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Sherlock BBC Prompting Meme

"we get all sorts around here."

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prompting part XXIII
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

IMPORTANT! Spoilers for aired episodes are now being allowed on this area of the meme, without warning. If you do not want to encounter spoilers, please prompt at our Spoiler-Free Prompt Post.

+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.

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Everyone is born with the name of their soulmate on their hand.

Oh boy. If someone has John as their soulmate, they'd better hope last names are included.

But seconded. I love this idea.

Also, the name Elizabeth, Jacob, Micheal, Alice, David, Martin, Harry, William, Abigail-


Well, now I'm hoping they wont be, purely for the shenanigans of SO. MANY. JOHNS. XD

oh damn I did not know I wanted this, op you are amazing

...I have an idea for this, OP. But it may take a bit, and though it'll definitely fulfill your prompt, it may approach it slightly differently. Would that be okay?

Totally okay! 8)

I didn't really specify anything at all so I expect fills to be somewhat divergent anyway lol.

On this too!

Yes Yes yes. Oh my gosh I don't even...

Please, someone write this!

FILL: "A Sea Of Millions" 1/2

Read here on my journal, if you'd like.

John Watson’s parents, upon his birth, had stared with perplexity as they looked into the palm of his right hand and, more specifically, the silver, shimmering letters written on it neatly. Sherlock, the letters spelled, and how strange it was, the name of the man who would be John’s soul mate. How strange, indeed.

Sherlock Holmes’ parents, however, had been quite distressed at the silver lettering printed on the inside of the hand of their second son. John, his hand read. How horrid, they thought, it must be to search for a single man in a sea of millions who all match perfectly the only description given.

And how horrid it was, and something Sherlock had always resented. In just about every year of his life he’d met a different John, and had fallen for a few quite hard.

The first time Sherlock had felt so strongly about one of the many Johns in his life was during his first year of high school. He had been paired up for a project with a boy named John Collins. John Collins was lovely, absolutely lovely as well as tremendously funny, and it wasn’t very long at all before Sherlock had himself convinced that he was the John for whom Sherlock had been looking for all the fourteen years of his life.

Sherlock and John had been sitting together on a bench, at a park, chatting about everything teenagers chat about, when Sherlock found it a wonderful opportunity to try and hold John’s hand. As he slipped his fingers into those of the other boy, he was met with a confused look as well as his first small glimpse of the name written on that hand: Sarah.

Sherlock pulled his hand back as if he’d been shocked by an electric wire. “Sherlock, what are you doing?” John asked with his eyebrows raised, and Sherlock could only mutter apologies.

“Oh god, John, I’m so sorry, I’m so, so sorry.”

“What’s gotten into you?”

Sherlock held out his hand silently, suddenly terribly conscious of the name on it.

“Oh,” John mumbled, tremendously awkward, all of a sudden. Sherlock drew his hand back slowly. “I’m… I’m sorry for confusing you, I… I guess.”

“My fault,” Sherlock spouted, panicky. John only nodded, almost numbly, in response.

At seventeen years old, Sherlock worked in a book shop with a boy named John Ross. John Ross was undeniably intelligent, a bit of a bookworm, and nothing at all like the small-minded rest of the population of which Sherlock had grown so bored. He was intriguing and creative, and Sherlock kept himself up many a night imagining how their married life would be. He came easily to the conclusion that it would be nothing short of glorious in every possible way.

Sherlock was glad, at least, to have caught sight of the inside of John’s hand before he tried anything more than friendly. David, it read, and as the letters reached Sherlock’s eyes, despair spread throughout his body and a heaviness set in his broken heart.

The rest of the day was terrible for Sherlock, as he tried to explain time and time again to various people including John Ross that, no, nothing was wrong, that he was perfectly fine. He waited until he got home to truly wonder how he was ever going to find his John.

Sherlock was twenty years old, at university, and in bed under John Milton, the part-time barista at the Starbucks on campus.

As they lay together, after willing their selves and each other to be as calm and collected as they could, John spoke into the silence that had settled. “Sherlock, I’ve got to come clean to you about something.” With that, he held up his hand, and written on it was, Allison.

“Get out,” was all Sherlock could say, and he hissed it with more rage than he’d ever imagined himself to be able to muster. Alone, he hugged his knees to his chest and prayed to a god he didn’t quite believe in for his John to come and sweep him off his feet and away from all of this madness.

