A Slight Case of Gibberish
By Taleya

Doctor John Watson was a contented man. He had a well-off practice, was widely respected in both the medical world and among society alike, and had a wife he loved dearly. However, like a fool to his folly, he all too often found his footsteps tracing back to the set of comfortable rooms upstairs at 221b Baker street.

The door, as always, was unlocked, and he pushed it open with two fingers, shaking his head at the foolishness of his friend.

Books and fine china littered every available space, a Persian slipper with tobacco in the toe and the strange chemical burns in the carpet. Evidently life alone had not changed Holmes' habits in the slightest. Half a cigar floating forlornly in a teacup by the door, just as it had the week prior.

A whirring noise and the smell of thunderstorms filled the air today. As he stood baffled in the doorway, Gladstone took the opportunity to trot past him and straight down the stairs, evidently heading for the sanity and teacakes of Mrs. Hudson's rooms downstairs.

"They'll only make you fat," Watson called after him.

Doffing his hat and coat, he entered the room proper to find Holmes at work in his lab, furiously winding a crank. The gears were attached to a monstrous apparatus of metal and wires, culminating in a shape akin to two cow horns, with crazed blue lines between them. In the middle he recognised the obscure pronged fork that had aided them so well in their battle between the arsonists that had come to destroy Reorden's rooms.

"Amazing, Watson!" Holmes shouted over the noise in greeting. "Static electricity. Generated, stored - think of the applications! Far more powerful than a voltaic battery!" He wound harder on the crank, the lights blazing to increased activity. "And the magnetic properties - "

There was a short, sharp spitting noise and his makeshift setup exploded spectacularly. Watson dove behind the divan at the sound, watching in horror as Holmes flew across the room in a blaze of white. Fortunately the desk, several books, and a stuffed tiger's head broke the great detective's fall.

"Holmes!" Watson hurried to the aid of his friend, who was still clutching the wand in one hand, hair sprung and curled in bizarre ways.

"Penis goes where?" he muttered dazedly.

At one time such an utterance would have shocked, and most probably scandalised the good doctor. That time was before several years of rooming with Holmes, whose waking utterances would often range from the bizarre to the outright debauched. He pressed two fingers to his friends pulse, feeling the beat that jumped crazily beneath and braced a hand behind the pale neck as Holmes twitched oddly and threatened to slump sideways.

"Holmes. Can you hear me. Can you understand me?" His hands trembled at first, but quickly recovered as he fell into the familiar motions of the medical.

Holmes swallowed heavily and blinked at him. "Epic. Fail." He managed.

To Watson's relief, Holmes' mind seemed unaffected, despite the newly acquired bizarre mode of speech. His eyes were bright and unclouded, if a little frustrated by the detritus spilling from his own mouth. The tremors in his limbs were easing once more to firm control, gesticulating wildly. The effect was not psychological then, but more a side-effect from the electrical discharge.

"Fascinating," he breathed despite himself. "The shock seems to have acted almost like a concussion. But only affecting speech"

Holmes gave him a look of pure disgust, a variety of biting comments clearly working behind his eyes, mixed with an impotent fury at his suddenly limited speech. "Sarcastic Holmes is sarcastic," he managed finally.

"I've no doubt you are." A grin twitched his moustache despite himself. It was shameful to admit, but there was something oddly endearing about having the pontificating eloquence of his friends speech reduced to nonsensical catchphrases.

He recalled reading of Aldini's experiments in electricity some eighty years prior - of how he'd made a corpse writhe and gasp on a mortuary slab. The effects, if he remembered correctly, were only temporary. He hoped the same held true for living tissue.

Sitting back in an overstuffed chair, he rested his hands on his knees, feeling the odd twist of something wedged behind him. Reaching back, he grasped it, prepared to toss it aside, then recognised a familiar pair of monogrammed initials.

"Are these my kidskin gloves?"

Holmes smirked at him. "I'm in your drawers, stealing your clothes," he said smugly

"Well they're coming home with me." In a way, it was almost a relief to fall into the familiar banter, as oddly twisted as it was.

Holmes snatched cheekily at his hands. Watson could clearly see the words "Barter system!" battering at the back of the other man's throat, but all that emerged was a steady stream of nonsense. "I can has gloves? Waaaaant! WAAAAAANT! "

Eventually his wailings so unnerved the good doctor that he gave up and let him have them. "I happen to know you already have four pairs," he pointed out

"My preciousssss." Holmes crooned.

