It was kind of a mixture of a blur of excitement, rage, random animals, and sugar. Lots and lots of sugar.
We had all decided that the world was too small to handle our crack, so we bought out an unnamed planet farther out in the galaxy, and called it SJ-221B. On the planet, the custom was to wear scarves and coats on monday, westwood suits on tuesday, jumpers on wednesday, gloves and umbrellas on thursday, and any fandom t-shirt for casual friday. Saturdays and Sundays, one could wear anything, but most people just chose to wear costumes of kittens, hedgehogs, dinosaurs, sharks, or elephants. I really don’t know why my mind associates Mycroft with elephants. Don’t judge my subconscious. Anyway, Every Wednesday, people would take off work (which I’ll explain later) early and go to this giant building called Scotland Yard. The building had computers as far as the eye could see, and would all simultaneously air episodes of the show each week, followed by the latest fanfiction and fanart, to be viewed by the individual at their own pace.
The jobs on the planet were, for the most part limited, but no one seemed to mind. Anyone who grew tired was more than welcome to take the rocketaxi back to earth. These jobs included being a consulting detective, and being contacted by the home planet of Earth to send out different ranks of people for different scales of crimes. We had a catalog of these things, I swear. The cleverer one was, the higher their rank. But each detective also got to choose a faithful and level-minded companion. The teams usually ended up being lovers, but it was all accepted. The companion usually was quite organized and in charge of taking background information. Other jobs included being a consulting artist, in which one would draw, paint, sketch all types of fanart dedicated to Sherlock. They would get paid, and it would be for the purpose of sharing each week in Scotland Yard. One could also be a consulting writer, who would write brilliant amounts of fanfic and have the bonus of often interacting with other CW’s to RP as the characters themselves. Again, these could be viewed by anyone over at Scotland Yard each wednesday. Jobs which were both rare and secret included controlling the catalog of the Sherlockians, making sure people were content and satisfied, and arranging transportation, homes (we spelled it as holmes), clothing, and essentials. Their jobs were just called minor positions in the government.
Our currency was Cumberdollars, Freeuros, Gravepounds, and Scottpeso. They were pictures of the actors, and they were again, catalogued by amount and value of the sexiness of the photos.
On the weekends, there were huge amounts of festivities held in order to celebrate the Sherlocky goodness, with immense amounts of crack. The crack was sugar, of course, but it made us all jumpier, fangirlier/fanboyier, crazier, and brilliant-er. We made up our own language and words and inside jokes, and loved to constantly spend time with each other discussing every small detail of what had been happening. There was a social network specifically dedicated to our entire race, and it was linked with every actor/writer/crew member’s updates on the show itself, and every tumblr dedicated to Sherlock. Oh and there were usually always random animals on the streets, or in holmes. Our pets were not much different from our costumes, and we actually constructed robot dinosaurs that were docile in nature to keep as pets.
Our hobbies were usually very common, so we would gather over really close friends’ houses and dwell even deeper into Sherlockian awesomeness.
Then again, the whole planet was so damn friendly that more and more people from Earth wanted to visit, just to see what it was like. So we built a tourist thing as well. It was essentially this transparent barrier in the sky, from which others could look upon us in Scotland Yard. They couldn’t exactly cross the barrier unless they were Sherlockians themselves, (there was an entry test one had to pass to qualify), but they could at limited hours, see how amazing we were.
We also had a gigantic screen which showed small new urgent updates directly from Godtiss or Moffat, and we’d have an alarm that sounded like Moriarty’s pips ring around the planet to gather in the area and listen intently.
We were also angry on Earth that interaction due to distance was difficult. The rocketaxis were extremely fast, quite efficient, and intergalactically cheap to travel in. Plus, our planet was not that big. Probably a little larger than Earth’s moon.
Oh! and Whovians had their own planet of Gallifrey which was much much larger, but our species overlapped with them quite a lot, so we had tunnels that let us go back and forth between the two planets.
I just—I never wanted to awaken with the wonderland my mind had created. Even the streets were designed out of a crackier version of London, with bright colors, rainbows, stripes everywhere.
We even had JAM DAY. It was a festival held annually where everyone just gathers outside of Scotland Yard, and brings jam to eat/have jam fights with/build sculptures/write with.
Everything good that happened, we’d say Praise Godtiss, or Thank you Mofftiss. Everything bad that happened, we’d blame Anderson. Everything surprising was Oh my Godtiss, or Godjam, etc.
It was just the greatest dream I have ever had. EVER I TELL YOU.
SO YOU CAN IMAGINE WHEN I WOKE UP THAT I WAS EXTREMELY ANGRY AND SAD. WHY DID I HAVE TO WAKE UP. WHY.
Your dream is my favorite dream of all of the dreams.
This is my new life goal. Making this happen would delight me.