Sherlock BBC Prompting Meme

"we get all sorts around here."


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Welcome! (Prompting: part i)
Giggles at the Palace
sherlockbbc_fic
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.

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 *

  • 1

Non-con-ilicious angst prompt

(Anonymous)
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)
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.

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

Oh, god, Sherlock, don't do it, just. Don't.

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

Woowww

*f5 f5 f5*

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

(Anonymous)
Wonderful anon *hugs you*

This is the first time any of my prompts have been filled ._. <3 And this is seriously good stuff, I loves!

Can't wait for more <3

My first born belongs to you!

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

(Anonymous)
Yum, I love first-borns. ;)

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

Oh, Holmes.

Fool.

Can't wait to read the fall out of his experiment

Filled: An Experiment, Of Sorts [2a/?]

(Anonymous)
John sleeps on his back, like a true military man. His mouth is half-open and, in the limited light provided by the open door, it is possible to see that his cheeks are slightly flushed: a product of his dreams, no doubt. A very bad one, or a very, very good one. There is no small tent further down the bedsheets, which implies a nightmare rather than a nocturnal emission. He's wearing a cheap white t-shirt and, Sherlock imagines, underwear beneath the covers. It's impossible to see, hidden, but John doesn't seem like the kind of man to sleep commando. Far too strict and moral for that.

Standing in the doorway, Sherlock fingers the pair of handcuffs in his hand. He'd lifted them from the station while he was there, a new pair: he has quite the collection in his own room. Sometimes, with hands like magnets, he can't help but pick things up. You never know when something might come in useful.

Very, very useful.

As he enters John's bedroom, he recalls the pair of handcuffs from the original crime that he had examined. The chain connecting the bracelets had been scuffed and tattered at the middle section, suggesting that they had been used to confine his limbs to something rather than merely behind his back. There had been no blood traces inside the bracelets: his struggles hadn't broken the skin, although there had been bruises on his wrists.

He sits on the edge of John's bed and watches him stir: wonders if he ought to turn the light on to see him better, but decides against it. Before John can wake up, he takes his left wrist and snaps the cuff around it, reaches up and threads the chain through the bars of the old, decorative headboard, and then captures the other wrist. Securely. The key is in his pocket, but it won't be used until this is concluded. Sherlock doesn't imagine it will take very long.

John's eyes are open now, alert and confused, and he squints at Sherlock in panic, pulling on the cuffs: they rattle against the headboard.

And then he stops. "Sherlock?" he asks, as if that makes everything better, as if this is going to be alright. "What's going on?"

He asks as if he is sure there will be a good explanation and, of course, there is. Sherlock will tell him afterwards, once the experiment is complete. All conditions must be identical for this to be worth anything at all. Mr Turner had said it was silent, wordless, so of course it would be.

He wished that he had thought to ask about their states of undress, or at the very least been able to inspect the naked corpse or Mr Turner without his clothes: all sorts of secrets can be hidden by material. He doesn't think Lestrade would have let him get very far with undressing this man in the interview room. He'll have to make do.

He pulls the covers back and flings them to the side, out of the way, and begins to pull John's cheap boxers off of him, down his legs as they thrash until he can drop them onto the floor: it's difficult not to look up at John's face, where so many ticks and answers will be, but he is a master of self-control. "What are you doing?" John asks: there's a thread of panic taking over the confusion and sleepiness now.

His genitals are small when flaccid, lying docile as he pulls and tugs at his arms to try to get out of the cuffs. He won't succeed. Sherlock doubts that he has much experience with picking police handcuffs.

Sherlock pushes his trousers down his hips and finds himself rock-hard already: he had taken medication, little blue pills, to ensure it. Sex is not his primary interest and rarely registers on his horizon. It's a distraction. For tonight, it has a purpose and might help with a case. That makes it less useless than one would usually suppose.

John is talking: Sherlock, stop it, whatever you're doing just stop, we'll talk about this, alright? Let's just talk.

Silence, Mr Turner had said. Sherlock doesn't say a word.

Re: Filled: An Experiment, Of Sorts [2b/?]

