Sherlock BBC Prompting Meme

"we get all sorts around here."


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Welcome! (Prompting: part i)
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Please check the Sticky Post to find the newest active part and post your prompts there.

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This is a fic prompting meme based around the BBC series Sherlock, written by Stephen Moffat & Mark Gattis.

There are a couple of communities that have sprung up already, namely here and here and here, and also a very busy sherlockkink meme based around the Robert Downey Jr/Jude Law film, but since there's a GAP IN THE MARKET for a BBC Sherlock prompt meme and people are gnawing off their own hands in need of fic, here we go!

ETA: There's also a very dedicated meme here which covers all varieties of Sherlock Holmes adaptations/ spin-offs.

Guidelines:

1) This is a Sherlock meme, so no RPF please! We don't want any legal trouble.

2) Feel free to post anon by all means, it's a matter of personal preference.

3) Remember to include a warning in the title for anything a little more "niche" or that people might have a problem with - non-con, dub-con, death!fic, incest, death!fic etc. Other than that, anything goes - crack, slash, het, gen, fluff, angst, whatever floats your boat.

4) Feel free to prompt as much as you like, but do try to fill as well as prompt; we don't want pages full of frustrating unfilled prompts!

5) Have a look beforehand to see whether your prompt has already been prompted - we want to avoid duplicate prompts as much as possible!

6) Please, be civil, be friendly, but don't be shy!

*Any problems, please message jjgd *

LINKS AND AFFILIATES

Delicious Archive * sherlockfest * List of all the Prompting Posts * Overflow Post *

Testing testing...

Heh, heh, heh. ;-D

***Spoilers for 1.03***

Watson opened the fridge again. The head stared back at him. Or rather stared at the third button of his cardigan, since the man's eyes were hardly wide open anymore.

Severed bits of anatomy in the fridge were always a shock at first, but Watson had been to medical college. He reverted to the old habits of wrapping everything tightly and keeping it on upper shelves. A drip tray above the crisper should do for now. He made a mental note to see if there were severed-head-sized Tupperware containers as he lined the fridge bottom with bacofoil.

Sherlock barely glanced over.

-

He didn't know why Sherlock did that. Got him to look at something when he already knew everything about it. To feel superior, John supposed. He set himself to examining the shoes, not seeing that he was in turn being examined.

-

There was a moment, a cold moment, when Sherlock saw him at the pool, as John spoke Moriarty's first words... That look. He'd recall it later, after everything. It was the look of a teacher at school, having caught a favourite pupil cheating; not disappointed in his pupil, but disappointed in his own inability to see the deception in front of him. He'd thought John might have been Moriarty all along.

A flash of a look, gone even before the explosives were revealed; perhaps when Sherlock realised that, pool or no pool, Moriarty certainly wouldn't be wearing an anorak.

When John had tackled Moriarty, explosives and all, and Sherlock later said it was good, John felt like he'd finally passed a test.

---
(That's it, 'filled' in a rush, may edit if I repost.)

John/Sherlock. Sherlock keeps 'accidentally' walking in on John when he's naked.

The first time it happened, he was in the shower. He hadn't been back home for so long that the novelty of being properly clean had worn off, so maybe he was flinging suds about with a bit more abandon than was strictly necessary, and maybe he was singing slightly louder than was called for, but still. That was no excuse for Sherlock to barge into the bathroom without knocking and gawk at him like he had something growing where a thing shouldn't be.

"You sounded like you were in pain," Sherlock said finally, mildly, and let himself out of the room without another word.

The second time was possibly, partly, a little bit his fault. So he'd had a few pints. And then a few more. And maybe getting undressed in his bedroom that night he'd stumbled around a bit more than a sober man might. Sherlock had frightened the daylights out of him, though, barrelling in like his hair was on fire, and it wasn't exactly like he'd needed the help getting his shorts on, not really.

It was nice of Sherlock to offer, though.