"Good god man, you're like a jaybird, or some wayward housecat, constantly bringing home wounded birds."

Holmes made a face at that and tossed the gloves aside, picking up the folded copy of the Times Watson had left on the divan and peremptorily tapping him on the head with it.

Watson took the paper with a raised brow and tossed it in the fireplace. "Don't be ridiculous. You can't take on a case in this state."

"I R SMRT," Holmes said stubbornly.

"You're also mangling the Queen's English beyond all recognition."

Holmes' lips tightened for a moment, then he scrabbled for a clipping. Thrusting it into Watson's hand he made a pointed gesture.

"Socialite dead after long illness." Watson read aloud. "It does happen, Holmes. Even in these enlightened ages, people do sicken and die - "


"I beg your pardon?"

"He ded," Holmes pointed to the clipping. "Cheeseburger."

"Cheeseburger? What in god's name is a Cheeseburger? You're not making any sense. Not that you ever did.."

With a frustrated growl, Holmes pushed away, searching through a nearby table for paper and pen. Back turned to the doctor, he scribbled furiously, then turned back holding the paper in front of him, almost thrusting the slanted missive under Watson's nose.


At Watson's blank look he gave a frustrated howl and tore the paper to shreds.

"We'll just have to wait for it to dissipate, I'm afraid." Rising to his feet, Watson reached out and wrapped his fingers about Holmes' wrist, measuring the pulse beneath. To his relief it had, indeed, calmed down significantly - although it was still elevated; no doubt due to the circumstances at hand.

He tried to guide the smaller man to the divan, but Holmes stubbornly refused, pulling his hand free in agitation. He stalked back and forth like a cat, chafing at his infirmity, muttering random, nonsensical cheeseburger fragments to himself before flapping a hand at Watson


It was evidently a dismissal, a desire to be left alone rather than have a witness to his bizarre infirmity. However, Holmes obviously could not be left alone in his current state. Knowing the detective as he did, Watson knew it was only a matter of time before he took to the streets, and his mad, discombobulated rantings would certainly place him square in a sanatorium. He said as much, and Holmes stiffened in obvious displeasure, whirling.

"This is why we can't have nice things!"

Watson pinched the bridge of his nose between two fingers and tried remind himself that his friend was no doubt under considerable duress, and should as such be afforded far more leniency than usual. "The fact that you're very probably pathologically disturbed? Yes. This is why we can't have nice things."

"Basement cat will eat your soul." Holmes hissed, and stalked off to stand moodishly before the fire.

"Well I hope he chokes on the blasted thing." Watson let out a sigh and turned to the groaning bookcase in defeat. Several of his medical books had been appropriated by Holmes over the years, and it had been a far easier cause to simply leave them at Baker street than constantly war over the tomes. He selected a volume he recalled had an article on animal electricity and settled himself on the divan, leaving his friend to his mood.

Holmes seemed at a loose end, roaming restlessly about the room, occasionally lifting a square of paper or a particular treatise, only to throw it back down in disgust. He plucked mournfully at his violin, but only managed a series of cat-like yowls.

Watson's fingers itched shamefully for pen and paper. Even in these enlightened times, so much of a man's mind remained a mystery. Holmes' behaviour suggested a strong connection between speech and music - or he was simply still sulking over the earlier comparison to a common house cat.

Eventually, as he had hoped, there was a dip in the divan beside him, then a weight thrown forlornly in his lap. Watson peered past the book and down to wretched eyes staring back at him.

"Deductive Holmes has run out of deduction." It was both an apology and a dirge.

The cat-like action along with the pathetic look were far too much to resist, and Watson found his hand crunching gently through his friend's curls, petting and stroking. "Cheer up, old fellow," he said encouragingly. "It should wear off soon."

Holmes flopped over onto his back and peered up at him as he read on, and Watson's hand gradually petered down his chest to his stomach, rubbing, petting, gently scritching. He murmured happily and rose up into the ministrations. And smiled suddenly, wickedly as the thought occurred of something far more pleasing to do than be petted.


In a moment of brief, confusing violence the book tumbled to the floor and Watson found himself sprawled on his back, an insistent Holmes draped over him, intentions exceedingly obvious against his thigh.

"You cannot be serious, man!"

Holmes pinned him to the divan and leaned over until their noses were almost touching, breaths shared in the brief space between them.

"I are serious cat," he breathed.

"We cannot possibly - " slender fingers bunched in the waistband of his pants and pulled, revealing his penis which, evidently, had a mind of its own.

