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Sherlock Holmes: Metamorphoses
Written for the kink meme on LJ. I lost the exact prompt, but it was basically about Watson turning into a snakeman a la Metamorphosis, and contemplations of humanity and sexytimes ensue. I only had the wherewithal to write the beginning of the fic, but perhaps one day I shall come back to it.
Metamorphosis
Sherlock Holmes. G. 167 words.
They tell Mary that there was a death in the family and that Watson will be away for some time, handling affairs.
"Tell her you're in an inheritance spat with a second cousin," says Holmes, hovering over Watson. "Your Aunt Mildred gave her estate to you, her beloved nephew Johnny, but this bastard cousin is trying to usurp you."
"Please," says Watson, tetchily. "I think I know how to lie to my wife."
"Not half as well as you lie to yourself."
Watson can't quite hold a pen anymore; his claws have become too long. Still, he declines Holmes's offer to write the letter for him. ("It won't be hard to forge your penmanship, Watson. I'll just pretend I'm my grandmother, god rest her soul.")
Watson will write his own letters. He can write his own letters.
"I'll tell Mary you are so overcome by grief that you can no longer write properly," Holmes offers.
"Yes," Watson mutters, and tries not to hiss. "Tell her that."
Metamorphosis
Sherlock Holmes. G. 167 words.
They tell Mary that there was a death in the family and that Watson will be away for some time, handling affairs.
"Tell her you're in an inheritance spat with a second cousin," says Holmes, hovering over Watson. "Your Aunt Mildred gave her estate to you, her beloved nephew Johnny, but this bastard cousin is trying to usurp you."
"Please," says Watson, tetchily. "I think I know how to lie to my wife."
"Not half as well as you lie to yourself."
Watson can't quite hold a pen anymore; his claws have become too long. Still, he declines Holmes's offer to write the letter for him. ("It won't be hard to forge your penmanship, Watson. I'll just pretend I'm my grandmother, god rest her soul.")
Watson will write his own letters. He can write his own letters.
"I'll tell Mary you are so overcome by grief that you can no longer write properly," Holmes offers.
"Yes," Watson mutters, and tries not to hiss. "Tell her that."