The third, fourth and fifth times Sherlock walked in on him in the buff all seemed perfectly innocent, but really. It wasn't like John was some kind of prude - he'd been in the army, for God's sake - and he certainly didn't think he had anything to be ashamed of, but it was all getting a bit much. A man had the right to keep his Johnson in some semblance of privacy in between appropriate moments for whipping it out.

Sixth time was the last straw. "Oh just take a bloody picture," he snapped when Sherlock lingered in the vicinity of his nakedness just a few seconds too long. "It'll last you longer."

Sherlock had his phone out and snapping before he could blink, and John abruptly felt like dimmest bulb in the box.

"Right then," he breathed. "Well if that's all you wanted, there's no need to be all sneaky about it."

He reached for Sherlock's coat and began pushing it off his shoulders. Time to start evening out the score.

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Mycroft/Watson and the not so well hidden jealousy it brings out in Sherlock.

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Sherlock thought he wasn't interested in sex, until he sees John kissing Mycroft's assistant.

Ah! I so wanna write this! (But not promising anything here)

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Sherlock/John + riding crop.

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So everyone knows the scene in the cafe/resturant place - when John's like "Girlfriend....boyfriend...?" and Sherlock's just like "....I'm married to my work."

Yeah? Good. I think we definatly need a fic based on Sherlock's thought in that conversation - cos he clearly wasn't thinking what he was saying. XD

Holmes/Watson. Silk scarves and blindfolds.

Fill: Blindfolds NC-17

(Anonymous)

2010-08-29 06:58 pm (UTC)

"Let's see how good you are at deducing without the use of sight," John said, wrapping the blindfold around Sherlock's head.

"Simple," Sherlock replied, "This will be utterly simple. I still have the use of my other four senses."

"That's true, you do," John said, "And I want to test them all."

Before Sherlock could respond, John captured his lips in a possessive kiss.

“So, what can you tell me about that?” John asked once he’d released Sherlock’s mouth.

“Like I said, it’s all very simple,” Sherlock answered, sounding only slightly breathless, “It’s obvious from your actions that you are physically attracted to me, and from my response, that I am physically attracted to you. The forcefulness of the kiss revealed that you are a very passionate lover, but you also are very dominant in the bedroom. The taste of mouthwash from the kiss shows that you planned this down to the last detail, and that you are also a very considerate lover, not wanting me to taste this morning’s breakfast when we kissed.”

“All right, let’s make it a little more challenging for you, if it’s just that simple,” John said. He began to undress Sherlock, removing everything--shirt, trousers, underwear--until he was entirely naked. Then he undressed himself.

“So?” John prompted.

“From the speed and agility with which you undressed me, I can tell that you are experienced in these matters. Also, you are quite eager to have sexual relations with me.”

“Quite right,” John agreed, opening a condom wrapper.

“From that sound I can tell that you are careful when it comes to exchanging sexual favors. However, I must assure you that my experience is quite limited and that my body is free of STDs. There’s a recent test in the night stand drawer if you want to take a look.”

“Good to know,” John said, spreading lube in his hands and positioning Sherlock on his hands and knees. He used one, then two fingers to open him up.

“Ah,” Sherlock moaned unexpectedly, “And from the careful way you are preparing me, I can tell that this isn’t your first time with a man. Also, from the position you’ve arranged me in, I can deduce that you find my arse quite pleasing to the eye and that you would like to view it as you penetrate me.”

“Yup,” John said, entering him slowly.

“And from the way you are stretching me, I can tell that--ohh--your penis is rather large. And from the way you are thrusting into me, I can tell that you know how to stimulate my prostate. However, I cannot be sure whether this is because you are a doctor or whether it is because of your experience with other male lovers.”

“Whatever,” John gasped, “You can shut up now.”

“I think I just might have to,” agreed Sherlock, pushing back to impale himself further on John’s cock.

“Fuck, you feel good,” John said, continuing to fuck into Sherlock’s arse from behind, causing Sherlock to moan and gasp.

He’d actually gotten Sherlock to stop talking, and if he hadn’t been so busy fucking his best friend, he would have patted himself on the back.

