Sherlock BBC Prompting Meme

"we get all sorts around here."


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

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Donovan's prediction comes true. Sherlock finally gets bored enough and of course brings John (at this point more than a little co-dependent and utterly addicted to excitement) along with him and engages in a series of incresingly morally reprehensible vigilantism/serial killings. Mycroft and Lestrade work independantly to try to stop them. Angst!

I would love to see this, especially as John has already been portrayed as able to kill without obvious remorse.

Especially with all the possibilities of the distinctions between Mycroft and Lestrade's approaches to the case.

I might give this a go myself if I can crack Sherlock's voice :)

Scorched Earth, Part One

My name is Sherlock Holmes. It is my business to know what other people don't know.

The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle


A complex mind. All great criminals have that.

Sherlock Holmes, The Adventure of the Illustrious Client


I know, my dear Watson, that you share my love of all that is bizarre and outside the conventions and humdrum routine of everyday life.

The Red Headed League



"I should not think that there is any point in struggling, Mr Campbell. I handcuffed you to the chair for a reason. So unless you're willing to break both your thumbs and to try to fight me with the mangled remains of your hands, I suggest that you become amenable to conversation."


There are two chairs in this room. Campbell is cuffed to one, Sherlock Holmes sits in the other. His legs are crossed, languidly, and he holds a serrated knife in his long, pale fingers. The light flashes off the blade the way it shines off his teeth: with terrifying bloodlust.


"I'm not fuckin' telling you anything."


"Do you know how many people have said that to me over the past few months? No? I do. Care to enlighten him, John?"


Another voice comes out of the dark, from beside Sherlock's elbow.


"Thirty seven."


"Yes, that's right. Thirty seven. And how many of them have we killed, John?"


A man steps forward into the light. He's shorter than the man in the chair with the knife in his hands and the savage smile. He's shorter, stockier, and he has a gun in his hand. He face is carefully blank, and just as frightening as Sherlock's. More so, even. There's a light in his eyes that burns, that will never go out.


"All of them, Sherlock."


"Indeed, John."


Capmbell's eyes widen, almost imperceptibly, but they both catch it.


"Ah. Are you going to be the one that sees the light and co-operates? We've been hoping for such a long time to finally find the one that will."


"I can't - it'll be so much worse if - there's nothing you can do to me that'll be as bad -"


"Ah," says Sherlock, "I see that our hopes were in vain. What a pity. Although I doubt that you were right about the "bad" part. John, if you would care to do the honours."


The man beside Sherlock moves his face for the first time, half-smiles, and says, "Actually, I think it's your turn, Sherlock. I did the last one, remember? Out that window?"


"Of course," says Sherlock, "I did remember. I just thought you might like to try that shiny new gun of yours."


"Very much so, but a turn's a turn. It's your go. Sorry, Mr Campbell. You'd have been better off with me."


Sherlock looks to John, beams a wide, entirely horrifying grin at him, and, turning, back to Campbell, says, "He's right, you know. He likes guns. Things that kill you quickly. I'm more of a knife man myself."


He lifts his arm, slams it down, and the spray of arterial blood is really quite impressive.


When he's done, cleaning his hands, John puts his hand on Sherlock's back and says, "I'm sorry."


"For what?" says Sherlock, his voice terse, his eyes focused on cleaning red from under his fingernails.

Scorched Earth, Part One (b)

"That we're not getting anywhere. That they never talk."


"Don't be silly, John," says Sherlock, "his shoes told me more than his tongue ever could. Not that either will be of much use to him now."


"Yes," says John, "that thing you did really was rather clever. But we need to leave now."


"I know. Average police response time is twelve minutes maximum, and his screaming was very loud. Time to go."


There's nothing left of them, by the time the police arrive.


Nothing but a mutilated body and a note, pinned to the forehead of the corpse.


You think you can catch us, it reads.


Wrong.

****
 
Six months earlier.


It is a frequent nightmare of every police officer that has ever worked with Sherlock Holmes.


What if?


When Lestrade lies awake at night, when he can't sleep, it's a question that he frequently ruminates upon. 


Lestrade marvels, sometimes, that Sherlock chooses to work with him.


Not in the, "How can he bear to spend so much time with me, a bear of little brain?" way, no. 


Why does he work with the police, and not against them?


He would run rings around them, wrap them up in knots, turn them against each other, and run into the night, laughing all the way. Everyone who works with Sherlock is aware of it, to some extent - for Anderson, it shows itself in outright hatred, for Donovan, uncreative insults, and for Lestrade - well, Lestrade just does all he can to keep Sherlock on their side. Because he is horribly, painfully aware of what an unbeatable opponent Sherlock Holmes would make, if he ever put his mind to it - Lestrade and his team would provide as much challenge as a gnat in a woolly jumper, from Sherlock's lofty point of view.


Perhaps that is the reason. Why he hasn't tossed them aside and gone to find new, less legal toys to play with. It would be too easy.


How can you trust a man who is only on the side of the law, and a higher law above that, higher than any law in England could ever be, only because it prevents him from being bored?


Lestrade always wonders, though. What would push him over the edge?


There aren't many people that Sherlock loves.


Two, perhaps three, at most. Those three little lives, all that stands between London and utter destruction.


But it's late and he's so tired, now is not the time for these dark musings, so Lestrade pushes these thoughts from his head and turns over to sleep.


