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

OP (Anonymous) Expand

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....

  • 1
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