Fin.

Sherlock/Sally. She hates him now because she didn't then - or how Sherlock managed to upset Sally Donovan.

She hated him once because she didn’t then.

Sally Donovan is a smart and honest enough woman to know that this is incredibly petty. It’s hard to care, sometimes. At first she was just ashamed enough of herself to try keeping a lid on her hurt, but that didn’t work, and ever since her inner playground bully slipped out the first time, it’s been harder and harder to stay civil whenever Sherlock Holmes skips into one of her crime scenes. He has a habit of flinging out choice observations like a drunken maid of honor tossing someone else’s bridal bouquet. She’s just lucky Holmes hasn’t told the entire police force about the time she kissed him, and, considering Sally’s increasing tendency to push the envelope as far as he’ll let her, that’s becoming increasingly out of character for him.

She had noticed other women’s -- and men’s -- infatuation with Holmes first, of course, in a purely detached way. Sally was a policewoman, after all, and it probably helped that she didn’t make a habit of underestimating people like Holmes did. It was a laugh at first, and she didn’t mention it to anyone else. So what if the pretty young constable couldn’t take her eyes off Holmes’ wrists? So what if the closeted desk sergeant stood up a little straighter every time Holmes breezed into the station, making ridiculous demands and trying to steal macabre trinkets from the evidence room? It wasn’t any concern of hers. Except it was.

Sally fantasized about him when she was alone. It was a calculated risk, and she rationalized it as loneliness. Her hours didn’t leave much time for dating, after all. When she was feeling a little more honest with herself, perhaps after she’d had something to drink, she could admit that there was something compelling about Holmes himself in a way that indulged her sick side. It was easy to imagine that he kept his more lurid desires under lock and key, and it was very difficult to stop imagining what a beast he’d be in bed once she’d started. So what if she found herself using nail polish for the first time in three years, or paying more attention to her hair?

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John meets up with his sister Harry for coffee a week or two after he's moved in with Sherlock. She wants to know EVERYTHING about this mysterious man; what do they talk about?

Sherlock/John, obv.

Oooh, I think I'll have a crack at this.

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Holmes is at his violin. Watson is prepared to do anything for a bit of peace.