FILL: "A Sea Of Millions" 2/2

When Mike Stamford introduced Sherlock to an old friend of his, John Watson, Sherlock didn’t pay much mind to the name, as he’d long trained himself not to.

He treated his new potential flat mate as he would if the man were a Frank, or a Robert, possibly. “Afghanistan or Iraq?” Sherlock asked, after naturally deducing that he had served in the military, and countless other facts about his life, from his limp, his phone, and his posture,. He found himself quite intrigued by John Watson, even as they’d only just met, but he tried with all his might not to let it get to him. There had been so many Johns, this was only another. Nothing different, nothing new. Nothing that could sprout the relationship that Sherlock so desperately craved.

“Is that it?” John Watson asked as Sherlock began to leave the room after spouting at John the details of the flat.

“Is that what?” was Sherlock’s reply.

“We’ve only just met, and we’re going to go look at a flat.” John looked incredulous. Sherlock wasn’t quite sure what to make of that.


John cracked a smile, and it was absolutely beautiful, Sherlock decided. Still, he mustn’t let himself get too carried away. This was just another John, just like all the others, and Sherlock had to remember that. “We don’t know a thing about each other. I don’t know where we’re meeting, I don’t even know your name.”

“I know you’re an army doctor and you’ve been invalided home from Afghanistan…” Sherlock easily as well as eagerly took the opportunity to show off his intelligence, to stun the army doctor, who was very sufficiently stunned when his entire life story was told to him by someone he’d met not five minutes before. He was clearly impressed by Sherlock’s deductions, possibly even more impressed by them than Sherlock was at the life story itself. “That’s enough to be going on with, don’t you think? The name’s Sherlock Holmes-“

“Wait,” says John Watson. “I’m sorry, what?”

This earns a perplexed look from Sherlock as he repeats, “Sherlock Holmes.”

Suddenly, a grin broke out on the doctor’s face that Sherlock was fairly sure could rival even the sun in its brightness and allure. “You’re kidding.”

Sherlock stepped back into the room from where he had been halfway out the door, and closed the door slowly behind him. “What are you talking about?”

In lieu of words, John eagerly held out his right hand, leaning on his cane with the left, and Sherlock swore he could have fainted when he saw the name on it. Sherlock.

Sherlock had found himself glad he hadn’t found his John earlier, as John Watson was certainly the only John for him.

Edited at 2011-12-31 10:41 am (UTC)

OP (Anonymous) Expand

Quick Fill

(Hope you don't mind a short L/S fill too, OP.)

The name Sherlock Holmes was not a good one to be carting around all your life. ‘Too posh for the likes of us,’ his friends would say, imitating their parents, hard-working people with no tolerance for the high-and-mighty. And amongst them were those who had even less tolerance of those who nature had declared should carry a male name

There were times in his life when Greg hated the neatly inscribed ‘Sherlock Holmes’ at the base of his left ring-finger, when he resented the person who unknowingly brought him trouble throughout his life, the person who was supposed to be his soul-mate.

The years passed, and there was no sign of Sherlock. It wasn’t rare; there were whole websites and magazines dedicated to tracking the individual whose name was inscribed into your very skin. Greg remained never resorted to them, though, and covered the marks with a ring, desperate to ignore them and the confusion and grief they had caused.

Greg was certain it was a mistake when a fellow officer called to say they had his soul-mate in the cells and he first saw the arrogant young junkie called Sherlock Holmes. But their hands said it was so, even if their hearts and minds were not yet ready.

It took months forced together by the expectation of those names. Months of arguments and withdrawal, denial and acceptance, tenderness and negotiation. The stories of true, joyous, love at first sight disproved again and again, and in the bad times Greg occasionally wondered why he bothered. It was a hard fought battle, and even by the end it would never be what most would call a fairy-tale love.

But perhaps nature was proved right, because they managed, they got there, and even if what they had wasn’t normal, it was theirs.

OP (Anonymous) Expand
Author (Anonymous) Expand
Re: Quick Fill (Anonymous) Expand

Fill: Handful of Dust 1/?

Title: Handful of Dust

Prompt: Everyone is born with the name of their soulmate on their hand.
Additionally: ...but that doesn’t make love any easier. Fate brings John and Sherlock together even if they weren’t originally destined to be.
Differences from prompt: "Everyone" is now "nearly everyone."