There'll be another of those murders in the morning, no doubt.


In the weeks to come, he will remember his idle speculation. He will remember, and want to tear the very flesh from his bones.


They're going to lose so much, these men.

***

Scorched Earth, Part One (c)

It has been a quiet morning, at 221b Baker Street.


John has been reading the papers, a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth, when he recognises cases that they assisted on.


Sherlock's in the kitchen, muttering to himself. There is occasional clanking that John forces himself not to go and investigate.


Their latest case has been slow, a genuine serial killer this time - psychological motivation, sexual gratification involved, a cooling-off period in between the crimes - but he hasn't made that crucial mistake yet, the one that will lead Sherlock right to his door.


All they can do is wait. Wait for another twenty-something blonde girl to die, raped and brutally beaten then dumped in an alleyway like she's worthless, like she's nothing.


Sherlock might find serial killers exciting, but they make John feel ill, knowing that all the can do is wait, that another life has to be lost before they can catch this man. ( And it is a man, this they do know.) He's a doctor, it's been his life's prerogative to save lives, and he hates this. He hates it almost more than he can bear.


Sherlock comes in from the kitchen, and John says, "Any progress?"


Sherlock scowls, though he stares at the wall where he's pinned all his photographic evidence, and says, distantly, "Regrettably, no."


Sherlock's just sitting down to drink his now-cold-tea when Lestrade bounds up the stairs, two at a time, flings the door open and says the words that will change everything.


"Sherlock, your brother, John, your sister - you need to come with me right now."


Looking back, John knows that this is when something within Sherlock snapped. 


He doesn't mind when they come after him, is always furious when they come after John, but that's part of the job - but Mycroft and Harry?


They're civilians. They're off-limits. They're theirs to touch, and no-one else's.


John knows that this was the moment.


Not later, when they're in the police car, and Sherlock takes John's hand in his for the first time. That was a long time coming, all it took was for the levee to break, for there to be nothing left to be destroyed. They have nothing left to lose, now. That's what makes them so dangerous.


Not later, when they stand beside Mycroft's bedside, and Sherlock touches his brother for the first time in eight years, a gloved hand gently pressed to his forehead. At least Mycroft's in a coma. Harry wasn't so lucky.

Scorched Earth, Part One (d)

Not later, when they go to the morgue, so John can identify Harry's body. She's whole, a small bullet wound in her temple, there's that, John will at least give them that. But that's his sister lying cold and dead on an ME's slab, and although the bonds between them were shaky they were never broken. John knows know that nothing can ever break them, ever will. Not even death. And death cannot be forgiven.


No, this is the moment, when their eyes meet and they know. They know.


Lestrade lets them go back to the flat, eventually, and from downstairs they can hear the faint sounds of Mrs Hudson crying.


John's voice catches in his throat, he is so nervous, as he forces himself to try and speak the words he's been so frightened to say, "Sherlock, I - "


Sherlock interrupts him with the wave of a hand, "No, John. Don't. You don't need to. It doesn't even need to be said."


John nods in understanding, and Sherlock says, "Are you ready?"


John blinks at him, confused, and asks, "For what?"


Sherlock smiles his predatory smile and says, "For everything. To take on the world. To win. To lose. For vengeance."


"Oh, God yes."


"I thought as much. Get your gun, we'll be leaving immediately."


John, ever the ready soldier, was already halfway to the door before Sherlock even opened his mouth. He knows that they need weapons now, and little else.


"I like the sound of that."


"I thought you would. Leave the safety off."


John walks back into the room, shoving the gun down the back of his trousers as he does so.


"I like the sound of that even better."


Sherlock puts an arm on his shoulder, leans in, and says, "I think I know something you'll like even more."


He whispers a few carefully chosen words in John's ear, and John clenches his jaw in anticipation.


"Told you," says Sherlock, "I'm always right."


They leave without even bothering to lock the door.

Re: Scorched Earth, Part One (d)

(Anonymous)
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

OP here. I love you so much for this! I am biting my fist in utter suspense here!

Re: Scorched Earth, Part One (d)

Oh my word, this looks like it's going to be so exciting!

Re: Scorched Earth, Part One (d)

Oh, please please please tell me you're going to continue this!

Re: Scorched Earth, Part One (d)

(Anonymous)
I should not find this as hot as I do. But oh God, do I ever. It's so thrilling to read.

It is so very brilliant; I love that taking their loved ones away is what breaks them, what pushes them over the edge, and that they're not just randomly killing people (them, that wouldn't fit, it would be terribly OOC) but they're... hunting. Lestrade's reaction to what they do will undoubtedly be interesting to see.

(and! completely random but the excessive capitalization in the first part - not bad at all - makes me think of the lettering in the Sandman comics. which makes for a cool effect because I keep imagining this as a comic drawn and lettered in that style in my head.)

Tracking the stuffing out of this. I hope you'll find inspiration to continue. :>

Re: Scorched Earth, Part One (d)

Is there more to this? Please tell me there's more! It is fabulous and I have to know what's next!

Captcha: resident atinting. Watson does not approve of your poor knowledge of medical staff titles.

Re: Scorched Earth, Part One (d)

oooo oh oooo, yeah, wow, like. I'm spinning a bit here, very nice!

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