It was 4 o'clock in the morning, John pressed the pillow as tightly as he could manage over his head, but nothing could drown out the awful screeching coming from downstairs.
'15 more minutes and I'm going downstairs', he told himself for the third time since the violin playing had started. He lay flat on his black, staring at the ceiling, half trying desperately to think of anything to distract him from the noise, half wondering what an earth Sherlock was so worked up about. John knew he only played the violin when he was upset or thinking very deeply.
After a few more minutes he decided he couldn't bear it any more and stomped down the stairs, pulling a thick woollen jumper over his head and muttering to himself as he did so.
As he entered the living room he saw Sherlock in his pyjamas and silk dressing gown staring at a sheet of paper covered with seemingly indeipherable squiggles, with the violin tucked under his chin, still screeching away furiously.
'Sherlock' he hissed, not particularly wanting to raise his voice too loud in the middle of the night, despite the fact that even if he had shouted it couldn't possibly have been any worse than Sherlock's incessant violin playing.
'Could you KEEP IT DOWN?'
Sherlock quirked an eyebrow as if this was an odd request.
'Problem?' he asked, seemingly perplexed.
'It's 4 o'clock in the morning!' John whispered.
'Oh, is it?' replied Sherlock distractedly, not glancing up from his paper, 'Well I did warn you. I told you I play the violin while I'm thinking'
'Why do you need to be thinking...OR playing the violin for that matter... at 4 o'clock in the morning?'
'This is a very important case, I'm so close to cracking this coded message, can't possibly stop now...' Sherlock's sentence tailed up and he took a few more violent swipes at the violin.
'Sherlock, you need to go to bed.'
'Bed? What a proposterous suggestion. I couldn't possibly go to bed.'
'Please Sherlock? I'll do anything, just please sleep!'
This comment caused Sherlock to finally look up from his work,
'Anything?' he asked, eyebrows raised.
'Anything. I don't care, I just need to sleep, and I know I won't get any peace until you're asleep. I don't care what it takes, I'll make you hot chocolate, I'll read you a bed time story, I'll tuck you in. And if all else fails I'm afraid I'm just going to have to drug you.'
'I'm a notorious insomniac John, getting me to sleep will be more difficult than you think.'
'Does this mean you're willing to try?'
'Anything to stop you playing that damn violin!'
They looked at each other questioningly for a few moments, both of them unsure the extent to which the other was joking, before John let out an exasperated sigh and grabbed Sherlock by the wrist and dragged him off the sofa, the violin falling to the floor with a clatter.
'That's expensive you know' Sherlock half protested as John dragged him towards his bedroom, but John ignored him.
John cautiously nudged open the door to Sherlock's room with his foot, not releasing his iron grip on the detective's wrist. He had never been into Sherlock's room before, he hadn't had any reason to, and he had no idea what atrosities he might find there. Unfortunately, it was exactly as he had expected. Sherlock's bed was stripped bare, no sign of any sheets or even a duvet, and the bare mattress played table to a microscope and a huge assortment of slides.
John sighed again and Sherlock half chuckled to himself.
'Your first obstacle Doctor Watson. Do you give up yet? Can I go back to my violin. I did tell you. I don't sleep very much.'
John rolled his eyes in exasperation at how typical of Sherlock this kind of thing was, but refused to give in.
'You're not winning this easily Sherlock, you'll just have to sleep in my bed.'
'But John...', Sherlock for once seemed slightly fazed. John turned around to face Sherlock,
'Look Sherlock, I know this is weird, and believe me, I don't have some kind of creepy ulterior motive. I just haven't slept for nearly 48 hours, and unlike you, I don't run very well on no sleep, this is the easiest way.'

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Art!request

I read a prompt on here just - something about Sherlock walking in on John when he's naked - and I just NEED someone to draw John in the shower and Sherlock on the other side of the curtain and having a whole thing about whether or not to pull the curtain back. Please XD

(A fic would also do)

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Sherlock needs John, but of course he can never tell him. How does Holmes let John know? (Sociopathy + schmoop = ???)

All over this one, too. God, somebody stop me.

Molly/Sherlock -- four weddings and a funeral. Because this girl needs some time to shine! Also ~professionalism~ and impressing people (cough) would be a definite plus!

Oh God, could you even imagine Sherlock at a funeral?! I shouldn't laugh at the thought, but...

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John/Sherlock through the lens of a conversation between Molly, Sally, and/or Althea.

John/Sherlock, love at first sight

OK - I think I'm on this. But it's lonely out here so anyone else feel free to muscle in.

Sherlock keeps texting John JUST as he's on the verge of getting laid, saying that he needs him for something or other. John twigs and gets angry, but Sherlock points out that he always answers the texts, and always comes...

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I'm assuming Sherlock prefers texting to calling because there's less interacting with people that way.

So. text!sex. Like phonesex, but better!

I'm shocked this wasn't the first prompt, ngl

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That moment when Sherlock realizes John shot killer!cabbie, he looks a combination of surprised and turned on. Post-shock-blanket!sex?

Re: you know the one

(Anonymous)

2010-07-26 03:44 pm (UTC)

*looks a combination of surprised and turned on at this prompt*

Sherlock/Molly - Sherlock is introduced to Molly's cat (--> http://www.mollyhooper.co.uk/blog/02february)

That cat is adorable! *g* Someone please do fill this out! :D

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I already fancy a bit of fluffy h/c...

Sherlock catches say, the flu or something similar. The rational intelligent bright bit of his brain knows exactly what's wrong with him and why, and probably exactly who he caught it from, but the other part of it just doesn't have a clue how to cope with not feeling well. Cue John looking after him. (Cold wet cloths on the forehead, tissues and liberal amounts of warm tea with honey optional but preferred.)

