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Sherlock Holmes stared out the window from his flat at 221B Baker Street. Moriarty was down on the street dancing to “I Like To Move It” from Madagascar[i], dressed as a giant bowl of salad.
Sherlock's face was contemplative, a crease between his eyebrows, hands under his chin in his thinking position. It had been a week since Moriarty had started doing these little performances for him but Sherlock could not, for the life of him, figure out what all of this meant, so he quietly observed instead.
"I like to– MOVE IT!" Moriarty shouted and thrust his hips around, flashing a grin. "Don't you like to move it, move it, Sherl? Come, dance with me! Oh wait, you won't because you don't own a costume as amazing as mine is! HA! Loser!"
Suppressing a smug smile, Sherlock thought of the washing machine, the exhaust pipe and the condom box costume he kept in his wardrobe for special occasions. Moriarty was in for a surprise.
"What are you looking at?" John asked, appearing out of nowhere and scaring the poor detective so much he almost blinked during Moriarty's show.
"A vital clue on the case."
John snorted and did a backflip to the kitchen where he groaned at the sight in front of him.
"Why are there twenty-seven cups of tea on the table, Sherlock?"
"You see but you do not observe, John. That is clearly bleach and it is twenty-seven point three cups," Sherlock huffed and sprayed his eyes with his mini water tank, specifically created for this occasion. Moriarty was relentlessly busting moves and Sherlock wondered if Mrs. Hudson thought he was sexually assaulting the concrete.
"Ah, yes. I should have known, you even labelled them as twenty-seven point three cups of bleach. There is the first bleach, the second bleach, the third and all the rest. Now, I wonder what the bloody hell this single strand of hair is doing behind the fridge since I clearly asked you not to make a mess and here we are! I thought you actually listened this time but no, of course not, the big and almighty Sherlock 'I'm the only consulting detective in the world – whatever the bloody hell that means –, haha, I'm so famous for my razor-sharp cheekbones and stupid bloody hat' Holmes. I can't take this anymore, no matter how much I endured in Afghanistan. Enough is enough. I'm leaving."
He rolled over to the door on the floor and reached for the handle but stopped when the drop of sweat on the skin of his middle finger was zero point one millimetre away from it.
Sherlock took a sharp breath of air and realized he would have approximately zero point zero two milliseconds to consider his choices, make a decision, carefully craft a master plan and think about that cold case from nineteen-eighty-seven. He knew if he chose Moriarty, John would spend the night yodelling at the casino Mrs. Hudson was a regular at[ii] and he would have to endure listening to her complain in the form of Mexican soap opera quotes for at least three minutes and forty-five seconds. However, choosing John meant Sherlock had to give up his staring contest with his nemesis and he was fairly sure he was winning, despite the fact that Moriarty was wearing sunglasses and Sherlock had no way of telling. Since all these difficult outcomes worried Sherlock to no end, he decided he would choose an alternative that would cause him to appear as the victim in this scenario.
Falling backwards, he let out a dramatic slow-mo shout to make it legitimate even to the professional eye. He did not calculate, however, the fact that John had placed his freshly-shined porcelain Sherlock action figures on the floor, and his back met his head as he experienced the worst humanly pain possible. Other than Mycroft winning at Monopoly, that is.
"Oh my god, Sherlock! What have you done to my little Lockie and Erlie?!" John cried and pushed the howling detective away. "Daddy is here, calm down, my precious earl greys. This obnoxious giant will not hurt you ever again. That's right Erlie, I love you too."
The detective rolled to his side and pressed a hand to his back where he could feel the outline of that ridiculous hat the figures wore.
"I win, Sherlie! You broke the eye contact first and I could totally tell you faked that cardiac arrest just now, by the way. See you tomorrow, loser!"
Sherlock stumbled to the window but Moriarty and his forty staff members, along with the decoration they used and the giant ventilators they brought every day by helicopters, were long gone.
"John, if you do not make me a cup of the best quality black tea that we – as humanity –, possess, I swear on the Holy Laws of Gravity that I will sulk for ten hours straight and you won't be able to admire me from afar!" he shouted and closed the curtains before levitating towards the sofa where he lay down and started strangling the small Mycroft doll he received as a Christmas gift from himself two years ago.
