How to Kill John Watson, Easy Peasy

A sniper tried to kill John once. Fortunately the sniper failed.

What that Afghan soldier did not know is that you don't need a black market McMillan Tac-50 with telescopic sight, and you don't need to suffer the risks of return fire to very cleanly take John Watson out.

There is a much simpler recipe for kind of killing Dr. Watson dead, and the components needed are easy to access. As a matter of fact we're going to give you the fatal recipe now. Are you ready? Do you have a pen handy? Good, great. Here are the ingredients you'll require to dispatch one John Watson quickly, cleanly, without fuss:

One riding crop + patent-black stilettos + lisp + Sherlock Holmes

Combined these four ingredients and they = 1 dead John Watson

Or, you know, a John Watson so god damned over-stimulated, so brain-rattlingly turned on, so primed and ready to blow (you'll pardon and imagine the pun) that some parts of the poor man's limbic system simply shut down in self-defense and the good doctor is rendered utterly powerless for half a day. At least.

It's not as if Sherlock was trying to kill John, no. At first all he was doing was enjoying his strange super power, where just the lisp or a pair of sassy shoes or the crop was enough to make John sort of fall to his knees, cock as erect as his soldier's back, ready, willing, and able to do pretty much…well, anything.

So yes, at first Sherlock was just, you know, relishing this power. And by relishing we mean Sherlock was getting off on it as hard and as often as John, which is to say intense orgasms all around, thanks for coming!

Then Sherlock's cock sent a one-word message to Sherlock's brain and that was the end of that and the beginning of it all. The message (you already know its contents) was simply this:

Experiment.

Sherlock thought this idea brilliant—Mr. Holmes, never not up for studying, quantifying, tweaking, improving and, apparently killing off his lover—and so Sherlock began experimenting, because if A + B equaled a spectacular O for both of them, then an antique C combined with a velvet B and a whispered D might just possibly equal O squared—how would they know until they tried?

Of course as he began his analysis Sherlock thought he was doing it covertly. Of course he pretty much knew he wasn't doing it covertly because John is annoyingly brilliant at detecting the detective. But that was fine, these particular experiments could only benefit from the hearty and willing involvement of all parties.

"This will almost never happen again," Sherlock began.

John put down his magazine, looked up at his lover from the snug comforts of his upholstered chair. He'd been reading without interruption for more than an hour, which was definitely the record for this month. The previous record for blissful silence from his sweetie had been thirteen minutes.

"What are you saying my precious pet?"

Sherlock arched a brow, cocked his head so he was peering at his lover with one eye. A little alone time seemed to do wonders for John now and again. Sherlock duly noted and recorded this fact—again—then promptly let the information leak straight out of his head. Again.

"You know that I'm making a study of a few sexual kinks?"

John closed his magazine, placed it strategically on his lap, directly over his cock. If this conversation was going to give him an erection, he wanted to pretend Sherlock wouldn't know. He had no idea why.

"I seem to recall that we've discussed a little something about the riding crop. Or the stilettos. I may have let my mind wander a touch during the conversation. You know how forgetful I can be my darling."

Sherlock squinted. John was in quite the playful mood. It couldn't be—Sherlock tilted his head, cast his gaze at the magazine—the charms of the British Medical Journal. So he really must've enjoyed having a little alone time. Sherlock would have to remember that. Again. Sherlock went and shoved that thought out of his head immediately. Again.

"I know you're teasing but I'll forgive you." Sherlock could be playful, too. "What I started to say was—"

"Oh I remember now. Was it that conversation we had in the back booth at Angelo's? The one where halfway through I cupped your cock under the table and you squealed?"

Sherlock's mouth quirked. "I didn't squeal." Sherlock cast his mind back. No, he'd squealed, he'd totally squealed.

"Uh, as I was saying, what I'm about to say I will almost never say again."

Sherlock is constantly bested by John. He's certain he can resist the small man's domineering ways and then the tiny creature casually says 'Jump,' and Sherlock's in the air before he thinks to even ask, 'What? Why?'

So in defense, the lofty genius has learned the dreaded art of padding definitive statements with bland modifiers like almost, probably, and likely.

"What is it you're talking about my luscious love? What is it you're claiming you'll almost never do again?"

The banter, the banter was confusing him. Sherlock had come in here to start an experiment and then John went and got all cute and sassy and what the hell was he saying? Oh yes.

"I was saying that I'll almost never do this again—" John opened his mouth but Sherlock plowed on, at volume. "—BUT FOR THE PURPOSES OF A SEXUAL EXPERIMENT, I AM GOING TO…lisp."

John'd been just fine taking the piss out of Sherlock, and he'd have continued to do so because it was entertaining and John was in a fine mood. However, the conversation had abruptly taken an unexpected turn and that turn veered straight down, from Sherlock's mouth to John's prick.

"What now?"

There. Good. The wind had at last blown the other way. Sherlock knew he once again had the upper hand.

"The next step in our experimentation of kinks to which you especially respond—remember we're doing mine next month—will now move on to combining."

John may or may not have made a small, deep sound.

"Quite. In this instance we'll be combining the riding crop, stilettos, and my…lithp."

Sherlock paused dramatically and don't think he didn't see clear as day the minute movement of a magazine over a cock that was growing hard as he gazed.

"Quite, quite. Interesting." Sherlock's eyes flashed and a feral grin spangled that pretty face. "So much data already."

Both men licked their lips at precisely the same time.

"However," Sherlock smile went sly, "apparently you're occupied. I'll wait until you're through reading…" Sherlock gestured to the tented magazine, "…thith."

That same intense sound escaped John. "Sherlock."

Sherlock blinked casually. Yes, it can be done. Sherlock licked his lips again, made as if to turn away. "John?"

Beneath John's hand the British Medical Journal was being unconsciously put to a use for which it had not been made. John caught himself and stopped. Then immediately started again. "Now?"

Sherlock's back faced John but the good doctor heard his lover's one word reply. "Yeth."

Neither would notice until half a week later that the BMJ ended up in the fireplace so briskly did John move.

I thought this would be a one chapter fic. Ha ha, like so much fun. I now seem to have taken upon myself the burden of writing a sex scene in which Sherlock wears heels, lisps lavishly, and gets done unto with the riding crop. Pity me.