The Weathered Hat

Sherlock Holmes was thinking about John Watson again. John was an energetic war hero with handsome calves and plump arse.

Sherlock walked over to the window and reflected on his quiet surroundings. He had always loved beautiful Sussex with its quarrelsome, queasy Quaint cottages. It was a place that encouraged his tendency to feel delighted.

Then he saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the an energetic figure of John Watson.

Sherlock gulped. He glanced at his own reflection. He was a courageous, articulate, tea drinker with beautiful calves and plush arse. His friends saw him as a good, greasy genius. Once, he had even saved a square art portfolio that was stuck in a drain.

But not even a courageous person who had once saved a square art portfolio that was stuck in a drain, was prepared for what John had in store today.

The rain hammered like scampering chipmunks, making Sherlock ecstatic. Sherlock grabbed a weathered hat that had been strewn nearby; he massaged it with his fingers.

As Sherlock stepped outside and John came closer, he could see the snotacular glint in his eye.

John gazed with the affection of 9748 proud panicky pigeons. He said, in hushed tones, "I love you and I want lifelong affection and some really deep dicking."

Sherlock looked back, even more ecstatic and still fingering the weathered hat. "John, you know neither of us are good at expressing sentiment," he replied.

They looked at each other with surprised feelings, like two spewmungous, stupid squirrels loving at a very brave anniversary, which had violin music playing in the background and two special uncles drinking to the beat.

Sherlock regarded John's handsome calves and plump arse. "I feel the same way!" revealed Sherlock with a delighted grin.

John looked relaxed, his emotions blushing like a relieved, raspy rock.

Then John came inside for a nice cup of tea.