Sherlock BBC Prompting Meme

"we get all sorts around here."


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This post is for responding to prompts from prompt posts that are full, or continuing WIPs that were started on prompt posts that have since filled up or are close to full.

Please link to the original prompt thread, as well as posting the actual prompt and any necessary warnings in the post here.

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  • 1

Bound (Warning: non-con)

(Anonymous)
This is a fill for http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/2727.html?thread=5996711#t5996711 back in part 3. The original prompt reads:

"Sherlock and John are captured and tied up to each other on a bed, both completely naked (I'm sure there's been a prompt done along these lines before, but hold on). Moriarty comes in and says he's going to rape one of them. Both of them expect it to be Sherlock.

So of course, he rapes John instead.

Basically I'd like to see John attempting to face it calmly, trying not to break down, and Sherlock just totally freaking out. Trying to dissuade Moriarty, offering himself as better alternative and than – when it doesn't work – trying to help John through it as best he can when he's literally tied to John."

I would describe this fill as hurt/comfort, but it may be read as leaning more toward hurt.

Re: Bound (Warning: non-con) 1/12

(Anonymous)
He wakes to warmth, to a familiar scent. The press of bare flesh is familiar, the shape of it less so. He shifts, pulls his nose out of the crook of Sherlock’s neck – not that familiar then – and assesses the situation. His mouth feels fuzzy and his memories are patchy. They’d been attacked and then injected with something. He has some vague memories of transport, he’s probably been in a car, but he has no idea where they are or how long they’ve been indisposed. It doesn’t matter, he can leave those details to Sherlock.

He’s tied, bound to Sherlock, naked on a bed. The room is unfamiliar. The situation is very unfamiliar.

Ropes bind their wrists together, wrap around their forearms, and disappear under another wrapping just above their elbows. Another length of rope, woven into the bindings on their wrists, leads out and loops around the upper bedposts. The length is too taut for him to bring their hands together. Then it’s nothing but sheets and flesh until his ankles, wrapped tight but not immovable, attached to another length.

He twists to see. It’s impossible to move without jostling Sherlock, but the other man’s breathing is steady and he’s in no worse condition than John. John rolls them from their sides until he’s half on top of Sherlock, then turns his head to catch a glimpse of their feet.

They’re tied together there too, ankles wrapped individually and attached to lengths of rope that loop over tall bedposts before attaching to identical wrappings on the other’s foot. If he pulls his right leg back far enough the length will go taut and pull at Sherlock’s left ankle. If John moves his left leg Sherlock’s right is constricted. Still, the length is long enough that he can move. He could probably kneel over Sherlock without causing either of them discomfort.

Well, discomfort apart from the whole nude and bound together issue. Sherlock will probably be able to improve their situation when he wakes up.

John does his best to keep their bits from touching. It’s a stupid thing to be worried about, but he feels like it’s important to be able to answer in the negative when women ask if he’s ever touched his flatmate’s dick. One day it may make one of them stay, rather than storming off, or so he is eternally hopeful.

He huffs with something like amusement. They are naked on a bed. Something bad is going to happen. But they’ve been tied to chairs and had guns pointed at them and been locked in burning houses and been trapped in flooding sewers, so they have a pretty good record when it comes to avoiding the something bad that is ‘going to happen.’

He pulls his feet together. Because of their position, chests necessarily pressed together, hips only slightly touching, this pulls the rope enough to drag Sherlock’s leg toward the edge of the bed. John rubs the toes of one foot along the ropes binding his other ankle. He’s not practised in undoing knots without his hands; maybe he’ll discover a talent.

Here is a fill for this prompt:

http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/15253.html?thread=83627669&#t83627669

I just want some Molly/Sherlock hurt/comfort, her tending to his injuries after the fall, followed by gentle sex.

Slumber in the Broken Night (Sherlock/Molly, M) 1/?

(Anonymous)
Molly is engrossed in the task of stitching up a wound on his arm, all of her focus on the row of delicate sutures, seemingly unaware of his gaze for once. He didn't allow her to give him enough narcotics to truly stop his pain, and while the local anesthetic keeps him from feeling each prick of the needle, the dull ache through his frame reminds him that he indeed cannot fly. She is tired, her hands not quite as steady as they would have been hours before. Before he asked this of her, brought to her attention just what it meant to matter to him.

"I want to wash out – we should wash your hair. Before you lie down." Sherlock can't blame Molly for not wanting blood on her upholstery, and tries to focus.

"Here, Sherlock. Just – kneel down and I'll get this out of your hair and I can get you to bed, all right?" The narcotic makes him feel relatively compliant and he leans over the edge of the tub with only a few muttering complaints. Molly takes the shower head and gently rinses out the blood before washing his hair with her shampoo. She tests the water to make sure that it's warm, but Sherlock can't stop himself from shivering.

Once she's washed away the blood she settles him onto the lid of the toilet before digging through a cabinet for fresh towels. The dark circles of her nipples show through her soaked cotton t-shirt, and she is too busy trying to cautiously dry his hair enough to apply a fresh bandage to care. It surprises him in some way, and Sherlock supposes he's never given a thought to Molly having these obvious anatomical features. She is all cardigans and layers, everything buried away from view.

She wraps his clean hair in a towel and with her arm around him, helps him into her bedroom. Sherlock perches on the edge of the bed as she strips from his body the remaining clothes that she has agreed to burn in the incinerator at Bart's. He shivers and Molly reassures him in a soft voice that it will only be a minute. Waiting is boring, a minute too bloody long, so he burrows into her bed, enveloped by the scent of clean cotton sheets.

