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“Pull the lever!” Sherlock thundered, his heavily made-up eyes flashing almost demonically.
He turned towards the birth-tank, green dress swirling round him like a Belstaff as Anderson scuttled towards the control panel. Donovan slapped his hand away, giving Sherlock a heavy-lidded stare as she reached to pull down the lever herself, bending to expose the suspenders clipped to the top of her silk stockings.
There was a blinding flash of light and the birth-tank cracked from side to side, knocking everyone to the ground… Everyone except Sherlock.
A thick, white smoke filled the room, but the transvestite kept his pencil-lined gaze on where the tank had been standing. Gradually through the haze he could make out a body - head, broad shoulders, muscular torso, then - oh my. Even Sherlock Holmes, with his infamous, encyclopaedic knowledge of sex - and more experience in the bedroom than you could shake a dildo at - had to lower his eyes for a second.
The man (if you could call him that - he was more god than man) was tanned, firm and muscular. He was a little short - Sherlock pouted - but as he stepped forward and tensed his bare glutes Sherlock had to stifle a whimper. He ran his eyes shamelessly over his work of art, wishing he could ravish him right there, with everybody watching. He knew how much Donovan liked to watch…
Sherlock suddenly felt a pang of selfishness. Mine. Nobody would share his miracle.
The room burst into applause, guests picking themselves up and brushing themselves off. Molly danced over, pulling a pair of skin-tight golden boxers from the inside of her sequinned top hat.
“Give the poor monster his modesty!” she giggled.
Sherlock glared at her, stepping possessively in front of his creation.
“I’ll take care of that, thank you Molly.”
The golden-haired god struggled into the tight undergarments, steadying himself with a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. Once he had them on, Sherlock circled him predatorily. He was on the brink of dismissing the guests and suggesting they withdraw to an adjoining chamber when there was a loud revving of engines and a black Harley Davidson exploded through the hole left in the wall by the birth tank. As the dust settled, there was a shriek.
“Jim!”
Molly ran forwards and hurled herself at the figure on the bike. The man bent to kiss her lustfully, but as she reached up to put her arms around his neck, he slapped her hard across the face. Sherlock’s lip curled in anger.
“I had reason to believe we’d seen the last of you, Moriarty,” he spat.
“Don’t get your thong in a twist, sunshine, I’m just here for what’s mine. I’ll be back though - don't you worry about that.”
The man winked and licked his lips.
“Isn’t revenge just so much sweeter than apples, Sherly?”
Sherlock tried not to cringe at the pet name. That lazy Irish drawl made his blood boil.
Unsurprisingly, the guests had scurried for cover again, along with Donovan and the spineless Anderson.
Jim slicked his hair back and straightened his leather jacket. The he caught sight of the gold pants.
“New toy?” he said sharply.
Sherlock narrowed his eyes but said nothing.
“Make sure you don’t break this one, doofus.”
Jim’s voice was laced with poison.
“This time, Sherlock, you owe me.”
He grabbed Molly by the waistband of her hotpants and manhandled her onto the back of the bike. Before Sherlock could think he had a scalpel in his hand and was lunging at - thin air. The motorbike had gone.
“Out, all of you!” he screamed. “Get out!”
Snatching the arm of his ‘toy’, Sherlock dragged him to the elevator and jabbed at the ‘up’ control.