A/N: This was originally intended as a joke, but has since ballooned into a bit more, so I decided to post it here. It contains a LOT OF SWEARING and adult themes such as drug use, violence, and sex. The opinions of John motherfucking Watson do not necessarily reflect my opinions. I do not own the characters of the Sherlock Holmes novels. The original novel, "A Study in Scarlet," is public domain.

Chapter 1: I am John motherfucking Watson, Bitches!

IN THE YEAR 1878 I got my degree of Doctor of Motherfucking Medicine from the University of London, and proceeded to Netley to go through the course prescribed for Motherfucking Army Doctors. After completing my studies there, I was then attached to the Fifth Northumberland Motherfucking Fusiliers as assistant surgeon. The regiment was stationed in India at the time, and before I could join it, the second goddamn Afghan war had broken out, so naturally I had to get in on that shit. On landing at Bombay, I learned that my corps had abandoned the hell out of me, and was already deep in enemy territory. I followed with many other officers who were in the same motherfucking situation, and succeeded in badassly reaching Candahar, where I found my regiment, and started doing my duties as a MFAD.

The campaign brought honours and promotion to many, but for me it sucked total ass. I was removed from my motherfucking brigade and attached to the Berkshires, with whom I served at the motherfucking fatal battle of Maiwand. There I was bending down to tie my shoes when I was struck on the motherfucking shoulder by a Jezail bullet, which shattered the bone and grazed the fucking subclavian artery, went through my arm and hit me in the motherfucking leg. I would have gotten pwned by the murderous Ghazis had it not been for the devotion and courage shown by Murray, my kickass orderly, who threw me across a pack-horse, and succeeded in bringing me safely to the British lines.

It hurt like motherfucking hell, and I didn't want to deal with that shit anymore, so I was removed to the base hospital at Peshawar. Then I was like, what the fuck are you doing? You're John motherfucking Watson, you're badass as hell! So I rallied, and had already improved so far as to be able to defeat the wards in hand to hand combat, and even to bask a little upon the veranda while naked surrounded by naked chicks, when I was struck down by enteric fever, that curse of our Indian possessions (I'm pretty sure one of the Indian chicks gave it to me, too, the bitch). At that point I was like fuck this, war is hell, I'm too good for this shit! I was dispatched, accordingly, in the troopship Orontes, and landed a month later on the motherfucking Portsmouth jetty, slightly less badass than previously, but with permission from a paternal government to spend the next nine months in attempting to get awesome again.

I didn't have no motherfucking friends in England, and was therefore able to do all sorts of badass shit that an income of eleven shillings and sixpence a day would allow me to do (mostly drinking and hiring prostitutes). Under such circumstances I naturally gravitated to London, that great motherfucking cesspool into which all the loungers and idlers of the Empire are irresistibly drained (of their blood. By me.). There I stayed for some time at a private hotel in the Strand, leading a badass motherfucking existence, and spending all my dough like I was Bill Gates or some shit. But then I was all like, WTF, you don't have any money, son, so you better get a job or get out of town. So then I decided to find a cheaper place to live. Like a dumpster.

On the very day that I had moved into said dumpster, I was standing in it facing the wall outside the Criterion Bar, when someone tapped me on the shoulder, and turning round I recognized young Stamford, who had been a motherfucking dresser under me at Bart's. The sight of a friendly face that wasn't trying to shank me or rob me of my pants in the great wilderness of London is a pleasant thing indeed to a lonely hobo. Stamford had never been one of my bitches, but now I hailed him with enthusiasm, and he, in his turn, appeared to be delighted to see me. In the exuberance of my joy, I asked him to lunch with me at the Holborn, and we started off together in a hansom. But it wasn't all gay and crap, don't get any ideas. I like boobs.

"What the hell happened to you, Watson?" he asked in undisguised wonder, as we rattled through the crowded London streets. "You look like crap, man."

I recounted all the crap I just told you, and it took freaking forever and I was like, damn, having friends is tedious.

"Poor devil!" he said, commiseratingly, after he had listened to my misfortunes. "What are you up to now?"

"Looking for lodgings, bitch," I answered. "I don't have no motherfucking money."

"That's hilarious," remarked my companion; "you are the second man today that has told me how goddamn poor he is."

"No shit. Who was the first?" I asked.

"Some punk ass bitch who works at the chemical laboratory. He won't shut up about some awesome house he's found and how no one will live with him because he's fucking annoying as hell."

"Hell to the yes!" I cried; "I'd rather live with some crazy idiot than be a hobo. Besides, I can steal his clothes and crap when he isn't looking."

