Jizzy Watson found his dirty ass home at last yo. He'd just been up hustlin n' had some grocery bags up in his hands, enough ta last them, well, a thugged-out day. It make me wanna hollar playa! Why a thugged-out day, biatch? Sherlock would probably light dem all on fire ta peep which chickens was most incendiary or suttin' like dis shit.
Thatz when da thug went upstairs, n' found everyone fo' realz. And I mean everyone.
First of all, there was Irene Adler, typin suttin' on her beeper up in one chair. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. In another, Jim Moriarty was freestylin up some sort of letter n' shit. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Standin up in tha corner, Lestrade was standin there, lookin like grumpy. Mrs yo. Hudson n' Molly Hooper was chattin up in tha corner, n' then Sherlock Holmes came downstairs. Upon reachin tha floor they was on, he quickly collapsed ta tha ground as if dead as fuckin fried chicken. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Of course, da thug was still breathang yo, but he occasionally took a dirt nap of boredom.
"WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?" cried Jizzy all up in tha top of his fuckin lungs. Thatz when Moriarty gots up.
"Well, I straight-up just want our asses all ta settle our differences. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. So I hired assassins ta bust a cap up in our asses all up in tha next thirty minutes unless we all make amends."
"WHAT?!"
"John, just do what tha fuck da perved-out muthafucka says n' gangbang him," holla'd Sherlock, his fuckin lyrics slightly muffled from tha fact dat his wild lil' grill was on tha ground.
Jizzy stood there lookin at Lestrade fo' a whole minute. Why a whole minute, biatch? Because Lestrade was blinkin ta his ass up in Morse code.
"W-E-H-A-V-E-T-H-I-S-C-O-V-E-R-E-D" he made out. Jizzy figured dis meant Donovan n' Anderson was tryin ta figure a way outta dis from tha outside. This did not reassure his muthafuckin ass.
Watson picked up Sherlock n' they hugged, hopin ta appease Moriarty. "I be sorry as a muthafucka I can't handle yo' douchiness," holla'd Watson.
"And I be sorry as a muthafucka I take a thugged-out dirtnap of boredom frequently up in front of you," holla'd Sherlock.
"I be next," holla'd Jim yo. Dude approached tha two of dem n' squeezed dem both simultaneously. "I be sorry as a muthafucka I try ta bust a cap up in you all so often yo, but please know itz only cuz I be a psychopath." Dude seemed ta be bustin up like a biatch sarcastically as da perved-out muthafucka holla'd this, n' then Molly strutted ta tha center of tha room ta git everyonez attention.
"I be sorry as a muthafucka I diss bout how tha fuck ignorant you all are."
Next was Mrs yo. Hudson. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. "I be sorry, Jizzy n' Sherlock, dat I was like homophobic up in mah youth."
"Why would dat have anythang ta do wit anything?" axed Jizzy Watson.
"I be sorry as a muthafucka you all idiots," holla'd Irene.
"So be I," holla'd Lestrade.
"Goodie biaaatch! Now we can all move on wit our lives. Our thugged-out asses have thirty secondz ta exit tha buildin before it explodes," holla'd Moriarty wit a smile.
Da door never felt so good, havin all kindsa muthafuckin playas use it up in such a short time. Too n' tha door quickly died. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! But phat fo' tha door, it saved mah playas by bein open. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. In memory of 221Bz door everyone.