"Oh," Molly says softly, not meeting his eyes before she sits on the edge of the bed. She holds out water and a mix of anonymous pills. There's another bitter narcotic among them, and probably an antibiotic. Molly suspects a fever, then. He takes them, wincing at the protest from his taped ribs when he tries to sit up. The glass clinks on the coaster on the nightstand and he lets his eyes flutter closed, but opens them to watch her when he feels her weight lift from the bed. She notices her suddenly translucent shirt and lets out a small squeak before digging into the drawer to pull out a new one, this time pale blue and sleeveless. She steps into the dark corner to change and Sherlock squints, just making out the shadow of the swell of her breast in the dim light. She would remind him of a sculpture that he's failed to delete, if sculptures were styled with ponytails.

Sherlock awakens several hours later. Molly is huddled beside him on the bed, knees drawn to her chest and a glass of wine in her hand. The glow of the bedside lamp favors her, softening the lines of her face and darkening her eyes. She notices his slight shifting in the bed and puts the glass down so she can lay her hand against his forehead.

"You don't seem feverish now. How's the pain?" Molly says softly. She doesn't need to whisper. There's no one around to hear her.

"Fine," Sherlock croaks out. He struggles to sit up and Molly helps, fluffing the pillows behind him.

"I didn't wake you, did I? I'm sorry, I just - I don't know where to be," Molly says. She lifts her glass once more to sip from it before she picks up her penlight, checking his eyes.

Fill for Prompt: IOU (1/2)

Short fill: IOU (I like the prompter's title)
Sherlock/John
Not beta-ed, and I'm not sorry it came out cracky


'Staying Alive' playing loudly in the background, Jim Moriarty sat quietly as he waited for Sherlock to arrive. This was the day of their final confrontation and to say that he was upset would have been an understatement. Sherlock Holmes, the biggest, most interesting distraction in his boring life, would die today as the consequence of losing their intricate final problem. Just thinking about the dull days that awaited made him cringe. What do villains do for fun when their heroes die anyway?

From the corner of his eyes, Jim noted someone in black coming through the rooftop door. Finally.

"Well, here we are at last," he greeted without turning, "You and me, Sherlock."

The person approached him with careful steps.

"And our problem... the final problem." Always a villain with flair, Jim raised his phone with a hand, emphasizing the song, "Staying ali---what the fuck!"

"Look, Jim, I don't want any trouble. Sherlock doesn't know I'm here."

Standing before him at the moment was definitely not the world's only consulting detective. It was the 'live-in'. What the bloody fuck. Jim looked down at his fallen phone forlornly.

"Ah," he quickly composed himself, "Who would have known? It's the blogger! How's the landlady doing?"

"She's alright. Of course she's alright. She texted me right after I walked out the door. This isn't the first time he tried to get rid of me before confronting you alone, you know. Also I learned how to read his texts through the movement of his fingers some time ago. That's how I know where you're going to meet." John took a whiff, his dominant hand making repeated gripping gestures on his side which gave away his tenseness despite his neutral expression.

Jim frowned, confused. He hated not knowing things, such as, what John Watson was planning to do at the moment. All of his scenarios and backup scenarios had two actors, himself and Sherlock Holmes. Ad-libbing. Ugh. So gauche.

"I know you came to our flat some time ago. Found your message. You know, on the apple. I'm sure Sherlock didn't intend to show it to me, but he was too far inside his mind palace when I cleaned it up," John started again, licking his lips, "I guess what I'm trying to say is... I found out about your 'intention' towards Sherlock."

"Oh really?" Jim threw him a grin that didn't reach his eyes. I Owe You. What sort of conclusion the ordinary might have come up with? He couldn't possibly understand.

"Yes, yes, you've made it pretty clear, I guess," John replied without missing a beat, "Look, I'm not saying that I know about Sherlock Holmes. Well, at least not when it comes to that 'area'. I've seen so little of it, despite the incident the 'the woman'... okay here's what I know. Sherlock considers himself married to his work. And before you ask, no, I was not flirting with him at the time. He completely misunderstood. I was just making small talk, trying to get to know each other because we were going to share a flat. For the love of God, I'm not actually gay."

Jim snorted, impatient. The blogger was babbling. He was fucking babbling. Wasting their time. Where the hell was Sherlock anyway? He should have arrived a long time ago.

"Okay, Johnny boy, it was nice talking to you. But this game is between Sherlock and I, so if you could please leave and let the adults sort things out."


Continued in part 2

Fill for Prompt: IOU (2/2)

John looked mildly offended. "You do realize I'm older than you?"

"Boring! Everyone can get old. It's what in here," Jim flicked his forefinger and pointed it to his own head, "that counts."

"Supposing you get what you want from Sherlock, what are you going to do with him?" John asked, ignoring Jim's remark mostly out of reflex (one didn't simply bunk up with Sherlock Holmes for almost a year and came out a more sensitive person).

Jim laughed incredulously, "Oh Johnny, surely by now you know that I have gotten him. I have been doing things to him. Things that he likes."

"God," John looked like he was going to be sick, "You sick, </i>twisted</i> bastard. I'm not even going to ask when you---Did he even---was it even mutual? Did he give his consent?"

By then Jim could feel something was off, but impatient as he was, all he wanted to do was getting to 'main course'.

"He was certainly enthusiastic," he shrugged, silently wondering why his answer only seemed to incense the doctor even further. Ah the woes of the ordinaries. Sometimes they were just so hard to understand.

"I told Sherlock once that the two of you would be very happy together," John jutted a finger at him, losing his cool, "It has something to do with the fact that your combined mental age of twelve. All the 'oh I am so clever, nothing else matters' attitude. Evidently you are just the kind of thrill he needs, just the right mix of cleverness and danger like 'that woman', but I took it back, I took it all back. You said you loved Sherlock. Well here's a tip, when you love someone, you don't fucking tear his life apart."

