Moirewrites - Blog Posts

Sexual Anatomy from top to bottom

I am changing the theme of this blog to cover human sexual anatomy.

Why Sex?

When I was young, people talked about the sexual revolution. As a child, I didn't really understand what they meant. It seemed to have something to do with women dancing with their long hair down, and men trying to pick them up. The one thing that everyone agreed on was that the world had changed. We would never be sexually repressed again.

But when I came of age, it was the area of JUST SAY NO. Although it was supposed to be about drugs, sex was also a big no, no. AIDS was a punishment for the swinger life style, and our fathers knew better after all.

In the twenty-first century it's even worse. Abstinence-only education is the norm in the United States, and sex education is spotty and full of moralizing and misinformation.

After the second or third time that I heard someone post that they had learned about sex reading fan-fiction, I felt that there was a need for a source of reliable sex education that could be reached by the typical eleven year old, and yet would be relevant to adults as well. This blog will now discuss sex, human sex. Everything I can find about the anatomy, physiology, and biology of human sexual experience. Feel free to give me asks in the comments as it is a work in progress. Please correct me if you see any mistakes. Please tell me if this is useful to you. I will try to make it accurate and if possible interesting.

The continuing Adventures of Devil John

Work in Progress

After Sherlock Holmes died, he and the spirit of John Watson spent some time bumming around as ghosts. It was Sherlock's idea of course. He still loved the world and there were things that he had left to do. The freedom of going unseen and delving into mysteries that none had been able to solve filled him with glee, and John, who had been with him constantly through the latter years of his life as his body had failed him more and more, couldn't begrudge him his enthusiasm.

The only thing that gave John pause was Sherlock's chosen form. An old man's body had never seemed to fit Sherlock whose spirit was never old, but John was still surprised when he took Sherlock's hand to help him out of his body, and he pulled out the form of an eleven year old boy, curly-haired and smiling with one missing tooth, and scratches on his knees. It did seem to fit his personality, wild and mischievous. It looked so appropriate as he manipulated the air making channels of cold and heat that caused the bees to fly in complex spirals and shape forms like helices and starbursts. It also fit the ghost who liked to pull Mycroft's toupee off of his head at inappropriate times. A prank that had his spirit rolling on the floor in laughter and also left a smile on the edge of Mycroft's face who looked almost as if he knew that Sherlock was there. Then again, he probably did know about it given the fact that Sherlock had written extensive notes in his lifetime about his haunting by the demon spirit of John Watson. Mycroft would have inherited the notes, and his mind was never one to be limited by what everyone else 'knew' was true. Sherlock's form was wholly appropriate to his person, but John had hoped for more, and in this form John couldn't get himself to do more than give him a hug and a peck on the forehead from time to time.

http://archiveofourown.org/works/5116694/chapters/11771549#main

Devil John 11 - Like a girl

Fandom: Sherlock

Rating: Explicit

Excerpt:

The smell of oranges.

A tent door flapping in the breeze. Strong fingers digging in. The bright peel falling in pieces onto the surface a camp table. Oil arcs through the air filling the entire cabin with the smell of citrus.

“We've more ground to cover, and we're two men down,” Major Sholto says before taking a piece of orange and putting it in his mouth.

John looks up from where he sits slumped in his camp chair. He stares into blue eyes as bright as the desert sky. “Elroy and Firman were both good men. I tried to save them. I did everything I could for them.”

“I'm sure that you did, Watson. You're the best surgeon we have. If you couldn't save them, then they couldn't be saved.”

John smiles weakly, “It's nice of you to say, but I still think I could have done more.”

“As you should. Striving for perfection, that's what makes a man, isn't it? You did the best that you could, under the circumstances. No one can ask more than that. But I'm not looking forward to writing those letters to the family. It's never easy, but it's especially hard when those who die are so young.”

“Sometimes I wonder why they even enlisted. They could have been in Uni, having fun and meeting girls instead of coming out here to die in the desert.”

“Some people aren't made for civilized places. I couldn't imagine going back for good. Could you, Watson?”

