Sherlock BBC Prompting Meme

"we get all sorts around here."

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

Prompts from this post can be filled on the Overflow Post

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.


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 *


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

  • 1
Sherlock is kidnapped, beaten up, etc.

John receives a ransom letter telling him that he has 24 hours to find Sherlock.

Can John use Sherlock's deductive methods to find him in time?

Bonus brownie points if the villain(s) drench Sherlock in gasoline and plan to see him alight when 24 hours are up. (Based on the song bound and gagged by creature feature)

Jeez, long prompt is long!

I've started it! :D Errr, first time I've replied to a prompt, so slightly nervous. Please tell me if I've gotten anything wrong so I can fix it.
(Can also be found on my journal

It was two a.m. on a Friday morning when Watson was woken up by the insistent buzzing of his phone. Groaning, he rolled over to fumble on his bed stand for it, knocking an anonymous object to the floor with a soft thwump. Wincing as the harsh glare of the small electronic burned his tired eyes, he opened the text with annoyance. It was probably Sherlock asking for more milk, or to check on the current experiment in the microwave, or something equally ridiculous.

Squinting, he made out the words;
"Package outside for you"

He frowned. This wasn't the usual order Sherlock gave. Best not to ignore it though, he thought. Last time Sherlock got a package it contained not-so-legal products. Not the best thing to leave outside.

Swinging himself out of bed, he fumbled for the door, grabbing his night-gown on his way out. Stumbling in the dark (the light switch being on the other side of the damn room), he threw the door open and continued to the front door, trying not to miss any of the stairs.

It was a shame he didn't bother to turn on the light, otherwise he would've noticed the disarray of their flat.

A small, white envelope awaited him, lying on the doorstep in the chilly night air with an air of indifference to the fact that it had forced John to get out of his nice, warm bed. He huffed in annoyance, from the looks of it; it could've waited until morning. No one ever questions the contents of a white envelope, after all.

He nudged the door shut with his foot as he turned round to go back to bed, but the front the envelope caught the glare of the lamp posts outside for a second, making him frown and finally take notice to what was written on it.
For starters, his name. In bold, impossible to misread, font.

He tore it open, finally realising that everything was not normal. That something was dreadfully suspicious was occurring. The only letters he ever got were bills.

He elbowed the light switch on, fingering out a folded sheet of paper, letting another piece drift to the floor.
The message didn't do much to make him feel that everything was okay;
"By the time you read this letter, your boyfriend will be in my possession. If you ever want to see him alive again, you have twenty-four hours to try and find us. First clue: 'I am a famous killer, and I got the whores good. This is where my first strike was"

He bent down to get the other piece of paper, and unfolded it with shaking hands.

It was picture.

Of Sherlock.

Bound to a chair and gagged by a thick piece of material. He had another tied tightly around his eyes. Unconscious, judging by how his head drooped onto his shoulder.

He ran back to his room to phone Lestrade.

Re: Bound and Gagged (1/?)

Jack The Ripper.

Mary Ann Nichols.

Durward Street, Whitechapel.


Come on, at least try to make it hard.

Re: Bound and Gagged (1/?)

Well, I decided originally to make them easier, and let them gradually get harder. Like in computer games; at first they're really basic, as to get used to it, before getting harder and harder until the "boss mode". (Not to sure if that makes sense, it's much easier to comprehend in my mind :P)

Not to be rude, but I would be more impressed if you guessed correctly before the second update :/ Why don't you tell me the answer to the latest one, "The Long Browns" ;D

Re: Bound and Gagged (1/?)

Ah Sherlock Holmes.
Raising generations of wannabe consulting dectectives since 1887.


It was half three when he, Lestrade and Co. were all in the station, tense and pacing.

It was silent; everyone already released their worries into the air, giving it an unpleasant tinge.

On the cork board was the note, along with the picture of Sherlock. Watson had shifted his chair so he wouldn’t have to look at it.

