A/N: So this idea came about whist I was on vacation in England. I wrote the opening chapter in jack63kids' backyard (which is very pleasant, except for the amourous doves) and was egged on by the wonderful johnsarmylady:D

This is for MrsNoggins' birthday. Happy Birthday my dear friend – it was so lovely to see you:)– I hope you can stand the silliness of it all:)

Thanks mattsloved1 for once again putting up with me and my repetitive errors:P

I do not own any detectives, bloggers, frogs, princes or magic spells, sadly, but hopefully there is enough magic in my story telling for you to enjoy this little story:)

1. In Which a Promise is Extracted and a Skull Recovered

There once lived a young, handsome, very arrogant, very rude prince by the name of Sherlock. He lived in a far away kingdom in the heart of the bustling city of London. He was pale of skin but dark of hair and temperament. Many who saw him remarked on the silvery, pale, translucent, ivory quality of his epidermis and how it contrasted nicely with the raven's wing locks. The glossy curls would glisten and bounce fetchingly in the sunlight and many a maiden, and several lads would swoon as he passed by. A glance from his laser sharp eyes, a startling amalgam of green and blue toned gemstones (rather sparkly) would stop the simple folk in their tracks and drool would gather at their feet because of his fragile beauty. Despite his handsome features, he could be cruel and cutting. A razor sharp wit was used to reveal secrets large and small of those surrounding him, and he did not suffer fools gladly or even somewhat happily. Those he targeted would quiver and shake, his cruel remarks scarring their fragile egos and they would need to seek assistance from the kingdom's therapist, Lady Ella.

Prince Sherlock's older brother, the enigmatic King Mycroft, despaired over his little brother's behavior. He heartily wished a friend would come along to entertain and challenge his brother and to keep his company. Prince Sherlock would shrug prettily and tell the King to sod off. He felt he lived a fairly content existence. He was pleased with his intellect, he disdained company of lesser mortals, and he was not the least bit lonely.

Or so he thought.

One day, Prince Sherlock was strolling through the palace grounds. He had been wandering here and there, trying, with difficulty, to find something, anything to occupy his mind. His vast intelligence was easily bored, and he required a constant stream of new information. These were the days King Mycroft greatly feared as a bored Prince Sherlock could cause great havoc and would often pout and rage, his comely countenance filled with wrath and the likelihood of the destruction of Kingdom property was greatly increased. Not to mention the complaints from the denizens of the castle.

As he drifted, Prince Sherlock held his only friend in his hand. When I say friend, I refer to the human skull he had been given as a child. He had named it Billy, and it was his constant companion, the only one who would stick with him through thick and thin. He liked Billy because Billy listened with a steady grin, didn't judge and never spoke inexactitudes or gibberish. He was currently being tossed high up into the air. He didn't seem to mind and in fact was smirking in his usual way. The warm sun gleamed on Billy's hairless dome, and Prince Sherlock admired the fortitude and stamina of the skull. Not many enjoyed heights the way Billy did or trusted Sherlock enough to let him toss them, thusly. In this instance, it would have been within reason not to trust Prince Sherlock, as he really wasn't watching where he was going and tripped over a rock. Billy, who had been on an upward trajectory, arched merrily through the air and with the wind whistling through the holes in his cranium, landed with a SPLOOSH in the small, nearby pond. The pond, situated behind tall grasses and reeds was hidden from Sherlock's view, and he did not see Billy land. By the time he stood on his feet again, made an ill attempt to brush at the grass stains on his tighter-than-tight purple, silk shirt and muttered imprecations at camouflaged rocks reaching out and grabbing people's ankles, the quiet ripples of Billy's entrance into the pond had dissipated, and he could not tell where the skull had gone. Arms crossed, he looked into the murky waters of the pond, the lily pads and their accompanying flowers already covering up the scene of the crime. It was as if Billy had never existed.

"Oh, buggery hell. Billy! Where are you? It is inconceivable that you would leave me this way! Come back! Come back at once!" Prince Sherlock pouted ferociously, kicked at the offending rock and then swore some more as his toe throbbed painfully after encountering the stubbornness of rocks.

At that moment, there was a small rustle in the grass nearby, and a quiet voice said, "Ahem! Is there something wrong Prince Sherlock?"

Prince Sherlock looked down in the grass at his feet and discovered a small green frog. The frog, handsome in a froggy way, sat looking up at the prince, lips pursed thoughtfully. Prince Sherlock noticed immediately that the frog, in every way, shape and form appeared to be a common frog (Kingdom: Animalia, Phylum: Chordata, Class: Amphibia, Order: Anura, Family: Ranidae, Genus: Rana, Species: Rana temporaria) except for three startling facts. The frog had eyes of a deep, rich navy, which in certain lights looked a deep, rich brown and were calm and fathomless. It had a distinct limp in its right leg and held its left forearm stiffly. And lastly, it was wearing an oatmeal-coloured jumper, which appeared rather soggy and sloshy, no doubt from having spent considerable time in the water. He filed these facts away for later perusal, attempting not to be distracted by how fascinating it all was. Apparently the idea of a talking frog did not enter into the equation at all.