“No,” John says. “It's a strange thing to say, considering where we are, but I've never lived in a place where I've felt more at peace than I do here and now...with you.”

Sholto pauses a minute to smile at John before eating the last orange slice.

John stares at the man sitting across from him. So strong and straight, and beautiful. It's as if this place had been made simply to show off his features. The square lines of his face echoed in the walls and floor. The beige color of the tent setting off the gold of his hair. He shines here, like the sun over the tops of the mountains.

In this moment, John's heart feels full, and this man makes him feel more welcome than anyone that he has ever known. He wants to tell him somehow, but he doesn't have words to describe it, so he rises to his feet and walks over to place a hand on the Major's shoulder.

He can hear birds singing outside the tent. Soon the sun will rise and everyone else in the camp will wake, but this moment seems made just for the two of them. A stolen moment of peace in a time of war. Unwilling to break the silence, but unable to keep his feelings inside, he bends down slowly and touches their lips together.

More on AO3

Devil John 9 - Killer

Fandom: Sherlock

Rating: Explicit

Excerpt:

“I'm tired of waiting. I'm tired of the frustration. I'm tired of being alone and returning to this ******* place. I want Sherlock here, now. Tell me how to do it.”

“Do you really want to know?”

“Do you think that there is any other reason that I would call you after the last time?”

Moriarty frowned. “Johnny, you're asking for my help. Would it hurt to be just a little civil.”

“I haven't broken your neck yet. I think I'm doing pretty well. So tell me, do you know a way to make this happen, or is calling you just a waste of my time?”

“Oh I know. Believe me Johnny, I know how to get him here.”

“How?”

“It's simple, love. Sherlock has to die.”

“Time is passing faster above, but...not that fast. It will still be a long time before he dies a natural death.”

“Then, Johnny my dear, you need to help it along. You need to kill him.”

“Kill Sherlock Holmes?”

“Yes. If you want him. He's already promised you his soul. You only need to kill his body in order to claim it.”

“But...kill him? I don't know. Perhaps I should wait...”

“You said you didn't want to wait. Besides, the more time that you give him, the more chance he'll have to find a loophole to get out of his bargain. You can't. Trust. Mortals. Clever things, they're always plotting. Give them a couple years and they will find a way trick themselves out of a bargain. Sherlock is yours to take, to own, to use as you will. Why wait when you can have him now?”

On AO3

Devil John 8 - Want

Fandom: Sherlock

Rating: Explicit

Excerpt:

Sherlock strides ahead, his long legs covering the distance quickly. John follows, his legs widening as he walks.

 The flair of his coat. 

Sherlock was always was a drama queen.

Sherlock pushes open the gate with his gloved hand, then he stops and looks back at John before rushing down the road. John steps through and looks at the street stretching out before them. The damp pavement glistens in the lamplight. Sherlock pauses at a quiet street corner and glances around before crossing. Bouncing lightly on his toes as he jumps over a puddle. He rushes, despite the fact that there is no sign of pursuit, pausing in his walk every so often however to glance back at John.

At University, John read the story of Orpheus and Eurydice. Sherlock reminds him of Orpheus. He is a musician, and John did indeed come from the underworld.

 What is that look in his eyes? Bedroom eyes. Sherlock on his bed in only his pants. A hand drifting down. Lidded eyes falling shut as he reaches inside. His mouth falling open.

John wonders if Eurydice had such dirty thoughts while watching her lover. A glance back, and Sherlock turns down another street.

On AO3

Devil John 7 - Sex

Fandom: Sherlock

Rating: Explicit

Excerpt:

In the army, his unassuming nature and his ability to get a repeat date with any woman who had dropped her knickers for him once was what spurred the men to name him Three-Continents Watson.

He couldn't help the desire he felt whenever a pretty woman walked by, but it was contained somewhat by his certainty that he could have them begging and calling his name if he wanted them to. Even so, he always felt a little tense when he was alone with a woman.

