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Sherlock BBC Prompting Meme

"we get all sorts around here."

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Prompting Part XXXII
Giggles at the Palace
Please check the Sticky Post to find the newest active part and post your prompts there.

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When you fill a prompt, please use the appropriate Filled Prompts Post to archive your fill (there are instructions on the actual post).

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, 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. If you want your fill to make it to the Delicious archive, that’s the way to do it.

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Please consider warning for prompts that may trigger people (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.

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Please nest your fills. Doing so will make it easier for archivists to save your fills to the Delicious archive. Using subject lines will also help people reading the meme in flatview keep track of what’s happening. Finally, titling your fills (even if it’s something silly) will be helpful to those tracking a lot of prompts or scrolling through the 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. After the 7000 comments freeze, a new part will be posted, and all prompting should happen on the new part.

Your mods for this meme are ellie_hell, charname, anonspock and anonbach. 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.

Pinboard Archive - Delicious Archive - Guide to the Archive
Filled Prompts Posts: Parts 1-23 - Parts 24+ - Spoiler Free
The Glorious FAQ - Page-A-Mod

Flat View of This Page - Newest Page in Flatview - Newest Page of the Meme

Love Post  - Chatter Post - Searching Post
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Links to previous prompting parts

sherlock_rant: A place to rant about or discuss anything with few to no restrictions.
sherlock_rpf: This is a kinkmeme for RPF about the show.
sherlockcrit: A multi-fandom betaing/concrit community, with a focus on BBC Sherlock.
sherlockbbc: A community dedicated to the BBC adaptation of Sherlock Holmes.
Useful resources for Sherlock and LiveJournal.
Sherlock screencaps.

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Warning! Triggers McTriggory!

Sherlock is a zoophile. He gets busted visiting a brothel that caters to those with unusual tastes.

Bonus points for a serious take on the subject, and a lack of jokes about sheep.

Re: Warning! Triggers McTriggory!

I love you, Anon.


Re: Warning! Triggers McTriggory!

Hey, OP---I just had a quick question for you!

I've started working on a fill, but in my usual (incredibly embarrassing) fashion, I seem to have veered rather off prompt. I've got Sherlock as a zoophile and it is indeed a serious take on the subject, because you really sparked my interest, but he doesn't seem to be likely to go visiting a brothel any time soon.

Would you still be interested in seeing the fill once I've finished it?

Re: Warning! Triggers McTriggory!

OP here.

Answer is 'hell yes' with an addendum of 'I love you'.

FILL: What We Have Tamed (1/4)

"What does that mean---tame?"

"It is an act too often neglected," said the fox. "It means to establish ties."

"To establish ties?"

"Just that," said the fox. "To me, you are still nothing more than a little boy who is just like a hundred thousand other little boys. And I have no need of you. And you, on your part, have no need of me. To you, I am nothing more than a fox like a hundred thousand other foxes. But if you tame me, then we shall need each other. To me, you will be unique in all the world. To you, I shall be unique in all the world."

---Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince


Sherlock finds her half-curled in a puddle of snow-melt, her side rising shallowly with every breath. He's about to pick her up for closer inspection when Mycroft tugs at the back of his jumper.

"How many times must I tell you, Sherlock? We don't touch dead things with our bare hands."

Sherlock wriggles out of his grip and glares. "She isn't dead, Mycroft. She's been abandoned."

"Well, then she is likely the runt of the litter and just as like to die with or without your intervention," Mycroft says, the impatience obvious in his tone. He taps his umbrella smartly against the path. "Come along, we're late for supper as it is."

"I don't care about supper," Sherlock mutters. She will die out here, if what Mycroft said is true, without anyone to feed or warm her. Sherlock scuffs his heel against the pavement. "My laces are undone."

Mycroft responds with an exaggerated sigh. "You know perfectly well how to tie them on your own."

He strides on as Sherlock crouches down. There's nothing wrong with his laces, but Mycroft's attention to detail never did fare particularly well when faced with the prospect of a dinner party. Sherlock gives him one last glance before scooping up the tiny fox kit. He smuggles her away in his pocket, taking care not to jostle her as he catches up with Mycroft.

They walk up to the gates in silence. Sherlock can't help reaching into his pocket to ensure that she's still breathing, curled up in there. He smiles when she huffs a wet little breath against his hand to clear her lungs.

"You're a terrible liar," Mycroft says, once they reach the door. "And too soft-hearted by half."

"You would have left her to die."

"Yes, and with good reason. If you've any sense at all, you'll put it back where you found it, or drown it in the bathtub."

His free hand balls into a fist. "Is that what you wanted to do to me?"