Pairing: John/Sherlock; also John/Mary Morstan, Sherlock/Sebastian Wilkes.

Genre: Slash, het, supernatural, angst.

Trigger warnings for whole fic (spoilers, highlight to read):
Death (not a BBC canon character).
Brief description of a stillborn child.
Graphic description of self-mutilation/engraving (carving a name into skin).
Emotionally deceptive/abusive relationship.
Some cultural homophobia.

Notes: Beta'ing welcome, since I'd like to eventually archive this on my journal and AO3. Also, my headcanon Mary for this is Law!Watson’s Mary, because Kelly Reilly is awesome; of course, go with whatever works for you.

* * *

When Sherlock was born, the back of his hands were as smooth and pink as the rest of him, and his palms showed no discernible letters. When his mother took her son, breathing in relief to have him in her arms, she'd smiled and cooed and finally checked both his hands - twice, three times, gently turning them over to check all around, and down the wrists. Her eyebrows drew together in concern.


He was reassuring. "Some babies take a few days for theirs to appear. Some even months." Less than .1% never had a name appear at all, but no one liked to talk about that.

The extra line on Sherlock Holmes' birth certificate was left blank.


When he was six, Sherlock intricately documented the lines on his hands with paper and pencil. He had no skill for art and the lines were disproportionate, but he was determined to find letters in the pattern -- any letters. Not everyone found their soulmate, but everyone supposedly had one; they were all guided by the names written on them, and the children in the play yard compared.

Not having one was a sentence to years of schoolyard teasing to which Sherlock was not yet resigned.

"Do some people remain nameless in other cultures?" he asked Mycroft, wondering if perhaps his soulmate didn't have a name. "Or perhaps her name’s written in characters I don't recognize." He considered learning to read Chinese, Arabic, or Hebrew. His mother had sent photos of his hands to name-finding organizations who specialized in identifying names written in non-English characters, but they had turned up nothing. One suggested that his soulmate had only a single letter for a name: perhaps an L, V, or Y -- something that appeared naturally in the lines of almost everyone's palm so it wouldn't be obvious. Another made odd lopsided letters, creating lines to produce a name where there was none. A third sent back a pamphlet explaining that his soulmate hadn’t been chosen yet, citing unverifiable sources that when his soulmate was found then the letters would appear.

Sherlock thought they were hacks, even as he scratched out a fine line that might have created a J. He added it to a short list at the top; maybe his letters were just scrambled out of order.

Mycroft frowned and curled his left hand toward his body. Sherlock had never seen the name there, but he knew it was there. Mycroft asked dismissively, "Why does it matter? You're too young to worry about such things."

Fill: Handful of Dust 2/? (Anonymous) Expand
OP (Anonymous) Expand
Re: OP (Anonymous) Expand
Fill: Handful of Dust 3/? (Anonymous) Expand
Fill: Handful of Dust 4/? (Anonymous) Expand
OP (Anonymous) Expand
A second fill because I love this idea, it's Mystrade and you can read it here at my journal if you'd like.

The name of Mycroft’s soul mate, which he is born with written on his hand just as everyone else is, is Greg. It isn’t the most common of names in the world, but it’s nowhere near obscure, so Mycroft doesn’t make much of an effort to find the boy, as he knows he is destined to meet with his Greg someday.

Eighteen years old, Mycroft sits in the kitchen to do schoolwork as well as to get away from his irritating younger brother. The television is on, just above muted and for nothing but background noise. Though, the voice of the newscaster easily catches Mycroft’s attention when she announces, “Gregory Lestrade, seventeen, was hit by a train this morning…”

Mycroft figured that this boy probably isn’t his Greg, he can’t be, but he finds himself interested nevertheless and turns the volume up.

The newscaster tells about Gregory Lestrade’s school and social life. His family is interviewed. They call him Greg, as opposed to Gregory, but Mycroft tries to see nothing of it.

A picture of the boy is displayed, and Mycroft decides that, if Greg Lestrade was his soul mate, he certainly wouldn’t mind it. He’s absolutely lovely, and Mycroft admits to himself that he may be a bit attracted to the boy. But this can’t be his Greg, his soul mate; he’s never met someone with a dead soul mate- that’s just not how it works.

There’s a clip of the family, again, and this time the mother is saying to the camera, “Greg never met his soul mate, but if you’re out there, we’d love to meet you. Mycroft, is the name. Please, Mycroft, would you find us?”

