If they loved John and Sherlock like we love John and Sherlock...
This is all my husband's fault - he suggested this twisted little plot bunny.
Title: If they loved John and Sherlock like we love John and Sherlock - two parodies.
Author: P.G. Wodehouse and Dorothy Parker - as dictated to warriorbot
Rating: PG - fittingly enough
Wordcount: ~1,000
Summary: Slash in the style of my favourite writer and my favourite poet
Warnings: If you don't know and love the works of P.G. Wodehouse or Dorothy Parker you may well hate these. If you do know and love the works of P.G. Wodehouse or Dorothy Parker you will definitely hate these...
Betaed by the spectacular ginbitch who polished "Plum" til he shone! Thank you.
It was in the Bow Street police station on boat-race night that I ran into old Lockie Holmes again. I'd been pinched for making off with a policeman's helmet and he was chatting rather intently to one of the constabulary. He had a fierce gleam of intelligence in his eyes and he twitched his fingers like a man tickling a particularly skittish trout.
"What ho!" I called out as I drew alongside, "As I live and breathe! It's Fatty Holmes' little brother! I was in his form at prep school you know."
I won't say that the look he bestowed on me was one of radiant welcome, but he let a sort of long suffering twitch play about his lips, like a saint with the toothache.
"I remember. Bertram Wilberforce Wooster. Won the scripture prize."
I beamed that he would remember my shining hour. "You and your brother always were clever chaps. Lots of kippers for breakfast in the Holmes ménage?"
"Not especially, no."
"Just a natural gift then? Actually, that rather reminds me - you take a line through all this investigating lark, don't you? My Aunt Dahlia's got herself in a spot of bother with the local constabulary at her place in Worcestershire. Would you motor back to Brinkley Court with me when I've had my little chat with the judge? See if you can throw any light."
I could tell that I was about to get the nolle prosequi from Lockie, who I remembered was never the most gregarious of birds, when a little sandy haired chap who I'd taken for another of the judge's clientele piped up.
"My colleague will be delighted to help. I'm Doctor Watson by the way."
We shook hands.
"Excellent - I'll meet you here in an hour or two."
As I walked away I heard Holmes say "I had no intention of.." when the Watson chappie broke in and said "I know you hadn't but you need a holiday and Worcestershire's very peaceful. You need a night's sleep first though." He turned to the officer of the law standing next to them like a faithful old family retainer, "Lestrade? See what you can do."
And that was the last I saw of them until the next morning. For reasons I've never quite understood, the Wooster charm failed to sway the justice and, instead of being soaked for a fiver as is tradition, I was jugged for the night.
~~~
I passed a pretty scaly night. While they do their best at Bow Street, the cells are a touch short of the comforts of home. But after a tolerable breakfast near Covent Garden, I felt able to rise on the stepping stones of my dead self to higher things. In short, I felt reborn. Holmes and his colleague met me by the car and we bowled off together towards Brinkley.
After dinner that evening I tried to stay awake to listen for the creeping footsteps of our suspect, even though I knew Lockie and the doctor chappie were just next door. I had just got to a terribly gripping part in the book I was reading - the villain was enticing a snake into the victim's bedroom - when I must have nodded off. I woke with a start as I heard a thud from the room next door.
We Woosters were at Agincourt and I can be quite the preux chevalier when needs must, but it occurred to me that Holmes and Watson were professional fellows who might resent the interference of an amateur. I had just turned my head back to the cool side of the pillow when I heard another thud, followed by a rhythmic banging. I turned on my bedside lamp and drew my dressing gown - the purple with the heliotrope stripe - around my shoulders.
I heard a strangled cry, and somebody shouted "Sherlock!" Well, I didn't stand upon the order of my going. Grabbing the poker as I went past I tiptoed out into the darkened corridor.
A moment later my heart crashed up against my front teeth as I heard a bang behind me. My robe had caught my bedroom doorhandle and pulled the bally thing shut behind me. I heard a sort of anguished cry from Holmes and Watson's room and so, raising the poker above my head I flung open their door and threw on the lights.
"Wooster! How nice of you to join us." Holmes trilled, debonair as a boulevardier strolling down the Burlington arcade even while recumbent, "My brother always did entertain suspicions that you might be... ow!"
I saw a hunched shape under the blanket move, like a hunched shape under a blanket kicking a consulting detective sharply on the ankle.
"I thought... the thief... in your room?" Not eloquent I know, but I wasn't at my sparkling best.
"Ah yes. The thief. Escaped I'm afraid. Down the drainpipe. Probably heading back to London in a two-seater. My colleague is just examining me for any injuries I might have sustained in the struggle."
The sandy head popped out like a flustered rabbit peeping out of its warren.
"Hullo!" he said.
"Pip pip!" I replied, playing the gracious host for all it was worth. After all, they may not have caught the thief but I wasn't about to appear ungrateful, "Everything all right down there? Nothing broken?"
"Oh yes," replied Holmes, "Doctor Watson was just assuring me that everything was entirely to his satisfaction."
"Right-o," I said, "I'll leave you to it," and I biffed off.
As I slipped between my own sheets I heard a roar of laughter from the other room. I picked up my book again and it occurred to me that these detective chappies must lead frightfully exhilarating lives.
Antisocial Note:
Sherlock likes to take Lestrade
Half undressed though fully hard
But the act of having John
He much prefers with nothing on.