(Anonymous)
It had been called fucking when Mr Turner had described it, and the angle of his bruises, harsher on the top of his wrist than the inside, speaks of the positioning. Fucking requires something less intimate than a face-to-face encounter, so Sherlock takes John and turns him over: he isn't surprised by the weight. From the very first sight of him, he had him figured out to the closest pound.

John is swearing at this point, as angry as he ought to be, but Mrs Hudson is gone for the evening and Sherlock catalogues the tremors of rage that are firing through John's shaking hands. He slicks his cock before he pushes inside, more for his own comfort than for John's. John is tight and hot, just as Sherlock remembers sex being, and for a shocked, stunned moment, the struggles stop, as if John can't believe that this is really happening.

Sherlock takes no pleasure in this, just as he takes no pleasure in beating corpses with riding crops.

(but he likes that, truly, and perhaps he loves this too, the feeling of John underneath him, the tremble of his breath and tensing of his muscles).

The chains of the cuffs rattle against the headboard with every staccato thrust. There had been two sets of semen samples at the crime scene: Sherlock ensures that John orgasms, fondling his cock until he's hard and then pulling him through resistant pleasure, ignoring the way that he shouts then whispers and begs him to stop, please, just stop.

There are tears on John's face by the time that Sherlock comes. They drip over his chin onto his pillow as he breathes through his slack lips. Sherlock puts himself right again, hides his member away, and covers John up too before he unlocks him.

He expects to be attacked, but it isn't fists that fly at him.

"Why would you do that?" John asks, lying motionless, shaking.

Silence, Sherlock reminds himself. He leaves without giving an answer, turning the evening's events over his mind. It's almost time to collect the results and chase the truth of Mr Turner's experiences. It's a waiting game.

Waiting is always the boring part.

OP Re: Filled: An Experiment, Of Sorts [2b/?]

(Anonymous)
This is... nyuh. Love it <3

Poor Watson... D:

And I love how cold Sherlock is throughout <3

Re: Filled: An Experiment, Of Sorts [2b/?]

Oh, Holmes.

Re: Filled: An Experiment, Of Sorts [2b/?]

GOD DAMNIT, SHERLOCK YOU ASS. *shakes fist*

(If it gets this sort of reaction from me, then you're doing a mighty fine job. :D )

Re: Filled: An Experiment, Of Sorts [2b/?]

This is quite horrifyingly in-character. God. Poor John. Argh.

Re: Filled: An Experiment, Of Sorts [3a/?]

(Anonymous)
During the night he hears John leaving, along with the click of his cane against the floor. Hard to say whether the limp has been brought back by added stress, or whether other injuries have led him to rely on it. Sherlock doubts the latter option: there had been no blood and he had taken pains not to harm him physically, just as in the original alleged crime. All conditions have been replicated to as near a degree as he was able to achieve.

Light comes, followed by the empty ringing of John's alarm clock - Sherlock turns it off for him, because he finds that it slices through his thoughts: important thoughts, valid thoughts, the kind of thoughts that hold the very path of justice and logic in the balance.

Lunch comes and John still hasn't returned, which is frustrating. Sherlock feels a buzz of anticipation in his belly, the kind of thrill that only comes when the game is on, when he has theories to follow and facts to confirm. John's holding him back, wasting time, by refusing to be right here when he wants him. He toys with his phone, considering whether to text him to demand his presence, and turns the phone over in his hand several times.

Urgent case of boredom. Presence required immediately.
SH.


He types it out, then sighs and deletes it. Perhaps not.

He feels trapped in the apartment, waiting for John to come back, and he paces back and forth as he tries to keep the soles of his feet from burning. Mrs Hudson comes in and asks him what's wrong, and he tells her there's nothing, and then he tells himself that's true. It is true.

Evening comes.

He checks John's blog (out of a sense of scientific curiosity, of course) and there is one new entry:

"Nothing happens to me." Remember that?

Laughing comments from his sister; concern from his therapist. Sherlock wets his lips and browses elsewhere, answering emails addressed to him from his website - boring cases that he can solve without having to be there: he's cheating on you. He doesn't add 'you idiot' to the end of that one, as a sign of limited compassion. He thinks Lestrade would be proud of that, John too, and instantly decides not to tell them.

