I feel it is my duty to bring the next step of bootylicious to the Sherlock fandom. You are very very welcome. Enjoy. ;)
Also, this is an INTRO. The regular chapters will be longer for added enjoyment.
"SHERLOCK! STOP IT. I NEVER ASKED FOR THIS."
Sobs could be heard all thoroughly 221 B. Baker Street on a brisk morning in London.
But no one was listening. The tall man wearing little more than a stretch of fabric around his privates wasn't disrupting any natural order of the city. But this man was definitely disrupting the order of John Watson's sanity...
And this man's name was Sherlock Holmes.
"Oh but John, isn't this so much fun?"
"IT'S NOT FUN ANYMORE." John gasped for air.
"You're right, it's..." Sherlock leaned down and whispered into his flatmate's ear. "...invigorating."
Sherlock assumed his dominant position over John. He was ready to rumble. The line green Speedo stressed precariously over his lower parts, the fabric strained. Sherlock liked it; it made him feel exposed, but in a daringly delicious way.
"YOU ARE A PSYCHOPATH!"
"I am a highly functioning twerker, do your research."
"Sherlock..." John whispered. "I am telling you. This is wrong. This is weird. You have crossed the line. You have officially crossed over every line that has ever been set; this isn't an experiment anymore, this is insanity..."
But Sherlock didn't care. After all, this rhythmic booty movement served as his new Nicotine patch, it quenched his thirst and hunger for excitement, it gave him more terrified faces to analyze. It gave him joy. He was Sherlock Holmes.
And he was about to twerk on John Watson's face.
You may know me as the author of 'Twerknatural', which is another lovely twerking tale about the Winchesters and all the booty in hell, heaven, Crowley's yoga pants... you get the point.
CHECK IT OUT.
But if you want to keep up on my swagtastic life, I can be found at swagnatural on Instagram.
Holla.
Bye.
Lestrade twerks soon fyi.