Jim opened his mouth, but was quickly silenced again as John continued his rant (one didn't simply spend most of his time with Sherlock Holmes and not learn a thing or two about throwing a temper tantrum).

"These last few days Sherlock has been so distraught, he wasn't thinking straight. He thinks he is so clever he can hide it from me, but I saw it. I saw all the things he was trying to hide. I saw his pain. And help me God, I'll sooner die than leaving this sodding place without settling this matter with you."

"I'm afraid I'm not following this conversation, John."

"Let's make it simple for you, leave Sherlock Bloody Holmes alone or I will fucking skin you." John didn't even seem to notice Jim's mystified expression and the disappearance of the pet name.

"The fact that you most probably can't do that aside," Skinning people was delicate work, Jim wished people would have stopped regarding it so casually, "You were saying things about love?"

"Don't you even start about love! Sherlock is inexperienced, a carved love message on a sodding apple might have been enough to impress him but you can't fool me. That wasn't even fine carving, the heart shape was hardly legible."

The heart shape was hardly legible.

The heart shape was hardly legible.

The fucking heart shape was hardly legible.

Jim Moriarty had never been so humiliated in his life.

"Did it occur in your inferior mind that the heart shape was quote-hardly legible-unquote because IT WASN'T MEANT TO BE A HEART AT THE FIRST PLACE?!"

John took a step back as Jim suddenly rose and grabbed the lapels of his jacket, turning their position around so quickly when John regained his senses, he was already hovering dangerously on the edge of the rooftop.

"How dare you assume that me, the superior mind, would stoop so low to even play with the idea of love? Such feeble, fleeting, grubby sentiment---"

"John!"

Both men stopped moving. The voice sounded far away, from the other side of the door, which was apparently locked. The doorknob shook vehemently with each push from the inside.

"John Watson, I know you're there!" Called the baritone voice again, positively furious, "When I get to you, you'd better have an good explanation as to why are you talking about love, heart and sentiment with Jim Moriarty!"


END

Fill for Prompt: Bizarre World part 1

Bizarre World (aka A Study where Nothing Makes Sense Anymore)




Prompt fill for: We need something lighthearted. Let’s write a bizarre AU where everyone traded places, shall we? But try to be as surprising as possible. No easy mirror changes. (http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/15253.html?thread=82241685#t82241685)

Basically I adore the prompter's idea, but I'm switching Anderson and Sally because....... I just want to write Consulting Detective Anderson, okay. Clearly I'm out of my mind because I don't even know Anderson's full name.

Not beta-ed. I own nothing. I wrote this because I could no longer procrastinate on tumblr.

Sergeant Sebastian Moran looked like he was going to lurch as he caught the sight of the man with billowing long coat stepping out of the taxi in front of the crime scene. Before he could open his mouth for a snide greeting, another man limped out of the car and followed to follow the consulting detective. What the fuck? It wasn't enough that the man kept coming to contaminate their crime scene every so often, now he had to bring someone along too? Although admittedly the new face seemed a lot less of an obtuse.

"Hello, freak." Moran smiled as he took a step forward (to block their way, not at all welcoming).

"I'm here to see Detective Inspector Holmes," Consulting Detective Anderson said quickly, rushing to cross the police line only to get himself bodily blocked by the towering sergeant.

"Why?"

"I was invited."

"Why?"

Anderson's face hardened at the taunt. "I think he wants me to take a look."

The sergeant held his stare, "You know what I think, don't you?"

"Always, Seb." The consulting detective growled back, "I even know you didn't make it home last night."

Moran raised an eyebrow, visibly rattled, "I don't... well, who is this?"

"Colleague of mine, Doctor Mycroft Holmes, unrelated in any way to DI Holmes. Doctor Holmes, Sergeant Sebastian Moran. Old friend." Anderson gestured to his companion, who was just regarding both of them dubiously.

"A colleague, how do you get a colleague?" Moran sneered, turning to the newcomer, "Did he follow you home?"

Mycroft gave out a long-suffering sigh as he gave his cane-slash-umbrella an elegant twirl, "I told you I wasn't suited for legwork. I'll just wait at that cake shop around the corner."

"No," Anderson insisted. He stumbled gracelessly as he prepared himself to push Moran away only to find the man stepping to the side. Moran and Mycroft exchanged a smirk as Moran informed DI Holmes of Anderson's arrival.

"Freak's here. Bringing him in."

XXX

Mycroft did a quick scan of their surroundings as his new flatmate-to-be did the same thing, only with more dramatic, obvious gait. He had heard a lot about the recent serial suicides that had been occurring of late. The case was mildly interesting as all of the victims had taken the same poison to kill themselves, giving away signs of foul play, except that there was no evidence whatsoever that someone had made them do it.

"Brilliant! Four serial suicides in a row and a note! It's Christmas!" Anderson had exclaimed loudly earlier shortly after DI Holmes had stopped by the flat to invite him to the crime scene. Mr. Hope, the landlord had just been offering him biscuits when Anderson had abruptly returned and asked him to come along.

"I'd rather not," he had told the consulting detective after swallowing a mouthful of custard cream biscuit.

"But you are a doctor. An army doctor."

"Which is precisely why I aim to leisurely enjoy my early retirement. I have seen a lot of injuries and violent deaths. Far too much. Enough for a lifetime."

"Want to see some more?" Anderson had drawled in what he must have perceived a seductive purr.

Mycroft had raised an eyebrow at him, titling his head back and wondered how the hell this ostentatious idiot could possibly be of any help to the police (DI Holmes had seemed to be a very bright man). Then his curiosity had gotten the better of him. He had said yes.

"Ah, Molly, here we are again."

Mycroft looked up to see a skittish-looking brunette in forensic team uniform walking out of the building. Her eyes grew wide as she caught the sight of Anderson striding to her direction.


