Sherlock BBC Prompting Meme

"we get all sorts around here."

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prompting part XXII
Giggles at the Palace

Important note regarding spoilers.

Please check the Sticky Post to find the newest active part and post your prompts there.

+Anon posting is most definitely allowed, but not required.
+All kinds of fills are accepted! Fic, art, vids, cosplay, interpretive dance--whatever. Go wild! :D
+Keep things neat! Read prompts before you post to see if something similar has already been done, and while you are encouraged to prompt as much as you like, try to fill as well.
+Please do not re-post prompts unless the last time they were prompted was on an older part. Simply put: ONE posting of each prompt per part.
+RPF (real person fic, i.e. fic involving the actors themselves) is not supported at this meme.
+Depending on the rate of activity, there may or may not be a prompt freeze when a part reaches 2000 and 4500 comments.
+However, there will be one when it reaches 7000. Also at 7000, after the freeze a new part will be posted, and all prompting should happen on the new part.
+Multiple fills are encouraged! :) Just because a prompt has already been claimed or written by someone, do not be afraid to offer up a second fill.
+re: hijacking.

Please refrain from hijacking a prompt. Hijacking may be defined as responding to a prompt by taking a portion of it and adding your own ideas about what should be added, changed or eliminated. In addition, commenting with off topic jokes or chatter.

By hijacking, the focus of the prompt can be lost, and inappropriate threads created. By doing this fillers may be discouraged which is something no one wants to experience.

If a prompt leads you to an original idea, please create your own prompt. The chatter or love posts are the proper places to share jokes or talk about prompts that have inspired you.
(prepared by anonymous)

Put links to your fills here. There are instructions on the actual post. I ask that if the part you wanted isn't up yet, just wait and one of the archivists will get to it, but please, once it is up, please make sure you post your fills there according to the guidelines. DO NOT skip out on doing this because it seems like too much effort.
Do not be afraid to ask questions about how it works if you are confused! The mods would be happy to explain.

Your mods for this meme are snowishness, marill_chan and ellie_hell. If you have any questions, concerns, comments about anything at all on the meme feel free to send a PM or contact us via the Page-A-Mod post.

Please consider warning for triggery prompts (and also for fills, because some people read in flat view) and phrasing prompts in a manner that strives to be respectful.

Things which you might want to consider warning for include: Rape/Non-Con, Death, Suicidal Thoughts, Self-Harm, Underage Relationships, among others.

That being said, this is a kink meme. As such, there will be prompts that could offend you in a number of different ways. Not every prompt will have a trigger warning, and not every prompt will rub you the right way. If you have an issue with a specific prompt, feel free to bring it up in a discussion that takes place off the meme. However, flaming will not be tolerated regardless of origin.
You are highly encouraged to scroll right past a prompt that you dislike.

Remember, guys; Be civil, be friendly, but don’t be shy!

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S/J soulmate!fic


“If a clock could count down to the moment you meet your soul mate, would you want to know?”

Everyone has a clock, either installed by futuristic machines or they're born with one, idk just roll with it

Re: S/J soulmate!fic

Here is a verse with infinite potential for heartbreak (or epic romance). Seconded.

Re: S/J soulmate!fic

Oh wow, I really like this idea! Thirded ^-^

Have you seen the movie TiMER? It's a lot like this...

Because this stayed stuck in my head due to brilliance; I give you fill.


The clock is implanted when the baby in three weeks old, and takes a further five to eight days to come online. Then it’s just a matter of waiting for the countdown to reach zero. The clocks are accurate to one tenth of a minute.

People live for the moment their clock shows naught. For the moment they find their soul-mate – because that’s what the clocks were invented for; so people could find the one person they’d be happiest with.
Well, maybe soul-mate is not quite accurate.

The proper term – the one that’s used in textbooks and on the telly – is ‘life partner’. The general term is ‘soul-mate’, mostly because the rate of people ending up in romantic relationships with their life partners in ninety-eight to one-hundred. The term that is the closest to describing it is ‘perfect match’.

There are hundreds of documented cases of the relationships between life partners. Most are romantic; a portion are simply the closest of friends (there was a set of twins who were born life-partners – best friends till the day they died). There are only two cases recorded, since the invention of the clocks, where life partners were enemies – both cases came to a dreadful end.


John has waited closer to five decades now, and every day since he got back from the war his heart has been beating faster as the numbers become lower and lower. When it happens, though, he’s barely paying attention.

Mike was showing him through a much-changed Saint Bart’s with the promise of a potential flat mate. The man, when he is introduced, is Sherlock Holmes, and it’s not until he’s reaching over to give Sherlock his phone that John notices his clock, and freezes. A second later his head has snapped up and he’s staring at Sherlock, who is looking back at him with the strangest, most delighted look in his eyes that John has ever seen, and he suspects that he looks very much the same.

Sherlock is also grinning like a madman, “Well met, John Watson. Shall we go and have a look at the flat tomorrow, then?”
John smiles back “Yeah. What time did you have in mind?”

OP flailing

this is perfect and beautiful and my heart is atwitter and this is just what I needed to fix this horrible horrible day thank you <3

Re: Ticking to Zero 1/1

This is adorable. Love the idea. And of course John and Sherlock are soulmates. :)

Re: Ticking to Zero 1/1

There's been so much angst lately, and so many angsty fics and angsty prompts, I was starting to think it might be best for me to take a break from the meme because it was triggering a serious descent into full-blown depression. This fic makes me glad I didn't. Thank you for writing such a lovely take on J/S as soulmates. Gorgeous.