The pencil Mycroft holds shakes in his hand and he releases it, letting it roll off the table and fall to the tile floor with an audible crack as it snaps in half. “God, no, NO,” he mutters to himself because there’s no one around to hear him, and he brueis his face in his hands.

Mycroft realizes then that he can’t look at his hands, can’t think about them. The right one, the one with the silver lettering, seems to sting and tingle and Mycroft just wants to be done with it, damnit, wants to just chop it right off with one of those meat cleavers that he knows are in the kitchen drawer.

That would be much more of an inconvenience than it’s worth, he can see, so instead, in a fit of rage and tears and despair, he takes a knife from that drawer and stands by the counter as, with both hands shaking violently, he makes a slice horizontally across his right palm with his left hand, nerves lighting up, catching fire as the skin splits and blood begins to flow. He makes a vertical split next, then two diagonal to make an eight-sided asterisk that takes up his whole palm.

It hurts like the devil, it’s messier than Mycroft would care for, and Mummy is absolutely horrified when Mycroft shows her and asks her to drive him to the hospital, but it’s all worth it when his hand is stitched up, and around the starfish scar, there is no more silver lettering but specks of gray that look nothing like a name, nothing like a word at all.

As he grows older, Mycroft takes to carrying an umbrella everywhere he goes, just to have something to hold in his hand, to keep people from seeing and, therefore, asking.

Re: FILL: "Starfish" (Anonymous) Expand
Re: FILL: "Starfish" (Anonymous) Expand
OP (Anonymous) Expand
Re: FILL: "Starfish" (Anonymous) Expand
Re: FILL: "Starfish" (Anonymous) Expand

Ordinary -- ( a crappy mormor fill because hey )

Jim Moriarty never thinks much about the name on his hand. Sure, kids in his year at school go on and on about how they're going to find their "Amanda" or their "Matthew" or their "Molly" as much as they wanted, but to Jim, it just seemed... ordinary. So, he seldom trifles with thinking about it. He holds up his hand blankly when anyone asks him, but it doesn't matter. He may never even find this person, and even if he does, he doubts it would really mean as much as everyone says.

Still, he likes the way the name sounds as it rolls of his tongue, in the dead of night when no one's around to see him be so horribly and repulsively ordinary.


Jim doesn't meet many with the name, only a rather annoying banker - "Kelly" emblazoned on his hand, thank the stars. The fact that the name was less than common made the whole ordeal a bit less ordinary, and he was thankful for that, in a way. Besides, he liked the way it sounded... almost like a growl.

So, years and a rising criminal empire later, when he's looking for a new bodyguard, and he comes across a very interesting "Sebastian Moran," he can't help but become a bit curious. He looks into Moran's past, finding whatever scrap of information he can. He finds plenty. Top military sniper. Somehow earned the rank of Colonel within nine years. Dishonorably discharged for shooting at fleeing enemies. Killed a tiger with his bare hands.


The idea of a soulmate steadily becomes less and less ordinary by the second, but in every picture he finds, Jim becomes more and more infuriated with whoever came up with the idea for leather gloves. He can't see Moran's bare hand in any picture he finds.

When he finally approaches the man with a job offer, he introduces himself only as Moriarty, as he's become accustomed to doing. Moran accepts the job almost immediately, as Jim had predicted. He's seen the look in the taller man's eyes before - desperate for something... extraordinary. Hell, he's seen it in the mirror more times than he can count.

Still. Moran's a careful man. He wears those damned gloves everywhere he goes, as if he needs to worry about leaving fingerprints as fucking Tesco. It drives Jim up the wall, but he's not interested enough to tell the other man to take his gloves off. He doesn't care. Not really. ...Right?

Moran works better than any other employee Jim has, and besides that, Jim's not an idiot. He sees the way that the sniper looks at him. Protective. Loyal. And a bit... hungry. Jim decides that he deserves a reward fairly quickly, and it has nothing to do with Moran's first name. None whatsoever. At all.

But as Moran pushes Jim against a wall, his tongue practically cage-fighting his boss's, Jim ignores the pawing hands at the hem of his suit and goes straight for those damn gloves. Fuck clothing, they'll get at that later.

As he sees the silvery name, Jim, and Mor- no, Sebastian's bare, smooth hands move to run down his torso, he decides that he might not mind having a soulmate. After all, there was, quite honestly, very little that was "ordinary" between them.

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