Men, for the most part, did nothing for him. John found them uninteresting, almost without exception. Until a man had strutted across the lab toward him with his cheekbones and his tailored suit and John had felt it like a punch in the gut. He'd even had the gall to wink at him on his way out, just like she had, reminding him of what it felt like to be powerless.

When Sherlock had taken John's very mild query into his sexual orientation and thrown it in his face, John knew that his momentary thought of perhaps giving the other side a go was never going to happen. He put it out of his mind.

And yet, Sherlock always had a way of throwing him off balance. He definitely was NOT a woman, but sometimes the ever-changing color of his eyes, or the pale freckles on his neck as he stood playing the violin, or the rounded curve of his ass would hit John in a way that made him feel like he was back in that referee's closet.

continued on AO3

Devil John

Chapter 6 - Whiskey

Fandom:Sherlock

Rating: Explicit

Excerpt:

“She's leaving us, Harriet. Too good for the likes of us, I guess.” His mother smiles, one of those sad smiles that are meant to reassure, but never do. “At least I have you to depend on, Love. You won't leave me, will you John? Come here.”

She opens her arms and wraps them around him careful to hold her cigarette hand out, so she doesn't burn him. John reaches his left hand around to pat her back as she rests her head against his shirt. A moment later, he feels it grow damp from her tears.

“Don't let this happen to you, Johnny. Find yourself a good gentle wife to settle down with. One that doesn't drink or smoke too much. Then maybe your kids won't hate you and run off.”

“Mum, Harry doesn't hate you.”

“It's all right if she does. I don't blame her for it. And when you finally leave, I won't blame you either.”

John wraps both arms around his mother and holds her tight. “I'm not leaving, Mum. I won't abandon you, not ever.”

“My loyal John. Some girl is going to love that about you. My best, my brightest son.” She kisses his arm. Then everything fades and they are on the grey plane again.

John covers his face with his hands. How long had it been since he had even thought about his mother.

continued on AO3

Devil John

Chapter 5 - Tea

Fandom:Sherlock

Rating: Explicit

Excerpt:

The Black Dragon's Blood is long gone. It had given him confidence last time, burning through his veins. Without it, his anger is buried deep, even so, he can feel it simmering like a coal covered in a bed of ash waiting to catch fire again.

“So,”John says, looking back at the newspaper again. “Has it really been over a year?”

“Almost two.”

“I see.”

“But time passes differently in Hell, you said.”

“Yes.”

“Was it much shorter?”

“Hard to say. It's hard to tell the hours apart when things are always the same.”

“It would be interesting to make a calculation of the differences. That is, people have speculated about the afterlife for quite a long time, and this is a unique opportunity to write something definitive on the subject. If you could simply describe what it is like there. I mean, I've read books. There are tales of a tunnel, some sort of light, but no one ever sees what's on the other side of the ...”

“I don't want to talk about it.”

“Is it that you are forbidden from speaking of it? You might let me guess. Then you only need nod. Is it anything like Dante's inferno? Or is it possibly that you...”

“I said that I don't want to talk about it!”

Sherlock stops talking. That more than anything drives John to turn and face him. Sherlock seems much healthier than before. He's underweight, as always, but despite his leg, he seems in good vigor. His blue eyes sparkle in the light from the window, and there is nothing about them that suggests that he isn't sleeping.

“You came back to me,” Sherlock says with eyes soft with feeling.

“Did you doubt I would?”

“No.”

“Liar. If you didn't doubt it, you wouldn't have mentioned in the first place.”

John walks over to his chair. It has been recently dusted and the union jack pillow neatly placed in the center. He thinks of sitting in it, but that would be too normal, so he walks around the chair instead placing his hands on the back to steady himself as he looks down at Sherlock.

Sherlock stares at him in wonder. John looks at his amazed face and then down at his own hands. He is uncertain what to do next. This isn't a completely uncommon state of affairs. Sherlock often unsettles him. When he had been alive, he had felt so confused at times, knowing that he wanted to say something, but not quite knowing what it was. But this is embarrassing. Demons aren't supposed to feel awkward, not in any vision of the afterlife that he's heard of. He rocks back and forth on his heels glancing up at Sherlock who is staring at him as if he believes that tearing his eyes away would make John disappear.