Filled: You give me.... (fluffy h/c) 1/2

ariadnes_string

2010-07-28 04:50 am (UTC)

Oh dear, I can never resist this kind of prompt...Hope it's kind of what you were looking for, anon.
a/n: the vaguest allusion to "The Read-Headed League"
a/n: only haphazardly Brit-picked--apologies in advance.
a/n: gen--but what my beta calls slashy gen.

Sherlock spent the afternoon pacing and John spent it watching him pace.

The detective was sorting through the last details of some kind of elaborate internet fraud scheme—one of those things you couldn’t believe anyone ever fell for, and yet someone always did—this one involving enticements and promises to “natural” redheads. About halfway through, though, John stopped paying attention to the case, and started to wonder how ill Sherlock really was.

He didn’t know the man well enough to be able to tell for sure, but he certainly looked rough—skin pale almost to translucency, eyes so shadowed they were starting to look sunken. Every time Sherlock crossed their tiny sitting room, his voice seemed to have gone deeper and more gravely, and he coughed more and more frequently into a large, old-fashioned cloth handkerchief.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” John had asked a few times, and Sherlock had waved him off.

He’d tried, “Sit down, why don’t you? You look done in,” and gotten nothing but an annoyed glare for his effort.

Finally, however, the pacing started to drive John crazy. He pushed himself out of the armchair, and placed himself squarely in Sherlock’s path. On the detective’s next pass, John put one hand on his shoulder, and wrapped the other firmly around his forehead.

“You’re running a fever, did you know that?” he asked conversationally.

“Hmm?” Sherlock blinked at him, as if only now remembering that there was someone else in the room. “Mmm,” he agreed, “a little over 38 degrees, I should think. Don’t worry—doesn’t matter.”

As expected, he tried to pull away from John’s hands—John knew by now how little Sherlock liked to be touched unexpectedly. But John had spent most of his career dealing with combat soldiers and veterans, and Sherlock’s idiosyncrasies, impressive as they were, had nothing on that particular brand of disregard for one’s personal well-being.

“Uh-huh,” he said, keeping his hold firm, and steered Sherlock over to the sofa.

“Stay there,” he said, bringing out his well-practiced tone of medical command, “I’m going to find you some meds.”

He wasn’t entirely sure if Sherlock heard him—he looked distracted again—but at least he didn’t try to move. John ducked into the loo next to the kitchen, and rummaged around for something useful. At first he found nothing medicinal except boxes of nicotine patches, and he was about to go upstairs and dip into his own stash of prescription-strength stuf--but he finally located an almost-expired bottle of acetaminophen and the world’s most battered Lemsip box.

“Should do the trick,” he muttered, turning on the kettle.

++++

By the time John came back into the sitting room, Sherlock had subsided into a corner of the sofa, folded in on himself and sniffing miserably into his handkerchief. The detective took the pills and steaming mug without protest, looked at John a little blankly, and said, “Sorry—didn’t mean to put you out.”

“No worries,” John assured him, and ordinarily, he would have left it at that, told Sherlock to get some rest, and called it a day. A feverish cold didn’t rank very high on his personal scale of suffering, and it obviously didn’t on Sherlock’s either.

But there was something about the way Sherlock was huddled on the couch, shivering—something about the way illness had made his long limbs, which usually thrummed with the high-strung energy of a racehorse, look gawky, almost coltish—that tugged at John in unexpected ways, opened up some barely remembered vein of tenderness.

He didn’t quite know what to do with the feeling.

“Cold?” he asked, for want of anything better to say, plucking his own discarded gray jumper off the chair and offering it.

Somewhat to his surprise, Sherlock accepted it, shrugged into it wordlessly. It looked slightly ridiculous on him—too big across the shoulders and too short in the arms, so that his wrists stuck out awkwardly. But he seemed warmer at least.

tbc

Lestrade/Sherlock. Lestrade's protective attitude towards Sherlock.

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H/C!

(Anonymous)

2010-07-26 04:41 pm (UTC)

Sherlock/John. Hurt/Comfort. John's leg cramps up or hurts badly after running around the city with Sherlock.

