Sherlock
Watson and Key make their way toward the little cabin beside the lake, hand in hand. They haven’t stopped touching since she broke him out of that horrible tank. Since he turned back into the form of his designer breed, instead of that of his sea creature. He insists on calling it his “monster”, but I don’t know that I approve of that description. Besides, every time he says it, he waggles his eyebrows like he’s really referring to his d**k.
Besides, it wasn’t a monster. Not really. It was beautiful. When I close my eyes, I still see it. The glittering black midnight of it, the way its arms pressed across the glass, as if to touch against the world on the other side. A “monster” implies that it was something to fear. I was afraid, that’s true. But not of him. Never of him.
He t
