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Sherlock BBC Prompting Meme

"we get all sorts around here."


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Prompting: Part II
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


GENERAL GUIDELINES
+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.
+Until further notice, RPF (real person fic, i.e. fic involving the actors themselves) is not supported at this meme. UPDATE: sherlockrpf</lj> has set up an RPF meme post in their community. Anon posting is on, and that meme is free for you all to use.
+Depending on the rate of activity, there may or may not be a prompt freeze when a part reaches 5000 comments.
+However, there will be one when it reaches 7000. Also at 7000, 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 by someone, do not be afraid to offer up a second fill.

THE FILLED PROMPTS POST
The new Filled Prompts Post is officially up and running! I’d like to ask that you all are patient as we work out the bugs in the system, but other than that, 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-- While a mod will do an archiving sweep every now and then, we don’t want to be putting every single fill in the post.
Do not be afraid to ask questions about how it works if you are confused! Either of the mods would be happy to explain.

CONTACTING MODS
There are two mods for this meme. Your main mod is jjgd , and any questions, concerns, comments about anything at all on the meme should be directed to her via either PM or the page-a-mod post.
There is also an archivist: snowishness . If you have questions or concerns regarding the Filled Prompts Post (general questions, broken links, etc.) she can be reached on the page-a-mod post as well.

RE: OFFENSIVELY WORDED PROMPTS
Guys, I will only put in one reminder about this.
Think before you prompt about the way you are asking. It isn’t difficult, and it will only take a minute or so of your time.

That said...
DISCLAIMER
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 have rights to an opinion, of course, just as you have the right to scroll right past a prompt that you dislike.

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

LINKS AND AFFILIATES
- Delicious Archive - Filled Prompts Post - Page-A-Mod - List of all the Prompting Posts - Flat View of This Pagesherlockfest - Sherlock RPF Request Post - Overflow Post -


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Shadows on the Wall 10(/17?)

The television snaps off and John turns to Sherlock who is staring into the middle distance. It's fascinating, in a 'bad accident on the M1' sort of way to watch Sherlock compartmentalising away Ruth's death.

"He killed the old lady because she started to describe him," Sherlock says thoughtfully. John watches as his eyes brighten with the light of revelation and feels his stomach twist. He turns to watch Sherlock, watches the shadows flickering and darkening around him. "Just once, he put himself in the firing line."

"What d'you mean?" John asks. Yes, of course Moriarty was in Ruth's apartment; John can still remember the disgusted snapshots from Ruth. (How he'd giggled and his shoes had squeaked when he'd bounced on his heels in excitement.)

"Well, usually he ...must stay above it all," Sherlock says, picking up speed and confidence as the connections form and his brain – that brilliant machine that runs like a Rolls engine – kicks into gear. "He organises theses things, but no-one ever has direct contact."

"What, like the Connie Prince murder," John asks as his mind flashes to the furtive gleam in Raoul's eye. Raoul who loved not wisely but too well and who grew up on stories of a great-uncle who had walked into Schirmeck concentration camp with a picture of his lover sewn into the inside of his coat. Raoul had only seen the monster in Connie and he'd killed her but he was a personal assistant, not a member of the SAS. Murder by botox wasn't something he was capable of dreaming up. "He arranged that?"

John gets a shivery feeling down his spine and a sense of something like a huge foul spider's web, organic and messy and everywhere. He can see the shape of it and Sherlock's distracted, focused on the evidence and the effort of peeling away his emotional responses to Ruth (and Rashid and Martha and Mary and....). John can tip his hand, ramble a little because Sherlock's already worked it out. "So, people come to him wanting their crimes fixed up, like booking a holiday?"

"Novel," Sherlock breathes and for a second, just one second, John wants to vomit. There's something so beguiled about the breathless comment and Sherlock's smiling (not with his mouth, that's for witnesses and police officers who don't know better. Sherlock's mouth lies like a candle in a draft flickers. His eyes are smiling, bright and alive and he's halfway to being in love with this Moriarty.)

"Huh," John is numb for few seconds, turning back to the television to hide the sting of his eyes and his face from the nearly-perfect sociopath who's sitting in his best friend (the man John loves because he's never known how to stop loving once he falls, only how to soldier on with the gaping void tucked away under khaki or the white coat)'s skin. They're showing Raoul's arrest and John watches him run for the car, like he can be safe if he finds the right place to hide. (He's not going to make it past the arraignment; Moriarty will be vastly put-out and Joe Downs, the homophobic cellmate will take most of the night to die, pissing himself and begging for a mercy that will never come).

John's last image of Raoul is his face (so young, so very young and so very bloody stupid) and John can taste, thick and clogging his throat, the blood that will fill his lungs and drown him and god, Jesus, no! There has to be something, some clue, some hint that John can give Lestrade. Raoul de Santos doesn't have to die.