There are stars glaring from the sky and John still has not come home, which makes this entire experiment rather pointless. He fiddles with his phone again, feeling at sea without someone to text, someone to annoy. He's not used to waiting and he certainly doesn't like it, not one bit.

Have you seen John Watson?
SH


That one is sent to Lestrade. There is a certain nervous buzz in his belly as he waits for a reply. He had felt certain that one would go to the police instantly in such a case: there's no logical reason to hide the truth simply because you know a person, liked them even (once). If that is the case, he might find himself in prison, although he feels reasonably certain that there is far from enough evidence to convict him. There is nothing but John's word, and for a man with a psychosomatic limp who is diagnosed with PTSD his word shouldn't mean too much before a jury.

His expression twitches in faint distaste after the thoughts fade: truthful, but unpleasant. Facts of life.

Past midnight, he gives in and texts John.

Going out. Dinner in oven for when you get home.
SH

Re: Filled: An Experiment, Of Sorts [3b/?]

(Anonymous)
He makes sure to actually put something in the oven now, although he's not sure if he's ever used it himself before: Mrs Hudson or John are usually around for that, and he doesn't eat much anyway. Wastes time. Why cook when someone will do it for you?

John doesn't answer him, but Sherlock leaves anyway and doesn't tell Mrs Hudson where he is going. He isn't entirely sure himself. Somewhere to think, somewhere to breathe, somewhere to get him out of the apartment for long enough to get John into it. He's starting to get a headache and his fingers are starting to twitch in the way that they usually do when he's been away from his nicotine patches for far too long: signs of withdrawal. Ridiculous.

He's starting to get the impression that this entire plan is 'ridiculous', which doesn't make sense. His plans are works of art.

Shoulders hunched, he walks through the streets with his feet on the ground, looking for all the world like any other harassed Londoner on the streets at this time of night. They all have stories, most of them sad, all of them dark, but Sherlock knows (can tell at a glance) that he's the darkest: the best. He doesn't feel the badge of pride at that realisation that he ought to, that he wants: it's a hollow triumph.

As he walks, his mind filters back to the night before, to darkened sins and carefully structured experiments. In the dim light of day (or the light of street lamps, which aren't quite the same thing) it doesn't feel as clinical as it ought to. Scientists are warned never to become attached to their test subjects - but Sherlock was attached long before the test began.

'Attached.'

It's an odd word. He's uncertain if he likes it, yet it fits. His apartment is filled with John and his stuff, until they are entwined to the point that separation seems difficult and pointless. Two liquids, perfectly blended: if he is water, John is the dye that colours him, a bland attempt to make him more human.

It doesn't appear to have worked.

He rubs warmth into his hands and checks his watch. Half an hour of walking has passed. Hoping that that will be enough he turns on a heel and begins to retrace his steps, a stupid waste of time. Half an hour of stillness should have been enough time for John to return home, like a rabbit rushing to its burrow. With a thrill that is almost as good as chasing a criminal, Sherlock hurries home, eager to find what awaits him there, eager to see what the results are and the impact they will have on his theories.

When he makes it home, only slightly out of breath, he can hear a great rustling coming from John's room, a clattering and occasional swear word (and the cursing, that makes him think of last night, that makes shivers go down his spine that are far from experimental), that draws him in, piecing his way across the untidy floor without having to look down at his feet: he knows exactly where every discarded object is.

He raps once on John's bedroom door with a couple of knuckles, and the sounds inside instantly stop. Without being invited in, he enters anyway.

There is a large box on top of John's bed, and it is already half-filled with clothes and books and the strange DVDs he'd moved it with. John has another handful of items clutched close to his chest, and he looks like a schoolboy caught in the act when he looks up at Sherlock, eyes wide, lips ajar. At first, he doesn't say a thing.

The silence makes Sherlock feel awkward, which is annoying - he never feels awkward. He gestures over his shoulder. "I made dinner," he says. "It's a ready-meal. Should be edible."

John should be shouting at him by now, he thinks. He had expected a fight of some sort. It feels disappointing to see him silent and deflated: it's not what he was ready to encounter at all.

"I know, I saw it. I'm just here to get my stuff."

Sherlock nods once, piecing things together as best he can. "You're staying with your sister," he concludes.

