The One Where They Turn into Sprinkles (I Mean Hundreds-and-Thousands) and Have Sex
Title: The One Where They Turn into Sprinkles (I Mean Hundreds-and-Thousands) and Have Sex
Rating: NC-17? Maybe?
Characters/Pairings: John/Sherlock (as sprinkles)
Warnings: See title.
Summary: Written for this prompt: http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/6487.html?thread=31986263#t31986263
When John Watson woke one morning transformed into chocolate and vanilla cake sprinkles, his first thought was that Sherlock was going to be annoyed. His second thought was that his first thought probably wasn't a very normal reaction to have. Typically, Sherlock interrupted what would have been his third thought.
"JOHN! Come downstairs at once!"
John discovered that pouring himself down the stairs in sprinkle form was easier than it looked. As granular solids went, he flowed quite nicely.
"Sherlock, do you have any idea why I seem to be--Oh my god."
"I need you to help me conduct an experiment..."
"Er, Sherlock." John stared. His sprinkles rustled in dismay. "You've turned into those sugary silver...ball things. That people put on cakes."
"Metallic dragées, yes. Now--"
"And I'm sprinkles. I'm a flipping pile of sprinkles."
"They're called hundreds-and-thousands, John. The Americanisation of your vocabulary is appalling." Sherlock's small silvery balls clacked together disapprovingly. "But that's not important right now. We need to have sex."
John would have put a hand over his face if he had had a hand. As it was, he just folded his sprinkles together into a heap. "What do you mean, sex? Why did we turn into cake toppings? I need tea."
"Tea would dissolve you into a runny mess. No, sex is the simplest solution for this."
A normal man probably would have ignored Sherlock and had a nervous breakdown, but John wasn't a normal man.
"Fine. How do hundreds-and-thousands have sex with silver sugar balls?"
Sherlock showed him.
Their granules poured onto the floor and mingled.
They rolled around.
They made soft sprinkling sounds as they rubbed together.
They arranged each other in decorative swirling patterns.
Sherlock for some reason insisted on sorting all John's chocolate sprinkles apart from his vanilla ones, which gave him an anxious split-in-half feeling, a bit like when an airplane drops and leaves your stomach behind. (Or aeroplane, thanks very much, Sherlock.)
They put the chocolate and vanilla back together and Sherlock decided he liked that better.
Their sprinkling grew to a fever pitch. The blend of their colours and flavours seemed near perfection. John wondered vaguely if it were possible for them to eat each other. He was tempted to try.
"Ahh!" he groaned.
When John returned to his senses, he found that he and Sherlock were still sprinkles, and they were now lying on a thick, creamy layer of white icing.
"What the hell?"
Sherlock stretched postcoitally, spreading his balls. "Don't worry. Now that we've decorated the cake so attractively, we're sure to be eaten in no time."
"What cake?"
"The 221B cake, of course." Seeing the confused motions of John's sprinkles, Sherlock sighed. "Ah, John. You see but you do not observe."
John began to notice that the walls of the flat were, in fact, made of cake. And gingerbread. And lemon curd. The bulletholes in the smiley face were leaking raspberry jam.
"And why exactly do we want to be eaten?"
"One," said Sherlock, "because we will automatically be returned to our human forms, which are far more convenient in our line of work. You really wouldn't be able to hold a gun without fingers, for example. Two, because it will ruin Mycroft's diet." His balls clacked with glee.
John decided to roll with it.
Rating: NC-17? Maybe?
Characters/Pairings: John/Sherlock (as sprinkles)
Warnings: See title.
Summary: Written for this prompt: http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/6487.html?thread=31986263#t31986263
When John Watson woke one morning transformed into chocolate and vanilla cake sprinkles, his first thought was that Sherlock was going to be annoyed. His second thought was that his first thought probably wasn't a very normal reaction to have. Typically, Sherlock interrupted what would have been his third thought.
"JOHN! Come downstairs at once!"
John discovered that pouring himself down the stairs in sprinkle form was easier than it looked. As granular solids went, he flowed quite nicely.
"Sherlock, do you have any idea why I seem to be--Oh my god."
"I need you to help me conduct an experiment..."
"Er, Sherlock." John stared. His sprinkles rustled in dismay. "You've turned into those sugary silver...ball things. That people put on cakes."
"Metallic dragées, yes. Now--"
"And I'm sprinkles. I'm a flipping pile of sprinkles."
"They're called hundreds-and-thousands, John. The Americanisation of your vocabulary is appalling." Sherlock's small silvery balls clacked together disapprovingly. "But that's not important right now. We need to have sex."
John would have put a hand over his face if he had had a hand. As it was, he just folded his sprinkles together into a heap. "What do you mean, sex? Why did we turn into cake toppings? I need tea."
"Tea would dissolve you into a runny mess. No, sex is the simplest solution for this."
A normal man probably would have ignored Sherlock and had a nervous breakdown, but John wasn't a normal man.
"Fine. How do hundreds-and-thousands have sex with silver sugar balls?"
Sherlock showed him.
Their granules poured onto the floor and mingled.
They rolled around.
They made soft sprinkling sounds as they rubbed together.
They arranged each other in decorative swirling patterns.
Sherlock for some reason insisted on sorting all John's chocolate sprinkles apart from his vanilla ones, which gave him an anxious split-in-half feeling, a bit like when an airplane drops and leaves your stomach behind. (Or aeroplane, thanks very much, Sherlock.)
They put the chocolate and vanilla back together and Sherlock decided he liked that better.
Their sprinkling grew to a fever pitch. The blend of their colours and flavours seemed near perfection. John wondered vaguely if it were possible for them to eat each other. He was tempted to try.
"Ahh!" he groaned.
When John returned to his senses, he found that he and Sherlock were still sprinkles, and they were now lying on a thick, creamy layer of white icing.
"What the hell?"
Sherlock stretched postcoitally, spreading his balls. "Don't worry. Now that we've decorated the cake so attractively, we're sure to be eaten in no time."
"What cake?"
"The 221B cake, of course." Seeing the confused motions of John's sprinkles, Sherlock sighed. "Ah, John. You see but you do not observe."
John began to notice that the walls of the flat were, in fact, made of cake. And gingerbread. And lemon curd. The bulletholes in the smiley face were leaking raspberry jam.
"And why exactly do we want to be eaten?"
"One," said Sherlock, "because we will automatically be returned to our human forms, which are far more convenient in our line of work. You really wouldn't be able to hold a gun without fingers, for example. Two, because it will ruin Mycroft's diet." His balls clacked with glee.
John decided to roll with it.