The Adventure of the Speckled Tongue — Sherlock Holmes Erotic Fanfiction

Written for Shipwreck SF, San Francisco’s premier literary erotic fanfiction event.

The sexual prowess of Mr. Sherlock Holmes has been well-documented in other, less scrupulous publications. I find myself compelled now to recount one such remarkable incident: The Adventure of the Speckled Tongue.

On the morning in question, I was taking the air when I found myself once again darkening the doorstep of 221B Baker Street. I made my way into Holmes’ study, and finding it empty, I prepared my pipe and settled into the divan to await the presence of our titular character.

“You haven’t yet greeted me, Watson, and already you are eviscerating my stores of tobacco.” I whirled about, but could not locate the source of the mysterious voice. Drawing deeply from my pipe to calm my nerves, I surveyed the room and noticed a large, ornate vase. As I peered closely at this foreign object, it arched an eyebrow.

“What the devil!”

Just then, Mrs. Hudson breezed through the door, set the tea service on the table, and breezed out again. Once she had gone, the vase unfolded itself and Sherlock Holmes himself stood before me.

“The hour is most desperate, Watson. You have probably never heard of Professor Moriarty.”

“On the contrary, Holmes, you speak of him incessantly.”

“You see, Watson, Moriarty is the Napoleon of crime. He is also the Aristotle of murder and the Winston Churchill of backgammon. No matter how subtly I have woven my traps, Moriarty always slips through. For a time, I thought that all hope was lost, and I sank into a deep pit of opium. I wracked my brain for ways to get more opium, and, once I had obtained sufficient quantities of opium, I realized that I had not yet brought my most powerful methods to bear on the problem.

“Your deductive methods?”

“My seductive methods.”

Holmes had perfected the art of deductive seduction, often quoting his own maxim, “When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however disgusting, must be super kinky.” At which point he would launch into an abstruse treatise on some dark corner of human sexuality, not to be waylaid even by my increasingly urgent pleas to stop, stop this madness, please for all that is holy just stop.

“You see, Watson, I came to realize that there was only one way that Moriarty could have known my every move before I made it.”

I realized at once what Holmes meant. “A spy!” I cried.

“Yet again, Watson, you’ve arrived very quickly at a very incorrect conclusion. Moriarty has disguised himself as someone close to me. He is, after all, the Benjamin Franklin of wigs. I have arrived at three suspects, and have endeavored to vet them quite thoroughly…”

“You mean…”

“Yes, Watson, I fuck them. Thoroughly. My first suspect was Ms. Irene Adler, who you may remember from that little affair in Bohemia.”

“It was a scandal, Holmes.”

“Never cared for that title. In any case, I met up with Ms. Adler half a fortnight ago.”

A thought occurred: “But Holmes, why did you suspect Ms. Adler? You haven’t seen her in years!”

“Well, I…” Holmes eyes shifted from side to side, as though he were searching for more opium.

“Holmes, if you want to sleep with Irene Adler, just do it.”

“Watson! How ever could you — ”

“Seriously, no one cares.”

Holmes continued, perturbed, “Once I had eliminated Ms. Adler through the process of seduction, truly the only way to truly eliminate anything, I moved on to my next suspect. A person with whom you are quite familiar.”

A thought rushed unbidden through my mind. “Me,” I said quietly, “it was me.”

“No, Watson. If I had seduced you, you would remember it.”

“I don’t know. You have…potions.”

“Watson! No! Bad Watson! No! Ahem. No, my next suspect was your wife.”

“You slept with Mary?”

“No! I would never! I slept with Moriarty, disguised as Mary, or, at least, I thought it might be. It was all done in the best of faith. You may think of her as Maryarty if it helps.”

“It does not! How could Mary do this?!”

“She didn’t know it was me, Watson. I disguised myself as a sultry washerwoman.”

“A washer…woman?”

“Yes, Watson.”

“So, Mary is…into that?”

“Very much so, Watson. It’s more common than you might think, especially when the washerwoman is sultry. I’ve written a rather well-received monograph on the subject. It’s quite simple, really…”

While Holmes droned on, it occurred to me that I had some laundry that needed doing, that our washerwoman did look a bit sultry, in a certain light, and that Mary had, as of late, fallen into the habit of pointing out attractive waitresses. Perhaps, if I played my cards just so —

“Watson? Watson!” Holmes jolted me from my reverie like a golden retriever who is never satisfied with the level of attention it gets no matter how many times you throw the bloody ball and good god the hair gets everywhere.

“Suffice it to say, Watson, that I determined to my satisfaction, and hers, that Mary is not in fact Moriarty.”

“Holmes, this is beyond the pale!”

Holmes fixed his gaze upon me with such intensity that I did wonder whether he had in fact seduced me. It caused my nethers to shift uncomfortably. “Moriarty is the most evil force upon this earth, and if I need to shag a thousand wives to rid the world of him, so be it. I shall make that sacrifice. I will boink them all, until there are no wives left to shtup. Then I believe that I could retire to my beekeeping.”

Just then, Mrs. Hudson entered. I must be honest: whenever our old landlady speaks, I hear only a persistent ringing, and so, while it is quite impossible for me to relay to you the content of her remarks, I’m sure they were quite trivial. Holmes, however, seemed suddenly intrigued.

“Mrs. Hudson,” he said in a low voice that caused my heart rate to rise from its ordinary seventy beats per minute to somewhere just north of one-twenty. You will recall that I am a doctor.

“Mrs. Hudson,” Holmes repeated, growling slightly as he approached her, “Or should I say, ‘Mrs. Hudsonarty’? As in Moriarty. Because I’ve combined your names. Into one name.”

She gave Holmes a crooked smile that lent credence to that vicious stereotype they have in the states regarding British dentistry. “Why don’t you come and find out, Mr. Holmes?” Mrs. Hudson purred as she unbuttoned, unfastened, unwound, and unhooked. This being Victorian London, the process took just under seventeen minutes.

Holmes took Mrs. Hudson’s inexplicably lithe body into his arms. Holmes’ fingertips made their little deductions up and down her as his mouth crisscrossed her body, pausing occasionally, much like the late train to Croydon, and traveling south, also like the late train to Croydon.

Their passion rendered them oblivious to my presence.

“She tastes like English Breakfast, Watson, in case you were curious.” Nope, not oblivious. “And I deduce from her mmmppphhh — ” Holmes deduction was lost as Mrs. Hudson pulled him back into her folds, sighing contentedly as she began to prepare the tea.

He never did find Moriarty.