[To the mod: The bulk of the Sherlock Holmes Kinkmeme community migrated over to shkinkmeme a while back, which is the general SH kinkmeme (open to prompts based on the Canon, Granada series, 2009 movie, BBC series, and all other SH adaptions). It's run very well, and a great meme to steal ideas from or use as a guide for running your own meme.]

FILL: Psychosomatic Agonies (1/2)

(Anonymous)

2010-08-02 05:15 pm (UTC)

John settled into the armchair for the night, struggling to control his racing heart. He'd put a bullet through a man's chest to save a man he'd just met and fallen in with, like they were two halves of a heart.

He shook his head. Harry would mock him for that thought and his therapist would grin her predatory grin, smelling blood in the water. John couldn't really bring himself to care.

Sherlock had disappeared out the door shortly after they'd arrived back, muttering something about "fresh cadavers on Tuesdays". John smiled, the man's idiosyncracies merging with his faults in his mind's eye to produce a vivid portrait of a man.

He was truly smitten, wasn't he? Damn.

Unable to stay still under the weight of adrenaline coursing through his veins, John stood and crossed the living room, cane abandoned by the sofa. He felt a right prat for relying on it all this time, when it was nothing more than an ache. An ache mostly in his head.

John turned for the kettle and felt his whole thigh seize. Crying out, he fell to the floor, catching his head on the corner of the table. John lay dazed for a few moments before he heard the door open and a warm hand settle on his shoulder.

"John? John, are you all right? Oh my, you're bleeding! I'll call Sherlock right away!"

"It's fine, Mrs Hudson," he said thickly, blood already streaming over his left eye and down his cheek. "Scalp wounds love to bleed."

Mrs Hudson helped him sit up, propping him against the table leg, and John resisted the urge to scream when he jarred his cramping leg. So much for psychosomatic. He was going to kill Sherlock and his therapist and then Sherlock again, for good measure.

He grabbed for a teatowel and pressed it to his head, trying to stem the flow of blood. Mrs Hudson knelt on the floor beside him, looking both shellshocked and reproachful as she dialled. She prodded at his injured leg and he could not restrain a gasp.

"Sherlock? John's fallen down and hurt his head. You shouldn't have dragged him all over London, should you? He's in a terrible state."

"I'm fine," he said, because he thought it beared repeating, and then the phone was pressed against his cheek. He held it clumsily with his free hand and listened to Sherlock prattle in his ear.

"It's all in your head, you know. Except for the blood, which is apparently all over our kitchen floor. Really, John, I only left you alone for an hour."

"I'm fine," he said, hoping to make third time the charm, and cursed himself when he slurred.

"I will be there directly."

The line went dead and Mrs Hudson took the phone from his hand, shaking his shoulder and telling him to stay awake. Sometimes, he thought they both forgot he was a doctor. Besides, he hadn't blacked out and he felt remarkably well for a man whose leg was filling with searing agony.

Mrs Hudson fussed around him, caught between clearing up the blood on the floor and making him a cup of tea. John experimentally tried moving his leg and choked back a scream, which sent Mrs Hudson into more paroxysms of panic, begging him not to move until Sherlock was back.

What she thought Sherlock was going to do about it was beyond him. But for the moment, it looked like he was stuck on his kitchen floor with their hysterical landlady.

I might try my hand at this....no promises for quality though ^^"

- anyone who is interested, don't let me expressing interest stop you! I totally want to see this one as well >:)

errant comment fic?

One episode in and I'm desperate for fic. *tuts at self*

Specifically, I'm desperate for some H/W (or is it S/J now?) that shows just how goddamn impossible Sherlock is. He's just as annoying, screwed up, intense and unaffectionate in a relationship. Not dark!fic or anything just. Yeah.

Please, someone? (I love fluff, but I crave anti-fluff atm, idek.)

I MAY BE, MAYBE, DOING THIS [MOSTLY BECAUSE I'M A TOTAL ANGST-WHORE. LOL]. But if anyone finishes ahead of me, feel free to jump in first!

