zayn malik gets totally ravaged by his foot doctor, sherlook

Chapter 1 part 13

Wawa Kyle

The next day, Sherlock was horny. Just kidding, after the trauma of his relationship with Zayn he couldn't nut for the rest of his life. Instead, he would sit at home and watch idubbz content cop videos until he yakked. Meanwhile, Uncle Graffiti painted giraffes on the window of the shop. His shop was for mobiles. Mobiles of all sizes. The big kinds with the planets and the stars and the little kinds with the cranky little music boxes. He sold mobiles for babies who liked to cry and liked to watch moving things to soothe their tears. Every night, Uncle Graffiti churned the butter and oil that he used to meld his crafty little creations, and every morning, he painted another star on the window of his little shop. His shop was musty, and full of pastels, and it existed in its own little corner of 18th century London. Uncle Graffiti's relevance to this story is unclear, but what you should know, dear reader, is that Uncle Graffiti had two eyes, one of the clearest, most pristine Gatorade blue you'd ever seen, and the other of the deepest blue of the porta potty water at that hippie festival that your stoner alcoholic parents took you to every year from age 1 until the DUI. Morning came again to Uncle Graffiti's sanctuary, and with morning came the daily rush of expecting mothers. Moms with swollen belly whom wished to explore the wonderful (find another word for wonderful) world (find another word for world) of mobiles for their future angels. Each mother would come in, hair brown or brunette, but preferably blonde, tied back in a sensible knot at the base of their British necks, and they'd cup their hands around their fat fat bellies with love, a gesture of love that Uncle Graffiti had never known. He wanted nothing more than to be held in the arms of one of those mega pregnant lasses, because his own mother was rich, and cold, and distance, and when she did touch him, it was with a diamond studded finger that smelled like cigarettes and was f*cking freezing cold, and it was to brush chocolate off his face because he ate the last slice like a little piggy. This morning's mother was a slim (not slim, she was really really fat because she was pregnant, but he could tell she was naturally slim), and blonde, which he preferred. She had kickass legs and a smile that could wipe the windows clean. She was clearly in a manic state of mind (labor question mark?) and she was rushing around Uncle Graffiti's humble little shop grabbing mobile after mobile after mobile off the pastel shelves and stuffing them in her little shopping basket. Uncle Graffiti was not one to turn down a manic blonde, so he decided to approach her with his best masculine wiles. He leaned over her as she was crouched at a low level shelf trying to decide whether its appropriate to link color with gender and vice versa, because she was staring at a yellow mobile and a pink mobile and she couldn't tell whether it would be problematic to buy the pink one because its inherently feminine, or problematic to not buy the pink one because she would be telling her future daughter that femininity is something to be scared of, to avoid, and to suppress in order to be liked, protected, and accepted. Uncle graffiti reached one hand down to help the woman to her feet, and asked her one question, in a low, gravelly tone. Immediately, she blew him.

Can you guess what the question was?