I rebel against putting disclaimers before my inspired work!!!! With that in mind if you don't like it you should do one or all of these things 1) suck it up 2) leave a scathing review so Buddah may amuse herself 3) kiss my cute enlightened ass.

P.S~ the third is required







It was a chilly, damp, thoroughly British night. It was warm in Sherlock's flat because of the roaring fire in his fireplace (where else would he have a fire). That and the smoke from his pipe were making the room hazy. Sherlock sighed. The entire situation was so dull, so proper, so clichéd. He felt stifled under the weight of the latest case and longed secretly to be free.

All of a sudden years of repressed sexuality took their toll on our favorite detective. He crossed the room in two long strides and reached the long idle phonograph. He fiddled with the machine for a few moments until the strains of the Vienna boy's choir's rendition of jingle bells filled the room.

Quickly Sherlock was free of his clothes (except of course his trusty old bowler) and free of his stress. He danced naked as no brit has ever danced before. He was as graceful as a ballerina yet as sensual as a belly dancer. He jumped with the elegance of a gazelle onto the daybed and shook his ghetto booty better than any bi-atch before or since.

In the middle of one very high grand jete Watson walked in. "What the bloody hell do you think you are doing!!!" Exclaimed Watson. "Jingle my bells old chap!!!" Sherlock screamed while thrusting into his easy chair. Watson suddenly found his toe tapping to the music. In a few minutes he too was writhing to the cheery sounds of the Christmas carols.

In the morning all had returned to normal and it was never mentioned again.









Well there you have it. Merry Christmas Nella.