"Oh, that is humorous, brother dear, as the only straight thing about you is the shape of your obnoxious nose," the voice of Mycroft floated in from the general direction of the toilet and Sherlock decided not to dignify that with a response.
John, meanwhile, has somersaulted down the stairs[iii] and did the Macarena as he glared at Sherlock's irresistible velvety skin and reptile eyes.
"You are playing cruel, Sherlock but two can play at this game," he smirked and pulled his laptop out of his breast pocket.
Sherlock leaned over and tried to take it from him but John was not in the military for nothing and so he easily did the moonwalk and wall ran to the ceiling which he knew Sherlock despised.
"Sherlock Holmes is an average bloke with no special skills... "
"John, don't, I was overreacting, please... " Sherlock pleaded, his white skin turning so white he started glowing in the dark.
But John was a man of steel.
"He has the most unattractive hair in the entire universe... "
Sherlock started doing push-ups in his distress.
"Surely you have seen pictures of that orange-haired clown from America, John."
"He only knows two hundred and forty-two different types of tobacco ash… "
"That is personal assault! Mrs. Hudson will hear about this and you won't be allowed in her casino anymore."
Sherlock knew he was digging deep here but he could not risk John actually posting these blatant lies on the internet. What would his mortal enemies think of him?
John gasped and dropped the laptop but caught it with his thumb and pinkie before it could reach the sofa. Sherlock also grabbed it and stared at John's deep blue eyes and thin lips as the doctor wet them about twenty-five times during their eye contact. It was an even fight but someone had to let go and Sherlock batted his long, dark eyelashes, making John gulp and give up. He could not continue as that would have been out of the strictly heterosexual etiquette he lived by.
Closing the tab, Sherlock stared at the fanart of himself in a long sausage costume. Was that mustard he was spreading along his torso?
"That is my patient's! He... He asked me if it was bad to have a hallucination of this when he went to church... He's a hippie," John explained and flexed on his thigh muscles to distract Sherlock and take his laptop and dignity back to his room.
"I am deducing a lie here, but it is not clear if it's the church or the hip... " the detective started but his gaze fell on his friend's tight jeans which did nothing to hide the rippling muscle beneath them. Damn, John. Clearly, the pole dancing classes John thought Sherlock had no idea about were paying off. Sherlock briefly considered disguising himself as a pole but dismissed it due to technical difficulties and ethical issues.
As he blinked and came back to the present, he saw John Naruto-run up the stairs with his laptop nowhere in sight.
"Bloody double homicide with a side serial killer!" Sherlock exclaimed, as the sound of his all-time favourite song filled the room.
He fumbled for his phone while Jump (For My Love) by The Pointer Sisters played at full volume.
"First consulting detective worldwide, Mycroft Holmes is no boss of me, I have a certificate of knowing two hundred and forty-three types of tobacco ash and my hair has been in a Schwarzkopf commercial. William Sherlock Scott Holmes for short," Sherlock said in one breath and waited the usual five second silence his introduction was always followed by. Humanity was painfully predictable.
"Mr. Holmes, I'm calling in the case of the fifty-five kilograms of cocaine you requested for personal usage. While we are utterly flattered by your trust in our gang, we are not sure we wish to agitate Mycroft Holmes as the respectable man has enough to worry about as it is," the traitor, Paul, said.
"He got you a job at the local milk bar, didn’t he?"
"But Mr. Holmes, I would never– "
"I can smell your sweaty hands from here, Peter. Quit it."
"He offered free napkins, Mr. Holmes, and there are so many colou– "
"Pathetic, Penelope. Pathetic," he spat and hung up on the bitch. "I’m off to murder Mycroft!" he shouted and grabbed his coat and scarf.
"Tell him I said hi!" John yelled.
"Won’t do!"
John did not react so Sherlock ran down the stairs and – with a self-satisfied smirk at having the last word –, kicked the door open and gave the middle finger to the cameras around the flat. What he didn’t hear was the soft 'lol' John whispered under his breath. He never did.
As he scanned the street for any Patricks nearby, a man about the size of a five-year-old refrigerator (six if used by a gambler and four if used by Margaret Thatcher) walked up to a dustbin[iv] and touched the side with the tip of his tongue three times sensually while keeping intense eye-contact with a civilian pigeon. Sherlock knew this could only mean one thing and one thing only.
He reached into his pocket and grabbed his copy of the Constitution of The Russian Federation. Then he threw it away so he could have access to his phone.