Mycroft's smile is flat and cruel. "We are responsible forever for what we have tamed, Sherlock. You would do well to remember that."


Supper is tedious. Sherlock excuses himself halfway through under the pretense of stomach upset, ignoring Mycroft's disapproving stare. That's all Mycroft is made for---disapproval and casual cruelty. He's been fed a steady diet of it and it may have made his coat sleek and pleasing, but his insides are gritty and tumorous with hatred.

He filches a bottle of milk from the kitchen and a handful of flannels from the linen cupboard before retreating upstairs to the nursery. The kit stirs into wakefulness once he pulls her from his pocket. She's scarcely larger than his hand and clearly no more than hours old. Her eyes are still closed, as he knew they would be. They'll be closed for days yet, if she lives that long.

He steadies the bottle of milk between his knees so he can dip the flannel into it, wetting just the corner before holding it to the kit's mouth. It doesn't take, but then it is cold. Not at all like mother's milk.

Re: FILL: What We Have Tamed (2/4)

He lays her carefully atop the duvet so he can remove his shirt, using it to wrap her in. He holds her shivering body against the warm skin of his chest and takes a sip of milk, swirling it around in his mouth before letting it soak into a second corner of the flannel. This time, she begins to suckle weakly, making little warbling sounds in her throat.

Sherlock strokes her with his free hand as she drinks her fill. She's very beautiful. He can see that now that she's dried off a bit. Her coat is dark, but he knows it won't stay that way. In a few weeks, she'll burst into resplendent red, or perhaps one of the more minor morphs. Silver, maybe. Once she's finished feeding, she burrows up into his armpit and huffs. It's early yet, but he thinks she may have imprinted on him already.

His must be the first human hands to touch her. The thought sends a peculiar sensation rippling through his belly.


He pores over Father's old texts for a week looking for names before settling on 'Sigrid'. It suits.

The trick with the flannel and the milk bottle only works for short time before it becomes clear that he needs a more efficient delivery system. With a little planning, it's simple enough to cobble together one of his own that lets Sigrid curl into the soft flesh of his belly, just as if she's taking suck from her mother. She likes it when he pets her with the old rabbit pelt he found in the attic, especially when she feeds, to mimic the crowding of other kits.

At fifteen days, her eyes open and she begins to respond to his voice. When Sigrid nips at his fingers, he can feel her sharp little teeth beginning to erupt. Sherlock finds her endlessly fascinating---the way she grows, the way she lies next to him in the lamplight, staring back at him with wide, milky blue eyes like two tiny moons against the ash of her wooly coat.

He steps out of the nursery after giving Sigrid her third feeding of the day and finds Mycroft waiting for him.

"You didn't heed my advice, I take it."

Sherlock tries to duck past him, but Mycroft has him cornered.

"How long do you think you'll be able to keep her like this, Sherlock?" His breath is hot and foul. Sherlock turns his face away. "She's a wild thing, not a pet. She'll soon grow tired of your coddling. An animal does not hesitate to bite the hand that feeds."

"You're wrong."

"Do you truly believe that?"

Sherlock grinds his teeth together. "Let me go, Mycroft."

Finally, he steps aside. Sherlock loops back around to grab Sigrid, tucking her under his shirt for the trip downstairs. They'll be safe soon, when Mycroft leaves for Cambridge, but that's still a week out.

It terrifies him to think how much could happen in a week. He pushes it out of his mind.

He's been meaning to try her on solid food now that her teeth have begun to come in. That she's half-asleep doesn't stop her from scrambling to get up against his heart, where the blood runs hottest. Keeping her warm is more difficult than keeping her fed, he's found. She's still completely unable to thermoregulate on her own, but they're managing well enough with a hot water bottle.

He's been saving scraps for her all week, carefully hidden away in the icebox. Sherlock steals them upstairs with Sigrid's wet little nose rubbing against his sternum.

The moment Sherlock closes the door behind them, Sigrid barks from under his shirt, the several syllable string he's learned to associate with her requests for attention. He fetches her back out, bringing her up to his face to feel the softness of her fur against his cheek. She licks him with another little yip, wriggling in his hands. He closes his eyes and presses his face into her fur, just breathing.

Her warm fur has a wash of milkiness, the way infants smell, and a touch of violet. It isn't strong now, but Sherlock knows it will be, once her scent glands fully mature and she begins wanting to mark his territory for her own.

His belly swirls again, almost uncomfortable. He ignores it. He's become very good at that.


