drunk crack Sherlock fic. because that's how I roll...
Friday night! With a few margaritas under my belt, I endeavored to write a drunk sherlock story for incapricious via email. This is what resutled. Please ignore random incapitalizations and missspellings.
Once upon a time there was a really tall dude called Sherlock Holmes. He was sad and lonely. but he did not know this. in fact, he was ignorant of many thigns of which he would one day become aware.
This is that story.
In the midst of his sad (which he didn't know) and lonely (which he also didn't know) life, he found himself in need of a person to share the rent on a lovely (albeit messy) flat in central london.
One day... he met that man.
In the form of a BAMF named John Watson. John Watson was awesome, and don't you fucking forget it. John watson was a soldier, a doctor, a bad ass of epic proportions, capable of willing meddling older brothers into obeyance and charming the knickers off of many humans watching (no gender specified). Also, he had a faaaaace that needed no introduction whatsoever.
Nor explanation.
Nor interpretation.
He was that fucking good.
Ahhh, John Watson. [reader, know that this man has a power you know not. Trust that this man has power greater than Voldemort. Did you ever wonder why John Watson never shows up in any of the Potter books? Because one glance from his goddamn faaaaace would have killed Voldemort and all of the motherfucking horcruxes to fucking Neptune. Not even Pluto. Cause that damn thing isn't a planet any more.]
Well. Sherlock Holmes had no clue as to the epic badassery of Dr. John Watson, but he was about to find out.
John Watson wasn't easily impressed by claims to identifying people by ties and left theumbs. John Watson didn't easily fall prey to the line said with a faint (put on) blush: "I have a website."
John fucking Watson would check out that website. Would read it with his powerful eyes and his brilliant mind and his epic faaaaace and say, "this, Mr. Holmes, is a pile of epic, though attractively wrapped, horse manure."
In fact, the conversation went almost exactly just tlike this:
jw: I looked you up on the internet last night. (moron)
sh: Oh yes? *flutter of the eyelashes of dooooom*
jw: Yeah, are you fucking kidding me?
jw: what a load of unbelieveable tripe. You seriously have people that get you to solve cases based on bullshit like that?
jw: what, if I give you a load of sperm, can you trace my entire miliary history?
sh: *is fucking seriously really turned on right now*
jw: because that's basically what you're claiming on your goddamn webiste.
jw: anyway, fucker. You want me to live here?
sh: I do. *god, I do*
jw: Give me a reason, motherfucker.
sh: *considers*
sh: okay, I will.
Then Rupert-badass-Lestrade showed up and interrupted them (dammit!) and begged Sherlock with his bedroom eyes and gorgeous (seriously, one could run one's fingers through it) hair to help him on a case.
And Sherlock was like, "yeah, what of it, inspector?"
And Lestrade was like, "but new and creepy stuff has surfaced."
And Sherlock was like, "ooh, really? Because that might be completely awesome and a really good challenge for my gigantic cock intellect."
And Lestrade was like, "duh. Are you coming?"
To which, John Watson thought: "that's what HE said."
But Sherlock was too lonely and sad to go with just any normal police personages, so he said, "I will get my own cab, motherfucker. Be gone!"
And Sherlock jumped around, off the celiings and the walls and nearly jumped out the window in his bounceability, but safely kept himself inside enough to put on his coat and scarf.
To which John Watson said (in his mind. BAMF is too cool to let his emotions show too far on his face), "whoa, nellie. That is one fine, tall, stretched out specimen of manhood."
But Stretch just fucking left him there. Can you fucking believe it?
Left him there to have a goddamn cup of tea. With someone who wasn't even a housekeeper. Though really sweet and awesome, and could probably kick all their asses, were she interested in doing so.
And then Stretch walked back in. Said: "you're a doctor?"
John Watson nodded. Wondered if perhaps Stretch was also going to point out that a) he was human b) walked on two legs c) had a really enormous penis and d) needed to breathe to stay alive.
But Stretch surprised him. Taunted him with the gory glory of crime scenes. And John... oh reader, John salivated at the thought of a bit of bad, bad, crazy epicness that Stretch could provide.
"Do you want to come?" said Stretch.
"That's what HE said," said John.
"Uh, yes that *is* what he said. Did you not just hear me?"
"Come again?" said John.
"Oh god, did I miss the first one?"
"Huh?"
"What?"
"Let's start again," said Stretch.
"Go for it," said John.
"I want you to accompany me to a crime scene and look at really dirty, wonderful things with me."
"Yes?"
"And then I'm going to blow your fucking mind with my intellect and you are going to jizz your boxers with want."
"Yes."
"Then I want to bring you back here, have you fuck me until I can't remember my name, and then, likely, come in your mouth."
And that, dear reader, was it. John Watson had met his bloody match. It was yin and yang, cagney & lacey, peanut butter & chocolate, laverne & shirley all over again.
He was done. He'd found what he'd been looking for his entire, badass life.
John fucking Watson had found Sherlock fucking Holmes.
The last words (apart from "god" and "yes" and "faster" and "don't you fucking stop") heard out of either of them that night went like this:
"Want to see some more?"
