Sometimes a story pops into your head that is just begging to be written. Sometimes, you just can’t help it. Sometimes, you just have to be naughty. Sometimes, being a tiny bit wicked is the only way to make the world seem a better place. ‘Bawdy’, Atlin Merrick once called me. I take it as a complement.
So, in celebration of that spirit, I offer you today’s slice of naughtiness. I haven’t written a Sherlock fic in quite a while, so it was a nice little self-starter. I hope you like it.
“The incriminating words were out of his mouth, and then he couldn’t swallow them back, couldn’t reel them in. They seemed to float in front of his eyes for a moment, a skein of humiliation, the letters glowing a wanton scarlet.
He never did this. His will was of iron. No sentiment. No human weakness. No Freudian slips. And above all, no desire.
And then those secret little daydreams that he had been nurturing, hiding them away even from himself, unfurled a frond, a delicate tendril that encircled his tongue like a noose and tripped him over.”