May I present for your disapproval, Unbecoming Conduct, by the lovely regrette_rien, a name which declares to all the author's carefree attitude toward life and their shitty fic. (At least someone here enjoyed themselves...) What makes this fic bad is not the writing--the mechanics are actually pretty good--but the astounding ignorance of the world the author displays in her pursuit of sexytiems. Be warned for boldtext formatting fail if you click through.
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- Warnings: Abuse of disabled toilets, some subterfuge involving feigning a disability - this is not intended to be parody or ridicule, so I hope I don't cause offence. Please let me know if it is offensive, and I will delete this story.
Every once in awhile I stumble across a fic that has author's notes that are like flashing neon badfic signs (so FF.net could be the fanfiction equivalent of a red light district I guess?) This is one of those.
Note that 'disabled toilets' here does not mean clogged or nonfunctional (rather to my disappointment)--the author means handicapped. Yes folks, Sherlock and Watson have bathroom sex, in a handicapped bathroom, in the 1890s.
We are plopped into the midst of a less-than-platonic relationship between Sherlock and John (Watson). The author makes a pretense at establishing some context for her admitted PWP before John starts whining about the lack of sexytiems.
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- although John wouldn't exactly describe himself as being an entirely sex-driven maniac, he did have a damn healthy interest,
but as Sherlock kept reminding him, admittance was the first step to toward recovery. John would refuse to acknowledge his demons, attempting to battle them alone until that whole Jack the Ripper phase when he really hit rock bottom.
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- he had a boyfriend who should try to remember that it was quite nice to spend time together. Particularly in the bedroom. Without forensic textbooks, or severed limbs, or terrifyingly grisly experiments – all of which dampened the mood somewhat.
Naw, what do you mean "dampen the mood"? I'm personally quite fond of my severed-hand-cum-dildo. It's so much more realistic, and satisfying.
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- He needn't have worried too much, though. Sherlock's smile as he approached John was full of intent and teeth. To the average bystander, the smile broadcast an unmistakeable message: Run! I'm gonna get you!
Sherlock, on the other hand, had no qualms about describing himself as a sex-driven maniac.
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- John refused point-blank Sherlock's wheedling requests for sex in alleyways. Neither of them were drunken teenagers; John argued, nor homeless, nor ignorant of social norms.
Like the fact that gay sex was illegal in England, up until the early 20th century? Or that the penalty was up to 10 years of hard labor (reduced from death a few decades before)? Sherlock's insatiable sexual desire was apparently such that the man renowned for piecing together complex crimes couldn't be any more creative than "let's fuck in an alley."
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- "It's not even winter," Sherlock pointed out, pressing their bodies together, and making sure that particular pressure between their groins was maintained. "I'm not going to get any snow on you."
John had rather unpleasant memories of the last time Sherlock's sex-fiendishness had seized him. The shrinkage, oh lord, the shrinkage.
Anyway, Sherlock gives up on the outdoor-sex thing, and drags John into a "cafe," which our author forgets to mention is also a convenient time portal.
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- Sherlock found himself confronted by three wooden doors: emblazoned with the universal hieroglyphs for male, female, and disabled, respectively.
I don't know what bothers me more about this sentence: the wildly inappropriate use of the word 'heiroglyph,' the fact that the author thinks all public establishments have bathrooms at this time, or the "disabled" bathroom--in the 1890s. If you were "disabled," you were considered a drain on society and likely thrown into debtor's prison if you weren't from a rich family. Screw public accommodations. What exactly was that "heiroglyph," because it sure as hell wasn't a wheelchair. Was it a guy with rickets?
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- "The disabled's, Sherlock?" John protested, only barely comprehending, and baulking at the semi-publicity. "We can't – it's not – what if someone with a handicap needs the loo?"
...Then they pissed out back behind the building like every other poor lice-infested fuck at that time. Or in the alleys. Probably not such fun sexytiems when the the drunk guy next to you can't control the stream. Join us next time for when Sherlock's insatiable sex drive takes a turn for the kinky when our dastardly duo learn to enjoy golden showers...
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- Dammit, he could barely string a sentence together to express just how morally wrong he found this, particularly with his work as a doctor, and encountering patients with physical hindrances every day, who shared the common complaint that able-bodied people were using their damned conveniences.
Apparently even the 19th century had its share of fucking hipsters.
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- John tensed; it was still a public location, and he had an instinctive aversion to making himself so vulnerable in front of others – it wasn't as though the locks on the doors of public loos were exactly infallible.
Actually up until about the mid 20th century public restrooms, where available, were coin-operated. So, yeah, they were pretty infallible. History fail aside, John still hadn't confronted his sex problem yet so they both whip out their junk and get down to business.
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- "There's no lube. I don't have any. You don't have any? No. It's alright, though. We can do it. You can do it. It doesn't matter."
Of course, the only thing left to complete this clusterfuck of historically inaccurate public bathroom sex: lube-less penetration!
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- When the detective was seriously turned on, his technique went to shit
BATHROOM JOKE FINALLY
Predictably enough the sex is, by any normal standard unpleasant and cringe-worthy, but apparently Sherlock and John are so desperate that even godawful sex is still sex, and something tells me someone masturbates a lot because Sherlock gets forceful enough to knock John off balance, and get ready for the conveniently humorous twist!!1
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- Disabled emergency cord. Please note that staff will enter this toilet when cord is pulled.
Yeah, not knock on the door or anything, or call out, they just barge on in, because nothing else in this story makes sense so what the hell
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- FUCK, his arse! That was NOT a good way to remove a fully-erect cock!
I have nothing to add here. Just repeat that line. And repeat it again.
As promised the cafe waiter comes barging in to see what the emergency is, and finds John and Sherlock rocking out with his cock out. And of course the reasonable response to finding two exposed men in a bathroom together, in Victorian England is, "what poor disabled person needs my help?" A concern which John easily allays, because he's a doctor!
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- The waiter's eyes widened, as embarrassment suddenly struck him. He'd been staring at Sherlock's only slightly softening cock quite obviously on display, trying not to be too blatant about it, but now that it was clear that the eyes that met his belonged to an entirely sentient being, a guilty blush overtook him.
What the fucking fuck is this? In Victorian England that was considered a crime against nature. Most men would probably have called the police, or beaten them, not backed out like a scolded child. It's like, this isn't even funny-stupid anymore, it's just eye-rollingly dull. *sigh*
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- "Your flies are undone, Doctor." Sherlock chuckled, but stepped in close in order to zip them up himself
John attempted to keep his sex maniac ways under control by wearing multiple sets of trousers, but alas
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- "We are never coming back to this café ever again. Even if the world's most fascinating murder spree takes place here.
John declared, with a slight twitch of his right eyelid. Foreshadowing. Sherlock would remember this moment as the time he began to see the cracks in the facade, before John's demons erupted and Jack the Ripper took hold. Sherlock would always feel a bit guilty about his own role in John's downfall, but he contented himself with the fact that he was also there to pick up the pieces.
"John, my dear," Sherlock called from his study, rousing himself from his memories. "What did we do with that severed human hand? I've got some ideas."
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Of course, all five reviews are on the order of, "LOL RITE MOAR." I was hoping for at least one good review on there.
