Metaphor Short-Stature, or, How John Watson Finally Learned to Love Himself (and Sherlock) by Loving Himself
Idealized John Watson as Metaphor Short-Stature
John and Sherlock as Themselves
heimishtheidealhusband as Heimish
monikakrasnorada as Moni
hopelesslybenaddicted as Hope
roseinmyhand as Rose
hotdiggitydollie as Dollie
queenmab3 as Queenie
iamjohnlocked4life as Johnlocked
Illustrative Manip by the Luscious hotdiggitydollie
Once there was a dashing young man with heroic tendencies, a tender heart made for love, and an innate ability to make the perfect cup of tea. He lived in an idyllic cottage in the countryside with seven beautiful lady scientists who loved him with all their hearts. His name was Metaphor Short-Stature.
What Metaphor Short-Stature didn’t know was that the beautiful lady scientists weren’t just his mums and very good friends who had taught him to be lovely to everyone no matter what, and to use his devastating handsomeness for good, and to avoid at all costs slowly destroying the self-confidence of sad gay baby detectives. They had also created him in their laboratory at Baskerville. He was a clone of someone they all admired and were a bit angry with on a constant basis, but on whom they had pinned many of their hopes for a bright and shiny future.
One day, Metaphor Short-Stature was playing on the internets, when he found a very interesting website called The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson. He stared at it for a long time, and, despite the lady scientists’ constant admonitions about touching the screen, he did reach out and touch the tiny picture of John H. Waston.
“He looks just like me,” he whispered.
Deep underground in the Baskerville labs, an alarm sounded. Heimish, who had been monitoring Metaphor’s computer, alerted all the lady scientists to let them know that the scenario they’d feared and hoped for was finally coming to pass.
“Dammit.” Heimish slammed her fist down on the conference room table, when they had all gathered together. “We haven’t written sufficient metas to cover this situation. We just don’t know what will happen if he actually goes to London.” In fact Heimish had written a ten-chapter meta on exactly that scenario, but it had suddenly developed legs and would soon be expanded into a thirty-part series which she would publish the following week, and which was absolutely 100% brilliant.
Moni leaned back in her chair, twirling her Purple Hair of Sex around one finger. “Whatever happens,” she said, “this was inevitable. I mean, he had to figure out why he’s abnormally attracted to terrible jumpers at some point. He’s a good Metaphor. He deserves to understand where he comes from, why he’s here.”
“Well, he’s here because we all thought John Watson was ridiculously handsome, but kind of a jerk,” said Hope. “Still, very hot, running around terrified for his life in our basement.” She had done up a gifset of the entire incident. “I mean, we couldn’t let all our funding go to waste, and my plan to place him in permanent housing in a giant garbage can and limit his impact on our nation’s sad gay baby detective resources wasn’t supported by the higher ups. Cloning was the right thing to do.”
“Ultimately Metaphor Short-Stature is really all about wish fulfillment,” said Rose, looking over her leatherbound copy of Donna Haraway’s complete works. “If John Watson were a better person, we wouldn’t need Metaphor Short-Stature in the first place.”
“Plus he was fun to make,” said Dollie, whose hands were busy as usual sewing a small, fuzzy version of Metaphor Short-Stature himself. This one wore leather pants and had a tiny pink belly button. “I think we can be pretty confident that he’ll do all right out in the world, so long as we supply him with sufficient pound cake and marmalade for the trip.”
Queenie nodded and pointed to the screen behind her, which displayed a complex series of charts and graphs. “His glitter quotient is definitely at optimal levels right now. He’ll attract glitter to himself, but only enough to make those around him feel sparkly and special. If we wait any longer to send him out into the world, we might be looking at a glitter overload situation. Metaphor could become such a powerful glitter magnet that he turns into a big gay vortex from which no detectives or detective-adjacent bloggers can escape.”
Johnlocked stood at the end of the table. “I guess it’s up to me to help him pack, then. Despite our numerous training sessions, he still doesn’t quite understand the power of red pants, and if he forgets them, this entire experiment could go sideways.”
Everyone nodded vigorously.