The future can be changed. John has to believe that.

Behind him, Sherlock says something. His face settles into a more familiar exasperated expression and John clears his throat, coughing away the lingering feel of blood as he watches Mark Prince stare out the window at the black car. (He knows the number, isn't stupid, isn't blind and somewhere in London, in a blank empty office, a phone that even Mycroft doesn't know exists is ringing and Moriarty's newest voicemail greets him by name...)

John's surge of anger is explosive and he swallows it down. Sherlock owes John nothing; John shouldn't be angry that Sherlock didn't (doesn't ever) see that John is in love with him: that John loves him enough that Sherlock never has to love him back.

He shouldn't be angry but he is.

Re: Shadows on the Wall 10(/17?)

(Anonymous)
Oh, John.

Re: Shadows on the Wall 10(/17?)

...there isn't a 'good' way to say thank you but I'm glad John's plight is coming through.

Re: Shadows on the Wall 10(/17?)

(Anonymous)
God, John.

*hugs him*

Re: Shadows on the Wall 10(/17?)

Really not his day, is it? Poor boy.

Shadows on the Wall 11(/17?)

John keeps his eyes on the television and forces his voice even. Sherlock still isn't looking (not at him) and John has done this before and survived it. (His dad spent every moment he wasn't drunk explaining why he wasn't an alcoholic. His mum tried to make them a functional family by sheer force of will and never admitted there was any such thing as a problem. Harry, with the night-life sparkling off her broken edges, who wants a brother when she's desperate or sober or lonely or all of the above and pretends he doesn't exist when she's happy.)

He asks about Carl Powers because Carl is important. He doesn't see how, not yet but even when it isn't clear, John's learnt the weight of important information, how the distortions and echoes shape around the thought of Carl Powers suffocating in the chlorine and clamour of the pool with the lifeguard screaming for an ambulance. (Her name was Katy. She blamed herself for it until she died saving a kid from a drunk driver. There's a plaque up to her in her church, pristine among the graffiti and-)

-and none of this is relevant. If John were Sherlock, maybe all this mental clutter would be useful. He'd know who Moriarty was, why Carl died and he'd stop this. John keeps watching as the television shows the flats again and there are figures, people huddled together at the very edge of the police tape.

John asks about the classmates and still, he's angry, fists loosely clasped and eyes resolutely turned away. Sherlock answers languidly, unable to bear not being the centre of attention but equally incapable of feigning a genuine interest in anything but his blasted precious fucking cases.

"Maybe the killer was older than Carl?" (Not right, wrong way around, Sherlock's going to-)

"The thought had occurred."

-miss the point completely? John waits a beat, two but Sherlock is still staring into the middle distance, smiling.

Oh, oh no. Sherlock doesn't get to do this to him. John is used to just being the sounding board for everything from Mycroft's latest diet lapse (he only had hot chocolate on Friday because he'd eaten nothing else) to Sherlock's vaguely interested assessments of handsome young men – and wasn't that excruciating, John thinks because whatever else he is he's honest with himself. John knows more about Sherlock than anyone realises, just because he's always there.

It hurts worse than either of the bullets, burns like the phantom searing that promises John's future isn't going to be boring (or very long-term) to realise that Sherlock isn't going to talk about Moriarty. Moriarty who is different, Moriarty who is special and Jesus, John is jealous.

The skull is cackling like an old woman with a fifty a day habit and Joe in the fridge is calling Sherlock 'a right plonker'.

Pride wars with the need to know and John asks because this is important and if he waits for Sherlock to realise that John is feeling excluded, they'll be here until Doomsday. "So why is he doing this then? Playing this game with you. Do you think he wants to be caught?"

"I think he wants to be distracted," Sherlock says in a tone that John has never heard him use before, rough and wanting and John can't take it any more. He can't keep loving Sherlock while Sherlock destroys himself (again. Last time it was drugs, saved by Mycroft who can panic and make human mistakes like screaming at a stupid, selfish little brother who has nearly died and it's a toss-up whether Sherlock hates him more for the save or the too true dressing down in the middle of the hospital.)

"Oh," John pushes up, away because if he doesn't get something solid between him and Sherlock right this second, he's going to kill the bastard. "I hope you'll be very happy together."

Because this is a line John has to draw, now and as unambiguously as possible. If Sherlock wants Moriarty, well, John's just another in a long line of idiots and he'll try to stop them and probably fail but Sherlock cannot - will not - ever be able to have Moriarty and John.

(It's not a choice, Sherlock's already chosen) and John's never been good enough even for a 'normal' person.

Pain bleeds into anger, hotter, stronger and fuck it, John thinks.

Re: Shadows on the Wall 11(/17?)

