"Twerk for me Sherlock."
"But I don't know how."
"I can show you how."
John went over to the wall. He spread his legs and positioned himself against the wall for satisfactory twerking. Suddenly his booty began to pulsate. Sherlock watched, mesmerized.
"Sherlock, could you turn on some music?"
Sherlock snapped out of his trance produced by the good doctor's gyrating arse. "Of course, John. Whatever you need to twerk accordingly."
Sherlock meandered over to the boombox and turned on his favorite song, "Milkshake."
John feels the beat in his nether regions and begins to twerk even more vigorously. Sherlock is mad for it. His mouth waters at the sight of the good doctor's pulsating figure.
"You know, Sherlock, that I invented the twerk."
"What!?" Sherlock was flabbergasted. "I guess I should have deduced," said the detective, "Because you do it so naturally."
John began to sing along. "My milkshake brings all the boys to Scotland Yard."
Sherlock was ridiculously turned on. He had never experienced anything this superb.
"I taught all of the men in my regiment to twerk in Afghanistan. It proved quite a satisfactory way to pass the time."
Sherlock imagined a young, tan, muscular John twerking in the desert. He was even more ridiculously turned on.
"I want to see you do it now." Said John, seductively.
"I don't know if I can."
"I believe in you, Sherlock," said John.
John walked towards Sherlock and placed his hands on the consulting detective's hips. "Let me walk you through this. It's not as complicated as it looks."
The good doctor began to slowly move Sherlock's hips in sync with the beat. "Just spread your legs and feel the music in your booty."
John's lips were so close to Sherlock's ear. Shivers traveled down Sherlock's spine.
"Oh John…" Sherlock moaned. "You really know how to make a man feel alive."
"I think you've got the hang of this, Sherlock," John said. "Now entertain me. Personally."
"You mean?"
"Be my own private twerk-apprentice."
A groan of approval escaped from the consulting detective's lips. "I'll give you anything, my twerking-sensei."
John took a seat in his worn armchair. He watched Sherlock's lean body fluctuate to the beat.
"One more thing," John said. "Wear this." He held up the infamous deerstalker Sherlock so dearly despised. Sherlock groaned, but put the hat on regardless.
"And this," John held up a pair of very small, very red pants. "Only this."
Sherlock put on the red pants. It was a beautiful thing to behold. In fact, it was the most beautiful thing John had ever seen.
To see Sherlock twerking in only the deerstalker and red pants was almost too much for John. It was the happiest moment of his entire life.
Suddenly, Moriarty burst through the door into 221B with his gun in hand. He saw the scene going on in the flat, and screamed in rage.
"Twerking? I despise twerking!" He took his gun, and shot Sherlock and John. The doctor and the detective flopped lifelessly on the floor. All twerking had ceased.
Or so Moriarty thought…
Epilogue
John and Sherlock went to heaven and twerked together forever and ever. THE END.