Donovan startled them all as she walked in with a tray of mugs;
"I thought everyone could do with some caffeine," she shrugged, eyes slightly puffed, giving away the fact she had been crying.

"Thanks," Lestrade smiled tightly, moving to sit back in his chair, turning around to John, "are you sure that Sherlock didn't have a case?"

Watson huffed, "I've told you, he was playing his violin constantly, and he only does that when he has nothing else to do! He didn't act like he usually does at all when he has a case!"

"Fine, back to this damn riddle then. I've sent Anderson to get all the cases that mentions someone who deals with prostitutes," he added for the benefit of Donovan, who slunk into another chair after handing out the mugs. John clutched his in his hands, frowning into the gently steaming contents. Twenty-four hours to save Sherlock, and who knew how long this game would last?

"That's probably going to be half the archive!" She replied in outrage, "It'll take weeks to go through it all, and the Freak obviously doesn't have that long!"

"Well what do you want me to do?" He slammed his hand down, yelling back, "Do you know any famous person who dealt with whores? Because I bloody well don't."

Then Watson got a marvellous idea.
"Famous. He has to be famous. And it was sent to me, so he can't just be famous underground or whatever," he looked at Lestrade, frantically trying to put it together in his head, "and it referred to the person in past tense, meaning they're dead."

They stared at each other for a while, trying to figure out between them in silence who was dead, and famous for dealing with whores.

Then John remember the documentary he watch a few weeks back, when Sherlock insisted on studying the effects of a lack of sleep on the average human's brain. Since that obviously ruled him out, Watson had to deal with being prodded and nagged to not fall asleep for three nights, before Sherlock finally found out what he needed and sent Watson to bed.

"Jack the Ripper!"

The other two stared at him like he had lost it,
"I doubt it'll be someone from the 19th Century, John."

"Well do you know any other famous person who ‘dealt’ with whores?"

"Fine, we'll take any lead we can get, I suppose. Donovan, go wiki Jack the Ripper, and find out where the first body was found."

Watson let out a sigh. He knew it couldn't be that easy, something will be wrong, or it'll be an over-sized trap for them all. Either way, they had to try. For Sherlock.

A muffled groan was heard in the small, well cemented cell as Sherlock shifted awake. Coldness seeped into his side, and his head was groggy and unwilling to work properly as he tried to work out where he was. No noise, apart from himself. Alone then. He tried to work out more- he could deduce some one's love life based on their cologne, for goodness sake- but his brain was as stubborn as him, and refused to take note of anything else around him.

He fiddled with the rope on his wrists, trying to find some sort of leeway. No chance, and he guessed an even smaller chance with the rope around his ankles. He refrained from letting out a frustrated sigh.

It was around a lifetime before the sound of a door swinging open entertained his presence.

Footsteps; heavy. Male, probably muscular. Wearing boots, worn from wear.

They stopped just behind him, the owner staring down at his curled up body.

"I was expecting more from you, Sherlock. You just made it so easy. Too easy! I'm half-expecting something to happen, to reveal why you would purposely let yourself get caught, because that can't be the best you can do, can it?"

The feet shuffled, one nudging at his body to turn onto his back. Sherlock wished he wasn't blindfolded, he so wanted to see this man. And the movement didn’t help with the mugginess in his head, he felt dizzy and light-headed now. Brilliant.

"Or maybe it is? Maybe the great detective is just a title you gave yourself!" A soft chuckle, "well, let’s not let that ruin the entertainment. Twenty-four hours until the end, let’s hope your boyfriend can make it in time, eh?" Louder laughter now.

"I have a friend outside for you; he desperately wants to meet “The Great Sherlock Holmes”. And he loves using his belt to mutilate bodies. For some reason the Police don't like it when you do it to others" The tone changed, injecting a frown into it, as though the man was trying to figure out why. Silence for a couple of seconds before he returned to what was happening, "anyways, I do hope the two of you get along, no fun if you don’t is it?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. An insane kidnapper, so cliché.