Re: Ticking to Zero 1/1

Both the prompt and the fill were lovely, absolutely fascinating! I love how this fandom never tires of re-imagining that first meeting :D

Wonderful job, I adored it!

Re: Ticking to Zero 1/1

This is wonderful! I really like the way you've described the moment of realization between Sherlock/John. :D

Re: Ticking to Zero 1/1

<3 Perfect match is right.

(Deleted comment)

Re: Ticking to Zero 1/1


Fill #2: Blue Veins 1/4

Such an awesome prompt - I hope no one minds another fill! :D

It’s considered impolite to leave your wrist bare, to show the world the numbers etched in your veins, making, as they do, the social niceties of each day fraught with implication. Cuffs, wristbands, watches, bangles – there’s a whole fashion industry around it. As he dresses, John glances at his dresser where, tucked in one corner, is the familiar military-issue identification cuff.

Ripstop canvas with a fine, embedded metal mesh, his name, company, and blood type stamped on the metal plate on top, two snaps to secure it in place. He’s unsnapped dozens off of limp, bloodless wrists, recording the tiny numbers before the blood drains away and they fade.

He never knows what to hope for in those cases – zeroes mean there’s likely someone at home, waiting, someone to notify, someone whose heart will be broken and whose numbers will never reset. But if there’s time left, years and months and days and hours and minutes and seconds frozen at the instant of death, it’s sometimes worse. Because somewhere else in the world, another set just froze, and another person is about to feel the sudden chill of loneliness, the heartbreak of what will never be. Their numbers might reset – or they might not.

He pulls his gaze away, settling it firmly on the top of his wrist. Numbers down, he holds out his hands, one after another, to button his cuffs. This is how he hides it now: checked shirt, buttoned securely, down the wrists, up the neck, jumper then jacket. Layers, armour.

He leaves just to get out. Nowhere to go, now, no mission to accomplish or job to be done. He walks as far as he can bear, until the real pain in his phantom wound aches and forces him to retreat, to fall back. He eats a perfunctory but filling meal and sits at his desk. He stares at his computer and doesn’t write in his blog.

The flat is quiet and lonely. When he showers, he doesn’t look at his wrist.


Life works in mysterious ways, as the phrase goes, and so there’s nothing straightforward about the way the clocks work. For some, the timer counts down to a meeting, a thrill of discovery as eyes catch and hands touch. Others will wake with a pulse of realization, knowing suddenly that the person wrapped in their arms, or in the next room, or across town, is the person. For some, he knows, it stops, never fading, when the one they haven’t even met or the love they haven’t yet discovered is wrenched from the world.

Doctors are some of the few who see other’s numbers, sometimes at routine examinations, but all too often at the moment of death. Wristtime is always recorded alongside time of death and, unofficially, those in the medical field place each patient into categories. Naughts for those carrying a row of zeros, misses for the stopped clocks, arrested in time. There are resets and multis and even urban myths of blanks – rare individuals born without numbers at all. Opinions vary on the nature of such people; poor sods, some say, psychopaths say others.

Fill #2: Blue Veins 2/4

John’s seen many numbers in his day, small tangles of capillaries, the formation of digits created by microscopic valves controlling the flow of deoxygenated blood. He’s even seen the instant, once, the moment when one’s clock ticks to zero. It’s said to feel like a pulse of blood through the body, like for a second your heartbeat is twice its strength.

He’d brought home his girlfriend for Christmas. They’d been dating for a few months only but he knew, from peeks at her wrist in the lazy, quiet moments after sex, that her clock was winding down. His own had years still, but he carefully hid that from Clara. She had soft eyes and a sinful laugh.

When she and Harry shook hands, Clara shivered and couldn’t let go and John knew.

He’d seen, too, the moment when the numbers didn’t zero when they should have. That broke his heart far more.

The dry desert winds shook the canvas sides of the hospital tent. A body lay in front of him, placed on a cot only a moment ago, clothing crimson with blood. John reached for the soldier’s wrist and checked the ident plate: Lt D Whitaker. With a deep breath, he unsnapped the band and steeled himself. 00:00:00:00:55:27. Less than an hour. John frowned, rubbed the skin with his thumb. Still warm; his life pulled out of him only fifty minutes ago so the numbers were still vivid blue, not yet faded. But how - ?

John was still wondering moments later when jostled by another man rushing past him, falling to his knees next to Whitaker, grasping the body’s blood-stained right hand. The pale stripe where the band had been seemed vividly, starkly white against the blood.

“God, Daniel, oh god, oh god, you can’t, don’t, please.” His voice was hoarse, pleading, his armour strapped on clumsily like he’d thrown it in place while running. He looked up at John, tears marking his face, and John’s breath caught in his throat.

He thought of near-misses, of bullets knocked off course. If this one had torn through Whitaker just an inch to the right, into his armour rather than sneaking through the tiny sliver of unexposed flesh under his arm, he might have lived. Might have lived for this moment, for this man clutching his hand like it was the only thing keeping him alive. Might have felt the pulse as his time struck zero, realization washing away the pain and the fear.

The numbers can’t guarantee happiness, reciprocity, or even fidelity. They’re just a fact of life. Some people are even born with two, one on each wrist, with enough love to share twice over. Some have their numbers tick down but their love never returned, the zeroes on their wrists an aching reminder. Others still have many in their lifetime, the numbers resetting as lovers die, as spouses drift apart, as love cools. It’s not always about sex, or marriage; there’s companionship, friendship, love that fits no existing labels.

Partners – soulmates, some romantics say – don’t always zero out at the same time, even, as people grow and change and fall in love at different rates. It’s all enough to keep hope alive, to let people date and marry and flirt and wonder when the numbers will align.


OP (Anonymous) Expand
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