"I am a prostitute named Honey Titties," he drawled into the device and sent the message to his underground associates.
At least, he would have if not for the 84% humidity that day. If not for the fact that his fingers slipped on the combined moisture of the phone’s screen and his own damp skin. It was an honest mistake, a fair error. And yet Sherlock knew his life was ruined in that moment.
Moriarty’s helicopter landed five seconds after the fatal misstep.
He was, as always, sleek and elegant with just a hint of frivolousness. His jet-black hair was gelled to his scalp; his round, sharp eyes covered by red glasses, and his body positively succulent as ever in a cactus outfit they had fought over for days on a hot day in Uzbekistan years ago. Sherlock had a vague memory of erect spikes and pained moans (presumably from being stung by one of the human sized plants[v]) but he had been highly dehydrated and he did not accept his defeat to that day.
Moriarty gave him a once over and licked his lips with his tongue slowly, just dragging a drop of saliva… Now that he thought about it, he hadn’t consumed nearly enough liquids for this meeting.
"Well hello, Honey Titties," his mortal enemy greeted and leaned in closer, inspecting Sherlock’s chest carefully. "I wonder if honey tastes as good in London as in Uzbekistan."
Sherlock frowned. What kind of an idiotic question was that? It was basic knowledge that the honey in London was modified by a gene which made you want to spontaneously bow down on your knees any time you so much as glanced at a flag. He stopped consuming that poison after an embarrassing encounter with a half-awake ex-soldier, wearing only his England flag boxers. Sherlock blamed the toxins in his system.
"That message was not meant for you, Moriarty," he spat and, to his credit, the other man raised an eyebrow, offended at this prospect for exactly two seconds.
"Don’t care, baby," he shrugged then and snapped his fingers, summoning an assistant who removed his glasses. "I’m here now and you know I hate being disappointed."
Sherlock was so unused to looking at Moriarty’s eyes directly that he felt his heart fasten by the intensity of them. Had he even drunk anything besides that tiny cup of tea that day?
"Get me forty kilograms of heroin first," he smirked, knowing there was no possible–
Moriarty snapped his fingers again and a second helicopter dropped a wooden chest next to them on the concrete.
"Done. Your turn."
Sherlock was not sure what was expected of him, but he did suspect it was connected to Uzbekistan.
He reached out and took the biggest spike of Moriarty’s costume in his hand.
"NO!"
In a swirl of dust and rocks, a silhouette of a human could be seen. Or was it two?
"You take out Moriarty, I take Sherlock to dinner," the voice of Irene Adler could be heard through the mini-tornado.
"Yeah, deal," John answered as they walked out of the shadows. "Wait, no, you– "
Irene Adler was wearing a red mini dress with a pair of black thigh-high boots, thin, snarly lips coloured with maroon lipstick, hair up in a loose bun. Moriarty’s men gaped and stared but as it was, the three main gay idiots completely missed her godly presence. Well, it’s not like she dressed for the attention of men. She dressed for herself. And for the off chance of meeting Keira Knightley. Mostly for herself.
"Listen up, you homosexual fools– "
Moriarty gave her a side glance, before looking back to where the detective’s hand was resting on his spike.
"Says the gayest woman in central London."
Irene licked her lips and a security behind Moriarty fainted.
"The difference between us is the lack of foolishness I possess compared to you lot. I stated my intentions towards Sherlock years ago."
John touched the detective’s side and Sherlock turned his face toward his friend.
The doctor had somehow gotten a haircut, shaved and changed into a navy-blue shirt with dress trousers since they’ve seen each other.
"Damn, John," he whispered before he could stop himself. The dryness in his throat told him he really had to gulp down a good two litres of tap water right that second.
Moriarty looked between them and then at Irene.
"At least we know Sherlock doesn’t like you," he said and turned to the detective. "Damn, John? Damn, John? Whose spike are you holding right now, huh? Is it this hobbit’s? I don’t think so, Sherl."
Sherlock stared at his hand, then at John’s new trim. How does one even begin to assess this situation?
Irene started to get impatient. She had to catch a flight to the US if she wanted to meet that infamous stripper from Florida. Being ninety and still in business? Clearly, she could provide her with the advice of a lifetime.
"I say," she started, raising her voice. "We go back to my place and pull an Uzbekistan."