Another man entered the room, and rough hands tugged his shirt open, leaving his heaving chest bare. Someone else left.
He braced himself for tonight’s "entertainment", trying to think of something else. Anything else.

As the first strike was made, the strong leather meeting his chest with a sharp pain, he could only think of one thing.

OMG, I am so excited that this is getting filled--and so well too! I'm double excited!!

My tummy flipped when John got the letter and the picture. Poor Sherlock, I can't believe they're beating him with a belt!!

Come on Lestrade and John! Be a little intelligent at least! You know what I'd do? I'd involve Mycroft. That would get the thing solved. do you get in touch with Mycroft?

Sorry, I'm babbling because I'm so happy to see this filled! Thank you!!! I'll be glued to my computer waiting for more!!!

:D I'm so glad you like it! *wipes sweat of brow*

I think Mycroft just appears when no one really wants him...poor Mycroft, can't ever get it right D:

If only Lestrade and John were like Sherlock, everything would be done much faster....but then we wouldn't fit in as much torture ;D And there's also the whole burning thing to fit in at the end...I'm kinda looking forward to writing that in a sick, sick way.

Going to try and update tonight or tomorrow, sadly I'm busy for the day!

Re: Bound and Gagged (3/?)

Actually, I find it unfair that I helped write this (ahem) and don't know what happens >:(

Did you find a violin yet? Cause I wanna play pizz on one. There's also an article on the Orchestra in the county in yesterday's paper. It's by the radio in the kitchen. Apparently they have alarge bank of instruments avialable so you don't need one firsth-hand.
Also, there's a brass band opening a few miles away....I might learn sax. Once a month I'd have to play with you :/

All of my previous comments, available on your personal LJ, still apply :D

Oh and do try to be awake by 2pm. We've got guests.

Re: Bound and Gagged (3/?)

Oh and it's part 1c/? rather than 3/?
Because they're hardly individual chapters are they?

Re: Bound and Gagged (3/?)

Oh and it's part 1c/? rather than 3/?
Because they're hardly individual chapters are they?


Re: Bound and Gagged (3/?)

must you spam up my inbox?? Surely putting everything you want to nag me about into one comment isn't that hard ¬¬

I've found a violin for £30, but waiting for the bid to come near the end. And why haven't you told me of these second hand instruments earlier!!?!?!

...They might be meant to be like that...I was tired. Shut up.

And I'm awake AND I cleaned up my room :D

Re: Bound and Gagged (3/?)

I'm sorry, I haven't read your story yet (I habitually avoid WIPs although this one is far too tempting) but I absolutely must ask, regarding your conversation above with the angry muffin person... you happen to live with Sherlock?? XD

Bound and Gagged (4a/?)

22 hours left

It had been a fast, silent journey to Durward Street in the police can that Lestrade, Watson and Donovan were occupying. Outside it was all flashing lights and sirens as the four police cars sped down the silent roads of London. The atmosphere was thick, enough so that John felt like he could reach out and touch it, feel the surface of the doubt and fear that were felt collectively by the occupants.

He was half grateful when the car pulled over on the street, just across from The Board School.

"Right, lads," Lestrade ordered, barely waiting for them all to clamber out of their cars, "spread out, we're looking for some sort of clue. Most likely in a small, white envelope. No dawdling, we probably don't have much time."

John decided to split off by himself. He didn't fancy having to trail after some one or other, trying to be useful but probably just getting in their way. He rubbed his thigh absentmindedly as he went to lean on the wall. He damn leg, it thought it had been fine, but no, it just had to screw up when he needed it most.

He sighed, and stumbled back upright. Complaining about his leg was hardly going to help Sherlock, now was it?


Sherlock stared up into the fabric that was tied tight around his eyes. His chest was stinging, covered in some sort of sticky fluid that was most likely blood. He took deep, regulating breaths through the stifling gag, trying to minimize the pain. Fortunately, the drugs from earlier had worn off, meaning at least he could think properly. God help him if boredom was added to this torture.