John starts to talk, then stops. Last visit he said some things that he was ashamed of. He wants to apologize to Sherlock for calling him names and for hurting him, but he's fairly certain that apologizing is also something that demons don't do. He had thought that death would change things, but he was pants at this sort of thing when he was alive, and it seems that he's going to be a pants demon as well?

Continued on AO3

Devil John

Fandom: Sherlock

Excerpt:

When John opens his eyes, he is chained to the wall again, but now there are even more chains. Some holding his ankles. Some making an X across his chest. Some holding his neck firmly against the wall. He tries to move, and they rattle.

He hears footsteps coming from the distance. He struggles, but he cannot get free. Then he sees Moriarty enter into the circle of light.

“Oh John, my dear. Looks like you've been a BAD boy.”

Story: Devil John

Fandom: Sherlock

WARNING! - Not even a little PC

Excerpt:

Breathing in he smells familiar scents: The elegant dust which settles on the bookshelves and drapes. The odd chemical tang of one of Sherlock's forgotten experiments. The chalky taste of bone. The traitorous smell of cigarette smoke.

He catches his image in the mirror. His face is dark, shadowed, threatening. His black eyes shine like moonlight on an obsidian knife. He doesn't look human.

Black Dragon's Blood burns when it goes down, but it settles in John's bones as a warm heat that glows like anger. He feels dangerous.

He frowns, and the darkness grows deeper. John realizes then that he is controlling it. It must be one of the effects of being a supernatural creature. He is a demon, after all. Things should be different, like breathing. He doesn't need to breathe anymore. He breathes in anyway just for the silky feel of it.

When he crosses his arms, darkness closes around him like smoke, with only his eyes shining through. His very thoughts have the power to manipulate matter. He wants to investigate it. Discover all of the things that he can do, but suddenly, he realizes that he is not alone.

Sherlock is sitting in his chair. He was so still and so quiet that John didn't notice him at first. John wonders if he has seen him, but Sherlock never turns around. Has Sherlock fallen asleep? No, his eyes are open, and his hair has been freshly groomed. What is he waiting for?

He's wearing the white shirt that he wore the day he met John and Mary in the restaurant. The shirts that he buys for himself are tight, the buttons almost popping across his chest, the nipples peeking through. Mycroft bought this shirt. It looks modest in comparison. John floats closer.

Sherlock seems to wake then. He sits straighter in his chair before rolling up his sleeve. It is only when Sherlock reaches over to pick up a bit of rubber tubing that John notices, on the table beside him, a syringe. The empty bottle next to it reads. DIAMORPHINE HYDROCHLORIDE. John growls.

Continued on AO3

DEVIL JOHN

Fandom: Sherlock

Rating: Explicit

Summary: John is dead, but that's not the end for him. Not when he has a soul left to corrupt.

Excerpt:

Why was it so dark here?

His wound was gone now, but there had been an awful lot of blood before.

“Are you done now?” A voice called out, a lilting voice that rose and fell like music. “Have you realized yet, or are you still in denial?”

“Hello? Where am I? I can't see you.”

“It's hard for you, I know, but I would have expected that as a doctor you would realize the truth sooner rather than later.”

The voice sounded familiar, male, a bit high pitched, sing-song. No, it couldn't be. “Who are you?”

“You know who I am. You just don't...want...to believe it. You don't want to see it either. I haven't seen this much smoke since the first time I burned down my orphanage.”

“Moriarty? But you're dead!”

“Yes, I am...Ah! You almost see it, but your mind is fighting it. You have such a titanic skill at denial, don't you John?”

“Denying what!”John barked. The light became darker. “What are you doing with the lights?”

“Nothing Johnny boy. It's you who is doing it.”

“I'm not dead!”

“You are, that's why you won't see me. When you realize the truth, it will all become clear.”