Moriarty considered this and looked John up and down.
"Always wondered what’s under those hideous jumpers, doctor."
John cleared his throat, just now realizing how this meant he was officially giving up his heterosexual lifestyle. Well, if Irene was there, it wasn’t gay, right?
"You seem like you could do wonders with that tongue, Jim," he flirted back and Jesus, was he really doing this?
Moriarty winked and reached around John to pull his gun out his waistband. He lifted it to his lips and licked the upside slowly.
"Fuck," John and Sherlock said at the same time and Irene pulled them into her car with all the force a dominatrix possessed.
"That hurts!" John hissed and Irene smirked.
"Oh, that’s just the appetizer, sweetheart."
She started the car and they were speeding through Trafalgar Square when a series of moans and cries could be heard from the backseat.
"Pick it up for me, doctor."
"H-hello?" John answered and Irene saw his face growing mortified. "Molly?"
Irene gestured to him and he handed the phone over.
"Baby girl, I’m just out in town with the boys," she purred and pulled the wheel left after a near-crash with a bus. "Oh, you know, just the usual, about to pull an Uzbekistan." There was a loud shriek on the other side. "What, no, I– Okay, you can join, be there in ten. Kisses," she smiled at the phone and threw it at Moriarty’s head as one would a knife.
"What is wrong with lesbians?!" he yelped, indignant. "The world’s baddest evil mastermind can’t have a relaxing cruise through London with a latently homosexual ex-army doctor, the world’s only self-proclaimed consulting detective and a rude sex worker," he let out a long sigh and draped an arm around Sherlock’s shoulder’s, scaring the detective out of his stupor.
Irene sped up and pressed a red, lipstick-shaped button that activated levitation and soon, they were in the air, terrifying the civilian pigeons out of the way.
In the backseat, John was waving at a winged pig that flew by, not even noticing the way Moriarty moved his thigh two centimetres to the right.
"Aw, I haven’t seen Balthazar in years!" he exclaimed, pointing at a small floating hedgehog driving a mini Yagou Y69-R420 666.6 motorcycle.
He gave John a wink and sped off. Well, having three husbands and five wives (plus their wives and husbands) did leave you with very little free time.
"Cop at seven," Moriarty drawled, unbelievably bored as Sherlock played Sudoku on his phone, going one level per second (on hard mode!), and John kept on talking about some zoo robbery business.
Irene spotted the man; white, early forties, no ring, attempt at looking cool by wearing eyebrow piercing –, and slowed as he waved her over.
“Any ideas, geniuses?” she asked, smiling in advance at the idiot.
Moriarty and Sherlock blinked.
“Shoot him with your Variable Pump Air Rifle[vi] that’s in your glovebox,” Sherlock said and went back to his game.
Moriarty frowned. “Just hit him with the car. Why waste time?”
John’s head shot up from his monologue.
“Flirt with him!” he shouted, glaring at the two undeniably sexy… that is, insensitive men.
Sherlock hummed. “He’s straight as a Christian church in South-Texas. Could work.”
Irene stopped and turned her head to the cop.
“Good day, ma’am,” he greeted and the air grew tense. He was one of them… An American (derogatory).
The Variable Pump Air Rifle it was.
“Not for you,” she smiled and shot him in the nostril.
Moriarty rolled his eyes. Of course, the Woman would go with Sherlock’s plan.
"What do you mean no more levels, you stupid game? I will contact Mycroft Holmes and he will contact the CEO of the company you work for, Nathan. That’s right, I know you’re watching me through the screen, so give me more levels, you imbecile," Sherlock threatened and the way he pronounced each syllable made Moriarty’s spikes stand to attention.
John didn’t even complain about the way Irene left the officer right there, in the air, without a magic carpet or his driver’s licence.
Sherlock smirked as a hundred new levels appeared on his phone.
"Make the background mint," Moriarty purred and leaned close to the detective.
"Do what he said," Sherlock commanded and spread his legs in victory.
Sensing the high amounts of testosterone in her car, Irene activated the Rainforest feature, soaking all three men with icy water and leaves.
Sherlock quickly threw his phone out the window, so the water wouldn't damage it. He was thankful for the air particles (trained spies) that caught it. Mycroft could be irritating but he did prove useful once in a while.
