atlin merrick shoe fic

The party had been Sherlock’s idea.

In an effort to flush out a larcenous, faux designer, one that had already bled them of more than ten million pounds, the largest fashion and jewelry house in Europe put on the most exclusive party in London, and Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson attended.

The event had been replete with private fireworks, champagne coming from silver taps, and caviar so rare that even the fish which produced it were reputed to be over-awed.

The ruse had worked. The thief had been drawn to the glitter like a moth to flame and they’d had cuffs on the man as dawn just began touching the Thames.

Though flushed with their success, here’s a fact about Sherlock Holmes: Though he can spend all of a long night literally running criminals to ground, it turns out that staying up until the morning hours drinking and disco dancing is completely, utterly, so absolutely beyond his purview that all he had energy for when they at last got home was undoing his bow tie, his tuxedo shirt, and the ribbons on his heels.

The thing is, the sight of those very things gave John energy for so very much more. And when John laugh-growled, “I’m a criminal,” and took off up the stairs at speed?

Well, the ruse worked.

Suddenly Sherlock found the energy to, uh, run John to ground.

Wee fic: Atlin Merrick; Shoe: Alberta Ferretti Woven Raffia

Well, John Watson cleans up well.

Don’t. Just…don’t. With that sort of. ‘Compliment.’ Because Sherlock Holmes, if in range of these words, will stop what he is doing — in one case it was palpating a human liver, gore right on up to his wrists — and he will walk over to you (with the liver in his hand) and he will simply look. at. you.

Sherlock won’t say anything. And yet you will understand clearly the words unspoken and those words are these:

John Watson does not ‘clean up well,’ John Watson is impeccable. Flawless. Always. I would say ‘do your research’ but ha! You can’t. Because John Watson is not your husband. He is mine. More pity you.

And then Sherlock Holmes will hand you the liver and walk away. And you will never say “Well, John Watson cleans up well,” again now, will you?

Wee fic: Atlin Merrick; Shoe: Givenchy


John Watson has very few lines in the sand. As a matter of fact he may have only two or three left in all the world, but he’s not sure since he misplaced all of them the day he moved in with Sherlock.

He may have located one just now though, under the bed, marked Easter in Sherlock’s scrawling hand.

John sighs. He does not want to wear a bunny rabbit boot, he really doesn’t. Then again…well, then again, John imagines Sherlock’s pleased grin when he unveils the pair he’s bought for John. (The brown ones; they’re John’s size.)

With a sigh John carefully replaces the box back under the bed. He’ll act surprised and pleased when Sherlock brings them out. 

Because, well, on reflection, John’s doing damn well without any lines in the sand.

Wee fic: Atlin Merrick; Shoe: Bunny Boot Lace-Up

Sherlock was late late late, and sure John was going to bitch about it, but when he rounded the corner, saw a pair of superb shoes topped by gloriously insouciant legs? Well Sherlock simply stopped and stood staring for a solid minute, head tilted, tongue sticking out.

It was soon after that the man to whom those fantastic legs belonged stood, came into full view, and seeing it was John, Sherlock sighed giddy and totally got a relief erection. Which, apparently, is a thing.

Wee fic: Atlin Merrick; Shoe: J. Fitzpatrick

The concierge looked at the shoes left outside the motel-room door. He looked at them a long time. Did they need polishing? Cooking? Or—

That’s when he heard the voices from behind the door.

“—and they seemed all fine, strong bones, like you my love. Now bring that other…bone…over here.”

And then long seconds later, a throaty, deep-voiced moan.

Right. Polishing it was then.

Wee fic: Atlin Merrick; Shoe: Naim Josefi + Souzan Youssouf


“My eyes are bleeding!”

Sherlock frowned.

“No seriously, go, go, go, I can’t think with all the sartorial shouting.”

Sherlock huffed noisely, turned dramatically, and swanned away.

Lestrade winked at John.

“Sometimes I just want to annoy him back. I actually like both pairs, yours and his. But don’t tell him.”

John grinned, put his finger to his lips. Then he flew after his swan.

Wee story: Atlin Merrick; Shoes: Abrasivatto Modern Vice; Strappy Pencil Neon

At this point neither of them give one little bit of nevermind why they like a shoe.

If someone goes breathless, gets horny, frowns but can’t stop looking, or giggles, they buy.

The last time Sherlock wore these was during London’s January snows, where he positively pranced round Regent’s Park like a long-legged gazelle who was aware it was more smartly dressed than all the other gazelles.

Wee fic: Atlin Merrick; Shoe: Iris Van Herpen