Disclaimer: Naturally I don't own a single thing in here. I'm not making money off of this. Leave me be, you lawyer-y types.
A/N: A teensy weensy ficlet I wrote for John Wiswell's writing challenge, found the Bathroom Monologues. There's a part of me that's glad he never reads my work, but this piece now lives in the comments of his blog, so... I guess he knows what I'm up to, anyway. ^.^;
"I've only been in this perfectly nice hotel for ten minutes and I'm already naked with blood on the floor."
Watson lets out a tiny exasperated sigh. "I suppose I don't actually want to know how this happened, do I?" he says as he bends to pick up what looks suspiciously like a lady's garter.
Holmes actually has the decency to look chagrined.
"Well," he coughs, "If I had any notion she was going to tie me up and then bolt like that, I'd never have bothered to take off my shirt in the first place."
"Honestly, Holmes, how can you be such a genius about everything in the world but Irene? And for God's sake, how could you not expect her to have a weapon?"
Holmes looks down at the sluggish trickle of blood on his thigh and turns the color of a ripe plum.
"Um. She may have done that with her teeth."
Watson drops his head into his hands and groans. "Of course she did," he mutters, thinking the only explanation for this is that it must be the way that people of extreme intelligence bond.
"I say, Watson, be a good chap and untie me, will you?"
Watson drops what is certainly a lady's garter back on the floor. "The things I do for you, Holmes," he mutters as he bends to undo Irene Adler's expert knot-work. "I should be canonized, I really should."