Continued on part two



Fill for Prompt: Bizarre World part 2

"Anderson," she replied nervously, clutching on her clipboard, "Please wear gloves and don't fall on the dead body this time. I don't want my crime scene contaminated. Again."

"Ha! You didn't have to tell me that!" Anderson flaunted his gloved hands in front of her face with a winning smirk, "Is Toby back home yet? How long has it been since he ran away?"

"Oh don't pretend you worked that out. Somebody told you that." Molly glared at him.

"Your shirt told me that. It looks crisp like it was freshly laundered, but there is no fur on it. You usually hug Toby at least once before you go to work, if he was there in the morning, there would have been some fur on your shirt, but there isn't. Ergo, he is currently missing." Anderson ended his deduction with a rather disturbing 'now you see that I'm brilliant' wink at Mycroft's direction.

Molly looked entirely unimpressed. "This shirt is three-day old. I haven't had a chance to go home thanks to this case. Also I'm always careful to not let Toby's fur on my work clothes. You wouldn't have embarrassed yourself if you could just observe, the way Sherlock does. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to file the report."

Mycroft ignored Anderson's livid expression as he limped past him and entered the building.

"Doesn't change the fact that I correctly deduced the missing cat." Anderson tried to explain as he caught up to him, still looking upset.

"Hmm," Mycroft regarded him, aloof.

"I correctly deduced you too when we first met."

"Why yes, I do recall how you correctly deduced that I was an army doctor from the way I smell."

"Yes! Of course you're an army doctor! You smelled like tiramisu! There's this other army doctor I know, my gran's associate, he often dropped by our family house smelling like tiramisu."

Mycroft turned to him with a curious smirk, "If I had just chosen apple crumble for breakfast instead, God forbid, what would you have deduced of me?"

Anderson huffed out a haughty laugh, "You would still smell like tiramisu, obviously. It is how my superior brain perceive the information. Mysterious isn't it. You can't tell me you're not thrilled."

"So all army doctors smell like tiramisu," Mycroft didn't even bother to mask his sarcasm, "What a predicament. All the money I have blown on cologne, all in vain."

"Oh don't be silly," Anderson comforted him, "I promise you the tiramisu can only be smelled by me. It's all my brain, my hard drive. My nose, like the rest of my body is merely transport. In fact, I haven't been able to smell the tiramisu on you for some time now. Possibly because I inadvertently deleted it to store new data for this intriguing case."

Mycroft was still in the process of recovering himself after being referred as 'silly' when DI Sherlock Holmes called for them from the inner room.

"You'll need to wear one of these," he handed them a couple of blue overalls and paper shoes.

"Aren't you going to put on yours?" Anderson asked the inspector, who was wearing similar long coat and dark blue scarf, only to be dismissed with a wave of hand.

XXX

"Her name is Jennifer Wilson, according to her cards. We are running them now for contact details." DI Holmes was practically skipping his way up the stairs like a lanky ball of energy, ignoring Mycroft's heated glare as he tried to catch up. "Hasn't been there long. Some kids found her."

The way Sherlock Holmes opened the door to the room where the dead body lay, you would have thought he was an elementary student, excited to show off the science project he had been working on all summer.

"Interesting," Anderson murmured, pressing a finger on his chin, "Before I start, I should warn you lot that I need room, and quiet. Don't speak, don't think, don't breathe, don't be distracting."

"Right, yes, of course," Sherlock threw him one big tampered smile before taking a broad step back.

Continued on part three


Can't things just be simple?

Fill for this prompt: http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/9100.html?thread=43493772#t43493772

John moves in with Sherlock, and he starts developing feelings for the detective, which is good because it seems those feelings are returned...

And then Sherlock's husband turns up.

Re: Can't things just be simple? 1/?

"So you have a boyfriend?"

"No."

That question, it really hadn't been John's attempt at flirting with Sherlock. Really. It hadn't! Why did no one ever just believe him? John had simply been trying to better acquaint himself with the man he'd potentially be living with. No ulterior motives whatsoever.

Yes alright, he obviously had seen the same appeal Molly saw in Sherlock's unique features. John did have eyes after all, and it wasn't like John had any qualms about dating men. He just preferred women. Simple as that.

Their round curves, and soft bodies, and dark curly hair that fingers could get tangled in, set a top cheekbones so sharp they could cut gla- no. No! He was not in- he didn't have those sort of feelings for Sherlock. They were mates. Mates don't fall for other mates. It's a rule look it up.

Besides, Sherlock was too much for John. All that boundless energy. The constant need for a distraction. His quick wit, and sharp tongue. It was so easy to get caught up in the whirlwind that was Sherlock Holmes, and John craved the adventure that came with it. But a relationship? An honest to God relationship? With emotions, and expectations? Even in his own head he knew it would never work.

And why the hell was he even thinking about this? Sherlock was married to his work! He'd said so himself. Even if the rule about mates didn't exist, John would never have had a chance with him. He just didn't feel things that way. Did he? John didn't know. God, why was he so wound up today? He'd only had four cups of tea in the past hour, it couldn't have been tha- oh no, the tea. Was Sherlock experimenting with the tea again? John was going to kill him. Sherlock had promised to leave the tea alone after the incident with the wellies, and the giraffe. Come to think of it, where was Sherlock? John hadn't seen him all da- oh. Look at that. Think of the devil and the... devil's brother will... call you.

"Finally run out of abandoned warehouses, Mycroft?"

"Humorous as always Dr. Watson. No I'm simply calling because I believed you would want to be informed that my brother has once again managed to land himself in the hospital."

"No he hasn't."

"Well then if it isn't Sherlock, someone ought to tell him his doppelganger is in surgery."

"I'm his emergency contact, the hospital would've called me if anything had happened."

"Dr. Watson, you're... not his emergency contact."