Drawing himself up straight and tall, Prince Sherlock replied, "Matter? Matter! Billy has disappeared!"

The frog blinked and looked up at Sherlock, craning its head awkwardly. "Actually, I happen to know exactly where he is."

"Foul creature, did you steal Billy?"

"No! He fell in the pond. Don't you think you should go in after him? You know, before he drowns?" Sherlock could have sworn the frog snickered. Imagine! No one had the audacity to snicker at him. Ever!

He sniffed. "Don't be ridiculous. He's already deceased."

"Well, that's rather hopeful then, isn't it? He'd be good at holding his breath," the frog said, matter of fact.

With a glare, Prince Sherlock huffed, "Billy's a skull."

"Oh," said the frog.

The two stared at each other, neither breaching the silence. An errant fly zoomed by and the frog, tongue shooting out, snapped it up. The remarkable amphibian was beginning to interest Prince Sherlock.

"Well?"

"Well, what?"

"Aren't you going to go and retrieve the skull for me? I am the prince after all, and you are one of my subjects, so to speak."

The frog looked at Prince Sherlock, looked back at the pond, looked at Prince Sherlock again and sighed. It turned and hopped lopsidedly toward the water, stuck out its front foot as if to test the temperature. It shuddered, glanced warily at Sherlock once again and shrugged, which isn't easy when one lacks shoulders.

"I guess I could."

"You guess? Good heavens, what is the world coming too, when talking frogs are reluctant to retrieve submerged skulls."

"I guess I could, for a favour." The frog said, its tone now seemingly rather sly and cunning.

"A favour? What on earth could a frog want? You have this nice pond, plenty of flies and other insects. I am sure the lady frogs are rather enamoured of your hideous jumper and charming personality."

"Well," the frog appeared humble and blushed modestly. "They do call me Three Lily Pad Watson."

"Why would they call you that?"

"I, erm, am rather lucky, erm, with the lady…"

"No, no, no! Ew! No, I mean Watson. That's a strange name for a frog."

"I'm not really a frog, see."

"Of course, you're not. " One could practically hear the prince's eyes roll.

"No, I'm not. I was a soldier and a doctor on my way home from the war. Something happened to me. I don't quite remember what, exactly. Anyway, I woke up one day in this body. A strange, mysterious voice said I had to meet a Prince and become his friend and that's how I could turn back into me, John Watson." Prince Sherlock was certain the frog was deliberately leaving out important details in his story. It was possible that the frog was lying. Intriguing.

"John is hardly a better name for a frog."

"I'm not a frog."

Prince Sherlock waved his hand in the air, "Yes, yes, enchantment, magic, tedious. So what favour do you want in return for fetching Billy?"

The frog hummed a bit in its throat. "Ummm, well, if I am able to retrieve your, er, friend, I was wondering if I could come with you to the palace and be your friend…

"I don't have friends."

"eat off of your golden plate…"

"I don't eat."

"sleep on your feathered bed…"

"I don't sleep and not my area, bestiality."

"Oh, no! God no! No, not gay! So not a gay frog! I meant to sleep on your pillow."

"Oh." Prince Sherlock blinked rapidly as he thought about the offer. It would give him some time to study the frog and find out what made it tick. He wasn't sure if he could dissect it, though, as he had with other specimens, but shrugging mentally he thought perhaps if the frog proved boring enough he'd be able to do it.

"All right. I will let you come to the palace, eat off of my plate, sleep on my bed, but no touching. And the friendship part will not be happening."

The frog studied Prince Sherlock's face carefully. It nodded as if to say to itself, 'right, I don't quite trust you, but I've nothing to lose.' It seemed to be able to say a lot with one look of its mobile face. It then shrugged again and said. "I guess I'll take my chances. Do I have your word?"

"Yes, fine, get on with it."

With a turn and a splash, the frog entered the water. The lily pads moved and bumped slowly about once more. Sherlock watched for a bit, but quickly grew bored. He began to occupy his time by cataloguing the various types of plants surrounding the pond.

After an interminable wait, there came the sound of the loud thump of a heavy object and that of a small, wet body, hitting the verge at approximately the same time.

"Here you go," panted the frog, clearly exhausted from the ordeal.

"Billy!" shouted Sherlock, with glee. "You're back! What was it like below in the watery depths? Any treasures down there?"

"Not really," said the frog. "It's just a small pond."

"Not talking to you," said Sherlock over his shoulder and with a flounce he turned to leave. "Come along, frog. Time to head back to the palace." The prince strode away quickly, his long legs carrying him out of sight. The frog could just make out the deep voice of the prince as he continued to chat with his skull.

"But wait!" it called after the rapidly departing figure. "What about me?"

If the prince had stuck around a little longer, he would have heard the frog say, in a resigned sort of way, "Git!"

To be continued…