"Just for the night." Without looking at him, John clarifies, "Just until I find somewhere new."

"Oh." Hit by an outcome he hadn't predicted, Sherlock is briefly off-balance, uncertain of what the next chess-move is supposed to be.

Re: Filled: An Experiment, Of Sorts [3b/?]

(Anonymous)
OP is practically crying over here D:

This is wonderful <3 Sad, but brilliant.

Re: Filled: An Experiment, Of Sorts [3b/?]

(Anonymous)
♥ I'm so glad you're still enjoying it. I've got the whole thing plotted out now. Looks like it's going to be an angst-fest.

Re: Filled: An Experiment, Of Sorts [3b/?]

(Anonymous)
Oh, poor John. *sniff* Ow, ow, ow. Sherlock, you are an idiot before the Lord and deserve getting kicked in the head.

Wonderful. Thank you so much, and waiting for more.

Re: Filled: An Experiment, Of Sorts [3b/?]

(Anonymous)
Author!anon: Sherlock is potentially terrifying. I loved that about his character, the potential for so much darkness, and I love that it was high-lighted on the show when it was commented on how easily he might tip into committing crimes himself.

Re: Filled: An Experiment, Of Sorts [3b/?]

Ohhh. I don't even know what to say! Poor John. Poor, poor John. Sherlock, you're an idiot!

Re: Filled: An Experiment, Of Sorts [3b/?]

(Anonymous)
Author!anon: Sherlock needs a good slap and a jail sentence here, really.

Re: Filled: An Experiment, Of Sorts [4a/12]

(Anonymous)
Although John is a quiet fellow, the apartment is echoingly silent without his presence. Too silent to think: Sherlock places a radio on John's old bed, tunes it to Radio 4, and leaves it murmuring as he heads to his chair outside. The noise helps.

He never used to need noise.

Yet this helps; it all fits with his own ideas. Following a stark betrayal, John had left. He hadn't hung around for five nights for a repeat performance. He hadn't prepared himself with a gun. Admittedly, he hadn't gone to the police either, but with an unhappy twist of his mouth Sherlock supposes that fits in with regular statistics: he's done a little bit of reading. He's more interested in murders than rape cases. Everything is more solid with a murder or a theft. It's less messy, or at the very least the mess is more fun to pick through. Rape leaves tattered emotions and trembling victims. It's not half as enjoyable as a well thought-out execution.

He allows it to churn in his mind for a solid, silent day before he returns to Lestrade, who is as grave and frustrated as ever.

"What do you mean you 'don't know'?" Voice raised, standing while Sherlock sits, Lestrade appears to be trying to look threatening. "You never don't know."

"It appears you've found a case that defies even me," he says with a dismissive wave of his hands. With a little unpicking, he could solve this: he could work out reality and deduce the exact events of Mr Turner's experience. It isn't in his nature to walk away.

It's making his palms itch just thinking about it.

Lestrade stares at him with an intensity that will probably make his head ache, thinking too hard for his limited brain cells to handle. "You're up to something," he says, as he places his hands on the desk in a no doubt subconscious attempt to echo television detectives. "I want to know what it is."

Sherlock gives him nothing but an expectant rise of his eyebrows, waiting to hear Lestrade's grand ideas on what precisely he is getting up to behind the police's back. He doesn't think that any wild shot into the dark will give him the answer to that particular puzzle - and there's something about that that makes him feel smug, feel smart, feel better than them. He'll have to be careful; that feeling could be all too addicting.

"I'm going to leave town for a few days," he says. "I have to visit my brother: I hope the police force will be able to hold itself together for one measly weekend without my help."

Lestrade snorts at him as if he has something stuck up his nose, and then Sherlock is permitted to leave the station. He doesn't run into Mr Turner at all during his visit, and for that he is eternally grateful: while this case rests as an ugly patch at the centre of his brain, he's forced himself to admit that it is perhaps beyond his capacities to solve it, or that he would at the very least be ill-advised to do so. His experiment had had rather unforeseen consequences that he will have to take some time to tidy up.