Continue on AO3

The Final Problem - 1

Summary:

Moriarty, damaged but not dead due to a self-inflicted bullet wound, kidnaps Sherlock and his three friends and threatens to kill them unless they can help him find the meaning of life.

Chapter 1 - Not Awake                           

Sherlock Holmes awoke one morning to find that he was not yet awake.

He was sitting in his flat at 221B Baker Street. The fireplace was lit. The noises of cars drifted in through the window. A gentle light was shining in through though the curtains. And something was horribly wrong.

Being disoriented was not a new occurrence for Sherlock Holmes, not with his reawakened interest in drugs, but Sherlock felt none of the hallmarks of waking after a high. Nothing except the hopefully temporary loss of memory of how he had got here.

He rose to his feet and placed a hand on the mantle as he tried to zero in on what exactly it was that was wrong. Everything appeared to be in its proper place: His framed bat. His skull. His letters. The knife was gone from the mantle, but he could see it in the wall, pierced through the Cleudo board. He remembered doing that in a fit of pique after John had refused to play with him simply because he insisted that the victim must have killed himself. All in all it looked like a perfectly normal day, except....

John had removed the board from the wall at Mrs Hudson's request, years ago, and at another time, through no fault of his own, it had been thrown into the fire. John had fished it out, but the board had been damaged beyond repair, and Mrs Hudson had thrown it away. But if that was so, how was it on the wall now?

Sherlock had heard of drug reactions where a person was thrown violently into a memory of the past. He discounted this quickly enough. John's mug was not in the kitchen rack, and his coat was not on the hook. His absence, along with the presence of the purple scarf that Molly had knit him after his return, were enough to show Sherlock that this was not a memory. This was home, but not home. Real, but not real. Perfectly familiar, but alien as another planet.

It wasn't until Sherlock knelt down and stared into the fire, that he understood that he was in a fantasy not of his own devising, for although the fire was burning brightly, the wood was not being consumed. Perhaps the laws of time could be bent so that one wall of the flat existed at a different time from the other wall, but Sherlock was not so foolish as to believe that the laws of entropy could be changed. Wood that burned must be consumed. If it was not consumed then the laws of physics did not apply.

Despite the fact that everything felt real to him, he realized that he was in a dream or a fantasy. It was obvious that the fantasy world was not of his own devising, because there was no John.

Sherlock walked into the hall and looked down over the railing. Despite the fact that his flat was on the first floor, the stairwell seemed to go on forever. He returned to the fireplace and frowned down at the fire before saying to the air. "Alright, I know that you are here. Come out, come out whoever you are."

He looked toward the sound of footsteps.

His eyes widened, but he shouldn't have been surprised, not really. Who else would think to trap him in an artificial world? Who else but James Moriarty?

He was dressed in a black floor length robe and a priest's collar. A picture of austerity somewhat undone by the sight of his Gucci shoes.

"Jim Moriarty. Hi!" he said as he strolled slowly into the room, hands clasped behind his back. He cast a lazy glance around before boring into Sherlock with the black malevolence of his eyes.

Sherlock gestured toward a seat. "Please."

"I'd rather stand," Moriarty said.

"No matter." Sherlock glanced at his own chair before deciding to sit in John's. He crossed his legs and interlaced his fingers setting them atop his knee. "I'm sorry that I have no tea to offer you this time, but it wouldn't be real tea anyway, would it? Where are we by the way?"

"As you can see, we are in your flat."

"No we're not."

"You looked down the stairwell. You tell me where we are."

"We appear to be in my mind palace, or a part of it at least. But I'm not doing this, so I must be dreaming."

"You are, and you aren't."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that this is real, in as much as you and I are really talking."

"But not real in any physical sense. How exactly is that possible? I saw you die."

"John Watson saw you die, and yet, here you are. Do you think that you could accomplish something that I could not? Oh Sherlock, don't be so naive. Death isn't enough to stop men like us from doing what we really want."

"And what do you want to do?"

"I'm doing it."

"Doing what? Talking to me in a dream?"

"Not so much a dream as a simulation."

