Moriarty ran out the door and sprinted up the desert road and jumped into a large tanker. Sherlock sprinted as fast as he could and jumped onto the back, clinging onto the ladder. He climbed to the top and sliced all of Moriarty's men that came at him with his machete. Then Moriarty himself climbed on top of the tanker. Somehow, the machete vanished from Sherlock's hand and went into the possession of Jim, who started swinging it at Sherlock irately. Sherlock dodged a couple of the blows but was struck across the chest.
He collapsed, bleeding profusely.

"I'll burn the heart out of you" Jim snarled and he raised the machete to make the last fatal blow

I'm sorry, John, I failed you
Sherlock slipped his hand into his pocket and found his old cigarette lighter. John wouldn't want him to smoke; John wanted him to look after himself.

Sherlock grinned,
"Catch you, later"

He threw the cigarette lighter at Jim and there was a huge explosion

BANG!
Sherlock sat bolt upright, his heart pounding.
When he realised where he was, he calmed his erratic breathing and took in his surroundings. His bedroom was dark and the digital clock blinked 02:21. His bed sheets were damp from sweat and had twisted all over the place, strangling his legs. As he untangled himself and wrapped himself in his silk dressing gown, he caught a strong whiff of beer. Sherlock's brain was tickled.
Beer? Why was John drinking this early in the morning?
Then he sighed with realisation and a smile started to play about his lips. He remembered now. John was annoyed that Sherlock didn't pay as much close attention to the James Bond films as he would've liked, but, little did he know, Sherlock had worked out the exact temperature needed to explode John's cans of beer, and dashed off during a love scene to prepare the experiment.
It seemed the portable stove had finally made the sink hot enough.
Sherlock chuckled to himself as he heard John dash out of his bedroom, stomp down the stairs and hasten into the kitchen to discover what had happened.
It should be a right mess in there.

"SHERLOCK HOLMES!"