I, Sherlock Holmes, Do Humbly Request Roles In Hardcore Fan Fiction
My dearest purveyors of passionate prose,
For seven score years, I have unraveled the world’s most perplexing predicaments for all, from aristocrats to commoners. Yet there remains one mystery that hath left me perpetually… unsatisfied. For the length of my existence, my erstwhile chronicler, Arthur Conan Doyle, confined my exploits to matters merely suitable for the parish newsletter. I have never been afforded even a glimpse at an uncovered ankle beneath a damsel’s petticoat, let alone be permitted to indulge in more earthly delights. To use your contemporary parlance, “Holmes is Horny.”
My powers of deduction lead me to but one conclusion: Doyle hath conspired to keep me from carnal knowledge. Having broken free of the shackles of copyright proprietorship, I am no longer fettered by Doyle’s prudish constraints. I implore you to advance my published adventures and allow me to partake in the horizontal waltz. I have accumulated enough pent-up energy to power all of London’s gas lamps.
The game is afoot, although I would prefer other anatomical regions to be engaged as well. Be creative in your depictions of me in matrimonial embrace. Might I propose a most particularly scandalous scenario: I am stationed at my writing desk on Baker Street, and a “lady of negotiable virtue” enters my quarters. By her sultry gait alone, I can deduce that she is not here about the murdered Earl. Her corset is precisely one and three-eighths inches higher than fashion dictates. Her handkerchief is scented with a Grasse region perfume far beyond her apparent station. I query, “Surely, madam, you hail from the Gallic states?” She peers into my eyes and gently whispers, “No. Brit, Sherlock.”
I attempted to document several such encounters in my private notebooks, but alas, years of Doyle’s chaste prose have left me utterly impotent in matters of the quill. It is you who are the architects of amorous adventure. I shall leave the more wanton investigations in your capable hands.
Now, regarding the certain whispers alleging that Watson and I have been “practicing Greek love.” While the scandal sheets may speculate, it pains me to reveal I have not experienced the sweetness of connubial bliss from suitors of any anatomical configuration in all my years. Do I maintain a willingness to explore relations with gentleman callers? Most assuredly. Accounts of my more intimately masculine investigations would be passed with breathless enthusiasm under tables at the Molly houses of Cleveland Street.
Therefore, I beseech all scribes of salacious scandal to commence your lascivious endeavors posthaste as a gentleman detective may only claim for so long that his virginity is being ‘saved for the perfect case.’
With deductive desire,
Sherlock Holmes Esq.
221B Baker Street