Young Stamford looked rather strangely at me over his wineglass. "You don't know Sherlock Holmes yet," he said; "you'll probably kill him within a week."

"Why, what the hell is wrong with him?"

"He's always doing some weird-ass science shit. Blowing crap up and poisoning people."

"Goddamnit, I hate science, it's terrible! What is he, some sort of motherfucking medical student? Because I called being this story's doctor, aint no bitch gonna replace me," said I.

"I have no idea what the hell he is, but he aint no medical student. He knows anatomy and shit, and he's a first-class chemist; but, as far as I know, the motherfucker's never even been to grad school."

"Well, what the hell does he do all day then?" I asked.

"Fuck if I know, dude, I was just saying he was looking for a roommate. Why don't you fucking find out for yourself, you lazy ass."

"Fine then, let's do this bitch." So we went to meet him, because having long conversations is for chumps.

He was in some room that was messy as hell. A ton of Bunsen burners and shit were everywhere. There was only one guy in the room. Once my aura of kickassery reached him he looked around and sprang to his feet with a cry of pleasure. "I've found it! I've found it," he shouted, running towards us with a test tube in his hand. "I have found a re-agent which is precipitated by haemoglobin, and by nothing else." Oh God, whatever, dude.

"Dr. John motherfucking Watson, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," said Stamford, introducing us.

"How are you?" he said cordially, giving me the weakest-ass handshake ever in the history of mankind. "You're one of those bitches from Afghanistan, I perceive."

"The fuck? You've been spying on me?" I asked, thinking that I am definitely not a bitch. This man is the bitch. Bitch.

"Nevermind," said he, chuckling to himself. "The question now is about haemoglobin. Don't you see why my discovery is so goddamn awesome??"

"Girl, whatever," I answered, "Who the hell cares about that shit?"

"Are you serious? Everyone should care, you bitch. It lets us test blood stains! Come watch!" He grabbed me and dragged me over to the table at which he had been working. "Let us have some fresh blood," he said, and then he fucking stabbed himself. "Now, I add this small quantity of blood to a litre of water. Now watch what happens when I stick some meth in it!" As he spoke, he threw into the vessel some perfectly good crystal meth, and then added some drops of a motherfucking transparent fluid. In an instant the contents assumed a dull mahogany colour, and a brownish dust was precipitated to the bottom of the glass jar.

"See! How's that bitches!" he cried, clapping his hands.

"Okay, first of all, how is that useful? And second of all, how do you know that this chemical only reacts with blood? Have you tested it with every single thing in the entire goddamn world?" I asked.

"You can catch criminals and shit," Holmes replied. "As for your other question, yes, I have tested it on every motherfucking thing in the world and it only works with blood."

He had a crazy gleam in his eye so I decided not to press him on the issue.

"You are to be congratulated," I said sarcastically.

"I can think of, like, five cases off the top of my head where someone could have been convicted using this shit." Stamford looked as motherfucking bored as I motherfucking felt.

"We came here on business," said Stamford, sitting down on a high three-legged stool, and pushing another one in my direction with his foot. "My friend here needs a motherfucking place to live, and as you were whining that you could get no one to go room with you, I thought that I had better bring you together."

Sherlock Holmes seemed delighted at the idea of someone actually wanting to be within 20 feet of him. "I have my eye on a motherfucking house in Baker Street," he said, "Say, you don't mind the smell of strong tobacco, I hope?"

"Bitch I smoke like 20 packs a day don't even get me started girl," I answered.

"And would it piss you off if I was constantly experimenting and shit?"

"Hell no."

"Let me see– what else could piss you off? I'm a drug addict, I sit at home doing crack all the time, and I treat everyone like shit. Ok, your turn."

"I have a motherfucking bulldog," I said, "he's badass as hell so don't even piss him off. And I stay up all night being awesome and shit, because I'm John motherfucking Watson. There's nothing more to say, bitch."

"Sounds good, John motherfucking Watson," he cried, with a merry laugh. "Let's be roommates! But not the gay kind, I heard you like boobies."

"Damn straight I do."

We left him working among his chemicals and shit so I could head home.

"Hey," I said suddenly, stopping and turning upon Stamford, "how the crap did he know that I had come from motherfucking Afghanistan?"

My companion shrugged. "That bitch is your problem now," he said. "I don't want crap to do with that motherfucker."

"Great," I said. "Thanks for bringing us together, you stupid bastard."

"Whatever, war is hell, but London is heller," Stamford said, as he bade me good-bye.

"Fuck you too," I answered, and strolled on to my hotel, plotting how I would get my sweet revenge.