"I see what you did there," Holmes pointed out, dragging Watson's pant's around his knees.

"It's simply a basic reaction - "

"What has been seen, cannot be unseen!" a thrust of his hips, and Watson was all but lost.

"Holmes - " clinging to the last shred of sanity, the doctor brought up a knee and tried to knock his friend free, but Holmes simply clung to him like a limpet, twisted; and with a shift of his weight sent them both tumbling them both to the floor with a triumphant cry of "BARREL ROLL!"

Watson lay there for a moment, staring dazedly up at the ceiling, aware that the position had afforded him no upper hand whatsoever, and that Holmes was now eyeing his erection like a prized piece of fish.

"Long Watson is looooooong," Holmes said approvingly and set to work.

It was medically reprehensible, taking advantage of his friend in such a state. It was obscene. It was also, quite frankly, more than a little disturbed, possibly even dangerously unhinged. And Watson couldn't have stopped it for the world.

"OM, NOM, NOM," warm breathing up his thighs made him clutch the seat of the divan with trembling fingers. "Holmes," he moaned half-heartedly. "We shouldn't - " a nip to the sensitive skin of his inner thigh cut him off, followed by the soothe of a tongue.

"Snakecat has bitten before," Holmes murmured in hedonistic warning, his long, clever fingers working obscenely

"Will snakecat bite again?" it was half amusement, half plea as he felt Holmes' cheek against his testicles.

"Arrr," was the agreement, the tones vibrating through his lower belly. "I is ninja," a slow, languid lick from base to tip. "Invisible Holmes."

Whatever else, Watson reflected dazedly, transfixed by the site of the dark head working at his member, the shock certainly hadn't impeded that clever tongue completely.

"Hai guyz!" Holmes crooned softly, nuzzling gleefully at the base of Watson's testicles. His hands skittered along the outside of the other man's thighs, pausing, as always in infinite tenderness over the rigid scar left by a Jezail bullet. Watson let his head fall back at the motion, a crazed laugh bubbling at the back of his throat. Sometimes, the best course was to give gracefully, as Holmes had so often told him. Then Holmes' mouth descended and rational thought flew out the window.

"NROM NROM NROM," the bizarre sounds reverberated through his lower stomach, making it twist and dance in an odd glee. He could feel blunt nails scraping down his inner thighs and moaned, clutching the dark hair between his fists. Holmes didn't seem to mind in the slightest, taking him even deeper, hollowing his cheeks and creating an almost unbearable pressure before releasing, squeezing, warm and wet.

It was too much, and he felt himself tightening at the first feel of a finger at his entrance, coming with an almost unseemly haste.

He felt himself slip free from between swollen lips, gentle, almost worshipful kisses pressed down his length as he relaxed and reached down clumsily as Holmes arched against him, hand working and slipping between the layers of material.

Holmes thrust against him wantonly as Watson grasped firmly. "This," he panted. "Is relevant to my interests."

"I believe it is, yes." Watson began a slow, steady motion, firm, thumb circling and swirling around the head of his penis. He tilted them both, pinning Holmes against the base of the divan, stroking, pulling, nipping almost savagely at the base of the pale neck. Holmes' hands fluttered madly, playing crazed peccadilloes on his thigh, clutching at his buttocks with bruising force. He bucked wildly against Watson as teeth latched onto his left ear, eyes rolling crazily back in his head. "Your offering, he moaned. "Pleases kitty!"

Watson tore open the throat of his shirt with one hand and latched onto the hollow of his throat, feeling Holmes shudder deeply at the feel. He tightened his grip slightly, shifting upwards, working the slick foreskin between his fingers, lower, scratching lightly at the tightening balls feeling Holmes buck against him, the rhythm faltering into staccato movements until with whispered, nonsensical and yet oddly hedonistic mutterings Holmes stiffened against him, warm wetness quickly filling his hand and spilling over his wrist.

"Iz ded" Holmes murmured dazedly. "Iz ded."

Watson let himself fall back, absently wiping his hand on the head of the tigerskin rug. Holmes collapsed against him, sweat plastering his hair to his forehead, a ridiculous grin affixed to his face.

"I has a Watson," he said smugly.

Watson laughed breathlessly, pressing his head back against the floor. "I think," he managed, "that I am now most definitely bound. For the fires of hell."

Holmes roffled at him, the motion purring through both their chests and pressed his forehead briefly to Watson's shoulder before happily resting his chin on the other man's breastbone.

"Meh," he murmured sleepily. "Is ok. I kno teh owner."