"A simulation... Oh, of course. This world is artificial. A construct of my mind and yours combined. The traumatic limb therapy experiment!"

"Good, Good."

"A military funded experiment designed to reduce the shock of catastrophic limb loss injuries by allowing the patient to view themselves as still having their limbs, but it didn't work."

"They liked the world too much. Hated that when they left it, they still had no working limbs. The project was a failure. But the technology was a success, so I appropriated it."

"You tapped into their system. Made a simulated image of yourself in the computer which you flashed all over the country. A simulated image of a simulated body. That's why it looked so strange, but how is it that you look so much more real now?"

"That's because you are in the machine with me. The device allows us to create worlds from our memories and to interact with others in our created world. Most people can't tell this from the real world. Only people like you and I, who have trained our minds to a razor point, only we can consciously shape the world to our will."

"But if, as you say, this is just a simulated image, how do I know if you are the real Moriarty or not?"

"Oh, Sherlock," he said in a sing-song voice, "You know that, like Johann Sebastian Bach, I could never leave a song unfinished. Our melody is incomplete. The song ended, but you kept on playing past the end of the piece. That was VERY NAUGHTY of you."

"It's been nearly three years. Why haven't you shown yourself before now?"

"Well, a shot to the head is not without some side effects. I may not be quite as ... attractive as I once was, but I assure you, the brain is as agile as ever, and that's what matters in the end. Isn't that what you used to say, Sherlock? 'All the rest is transport.' "

"Alright. I'll assume that you're Moriarty. What do you want?"

"I already told you! I want the answer to the final question. You found the answer without telling me."

"What didn't I tell you?"

"You survived, Sherlock. You survived! How can you stand it? Living day in and day out. Dealing with ordinary people and their stupidity. We both cheated death, but somehow you've found the answer that has alluded me. How can you go on living in a world full of such pointless ignorance?"

"But... you obviously found a way not to die."

"There's a difference between existence and survival. I'm not dead, but I haven't found a way to survive. "

"Are you asking me? 'What is the meaning of life?' "

"In so many words, Yes!"

"That's not a scientific question. You should ask a priest."

"Oh, I did, I did! I talked to Father George at great length. It's in his honor that I am wearing these robes today. He tried to sell me some fairy story about God and Devils. He made a good case, but in the end, I rejected his answer as too simplistic. I know that you will come up with something better."

"Philosophy is not my area. If you were to talk to him again, perhaps...."

Moriarty stretched his neck one way and then the other, and his face went completely, horrifyingly blank. "Unfortunately, he's unavailable. You see, I sent him ahead to talk to his God. I asked him to put in a good word, but I'm not sure that he did."

"You're mad!"

"You already knew that."

"I can't help you find the answer to your question."

"It that your final answer? Because if so, your friends will die, but I'll make sure that they suffer first."

"My friends? Where are you keeping them?"

"They're here, with us in the simulation, all of them... except Molly Hooper. She was able to help you escape last time, so she wasn't invited to this little dream of ours."

"I don't understand why you're asking me this? There are billions of people in the world. There must be someone more suited to give you spiritual guidance than me."

"No. I tried that route. Who cares what stupid thoughts console an amoeba, because that's what ordinary people are compared to you and me, amoebas. It's like sitting alone in your room and playing with dolls. But I need to know, Is there anything at all worth living for?"

"Men have been asking that question for millennia."

"You, however, have considerably less time to figure it out."

"How long?"

"Eight hours."

"Eight hours?"

"Yes, or you all will die."

"But... I still don't understand. Why ask me?"

"Because, you're alive! And you told me yourself that you ARE me. I know that you've got the answer inside you somewhere, so off you pop!" Moriarty walked toward the open door. He turned back as he reached the hallway and said, "Find our answer, and don't fail me! Your friends escaped harm before, but there will be no mistakes this time. Ciao, Sherlock Holmes."

Moriarty smiled then, a smile that could freeze a man solid, then he left down the hall. Sherlock rose to his feet, and rushed after him, but he had vanished.

TBC