Sherlock Holmes was squatting with his pants around his ankles, grunting and moaning with effort as he sprayed his garden down with his feces, which was little more than brown water. It was a truly powerful stream, enough to put any Super Soaker to shame, and it coated every leaf and stalk of his vegetables with a thin layer of watery doo-doo. Sherlock pulled his pants back up, not bothering to wipe his anus, before turning around to inspect his work.
"Hmm, I oughta get more fiber," Sherlock said aloud as he reached out a finger and dipped it into one of the standing pools of his bowel juice, bringing it to his lips and licking it off sensually. Slightly musky, with earthy undertones. It definitely passed the taste test, so he wouldn't have to call in Greg Lestrade to help. Still, he made a mental note to fertilize twice as hard tomorrow, after eating a box or two of delicious, nutritious bran cereal.
"Yo, Big H!" screamed a voice from down the garden path, approaching rapidly. It was none other than Sherlock's best friend and companion, Dr. John Watson, whose doctorate was in Islamic Studies and whose cock was long enough to choke a giraffe. Sherlock wasn't sure why he thought these things whenever he saw Watson. Could it be... love?
"Stop staring at my cock which is long enough to choke a giraffe and listen to me!" Watson yelled directly into Sherlock's ear, which was quite a feat, considering he was stopped at least fifteen feet away from him. When Sherlock looked up from Watson's groin to look at his face, he saw that Watson's neck had closed the distance between them and was pressed directly against the side of his head. After giving Sherlock a quick peck on the earlobe, Watson's neck began retracting rapidly, making a noise not unlike that of a fishing rod.
"What do you want, you giraffe throat-fucking fuckhead?" Sherlock said, looking into Watson's eyes but continuing to stare at his tremendous bulge in his mind (and also through the third eye located directly on his pubic mound). Before Watson could reply, Sherlock slowed down time using his psychic powers and began rapidly analyzing his friend's body language. His bulge was twitching slightly, beginning to form into an erection, and his entire body was coated in so much sweat that it looked like he had just been dunked in the sea. On top of that, he was wearing a skin tight latex suit. After coming to a conclusion as to what it was he wanted, Sherlock unfroze time and cut off Watson right in the middle of a word.
"I know what you want, you dipshit, don't even tell me." Sherlock sashayed up to Watson, swinging his hips so widely that he stumbled and nearly barrelled headfirst into Watson. Thankfully, a quick tuck and roll to the side averted that fate, and he followed it up with a masterful back flip back onto his feet. Sherlock then proceeded to sashay with much more caution up to Watson. "You want to climb into my hungry asshole and explore the vast, arid landscape that is my colon." It was at approximately this moment that Watson noticed that Sherlock's pants had disappeared some time during his back flip, and his prolapsed rectum was currently hanging between his thighs, the long, fleshy tube slapping wetly between them.
"Jeez, Sherlock, you know me too well. Assume the position." Sherlock hurried to obey Watson's commands, his excitement for what was to come overcoming his disdain at being ordered around. He knelt down in the freshly fertilized grass, his face pressed squarely into a puddle of brown liquid and his jiggling ass raised up for the heavens to admire. Whatever God was up there was clearly too busy either admiring Sherlock's glorious pink flower or cowering in disgust and fear from it, as the heavens did not respond.
Watson did, however. With a loud "CANNONBALL", Watson did a swan dive directly into Sherlock's anus, the detective's prolapse rapidly bunching up and sliding back in his body as he did so. Sherlock refrained from commenting on the fact that Watson had not done a cannonball at all, as he was far too busy dealing with the fact that a man was now plunging into his bowels with enough force to shift his organs into his throat. Such was the price of their love.
"Grrflghglgh," Sherlock commented, unable to speak properly due to his liver blocking most of his trachea and his large intestine winding around his vocal chords. However, the bond of love allowed Watson to understand his words perfectly regardless of these circumstances. However, you, the reader, do not share this bond, so you will not be told what he said.