Currently, he was busying himself with working out all the possibilities of the ending of this scenario. Two out of the twenty-six were in his favour.

The door swung open, a warm puff of air added to the room's collection of blood-tinted, sweaty-smelling supply.

Footsteps; heavy. Male, probably muscular. Wearing boots, worn from wear.

He took a deep breath, exhaled, and prepared for the worst.

The footsteps stopped just above him


It was twenty minutes into the thorough searching that a policeman started waving a small, white envelope triumphantly. It had been hidden amongst some ivy that stretched over a wall, reaching out to a small car park for the use of the flat owners beside. Lestrade snatched it from his hand, ripping it open before everyone had made their way over, and pulled out two pieces of paper.

The first unfolded was of an image of Sherlock again, shirt ripped open and chest littered in blood, bruises and welts that had obviously been made by some form of belt.

He hastily folded that back up, trying to keep it away from John who was obviously effected by it, if his pale face and blank expression was anything to go by.

He took out the other sheet, and revealed the next clue.

"Pink Floyd"


Bound and Gagged (4b/?)

"My friend told me you two got on fabulously," the man grinned, "now, we have the little trouble of how to help your friend find you. What do you think would be a good message, hmmm? Should we carve it into your back? Make you scream it into a recorder? You must have a good idea, detective. You and your large brain must know of a way to get him to try and work faster, we've barely started!"

Sherlock wished the gag wasn't in, he hated having to be quiet, having to stand (or lie down, as in this situation) there, listening to some idiot waffle on and bring down the IQ of everyone present.

There was silence, and Sherlock half wanted to let out a sarcastic moan or obviously-forced whimper. He had a feeling that this man's ego would block the sarcasm behind it, and think he really was in serious pain though.

"I'll write it! You can write out the next clue!" He sounded excited, and Sherlock wished he could roll his eyes at him. He had been in worse situations, after all. Just ask Watson.

Large, strong hands grabbed him by his arms, wrenching him upright and holding him there, his chest roaring in protest, some reopening and weeping blood against the movement. Sherlock didn't make a noise though, choking it back easily.

"Now, be a good boy and do as I say, or things will get worse," he ordered, shuffling himself behind his body, "and I know that the whipping was child's play, Freak. I can make you soo much if I want. And I don't want to. Not yet." His voice had lowered, now had a serious note to it.

Now Sherlock was starting to get worried. This man was finally pulling up his socks, and that wasn't part of the plans that meant getting out alive.

He was brought upright, feet brushing the floor,

"Now, are you going to be a good little boy?"

He nodded, realizing that this man was finally playing properly, and Sherlock had been hoping he wouldn't do that for another couple of hours at least.

He was released, tumbling to the floor with a hiss. He curled up, trying to protect his front as the man knelt down just behind him, and swiped his palm with something sharp.

"Now, when I untie your hands, you're going to write out exactly what a say, okay? And hurry, otherwise I'm going to have to keep re-opening the cut, and I'm told that that really hurts."

Sherlock nodded.

"Maybe they mean the last place they played at here?" Donovan called out.

"The first place they played at?" Another person offered.

"A place that was in their videos?"

"Where they first met up?"

"OKAY!" Lestrade yelled, ordering silence, "I want Donovan and Anderson to go back and research Pink Floyd, find anything you can, everyone else, same groups you came in, go and search out the areas that they tell you. For now, stand by and be ready to leave as quick as possible."

Watson limped behind Lestrade to the car, wondering just how likely they were to get Sherlock in one piece.

OP again

Oh dear god, my dear! This is so thrilling, I can hardly wait for the next part! I hope that Lestrade and Watson figure out the clues, I hope Holmes will be ok! (but, hey I was the one who requested this torture, so I don't want him to be perfectly fine right away, ;) )

Re: Bound and Gagged (4b/?)