When he makes it back to their apartment (his apartment, he thinks, but the thought is batted away: John will be back soon), Mrs Hudson is fussing unhappily with her tea-pot, and she frowns at him as he enters the kitchen. Everyone has been frowning at him recently, haven't they? "What have you done now, love?" she asks, which is always an unpleasant opening to a conversation. "John came by and handed me his keys this morning. Have you two had a fight?"

The situation is far too complicated for him to try to explain to anyone, never mind someone as meddlesome as their shared landlady. "He's staying with his sister," he says. "We shouldn't question why."

With enough emphasis and enough of a stern look, he manages to imply that there is an entire story going on behind the scenes: all to do with Harry and John, nothing to do with him. He's little more than an innocent bystander.

Re: Filled: An Experiment, Of Sorts [4b/12]

(Anonymous)
"Oh my..." Mrs Hudson breathes. He imagines that Harry will receive a greetings card later this week, with Thinking of You... written on the inside, even though the pair have never met. "I hope it all gets sorted out soon."

"Families are tricky things," Sherlock responds: it is the kind of bland announcement that is customary in conversations, and he never usually bothers with them. Everything feels wrong today, as if he is mimicking mankind rather than being himself. "I'll be leaving for the time being as well. You'll have the place to yourself for the weekend."

He has no true intention of visiting his brother, but he has other friends outside of town - or, at the very least, other favours that can be called in if he needs somewhere to resting. Clearing his mind of London and its woes seems the best option: he'll go hunting in the country for mysteries to solve. There's always something: a locked door that no one can explain, missing jewels, cheating husbands, run-away teenagers. Silly problems, no more challenging to him than a child's crossword. Diversions.

While his mind focuses on John and only John, he needs something to occupy himself, something to take his mind far, far away from this foolish London life and its games before he makes a further mistake.

A further mistake like the one he makes that evening while sitting on the train, playing with his mobile phone: he calls John.

He calls him.

As he holds the phone to his ear, it occurs to him that he has been careful not to hear the ringing of phones like this in months, maybe years. It's unpleasant, yet he doesn't think that John will answer a text. He's unlikely to pick up the phone either, but it's a sign: an olive branch that indicates change. Or perhaps it is the sign of a desperate man with a shaky excuse, a man who -

"Why are you phoning me?" John answers, unexpectedly. "You text. You don't phone."

He's grumpy, but that's usual. For a graceful, blissful moment as the countryside rushes past the train window, Sherlock thinks perhaps John doesn't remember anything, perhaps he thinks that it was all a wicked dream: he won't examine why this makes him feel so gleeful. "I'm bored," he says.

On the other side of the line, he hears the sound of John swallowing. "I think, maybe, you should find someone else to call when you're bored? It's a bit inappropriate."

He's talking in the clipped, military manner that he usually resorts to when he's uncomfortable: Sherlock can visualise the expression that must be on his face, the same expression he'd worn when they're first met and Sherlock had seen so much about him in a flashing moment. The memory almost makes him smile, but there's a cold stone resting in his stomach that stops it. "Where are you?" he asks. "Harry's?"

"I'm at a hotel. I'm serious, Sherlock. Don't phone me any more. If I want to get in touch, I'll do it. I'll do it."

"Mrs Hudson says you handed your keys in to her," Sherlock says. He's trying not to listen to what John's saying. "That isn't conductive to contacting me again."

"Goodbye," John sighs. He sounds more than irritated with him, and it makes Sherlock's spine shiver: it isn't right, for John to sound so distant, so unimpressed. It doesn't fit him well.

John hangs up; the line goes dead. Sherlock listens for a moment longer, as if he might be able to glean further insight from the sound of the dial tone, but nothing comes. As he hurtles further away from London (away from John), he can't help but feel the worry gnawing at his gut: the certainty that this experiment will require far more cleaning up than wiping chemicals from the floor.



Author!anon will be away until Monday, but will carry on when I get back! Thank you guys for the comments: I haven't had time to reply to them, but they are so appreciated.

OP (Anonymous) Expand

Re: Filled: An Experiment, Of Sorts [3b/?]

What kind of an idiot is he, really? Oo
Seems like he just missed a TINY little piece in his whole plan...

Re: Non-con-ilicious angst prompt

(Anonymous)
Hi, I love this slash.
I would like to know if it is ok for me to translate this "an experiment, of sorts" into Chinese....

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