"What? Of course I am. Who else would be? I'm the closest thing he has to family... er no offence."

Long dramatic pause.

"My God he really never told you."

"Told me. Told me what?"

"John... I think it would be best if you went to the hospital."

"What for? Mycroft, what's going-"

-Click-


Edited at 2013-04-23 03:05 pm (UTC)

A finished fill for this prompt: http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/10852.html?thread=54496356#t54496356 which said

"John is secretly a unicorn.

Sherlock is a virgin.

John is understandably possessive/protective."

De Veritate Unicornis Modernus (On the Truth of the Modern Unicorn) on AO3 and on fanfiction.net

Somebody catches somebody else masturbating

(Anonymous)
fill for this:
http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/575.html?view=69951#t69951
Um... I'm not sure how to do this overflow thing. Ugh. Anyways I also don't know how to let them know it was filled. Damn.

Re: Somebody catches somebody else masturbating

(Anonymous)
post is at: http://archiveofourown.org/works/882511

'Keep Her Satisfied' (Sherlock/Molly)

(Anonymous)
I tried to fill this in the prompting post where the original prompt came from but something went wrong with my reply (I think?) Sorry, I'm new to this and don't really have any experience with livejournal. I posted it on AO3 instead.

Prompt: http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/5950.html?thread=25739070#t25739070

Fill: http://archiveofourown.org/works/890620

Prompt: http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/6375.html?thread=29586407#t29586407

"What I really would love to read about now is a broken down Sherlock being comforted by John. Even if it's out of character (but if one can manage it to make in-character somehow would be great) Sherlock is crying in John's arms for whatever reason. It could be because he became an addict again or failed at a case horribly, or maybe because Mycroft died without Sherlock ever having a chance to tell him he actually cared about him. Something similar to this at least."

“Sherlock? Are you… all right?” John’s voice broke through the crescendo of notes filling the room as Sherlock’s bow whirled across the strings, doing little to calm the frenzy of his mind. He allowed John’s words to be swallowed by the sound, driving up the tempo instead of responding. John was hesitating; Sherlock could feel him wavering on the spot, deciding whether to press the issue or just to let Sherlock’s mood run its course. Evidently he thought it would be best not to interfere, as he zipped up his coat and paused only to say, “right, well, I’m going to meet Mike for a pint. Try not to blow anything up, yeah?” He waited briefly, but Sherlock made no indication that he had heard and a moment later the door clicked shut, leaving Sherlock alone with his thoughts.
The final notes of the piece shuddered into silence, and Sherlock let the bow fall onto an armchair as the city’s constant stream of data took over from the crashing notes. Normally it was this unrelenting storm of noise and light and facts that Sherlock needed to shut out for a while, or at least distract himself from every now and then. But this time it was something different, something new and disconcerting that had his mind running in frantic circles.
Sherlock let out a breath of air and closed his eyes. John. John’s hands, impossibly gentle for a man who could morph into a cold killer at a moment’s notice, delicately cleaning the deep scrape on Sherlock’s arm that morning. John’s rippling muscles, visible for a moment as he reached for the gauze but normally covered by a nondescript jumper; a harmless façade hiding a ruthless strength. John’s face, fascinatingly expressive and always open around Sherlock, sporting a look of genuine concern when Sherlock had strolled into the kitchen with his arm covered in blood—an expression which had quickly become one of exasperation when it became apparent that Sherlock had yet again injured himself by neglecting his own safety. John’s eyes, hazel and ever-changing, always glowing with an inexplicable fondness when Sherlock caught their warm gaze…
Sherlock growled under his breath, trying to quell the heated something that was trying to spread through his chest. It was too big, too much for his mind to handle; it was as though it was straining against a dam, threatening to drown him in an ocean of—of whatever it was. He squeezed his eyes shut and let out a shuddering sigh. No, he knew what it was, what it had to be. Sentiment.
He’d been aware of the vague threat before now, as John had steadily inserted himself into Sherlock’s life, throwing Sherlock off balance every time the doctor stepped closer instead of recoiling. He’d been able to ignore it, most of the time, push it back behind the wall of more pressing matters, and had steadfastly refused to acknowledge it growing more powerful until—well, until he’d found himself utterly transfixed by every facet of John’s being that morning, his eyes drawn inappropriately to the swath of skin visible above his flatmate’s waistband as he stretched, desire sparking unexpectedly at the sight. But it wasn’t just lust; lust was something Sherlock could recognize and dismiss, sating it if necessary on his own. This was accompanied by something else, something unfamiliar and dangerous that had filled his entire being and made him yearn for John, John and nothing else.
Sherlock snapped the violin case shut, frustrated at the way his fickle mind kept dragging up images of John that he had unconsciously filed away, his attention to detail clearly no less reliable when it was directed towards his flatmate. He strode over to the couch, intending to make use of his last four nicotine patches to untangle this thing and defeat it, drive it out of his system, but found himself hesitating as another option crossed his mind.

(no subject) (Anonymous) Expand
(no subject) (Anonymous) Expand
(no subject) (Anonymous) Expand
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Fill for Picture Prompt.

(Anonymous)
It's this prompt in particular: http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/5950.html?view=128112702#t128112702

Aaand here's the fill: http://archiveofourown.org/works/961616

Fill: [Crossover: Skyfall] Bond/Q, Daddy!Mycroft

Prompt: We had many prompts featuring Whishaw!Q as a Holmes brother.
I want one where he is Mycrofts son and daddy is very much not amused that his son is dating a double-0... http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/21231.html?thread=123712239#t123712239

Fill: http://crazy-echo.livejournal.com/2224.html

Trust Issues (Prologue)

Prompt Link: http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/10038.html?thread=49528886#t49528886

Sherlock had stopped trusting people at a rather young age. Not entirely, but it took so long for him to really believe people that they often left in a hug, thereby proving (he felt) that he’d been correct to hold himself apart.