Watson always seemed to me to be a Pink Floyd fan.
It makes me sad that no one's come up with anything. Wembley Arena, Battersea Power Station, a wall, the wall, a pig, a prism, a rainbow, the moon.

Oh you need to re-read the threat. You left out the word 'hurt' ('I can make you hurt so much more')

I am starving. Do we have any food left? What about that tiger-roll baugette I bought for lunch?
Also, be a dear, and fetch me my phone. It's on silent and I'm sure someone's been trying to text it because it was interfering with my amp earlier.

Re: Bound and Gagged (4b/?)

I'm loving this. Hoping for an update soon. : )

Re: Bound and Gagged (5/?)


21 hours left

One hour they spent searching through the tedious amount of places referred to by Pink Floyd. They sifted through fansites, albums, music videos, song meanings and every gig played by them. Their list grew long, spiralling through dog-eared pages that were handed to different teams. John, a huge fan of Pink Floyd, went through them all, sorting them in order of the more likely, down to the places that listed where fans had spotted the famous band.

Teams of four had been sorted, each given a list and an order of time being of the essence, and they went out into the grey-sky morning, sipping bitter, scalding coffee whilst speeding off.

John stayed with Lestrade, Donovan and Anderson, heading off to 35 Britannia Row in Islington.

Limping around the building, he searched frantically for the precious white envelope, as Lestrade has said, time was of the essence. But there were too many possibilities. Too many places to hide it, what with the size and lack of bulk.

But they continued onwards,checking everything from the uninhabited flats to the small foyer, and, with an almost over-whelming sense of disappointment and, in John's case, growing panic, that no one had found anything in the past hour, they went on to the Countdown Club, where the band first performed.
It was simple enough to get in (waving warrants in the air whilst wearing The Uniform usually done the trick), and it was ten minutes into the searching that Lestrade’s radio went off with the buzzing noise of static.

“Sir? We found it, Sir!” the voice cheered.

“Where was it? Have you opened it yet? Where next?”

“We’re at Battersea Power Station, and yes, Sir. The clue’s ‘The Reclining Woman’.”

Lestrade huffed in irritation, “right, call everyone back to the Station. We’re going to have to try to figure out this one now.”

Watson gave Lestrade a furrowed look, “Ask was there a picture. How’s Sherlock?”

He passed on the message, and seemed hesitant of telling John before replying, “A picture of Sherlock. And a message written on the floor, looks like it out of blood, but they’re unsure.”

“What does it say?”

“Tick tock.”


19 hours left

The new notes were posted up on the cork board when they made it back. Only a few officers were there, most out and about, waiting for the next place to check out. Watson examined the latest photo; He was still bound, and was laying on his stomach, curled up slightly, his right hand reaching out to the message, as if he just finished writing it. His hand was covered in the damned crimson substance, and from the way Sherlock was positioning it, it was most likely slit up so he could write it. The words weren’t larger, meaning not too much blood wasted on it. That was a good sign. The kidnapper obviously didn’t want to accidentally kill him.
Not yet, at least.

Someone had brought Watson a polystyrene cup emblazoned with the Starbucks logo and a muffin to go with it. Both sat untouched as he fidgeted with a pen, waiting for the latest information. Lestrade had sent two teams to 'The Reclining Woman', a small indie club in south London, roughly twenty minutes ago.

Anderson was sitting across from him, obviously in charge of making sure he didn’t do something stupid, or life threatening. What, he didn’t know, but he supposed being around Sherlock would give you that sort of reputation.

The clock ticked the seconds past, as they sat there in awkward silence.

OP (Anonymous) Expand
OP (Anonymous) Expand
OP (Anonymous) Expand
(Deleted comment)
I mean, it's a terribly wicked & great idea, but I was just thinking about writing it just few hours ago without reading this! *dies*

OP anon encourages multi-fills of Sherlock torture, yes she does! :D

There's no limit to how many times the prompt can be filled, according to the rules, so there's nothing stopping you from writing this :D

Would love to see some one else's take on it as well!

  • 1

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