"Oh. God. Yes."
epilogue: After that Sherlock wasn't lonely or sad anymore. Not when he had John.
THE END.
[awww. ♥]
Once upon a time there was a really tall dude called Sherlock Holmes. He was sad and lonely. but he did not know this. in fact, he was ignorant of many thigns of which he would one day become aware.
This is that story.
In the midst of his sad (which he didn't know) and lonely (which he also didn't know) life, he found himself in need of a person to share the rent on a lovely (albeit messy) flat in central london.
One day... he met that man.
In the form of a BAMF named John Watson. John Watson was awesome, and don't you fucking forget it. John watson was a soldier, a doctor, a bad ass of epic proportions, capable of willing meddling older brothers into obeyance and charming the knickers off of many humans watching (no gender specified). Also, he had a faaaaace that needed no introduction whatsoever.
Nor explanation.
Nor interpretation.
He was that fucking good.
Ahhh, John Watson. [reader, know that this man has a power you know not. Trust that this man has power greater than Voldemort. Did you ever wonder why John Watson never shows up in any of the Potter books? Because one glance from his goddamn faaaaace would have killed Voldemort and all of the motherfucking horcruxes to fucking Neptune. Not even Pluto. Cause that damn thing isn't a planet any more.]
Well. Sherlock Holmes had no clue as to the epic badassery of Dr. John Watson, but he was about to find out.
John Watson wasn't easily impressed by claims to identifying people by ties and left theumbs. John Watson didn't easily fall prey to the line said with a faint (put on) blush: "I have a website."
John fucking Watson would check out that website. Would read it with his powerful eyes and his brilliant mind and his epic faaaaace and say, "this, Mr. Holmes, is a pile of epic, though attractively wrapped, horse manure."
In fact, the conversation went almost exactly just tlike this:
jw: I looked you up on the internet last night. (moron)
sh: Oh yes? *flutter of the eyelashes of dooooom*
jw: Yeah, are you fucking kidding me?
jw: what a load of unbelieveable tripe. You seriously have people that get you to solve cases based on bullshit like that?
jw: what, if I give you a load of sperm, can you trace my entire miliary history?
sh: *is fucking seriously really turned on right now*
jw: because that's basically what you're claiming on your goddamn webiste.
jw: anyway, fucker. You want me to live here?
sh: I do. *god, I do*
jw: Give me a reason, motherfucker.
sh: *considers*
sh: okay, I will.
Then Rupert-badass-Lestrade showed up and interrupted them (dammit!) and begged Sherlock with his bedroom eyes and gorgeous (seriously, one could run one's fingers through it) hair to help him on a case.
And Sherlock was like, "yeah, what of it, inspector?"
And Lestrade was like, "but new and creepy stuff has surfaced."
And Sherlock was like, "ooh, really? Because that might be completely awesome and a really good challenge for my gigantic cock intellect."
And Lestrade was like, "duh. Are you coming?"
To which, John Watson thought: "that's what HE said."
But Sherlock was too lonely and sad to go with just any normal police personages, so he said, "I will get my own cab, motherfucker. Be gone!"
And Sherlock jumped around, off the celiings and the walls and nearly jumped out the window in his bounceability, but safely kept himself inside enough to put on his coat and scarf.
To which John Watson said (in his mind. BAMF is too cool to let his emotions show too far on his face), "whoa, nellie. That is one fine, tall, stretched out specimen of manhood."
But Stretch just fucking left him there. Can you fucking believe it?
Left him there to have a goddamn cup of tea. With someone who wasn't even a housekeeper. Though really sweet and awesome, and could probably kick all their asses, were she interested in doing so.
And then Stretch walked back in. Said: "you're a doctor?"
John Watson nodded. Wondered if perhaps Stretch was also going to point out that a) he was human b) walked on two legs c) had a really enormous penis and d) needed to breathe to stay alive.
But Stretch surprised him. Taunted him with the gory glory of crime scenes. And John... oh reader, John salivated at the thought of a bit of bad, bad, crazy epicness that Stretch could provide.
"Do you want to come?" said Stretch.
"That's what HE said," said John.
"Uh, yes that *is* what he said. Did you not just hear me?"
"Come again?" said John.
"Oh god, did I miss the first one?"
"Huh?"
"What?"
"Let's start again," said Stretch.
"Go for it," said John.
"I want you to accompany me to a crime scene and look at really dirty, wonderful things with me."
"Yes?"
"And then I'm going to blow your fucking mind with my intellect and you are going to jizz your boxers with want."
"Yes."
"Then I want to bring you back here, have you fuck me until I can't remember my name, and then, likely, come in your mouth."
And that, dear reader, was it. John Watson had met his bloody match. It was yin and yang, cagney & lacey, peanut butter & chocolate, laverne & shirley all over again.
He was done. He'd found what he'd been looking for his entire, badass life.
John fucking Watson had found Sherlock fucking Holmes.
The last words (apart from "god" and "yes" and "faster" and "don't you fucking stop") heard out of either of them that night went like this:
"Want to see some more?"
"Oh. God. Yes."
epilogue: After that Sherlock wasn't lonely or sad anymore. Not when he had John.
THE END.
[awww. ♥]