He wasn’t sure he trusted Mycroft. He was the government, yes, but he was first and foremost Sherlock’s brother. That meant stupid, nosy inquisitions and sporadic interventions. But Mycroft had made it plain he’d never leave.

Mrs. Hudson was probably a saint for putting up with him. She couldn’t really leave, since she owned the building, but she’d never once threatened to throw Sherlock out. Raise the rent, call Lestrade, confiscate his skull – regularly. But she didn’t leave, either.

Lestrade had been an interesting case in that Sherlock never really consented to trusting him, but he did. Lestrade was a cop, a good and loyal on, but he fought having to arrest Sherlock for anything - even when Sherlock probably deserved it. And he gave Sherlock cases even though it could cost Lestrade so much more than his job. And he’d never leave.

Now there was John. Hard-working, stubborn, deceptive in his simplicity, jovial, loyal. Sherlock had never met anyone exactly like John before, but there’d been a few who were close. And they’d gone.

So Sherlock had made the decision to test his flatmate. His friend. The Experiment: how far did he have to push John to lose him.

Primary Flaw: this presupposed that John would leave.

Trust Issues (Attempt 1)

He knew, from many lectures, that people did not appreciate having their stuff searched. They especially disliked being told about it, sine it meant their stuff was not untouchable in its supposedly safe location.

John had a fairly predictable schedule, even when he was helping Sherlock with a case. Sherlock waited until the doctor had gone to the clinic before running up to John’s room. There wasn’t a real curiosity in Sherlock’s searching. He just needed something that he couldn’t (loathe as he was to admit it) deduce from John himself.

Shuffling through the desk draw that held John’s gun and a few other very personal items, he unearthed a photo, creased with years. It showed a much younger John and a girl that had to be Harry. There was no notation anywhere, and the picture itself had been taken in a field, rather nondescript but early summer based on the plants.

Sherlock returned the photo to its hiding place and went back downstairs. He’d call Harry for the details. If that didn’t invade John’s personal space then the man didn’t have any.

----

John had been shooting him odd glances since the meal started. This was hardly surprising – Sherlock usually didn’t eat with John so much as he was present while John ate. But John was a decent cook and Sherlock wasn’t trying for subtle bonding between flatmates.

“Sherlock?”

“Mm.”

“Not that I don’t appreciate your company, but…you don’t like eggplant.”

“No, I don’t.”

John shrugged via his utensils. “So why are you eating it?”

“I wanted to talk about a picture in you room.”

“OK.”

“The one in your gun drawer.”

“I told you to leave my gun alone, Sherlock.”

The detective frowned. “I wasn’t using your gun. I went through your stuff.”

“That would be how you found the picture, yes.” John took another bite. Sherlock laid his fork down.

“I called Harry about it. The photo.”

“How’d she take that?”

“What?”

John grinned. “She would have been at work. She hates being interrupted more than you do, I think.”

Sherlock was glaring now. “John, I went through you things.”

“Evidently.”

“And called your sister.”

“I got that.”

“Aren’t you upset?”

John shrugged, this time with his shoulders. “I assumed you did that ages ago.” Another bite. “Why the questions this evening?”

Sherlock blinked. “Nothing. Just…trying to make small talk.”

“Well stop,” John chided gently. “I’ll worry you’re being blackmailed again.”

Fill for prompt in Part I

This prompt:

Epic humiliation inspires this prompt! I'm going anon for this one!

Today at the supermarket I had a John Watson moment at self-service. The machine started screaming "Unexpected item in the bagging area! Remove item from bagging area!" I freaked, I tried to reason with the bloody thing. I was trying to be discreet, I had avoided the check-out on purpose!

What was in the bag? Yep. Prophylactics and lube. Uh-huh. *cringe*

Please, dear anon, take my humiliation and run with it!

Ps - the assistant who helped me asked me out. Not even joking. :o/

Filled here

Disclaimer: I own nothing but my feels.

Summary: John and Sherlock are trying breakfast routine, Toast and Jam. Fluff, just a little drabble I couldn't get out of my head.

The walls of 221B Baker Street had an unfamiliar scent in the air, ordinarily the smell of Sherlock's chemical concoctions wafted through the air consuming the tiny flat at ungodly hours of the morning. Today it smelled of toast...and jam.

John stirred in the sheets of his 100% cotton bed, he thinks to himself how strange it is that he has not been awakened by the sounds of Sherlock's antics but instead the sweet smell of toasted bread. In fact the entire flat was eerily silent, which John would have enjoyed if not for the fact that this was not an occurrence he's become accustomed to in his time living with a high functioning sociopath.

"The flat is eerily silent" he bellowed silently to no one in particular, with this John hopped out of bed and frolicked into the kitchen. Sherlock was crouched over the kitchen counter a stream of steam rising from above the black tufts of hair.

"Sherlock?" John says leaning on the doorframe menacingly.

"Br…fst…nhm…mind...the mind…nugh" He hears Sherlock mumble clearly having not heard John call him.

In an attempt to understand the mans mumbling Watson inches closer to Sherlock careful not to startle the man he walks on his hind legs, he learned this walking technique during his time in Vietnam, one of the stealthiest ways a man can walk.

Now that he is inches away from Sherlock he unravels himself from the hind leg position and listens "Breakfast for the mind. Breakfast for the soul….Mind, soul, mind, soul…." Sherlock repeats over and over again. John looks over Sherlock's shoulder to see that he is ironing to pieces of bread over the kitchen counter.

Cautiously Johns clears his throat to make his presence known, in return Sherlock inverts his head to look at Watson "What are you doing?" John ask's his voice masked in confusion.

