Merlock Holmes and the Adventure of Three Too Many Injections of Cocaine

Watson's point of view, for those not in the know.
It had been two weeks since Holmes had last deemed a case worthy of his attention. He has never worn boredom well it was obvious that it was beginning to chafe. I was studiously poring over old case notes, preparing another one of my short stories. Holmes had locked himself in his bedroom and was making noises with his violin that sounded astoundingly like someone attempting to beat a cat to death using another cat. Such was life during periods of sedation.

It was at this point that an odd sheaf of papers caught my eye. As I deal with paperwork and finances for the two of us, the times that Holmes leaves any papers at all on our desk are few and far between. I found my attention inexorably drawn to the strange folder. Holmes was unlikely to come out of his room for another few hours at least. Surely he wouldn't notice this small invasion of his privacy. I began to read.

Quote :

John hated being waited upon during all hours of the day, guarded and protected. He was capable of managing his own life, thank you very much, and had been for a while. Privacy was hard to come by if you were the Prince of Albion. But now, more than ever before, he needed to be alone.

Holmes had shown nothing but disdain for my own writing, so to find that he was authoring pulp fiction of the lowest sort filled me with a type of vengeful glee. His tricks weren't even very good. To employ England's ancient Greek name in an attempt to hide the setting was unimaginative, to say the least.

Quote :

There he was. Sherlock experienced a wholly unaccustomed thrill at the sight of him. Holding his position with gentle movements of hands and tail, he peered up through the water surface, wishing for calmer seas that would not distort his vision so.

For weeks, he had come here every day, leaving the cool deep waters for the warmer shallows, hoping to catch a glimpse of the landman who, for reasons unfathomable to him, dominated his every waking thought.

Sherlock vividly remembered the first time he had seen the landman. He had been searching for a missing merchild. Some freak currents during that time had prompted him to search along the coastal shallows, so he had happened to be quite close to dry land. It had been late, much as it was now, and the setting sun had cast the most beautiful reflections into the water. Curious, he had floated close to the surface, wondering what it was that glinted and sparkled so. To his surprise, it had been a landman wearing expensive clothes and some sort of crown upon his head that reflected the light of the setting sun. The face, strong and noble, with a high brow, honest blue eyes and a moustache, together with the solid, athletic body and its proud bearing, had impressed Sherlock more than the nobleman's outfit. There had been something tragic and yearning about the face that had attracted him and lured him into staying dangerously close to the shore. And so, he had hovered, watching, until the young man finally turned round with a sigh, walking away from the shore with long strides of the strange legs these landmen possessed.

I stared in dumbfounded amazement at what Holmes had written. This must have been produced in a fit of cocaine-induced madness. For once, however, I had something to hold over him. This was the first real ammunition I had ever gotten against the man who could plumb my darkest secrets with a glance. Sherlock Holmes was writing stories about his life as a mermaid.

It was all I could do to not laugh at the thought. That could be disastrous. Holmes would no doubt react quite poorly to my knowledge of these stories. If Holmes harboured secret fantasies about being a mermaid, I would be happy to bring it up at the worst possible moments I could think of.

Suddenly, the hideous yowling stopped and the door to Holmes' room burst open with such a noise that I almost dropped the sheaf. He was wearing a madcap grin on his face – one that looked almost dangerous – and his eyes were wild and glassy. That he had once again turned to cocaine was obvious.

“Watson,” he announced with all the authority in the world, “we are going out!” And with this he strode over and clamped one of his hands around my arm.

In surprise, I really did drop his stories this time, the papers flying everywhere. Holmes stared at them for a few moments more, hand still gripping my arm.

Holmes-O-Vision wrote:

This gave him pause. It was not like him to be prone to such violent upsurges of emotion. Shaking his head ruefully at himself, he returned to the deep sea and his abode. Maybe Mycroft was right. Maybe he really should stop thinking so much of the blue-eyed landman, or he would develop an ulcer after all.

In a shark’s eye.

Then it was as if he had never been interrupted and he was dragging me to my feet and ushering me to put on my coat and hat.

“Sire, we must go. Quickly, or they will find us!” Holmes was crowing.

I found with dawning horror that my traitorous feet were padding along behind him. Whether it was out of concern for his well being (in his current state of mind there was no telling what he might try to get up to – there had been one memorable incident where Holmes, out of his mind on cocaine, had tried to break into Whitehall in order to “stop the wee fairies! No not the fairies! Argh! They're in my eyes!”) or simple curiosity over what Holmes might be trying to do, I found that I couldn't help but follow the man.

I found myself led to the banks of the Thames, the water full of sewage and trash. Holmes couldn't possibly...

Holmes-O-Vision wrote:

Hudson, meanwhile, was ordering the stable boy and a couple of footmen to prepare the wagon and the catboat for transport to the coast, never ceasing his grumblings and shooting John resentful little glances that the young man studiously ignored.

“But you cannot swim, Sire!” Hudson finally ejaculated, unable to keep his protest sotto voce any longer. “The currents are so treacherous. It would be impossible for swimmers to reach you if you encountered any mishap, Sire.”

John looked at his servant in surprise. It was rare that the man expressed worry unconnected to appearances or reputation. He felt unaccountably touched.

“At least let me come with you, Sire,” Hudson finished his appeal. “The boat is made for five. I shall hardly crowd you. I could take the oars for you if the wind flags, Sire.”

A hand was pressed to my chest. “Sire, you cannot swim,” said Holmes, even as he, himself neared the edge of the water. He removed his shirt, revealing a pair of bright pink seashells taped over his nipples. Then the fool of a man jumped.

Holmes-O-Vision wrote:

Sherlock’s head appeared above the water, and exuberant smile upon his lips. He spat out the water in his lungs and said, in a tone of voice John had never heard from him before, “Fate, John. We cannot argue with it.”

Holmes had pneumonia for three weeks. He has since sworn off cocaine but I'll wager it will work as well as when I swore off moustaches. He begged me to never mention the incident again. I have agreed, but he is now barred from speaking of my fantasies about ocelots.

Rabid Badger wrote:

[You must be registered and logged in to see this image.]

My thoughts precisely.

Haha, good imitation of Conan Doyle, and hysterical. Nice work!

Also: wtf merman Holmes fic.

That was awesome to do a Conan Doyle point of view. I laughed at the Holmes merman!

I think it's from Watson's point of view since he was the one "writing" the stories.

Holmes as a mermaid is now my background. I guess mermaids are replacing vampires in the slash fics?

bleachedblackcat wrote:

I think it's from Watson's point of view since he was the one "writing" the stories.

Holmes as a mermaid is now my background. I guess mermaids are replacing vampires in the slash fics?

Yeah, it's from Watson's point of view. I should have said that explicitly but I'm a tad thick.

:D I can't believe you made that your background! I feel special.

I am WTFing so hard.