Next to him, Moriarty slicked his hair back and raised his sunglasses, to pose for a calendar specifically made for homosexual men attracted to wet psychopaths, Irene was guessing. It's not like the target audience in the car was paying attention. John had taken the opportunity and produced a rubber duck with a blue soap bar and started rubbing himself clean through his clothes.
"Ah, how refreshing!" he smiled, his mouth doing the unmistakable 'nostalgia tremble'. "It's like I'm back in Afghanistan[vii]."
Irene activated the warzone theme and John jumped up, knocking himself out with the roof.
"That was sad," Moriarty commented, propping his legs upon the doctor's thighs.
Sherlock was concerned for half a second before he decided he would rather design new levels of Sudoku in his mind and solve them too while he was at it. Moriarty stared in awe as he projected his thoughts outside to show the dumb audience how his brilliant brain worked.
Pity no one was paying attention besides a lost shark that was looking for the tornado which was supposed to fly him to the shooting location of his new film.
But it was no matter because in three minutes and fourteen seconds, they arrived at Irene's flat and the three men were catapulted out their seats onto the concrete.
"Chop, chop, boys," Irene said, snapping her fingers, and walked up to the door, not checking whether anyone was following her.
They were, after Sherlock had two kind gentlemen helping him to his feet even as he huffed in exasperation. John had woken up as he landed and since he had no idea what Moriarty and Sherlock did in his unfortunate absence, he refused to let go of the detective's arm. On the other hand (quite literally), there was Moriarty, lacing their fingers together. Bloody psychopath, having no shame!
"Come on, Sherl, let's get this party going," Moriarty growled and so they shuffled up the stairs and through the door, all three of them next to each other. Luckily, Moriarty was able to hologramize himself so they fit.
Irene was nowhere to be seen but the door closed anyway and the soft tunes of a vuvuzela could be heard from one of the rooms.
Sherlock looked around and smirked.
"It is evident from the amount of long light brown hairs, the obviously cheap beige overcoat and the knock-off rose perfume that the Woman is dating the wife of an accountant who suffers from mild alcoholism," he explained and feigned a yawn, utterly bored.
"No offense, baby, but your sex worker friend literally got a call from Hooper while we were on the way here," Moriarty said and gave him the side-eye.
Sherlock frowned, "Impossible. How did I not hear it?"
John shrugged and waved around. "I don't know but I think it's pretty obvious from all these erotic pictures of them up on the walls." He pointed at the ceiling fresco. "I mean, that does look like Molly, even though her face is not exactly as it normally is."
As they stared at the complicated position of limbs and roses in awe, a figure clad in a black leather costume and a diamond mask sauntered in, holding whip in a delicate, manicured hand.
"Oh my God," shrieked the woman, lifting her mask. "Stop looking at that! I'll whip you!"
"Molly?" John asked, for the second time that day. He licked his lips. "You, uhh, you look– "
"Delectable," Irene purred as she appeared and swept Molly into a heated kiss, burying her hands in the chestnut locks and prying the whip out of her fingers to hit the full height statue of Aphrodite three times on the behind.
Suddenly, her stone thighs parted and there was a staircase leading down, pink smoke emerging.
Irene pushed Molly into the passage, mouth not leaving hers, hands gesturing for them to follow.
Moriarty glanced at the other men, checking if he was the only one out of his depth in this increasingly sapphic situation. He noted, satisfied, how perplexed Sherlock seemed and, well, John was gaping, whether from arousal or shock, Moriarty didn't care. He could work with either.
"I'm deducing an event of sexual nature taking place," Sherlock stated.
Moriarty took a deep breath.
"You're lucky you're pretty, Sherl," he sighed and leaned close to him, biting down on his ear. "I still remember the way you sucked on that bana– " he whispered but there was a noise from behind and Moriarty huffed, whipping around to glare at the army doctor.
The army doctor who was wearing his army uniform, standing with his legs parted, chest puffed out and a box of cigars in his arms.
"Excuse my shit," Moriarty gritted through his teeth. "But what the fuck are you doing?"
John grinned, flicking him out of the way with his pinkie and stood in front of Sherlock, watching the detective run his gaze over the cigars and John's form.
"Now, why don't we join the lovely ladies in their secret dungeon, cadet? Captain's orders," he winked and Sherlock nodded, taking one step after the other in a daze.
"Wait for me, you horny homosexuals!" Moriarty shouted and slid down the stairs after them like a snake.