Sherlock knits his brow in confusion looking John straight through the eye "I am making toast" He states as if it's the most obvious thing in the world.

"With an iron?. You know what forget I asked." John sighs deciding it's too early in the morning to question another of Sherlock's experiments. Sherlock's face twists into emotion "I've made us breakfast John, toast and jam"

"There's no jam" John axes.

Sherlock's face darkens "There will be"

Just as he says this Sherlock knees buckle beneath him sending his lanky limbs into a heap on floor. John is stunned for a moment before he kneels next to his fallen companion. "Sherlock! Are you alright?" Sherlock looks up from the his tangled limbs looking john straight in the eye once more "It's time Watson" He solemnly says then without a moments notice Sherlock grabs his shin and pulls detaching his lower left leg, it doesn't take long for blood to spurt out of the gaping hole where Sherlock's leg once was, blood splattering onto the walls..and onto the toast.

"SHERLOCK!" Watson screams picking up the detached limb, trying to staunch the blood that was rapidly pooling on the kitchen floor. "What's going on? What is this Sherlock? What is-I don't" John stammers in a panic. Sherlock remains silent "Damn it Holmes this is why we can't have nice things-you always-you…" John rambles on but the effect of his words fall on deaf ears, as Sherlock lies motionless on the kitchen floor.

Sherlock smiles "looks like we'll both be needing canes now dear friend" He mutters loudly under his breath. Before John can say anything a manic laugh echoes through the flat, an all to familiar sound. Through the window of the flat a darkened face blocks out the suns rays, leaving only a set of glistening teeth to lighten the kitchen.

"I knew you'd come…you just couldn't let me make breakfast could you…..Moriarty."

The only sign of response the figure gives is the widening of its grin, uncovering even more shiny teeth. Watson didn't think it was possible for the mouth to widen further.

"Moriarty? What-What do you mean you knew he'd come Sherlock…What- What in bloody hell is going on?" John rattles on in a panic not realizing the increased pressure he was putting on Sherlock's wound, which elicits a sharp groan from the wounded detective.


"I'm sorry John…this was the only way…the only-" Sherlock pauses through clenched teeth sucking in breath through his nose in an attempt to ease his nausea. "The only way…to get jam."

"Clever boy" the figure at the window says revealing it's identity…indeed it was Moriarty. "But not clever enough, for you are ordinary no better then your sniveling pet" he says throwing a look at Watson. "If you were half the detective you claimed to be you'd know that there was another way, to get what you so desperately desired."

Sherlock frowns at this "Impossible I thought of every possible scenario-"

"DID YOU NOW?" Moriarty screams manic as ever "Looks like you will never best me Mr. Holmes." Is the last thing he says before opening his mouth setting a revolver into it and shooting. His skull bursts smearing the window in red.

John stares dumbfounded, Sherlock is silent for a moment his brilliant eyes locked onto the painted window "I understand now…how did I not see it."

"See what"

Sherlock makes no sign that he has heard Watson his glassy grey eyes finally tearing away from the window and moving frantically around the room, examining, absorbing all that was around him.

"Sherlock, Sherlock look at me, what do you understand?" John says using his free hand to tap at Sherlock cheek to no avail. Sherlock's eyes finally find a resting place on the two pieces of toast. "I understand now…the jam….it was right in front of me all along, right under my nose." Is the last thing Sherlock says before his eyes slide shut.

"Sherlock?" John says just above a whisper his voice cracking. Johns eyes move to the toast splattered in blood and he smiles a sad smile. "It looks like…..were in a bit of a jam." He says, getting up and taking a bite of the toast.

Epilogue

Lestrade walks into to the blood covered room the first thing he sees is Watson covered in a red substance eating toast while cradling a limp Sherlock.

"What happened here Dr. Watson?"

"It was the jam..the jam, bloody god forsaken jam" he says unconsciously rocking back and forth.

"I don't understand" Lestrade says "Why didn't you just go to the supermarket?"

FIN

jLUPjOsYNWlrQEmuDGuEEz

(Anonymous)
tramadol 50mg side effects dogs - tramadol 50 mg cut in half

Just One Word - Part 1

(Anonymous)
Prompt fill for: we've seen sherlock cry on demand in TGG. i want him to cry for real and john doesn't buy it and goes "oh stop acting, I know you don't have feelings" and then be really guilty when he realizes that he's not faking. http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/575.html?thread=865855#t865855

I know Sherlock is probably way out of character and I'm sorry. It was truly hard to come up with a situation where Sherlock would actually cry and to keep him in character while doing so.


"Sherlock," John began as he got into the cab that was waiting for him outside of the surgery, "I don't understand why you needed me. What's so important?" He closed the door and looked at Sherlock questioningly. "And why couldn't we do whatever this is on my lunch break or after I got off work instead?"

Sherlock gave his usual answer, eyes never leaving the phone in his hands. "You know why you're here John, I tell you all the time. I'd be lost without my blogger. And, we're doing this now because you know I hate to wait."

John looked out the window for a few minutes as the city passed them by. He then turned to Sherlock who was still looking at his phone. "Where are we going, anyway?"

"A bakery."

"Why?"

"A case, John, a case. Why else?" Sherlock finally put down his phone and saw the expression on John's face. "Brian, a previous member of my homeless network, now runs a business, a bakery to be exact. This bakery happens to be in the same neighborhood I believe our murderer resides in. I've contacted Brian to help keep an eye out for him since the NSY can't seem to locate him themselves or don't appear to want to actually catch him."

Shaking his head and still trying to figure out why he was needed since it sounded like something Sherlock could have done on his own, John looked out the window again.

Twenty minutes later the cab pulled up alongside a row of shops. The heavenly smell of baking bread greeted John and Sherlock as they exited the cab and entered the bakery.