"You said it, Sherlock." Watson began paddling further into the vast plains that made up Sherlock's colon, which was much larger on the inside than it looked on the outside. The pocket dimension that resided within his bowels was mostly made up of a huge, seemingly infinite dimension consisting only of slightly brown water. Scientists were unable to figure out how this was physically possible or how the water was brown, despite being completely pure according to every test they were able to perform on it. Most scientists attempting to discover the answer to these questions either kill themselves or turn to the existence of some sort of deity as an explanation.
After several hours of silent paddling, Watson finally reached his objective. A small doorway, more fit for a midget than a human being, floated in the murk. It was attached to nothing, but didn't float away when pushed, as if it were fixed in position by some sort of unseen force. No scientist had ever tested why this was, as only Watson had ventured far enough into Sherlock's rectal dimension to discover it. Producing a key from one of his flesh pockets, Watson unlocked the door, which swung open of its own volition.
Inside the doorway was a small, white room, equipped only with an office chair and a simple wooden desk with an old computer on top. Watson plopped down on the chair with a sigh as if he had been here a million times before and pushed the power button on the computer tower. The monitor slowly flickered to life, an image fading in on the screen. It looked like the inside of Sherlock's house, and he could see a pair of hands in front of the display that appeared to be making a sandwich. The best friends ring on the pinky finger of the left hand indicated these hands to be Sherlock's. Watson smiled, and held down a button on the keyboard.
"I'm assuming direct control, Sherlock." Releasing the key, Watson's hands suddenly went into a flurry of action, pressing keys and waggling the mouse with a speed that could only be matched by Sonic the Hedgehog (Author's Note: Sonic the Hedgehog exists in the Sherlock universe. For evidence regarding this fact, please visit the following link. THIS LINK HAS BEEN REMOVED BECAUSE FANFICTION DOT NET IS GARBAGE ). The view on the monitor suddenly swung downwards, and both of the hands rushed downwards towards their owner's ass, dropping a freshly made mayonnaise sandwich on the floor as they frantically tried to enter the colon dimension. A single keystroke from Watson put a stop to it, both hands going stiff as a board.
"It's too late for that, Sherlock. I cannot be removed now." Watson smirked, typing while he continued to speak. "It's time you paid me a visit." The hands began to move jerkily, as if controlled by invisible strings, and began to pull down Sherlock's pants. Once those were removed, Watson pressed the scroll lock key, and the display rushed towards the ground while swivelling inwards. Sherlock was being forced to enter his own ass.
Once Sherlock forced his head through his own doughnut hole, it immediately poked through the door into the white room, quickly followed by the rest of his body. He came in sideways, crumpling to a heap on the floor, before regaining control over his own body. Sherlock sprang upwards, hoping to run back through the doorway into the outside world, but the door had already disappeared. He was now trapped in a white room, with only an old computer and Watson for company. Unable to escape, Sherlock turned towards Watson with a face full of both anger and despair.
"Why, Watson? Why would you betray your own friend and trap him in his own ass?" Sherlock said between gasps and sobs, his face flushing with rage and sadness. Watson simply smirked, and unzipped his fly, letting his thirty foot long magnum dong flop onto the floor with a moist slapping noise. It was coated with giraffe saliva, and smelled like it had been for quite some time. Sherlock briefly wondered how he managed to keep it from drying.
"Because you are a giraffe, Sherlock, and you're about to get throat-fucked." Just then, Sherlock realised he didn't have hands, because he was actually a giraffe. The only reasonable explanation was that his entire life up to this point had been a lie, and he was indescribably grateful to Watson for dispelling the illusion and giving him true freedom. He made the noise a giraffe makes, in an excited manner (Author's Note: Please tell me the noise a giraffe makes.). There was only one way he could repay such a kind deed. Craning his neck towards Watson's crotch, he began to suck, one of many throat-fuckings that would take place over the 109 years they would remain in that room.