"Bisexual!" John corrected, making sure to stand as close to Sherlock as humanly possible.
Irene clapped from her red fur throne and karated the door locked.
"Damn, doctor, it only took you five years to confess," she grinned and took a seat at the huge circular table in the middle of the room. "Everyone, sit."
"I thought there would be more beds," John commented and had the audacity to push his and Sherlock's chairs right next to each other. Moriarty pushed his on the other side of them.
"Beds?" Irene smiled; red lips stretched across admirable white pearls. "Oh, doctor, you must have misunderstood. But then, I can't blame you. The sexual tension between you two is akin to lifting a delicious piece of cake to one's mouth and then finding out it was a rat all along."
The silence wasn't as awkward as the way John kept lighting the cigars and shaking ash onto the table in front of Sherlock, fanning the smoke up his nostrils. The detective, although coughing and tearing up, seemed to enjoy the attention, inhaling the aroma in a quasi extasy state.
"More ash, yes, John," he mumbled and threw his head back, exposing that pale, long neck.
"Can we get to the point? I'm getting impatient here," Moriarty growled, squeezing one of Sherlock's stylishly thin but, at the same time, sufficiently muscled thighs.
Irene stepped on the hidden lever on the floor and the middle of the table lifted up, a glass tube emerging with a dramatic sound effect (whoosh whoosh bitch) and all eyes snapped to the impeccably sewn drainage pipe costume, complete with stains and spots of rust. It was so fresh the designer that was going to come up with it hadn't been born yet. That's right, it was from the depressing year of 2169, the time of the second rise of Neanderthals, the place of telepathy and its associated consequences on society and, of course, the year where Michael Jackson finally reveals himself as the ambassador of a humanoid species that live just North from our solar system. At least, that's what happens in America. Irene had only been London which was basically identical except the royal family had become homeless and the descendant of Prince William's son was a beggar living under Tower Bridge.
"I suppose it is time to get the big P out," Irene said and Moriarty leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms smugly.
"Is this really the best method to decide?" John asked, considering his chances against his protestants. "Not that I'm not up for a challenge but considering our differences in height, I might be at a natural disadvantage here."
Irene cleared her throat, "I meant pounds."
"Me too, of course," John coughed and shared a heated look with the surprised but not at all turned-off Moriarty. "Well, I'll sit this one out and attend to my doctorly duties in case Sherlock requires medical assistance."
The wide, bloodshot eyes of the detective were set on the costume as if it were a double homicide with a side serial killer and the best earl grey tea that we, as humanity, possess.
"I want it," Sherlock growled and, abandoning John's ash and flicking tongue, as he had three years ago on top of St. Barts – that is to say, without even telling him how saying Moriarty wasn't gay because John also used product in his hair wasn't the proof John thought it was –, climbed on top of Moriarty's lap and caressed his largest spike with those tantalizingly thin lizard fingers. "Get it for me."
Oh, bloody biscuits, thought John. This will not do.
"And for me," he added, voice sultry and deep, as he stuck to the ceiling and dropped himself on top of the table in a pair of red silk boxers in one fluid motion. "Daddy."
Moriarty took a sip from his whiskey and leaned close to Sherlock, waited 'til one drop landed on his plump lips, then, – without losing eye-contact with the silent lesbian judgement on the other side of the table –, shared a drop with John as well.
"By the power vested in me by some religious bullshit, via the I-don't-give-a-shit place, we are now wed," he said but the first part was kinda unclear since he had yet to swallow the rest of his lawful alcoholic beverage. "And suck me off and fuck me sideways if I don't get what my husbands want."
Irene snorted, reaching up and pulling the hairpin out of her luminous and bounceful waves of chestnut hairdo, causing a whiff of pheromones to hit Molly's unprepared nose.
"Irene," Molly moaned, pulling her leather suit off to reveal a soft pink lingerie with a small bomb fastened to the left side of her chest. "My love is so great for you that if you don't win me that costume, I might as well perish."
"Baby," Irene purred, tracing the rim of the lace bra, fingers grazing the velvet case of the bomb. "You know just how to get me going."
With a smile, Molly climbed onto the table and, biting her lip sensually, put her hands on the glass tube containing the exhaust pipe costume, slowly sliding down and throwing her head back.
"Oh, now this is a job for Johnny Sparklepants," John grinned and slut-dropped with his back to the glass.