Non-con-ilicious angst prompt

(Anonymous)

2010-07-26 07:05 pm (UTC)

So Sherlock is all for finding things out in a detached, verging on sociopathic way.

And well... he's interested in how someone would respond to being betrayed by someone they trusted.

Sherlock --> non con --> Watson D:

Only to realise he reacted to it too and goes crazy guilt tripping when he realises he has feelings for Watson and starts to understand emotions better and sees how much Watson is hurting.

So yeah. Give me angst. Can either end badly for the two of with rebuilding trust... don't mind ^-^

Filled: An Experiment, Of Sorts [1/?]

(Anonymous)

2010-07-26 10:00 pm (UTC)

I'm going to bed now, but there will be another part up tomorrow.

*

"He raped me," says the victim (the suspect), with a restrained quaver in his voice. "Once a night. For a week."

"So you shot him? Cold-blood, straight in the chest? It takes a strong heart to do that."

A swallow.

"He'd come into my room while I was sleeping, and he'd handcuff me. And he would - he would fuck me. Silently, wouldn't say a word. Just... Just sex, just... And so- I. I have a gun. I was in the army, for a while. When he came into my room, I was waiting for him."

Wrong.

Sherlock isn't sure what it is, exactly, but something isn't right about all of this. The pieces don't fit. The crime isn't right. He's seen the body and looked at the room and examined the handcuffs themselves.

There's a lot that their poor, poor Mr Turner isn't telling them, Sherlock thinks. He's already worked out a lot of it, but there are bits that are missing, bits that don't make sense. The hardest part about being in his mind is that motivations are difficult: he can see how things are done, and when the motive is financial or concrete he can work it out. The emotional side, that's difficult. He reads the relevant research papers and, from time to time, he will study a soap-opera for clues on how people are 'supposed' to behave. It usually helps.

Looking across the table at Mr Turner (and he's not supposed to be in here: Lestrade is giving him one minute and says he should be grateful for even that), Sherlock's eyes narrow.

"You didn't call the police," he says. "After the first night, you could have picked up the phone and sent him right here, put him right behind bars. You didn't."

He can hear hands scrambling at the door now, eager to get him out of the room before he manages to psychologically scar their witness any more than he already has. Sherlock has a few seconds, if that.

"He was my friend," Mr Turner whispers. He isn't looking at Sherlock, staring into the middle distance with hazy eyes. "I trusted him."

Interesting.

Trust is a fragile, egg-shell of a thing, and Sherlock finds that it is more troublesome than it is worth. The door busts open and Lestrade bursts in, barking at him to get out, so Sherlock supposes that he's lost the inspector's time-limited trust for a few weeks once more. Easily fixed. He'll just wait it out.

Yet there's something about this character, this Mr Turner, something that gnaws and bites at the back of his mind like an ugly dog. He allows Lestrade to escort him out of the interview room, clutching him by the arm with far more force than is necessary: police brutality, he could have him done for that if he felt like that, if he felt that it was at all important.

"He's lying to you," he says. "There's something that's not right here."

"He's been through a huge trauma," Lestrade sighs at him. Sherlock frowns. Trauma and lying are not mutually exclusive. They are bed-fellows, surely. "We have no evidence; nothing solid. That man in there? He's going to prison for murder unless we can prove what he's saying is true."

"How do you know it is?"

They are marching steadily towards the exit of the station, talking as they go.

Lestrade's answer makes Sherlock falter for a half-step: "Trust," he says, followed by 'goodbye'.

It's a puzzlement, certainly, and Sherlock mulls it over in his mind as he walks onto the sunny streets of London. Trust. He doesn't have very many people that would be foolish and blind enough to trust a man like him, mad and brilliant at once, but in a split-second his mind provides a name: John.

Interesting.

Looking to the sky and finding it clear of clouds, Sherlock's mouth twists thoughtfully.

He's beginning to think that an experiment is in order.

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