"Ah, Sherlock. It's good to see you again," a man behind the counter said with a smile as he looked up when the shop door closed.

"Brian," Sherlock said, stepping up to the counter.

John followed behind, his stomach growling as he eyed the delicious looking pastries and bread displayed in front of him. He began thinking maybe this excursion was worth it after all.

Brian shook Sherlock's hand. "I was quite surprised when I got your message, Sherlock. But like I said earlier, I'll do anything I can to help you; like always."

Sherlock reached into his coat and pulled out an envelope. "Here are a few photos taken from the CCTV footage. Once you see him, watch him for a while and then call or text me if you begin to see any patterns."

"Of course." Brian walked behind the display cases, setting the envelope on the back counter. "Now, what would you two like?"

"Nothing for me." Sherlock turned toward John. "How about you, John? Brian, this is my friend, John Watson."

"His colleague," John corrected, walking closer to the display case and shaking Brian's hand.

At the correction to his introduction, Sherlock quickly turned his head toward John with a hurt look.

The look went unnoticed since John's eyes were still scanning the items in the display cases. He was initially going to pass up Brian's offer, but his stomach had growled again. He walked up and down the cases for a few moments and finally indicated what he would like.

Brian handed John a bag with his chosen pastry inside and addressed Sherlock again. "Are you sure you don't want anything, Sherlock?"

"I'm sure," Sherlock answered distractedly. He schooled his face into its usual expression, looked at John for a few more seconds, then quickly exited the bakery. Without waiting for John, he took off on foot towards Baker Street.

Re: Just One Word - Part 2

(Anonymous)
Sherlock couldn't get over how he felt when John corrected his introduction. He never really "did" emotions, so his current feelings didn't make any sense. Sherlock knew he had introduced John to Sebastian at Shad Sanderson a few months ago the same way he just did to Brian. He was slightly disappointed then when John corrected him, though maybe that was because he was trying to impress Sebastian, but this time the correction bothered him a lot more and he wasn't trying to impress anyone.

As the word colleague repeated over and over in his head, and though he rarely fell victim to normal feelings and emotions, Sherlock couldn't help but begin to feel extremely upset. It truly made no sense since he'd never had friends before and never truly wanted any. He couldn't understand why that one word bothered him so much now.

After forty-five minutes, Sherlock grew tired of walking and decided to hail a cab for the rest of the journey back to Baker Street. When the cab finally pulled up in front of his flat, he noticed a black sedan parked a few feet ahead and his brother leaning against the flat's entry door with umbrella in hand. Sherlock had to stop himself from groaning aloud, having no interest in spending any time with Mycroft.

"Brother mine," Mycroft said in greeting when Sherlock stepped up to unlock the door.

"Mycroft," Sherlock responded tersely, and led the way upstairs.

Upon entering the flat, Mycroft unbuttoned his coat, draped it over the back of John's chair and set his umbrella beside it. He sat down and watched Sherlock take a seat opposite him. When Sherlock finally looked at him, he just raised his eyebrows.

With a small sigh, Sherlock gave a little shake of his head, stood up, and went to the kitchen to make tea.

Mycroft was quiet until Sherlock walked back into the room with the tea. "Why did you rush out of the bakery and leave John behind?" he asked, as he took the offered cup. "He was definitely not pleased with you. I have never seen him look so angry."

Sherlock gave no answer, just sat down in his chair with his eyes on the steaming contents of his cup. He really hated the fact that Mycroft always knew where he was and what he was doing.

"It took you almost an hour before you finally got a cab and you were close to walking into a few light poles in that time." Mycroft gave a little laugh as Sherlock glared at him. "A little distracted were we?"

"No," Sherlock answered forcefully. After taking a few sips of tea, he finally looked up. "I can't remember, did you ever have any friends growing up or now?" he asked quietly, almost hoping Mycroft wouldn't hear him while at the same time wondering why the question even passed his lips. Mycroft gave him an incredulous look, and for an instant, Sherlock began to wonder if that's how he looked at John at times.

"Why would I had or have friends, Sherlock? I can barely stand your company, and we're related."

Sherlock looked away. "Did you ever want any? Oh, don't answer that, I already know you didn't."

A bit surprised at the questions tumbling out of his brother's mouth, Mycroft studied Sherlock for a minute before speaking. "How many times do I have to tell you that there is no advantage in caring and to not get involved? You've never had a friend before and there's a reason why. They're not needed, they just get in the way, and they cause more problems than they are worth. You and I both know life is far better off without friends."

With a glare at Mycroft, Sherlock set down his cup, picked up his violin, and started to make the loudest, most obnoxious noises he could make on the instrument. He sincerely hoped his brother would get the message. Not only did he not want the company of Mycroft to begin with, he didn't particularly care for their current conversation, though he knew he was the one who initiated it.

Mycroft stood up, put on his coat and grabbed his umbrella. "This is going to end the same way as all the others in the past, Sherlock. Just remember that." He gave one last look at Sherlock and left the flat.

Post-Reichenbach Apology

(Anonymous)
I think we've all seen those pre-printed apology forms out there and some witty versions of filling them in.
I just found yet another one with Sherlock apologizing to John for his Reichenbach stunt (for illustration, e.g. see here: http://41.media.tumblr.com/44e5b267c9753546f8f829b483d71fd6/tumblr_mp2fsspWdc1sujwbfo1_500.jpg) and suddenly I was wondering if maybe someone wants to write a story where Sherlock ACTUALLY apologizes - or tries to apologize - to John by way of this (or a similar) form. I was thinking of something hurt/comfort-like, maybe with a side of humour (and possibly romance), because of course John will hate Sherlock for what he did but maybe a little gesture of remorse will soften his hear... ;)
Anybody care to give it a stab?

heidi

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