"One million!" Moriarty exclaimed, shifting on his seat as his prominent spike swelled in interest.
"Two million," Irene countered, shedding her coat.
"Five million."
"Ten."
"Fifty."
"A hundred."
"A thousand!"
"Two billion."
"Ten billion!"
"A trillion."
Five minutes later, Moriarty slapped the table and broke his sunglasses with his teeth.
"A hundred quintillion!" he shouted, spitting black glass everywhere.
"A sextillion[viii] and I win," Irene smirked and winked at him, glancing at the tireless seductions of John and the drooling Sherlock in his lap.
"Fine, yeah, I lost," Moriarty admitted, defeated. "Guess someone has to suck me and fuck me sideways now."
"If we must," John smirked, picking the chair containing his two husbands up and disappearing behind the door with the biohazard warning on it. "There's the beds! Wait, fuuuu– "
A low thump and some banging noises later, Molly draped herself across Irene's thighs and pressed her chest to her lover's lips so Irene could disarm it with her tongue.[ix]
"Did you just pull an Uzbekistan on them, darling?" Molly asked, throwing the bomb behind her back sexily after allowing Irene to press three of her fingers inside it with expertise.
Irene licked her lips[x] and smiled as the bomb went off, exploding the basement so that they could see up to the kitchen.
"Now I have," she growled and picked Molly up, parkouring them up to the broken tiles and mentally distressed fridge. "Why don't you lick this dirt up for me on your knees, baby girl?"
"Spank me with the expired ketchup?" Molly asked, hesitant to speak during the task her detective had assigned her.
"If you're a good girl, Dr. Hooper."
And they had sex. Because they were sexually attracted to each other. Two women that had sex. Regularly[xi]. Because they wanted to. Irene Adler was a lesbian and never wanted to fuck Sherlock Holmes. Molly Hooper realized she was worth so much more than the homosexual rude sociopath she had yearned for and seduced a clever homosexual dominatrix. Yes, they were women and they were dating. What's more, they lived together. They even slept in the same bed. They never woke up in the middle of the night with the thought of 'I wish Sherlock Holmes would sink his freakishly long tongue down my throat and suck the sapphic urges out of my soul'.
Sherlock Holmes, in fact, was busy with navigating his polyamorous relationship while attempting not to scandalize poor, old Mrs. Hudson. Mrs. Hudson knew Sherlock was a homosexual just like those members of the audience that aren't blind and stupid[xii]. She secretly smirked whenever she saw John limp into her club to polish the poles[xiii] and was very pleased for them and accepted them as they were.
Except for Moriarty. That man was bloody insane and she would not rest until dear Sherlock and John got rid of his psychopathic arse. How could anyone truly hate Amor en custodia[xiv]? She was no prude but really, continually finding her TV turned to Gay.tv whenever she was about to watch her show was the last straw. She would have to pull a Turkmenistan on the bitch.
[i] The 2005 animated film, not the country and not the 1994 original version from Reel 2 Real feat. The Mad Stuntman, who even knew that existed?
[ii] Kinda hard not to be a regular at your own casino ya know?
[iii] When the fuck had he went up in the first place? I wouldn’t know.
[iv] Is this legit the British word for trashcan?
[v] Cacti are not native to Uzbekistan and obviously everyone knows that but poor Sherl was so delirious from dehydration and certain urges, can you blame him?
[vi] “Because the number of strokes can be varied and the air is under high pressure, variable pump rifles have the advantage of offering the shooter variable power. The forearm serves as the pump handle so there is no external device required. These rifles tend to be short and light for the power they achieve.” Lmao tell me this doesn’t sound like some gay euphemism shit.
[vii] Come on, you can't be offended by this. It doesn't even make any sense.
[viii] Sextillion, cause she's a dominatrix. Get it? Sex haha funny.
[ix] What? Never seen a bomb that needed to be turned off by sexual pleasure? By saliva trickling down the middle in slow, fat drops? Bloody virgins.
[x] But only once, she wasn't a man trying to desperately prove his heterosexuality by indulging in sus gay shit.
[xi] The audience gapes and writers are clutching their pearls. The shock. The drama.
[xii] Or, you know, …straight.
[xiii] After polishing some other… poles at home, *wink wink*.
[xiv] Where my Paz and Juan shippers at?