Re: FILL: What We Have Tamed (3/4)

Sherlock breathes easier when Mycroft is finally gone and Mummy resumes her policy of benevolent neglect. It leaves him more time to play with Sigrid, whose eyes are beginning to make the shift from blue to deep, burnished gold. He's been catching game for her to hunt in the safe confines of what he's come to think of as their den. Frogs are the easiest and also, it seems, the least interesting to Sigrid, but he manages a squirrel or a vole every now and then and watches her demolish them with relish.

He considers it an honor of the highest privilege that she brings her kills to him. None of it has been to his liking, taste-wise, but Sigrid seems content regardless of whether he eats what she kills or not.

It's somewhat of a mystery how she sees their relationship, in terms of hierarchy, but Sherlock isn't overly bothered by the imprecision.

That isn't what keeps him up at night.

He has a hypothesis, about the odd sensations he's been having. They've been more and more frequent, to the point of distraction. He can't afford that kind of distraction.

Sigrid rolls around on her rabbit fur while Sherlock strips off his clothes. No one is likely to bother them, but he bars the nursery door with a chair as an extra precaution, before climbing onto the bed and lying on his side. Sigrid bounds over and licks his chin with a yap. He strokes her back, her eyes warm and bright as he pulls her against his chest.

A sigh escapes him at the brush of fur, involuntary. Sigrid's ears perk up at the sound. Her hearing is exquisitely sensitive. She flicks her ears quizzically and he smiles.

"It's all right," he assures her. "I'm not hurt."

She settles back down with her muzzle pressed into his belly. He slides a tentative hand past her, pausing at his hip. He swallows hard, heart leaping into his throat. It's maddening, now, the wrenching in his stomach, when he can smell her and feel her against him. Her breathing drowns out his pounding heart, until it's all he can hear.


Her head pops up at her name. Sherlock scratches behind her ear with the one hand, the other slipping down between his legs. He chews at his lip, not wanting to frighten her with any sudden sounds, but she's very well attuned to him. She gives a soft, high whine that sends a shiver rocketing down his spine. He squeezes himself, breathing hard through his nose as she does it again and rolls onto her back, exposing her soft underbelly.

She's months away from estrus, but the show of submission could not be more plain. His eyes drift down past her belly. He's looked at her here, but only briefly to confirm her sex. Anything else would have been sordid. Not that there's much to see---little more than a delicate pink slit, mostly obscured by soft tufts of fur. Still, it's been enough to make him wake up sticky and sweat-covered most mornings.

Sherlock brings his fingers up to his mouth, wetting them with saliva before bringing them back to gently stroke her vulva. His cock throbs at the velvet feel of her. Warm urine dribbles out against his fingertips, coupled with another soft whine from Sigrid.

His hand trembles as he brings it toward his face, unable to keep from jamming his fingers in his mouth. It occurs to him that she's just staked her claim on him. He belongs to her now. He's been tamed.

The thought prompts him to ejaculate messily into his other hand.

Once the aftershocks have quieted, Sherlock rolls onto his back. Sigrid leaps onto him and settles on his naked belly, head resting on her forepaws. He offers his fingers to her, feeling the heat rise in his face when she laps at his semen.

"I like the way you taste, too," he tells her, breathless, as she stares at him with warm, honey eyes.

They belong to one another now. Under her watchful gaze, Sherlock slips into sleep.


Something is wrong, but Sherlock hasn't a clue what it could be. All he knows is that Sigrid hasn't been comfortable for days. He's tried taking her outside, but she refuses to hunt, even down by the pond she's grown to love. She only twines herself around his ankles and folds her ears down against her head, unwilling to go more than a few feet from him.

Re: FILL: What We Have Tamed (4/5) ---whoops, miscounted!

The moment he enters the nursery, she trots over to him with a sound he's never heard before. He sits on the bed and she leaps up into his lap, raising herself up on her hind legs and resting her forepaws on his shoulders.

"What's the matter?" he asks, as she nuzzles his cheek. "Tell me what it is."

With a whine, she begins to lick at his mouth. It's not kissing, not really, but he likes the rough stroke of her pink tongue when he opens his mouth to it. His cock swells as she licks at his teeth. He pets her, her tail flicking rapidly as he strokes her spine. Something dribbles out onto his trousers. Urine, he thinks, assuming Sigrid is just marking him, but when he looks, it's tinged pink.

It's only November---far too early to start carrying kits---but she seems to have gone into estrus early. No wonder she's so opposed to leaving his side.

He tries to soothe her as best as he can while he undresses, as quickly as he can manage, but she's still near panic by the time he finishes and coaxes her onto her back. Her vulva is red and swollen, engorged with blood. Her heat makes it prominent, easy to spot. He rubs her belly and she whines.

"Shhh," he murmurs. "It's all right."