Title: If they loved John and Sherlock like we love John and Sherlock - two parodies.
Author: P.G. Wodehouse and Dorothy Parker - as dictated to warriorbot
Rating: PG - fittingly enough
Wordcount: ~1,000
Summary: Slash in the style of my favourite writer and my favourite poet
Warnings: If you don't know and love the works of P.G. Wodehouse or Dorothy Parker you may well hate these. If you do know and love the works of P.G. Wodehouse or Dorothy Parker you will definitely hate these...
Betaed by the spectacular ginbitch who polished "Plum" til he shone! Thank you.
It was in the Bow Street police station on boat-race night that I ran into old Lockie Holmes again. I'd been pinched for making off with a policeman's helmet and he was chatting rather intently to one of the constabulary. He had a fierce gleam of intelligence in his eyes and he twitched his fingers like a man tickling a particularly skittish trout.
"What ho!" I called out as I drew alongside, "As I live and breathe! It's Fatty Holmes' little brother! I was in his form at prep school you know."
I won't say that the look he bestowed on me was one of radiant welcome, but he let a sort of long suffering twitch play about his lips, like a saint with the toothache.
"I remember. Bertram Wilberforce Wooster. Won the scripture prize."
I beamed that he would remember my shining hour. "You and your brother always were clever chaps. Lots of kippers for breakfast in the Holmes ménage?"
"Not especially, no."
"Just a natural gift then? Actually, that rather reminds me - you take a line through all this investigating lark, don't you? My Aunt Dahlia's got herself in a spot of bother with the local constabulary at her place in Worcestershire. Would you motor back to Brinkley Court with me when I've had my little chat with the judge? See if you can throw any light."
I could tell that I was about to get the nolle prosequi from Lockie, who I remembered was never the most gregarious of birds, when a little sandy haired chap who I'd taken for another of the judge's clientele piped up.
"My colleague will be delighted to help. I'm Doctor Watson by the way."
We shook hands.
"Excellent - I'll meet you here in an hour or two."
As I walked away I heard Holmes say "I had no intention of.." when the Watson chappie broke in and said "I know you hadn't but you need a holiday and Worcestershire's very peaceful. You need a night's sleep first though." He turned to the officer of the law standing next to them like a faithful old family retainer, "Lestrade? See what you can do."
And that was the last I saw of them until the next morning. For reasons I've never quite understood, the Wooster charm failed to sway the justice and, instead of being soaked for a fiver as is tradition, I was jugged for the night.
~~~
I passed a pretty scaly night. While they do their best at Bow Street, the cells are a touch short of the comforts of home. But after a tolerable breakfast near Covent Garden, I felt able to rise on the stepping stones of my dead self to higher things. In short, I felt reborn. Holmes and his colleague met me by the car and we bowled off together towards Brinkley.
After dinner that evening I tried to stay awake to listen for the creeping footsteps of our suspect, even though I knew Lockie and the doctor chappie were just next door. I had just got to a terribly gripping part in the book I was reading - the villain was enticing a snake into the victim's bedroom - when I must have nodded off. I woke with a start as I heard a thud from the room next door.
We Woosters were at Agincourt and I can be quite the preux chevalier when needs must, but it occurred to me that Holmes and Watson were professional fellows who might resent the interference of an amateur. I had just turned my head back to the cool side of the pillow when I heard another thud, followed by a rhythmic banging. I turned on my bedside lamp and drew my dressing gown - the purple with the heliotrope stripe - around my shoulders.
I heard a strangled cry, and somebody shouted "Sherlock!" Well, I didn't stand upon the order of my going. Grabbing the poker as I went past I tiptoed out into the darkened corridor.
A moment later my heart crashed up against my front teeth as I heard a bang behind me. My robe had caught my bedroom doorhandle and pulled the bally thing shut behind me. I heard a sort of anguished cry from Holmes and Watson's room and so, raising the poker above my head I flung open their door and threw on the lights.
"Wooster! How nice of you to join us." Holmes trilled, debonair as a boulevardier strolling down the Burlington arcade even while recumbent, "My brother always did entertain suspicions that you might be... ow!"
I saw a hunched shape under the blanket move, like a hunched shape under a blanket kicking a consulting detective sharply on the ankle.
"I thought... the thief... in your room?" Not eloquent I know, but I wasn't at my sparkling best.
"Ah yes. The thief. Escaped I'm afraid. Down the drainpipe. Probably heading back to London in a two-seater. My colleague is just examining me for any injuries I might have sustained in the struggle."
The sandy head popped out like a flustered rabbit peeping out of its warren.
"Hullo!" he said.
"Pip pip!" I replied, playing the gracious host for all it was worth. After all, they may not have caught the thief but I wasn't about to appear ungrateful, "Everything all right down there? Nothing broken?"
"Oh yes," replied Holmes, "Doctor Watson was just assuring me that everything was entirely to his satisfaction."
"Right-o," I said, "I'll leave you to it," and I biffed off.
As I slipped between my own sheets I heard a roar of laughter from the other room. I picked up my book again and it occurred to me that these detective chappies must lead frightfully exhilarating lives.
Antisocial Note:
Sherlock likes to take Lestrade
Half undressed though fully hard
But the act of having John
He much prefers with nothing on.