She'll be very tender at this stage, he knows. He lowers himself onto his stomach and props up his head enough to lick her with his tongue. It's only the second or third time he's been able to stimulate her orally. When Sigrid rolls over for him, it's most often his fingers she expects and appreciates, but he supposes his tongue feels right to her, given what the heat has prepared her for.

The taste of her is like nothing he's ever experienced, entirely different from when he's held his mouth against her vulva before. She's muskier, now, and a little coppery with blood, but such a description falls woefully short of accurately describing the way she floods his senses and makes his prick swell to the point of bursting.

When she rolls away from his mouth, he licks the last of it from his lips, the taste lingering on his tongue.

Sigrid holds her tail high and Sherlock's mouth dries up. Obvious, what she wants, but he doesn't want to hurt her. He'd love nothing more than to fill her, to rock his penis gently inside her vaginal canal until he came, but it can't happen, no matter how much he wants to be able to feel her on the inside, the way he's dreamed about.

He settles for gripping his shaft and lining up the head of his penis with her swollen little vulva. Even if he weren't awash in pre-come, she'd be more than slippery enough for him to frot gently against her. He moves the head with slow, circular motions, and even that feels like unbearable ecstasy. He can hardly breathe, every exhalation coming out as a moan, his hips rocking back and forth as he slides against her vulva.

Tentatively, he tries pushing at the entrance of her vagina, to see if she might be able to accommodate him. To his surprise---and his delight---the head of his penis breaches her easily, but she's too shallow to accommodate any more of him than that. He can already feel her cervix against his slit. The thought makes him shudder, his toes curled tightly under him.

His teeth sink hard into his lip as he tries to hold back his moans at being inside her, however shallowly. Sherlock listens to her soft whining, rubbing her belly as he rocks his penis inside her, breeding her. His face is wet with the tears leaking out of his eyes with the effort to stay quiet.

It's over too quickly. All too soon, he's trying to extract his soft penis from her. Semen gushes out around him, falling onto the duvet in gobs, and suddenly nothing feels right. It's the tie, he thinks. She'll be expecting one and he doesn't have one to give her. His penis swells and then deflates upon climax, without any knotting.

He isn't made for being inside her.

Re: FILL: What We Have Tamed (5/5)

Sherlock scrubs his eyes and lies back on the bed. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"

For some reason, the question sends a fresh, hot gush of tears down his cheeks, even as Sigrid nips affectionately at his fingers and curls up under his arm with her nose beneath her tail. Estrus is meant to span up to three weeks, with the first several days given to mating. He doesn't know if Sigrid will be like that, now that she's gone into estrus early.

He doesn't know anything about how things will be, in the coming days.


Sherlock is afraid to touch Sigrid, even when her heat continues and makes her keen miserably, because Mycroft is back in the house and he knows. Mycroft knows everything.

All it takes is one look, one careful, sweeping glance, one infinitesimal moment, for him to see what Sherlock has done to the half-frozen, abandoned little thing Mycroft wanted him to drown. There is no taking it back. There is no apologizing. There is not even begging to be forgiven. They sit in front of the fire and Sherlock can hear Sigrid upstairs, calling for him.

"I didn't mean to," he says. He doesn't know what he meant to do. Nothing. Everything. He wants to go to Sigrid, to scoop her up in his arms and press his face into her fur. "Please."

Mycroft doesn't even look at him. "You are a very, very sick little boy."

His tone is like nothing Sherlock has ever heard before, but he knows Mycroft is right. He's sick on an atomic level. His quarks are misaligned. The charges of his ions are improperly calibrated. He cries, ugly and loud, and Mycroft says nothing, makes no move to comfort him. Sherlock supposes he's beyond comforting.

He's beyond being something Mycroft can bear to lay his hands on.


Re: FILL: What We Have Tamed (5/5)

I'm with Mycroft on this one, sorry Sherlock.

Fantastic fill. Interesting,to see such a serious take.

Re: FILL: What We Have Tamed (5/5)

Great piece. Very interesting to see such a sympathetic and conflicted picture.

Re: FILL: What We Have Tamed (5/5)

Very impressive! I'm trying to find better words, but I think the anons above me have said it all - you can't call what Sherlock does right, and yet you can't help trying to understand what brought him to it.

(And Mycroft's sanctimonious superiority makes me want to shake him even while agreeing with him.)

Re: FILL: What We Have Tamed (5/5)

OP here again. I'll be honest: when I made this prompt I was 99.9% that it would never be filled, but decided to do it anyway for the hell of it. So not only do I have an unexpected fill, I've got a bloody good one too. This is fantastic. Thank you so much for this. It's sensitive and beautiful, and a compassionate and understanding take on a very touchy subject. And sheep-free!

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