(Anonymous)
Oh, John. I think I may be even more invested in this version of John than I am in the canon one. I love this, and I'm so glad there's more.

Re: Shadows on the Wall 11(/17?)

I'm glad John's got someone rooting for him since Sherlock is probably going to get worse before he gets better.

Thank you so much for reading and commenting.

Re: Shadows on the Wall 11(/17?)

Two posts in one day? We are lucky.

*reads*

*whimpers*

*hugs John*

*smacks Sherlock upside the head with an open hand [and he can consider himself lucky I didn't break out the Victorian-Era Frying Pan of Malice(TM).]*

*copy-pastes the lot into a certain WordPad file for future recording purposes*

Re: Shadows on the Wall 11(/17?)

I'm horribly, horribly behind on this story, I know but it will absolutely and for certain be done by the end of the month unless my immune system takes me out again. ::crosses fingers::

I'm keeping a tidied up Google doc of the fic if that would help once it's finished. Most of the parts only just scrape under LJ's comment limit so some formatting is inconsistent. ^^;;;;

Thank you for reading!

Shadows on the Wall 12(/17?)

Sherlock's perturbed "Sorry, what?" stops John in his tracks.

He sounds perplexed in that annoyed way he has when John is being too mundane to bear and John erupts. Sherlock will make use of John's knowledge, the hard-earned skills of his profession but at times like this, John wonders if Sherlock is really so staggeringly ignorant of what a doctor is.

["I solemnly pledge myself to consecrate my life to the service of humanity; "]

"There are lives at stake, Sherlock," John shouts and in his head he hears it as an echo of Major Doctor Reginald Daziel who had taught him how all the 'fancy-pants school learning' translated into life or death on the front lines. He had taken to John over the Scottish connection, even if it was more theoretical than anything else in John's case. He was the best doctor John has ever known. "Actual human lives!"

["I will give to my teachers the respect and gratitude which is their due; "]

Daziel was the only person John ever tried to tell; he'd been barely twenty-three, still a wet little medical student scuttling after the Major/Doctor and terrified and awed by Desert Storm and the reality of war. He'd stammered and fumbled his words, trying (and failing) to warn without giving everything away and Reginald Daziel died in the sand surrounded by the Army and life he'd loved. John still goes to put flowers on his grave every Thursday he's in London.

["I will practise my profession with conscience and dignity; the health of my patient will be my first consideration; "]

"Just so I know, do you care about that at all?" John demands because he's dying here. He needs some sign that Sherlock's sociopath act is still only skin-deep because god knows he's getting nothing to hang his hopes on from the rest of the case.

"Will knowing about them help save them?" Sherlock demands coldly, like John is being wilfully stupid just to antagonise him. More than just that, he looks offended as if John has said something that isn't true.

["I will maintain by all the means in my power, the honour and the noble traditions of the medical profession; my colleagues will be my brothers; "]

"Nope," John says tightly. It's the logical, rational truth after all.

"Then I'll continue not to make that mistake." Sherlock's practically sneering at him and John will grant that Sherlock is smarter than him, more confident and better in countless ways but John will not ever concede that being a normal, empathic human being is something he should be ashamed of.

"And you find that easy, do you?" John asks before he can calm down enough to think or consider tactics or a measure approach.

"Yes, very. Is that news to you?"

"No, no."

["I will not permit considerations of religion, nationality, race, party politics or social standing to intervene between my duty and my patient; "]

"I've disappointed you," Sherlock says, looking at John in a way he hasn't since that first case.

"That's good, that's a good deduction, yeah." John laughs a little, everything so clear in the light of his burning bridges.

"Don't make people into heroes, John. Heroes don't exist and if they did, I wouldn't be one of them."

["I will maintain the utmost respect for human life from the time of conception, even under threat, I will not use my medical knowledge contrary to the laws of humanity; "]

The blasted phone goes and Sherlock abandons the conversation in favour of his new fascination and John stands and stares at him. He wonders, a tiny echoing thought in the hollow where his heart used to be, if Sherlock will even notice when John is gone.

"Oh, you're angry with me, so you won't help." Sherlock sounds amused, condescending. "Not much cop, this caring lark."

["I make these promises solemnly, freely and upon my honour. "]

John comes slowly to attention, puts back his shoulders and crosses slowly to the pile of papers. Sherlock will believe it was his ability to manipulate but John is a doctor before he's anything else and someone, somewhere, needs his help if they're going to survive the day.

John can save them, or help at least and John took an oath to save every life he could. What's a broken heart compared to saving a life?

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Re: Shadows on the Wall 12(/17?)

(Anonymous)
This is awesome. I really can't wait to see how you end it. Will you let Sherlock know?

Re: Shadows on the Wall 12(/17?)

(Anonymous)
Oh my poor, aching heart. Oh, John.

I love this story to little pieces.

Re: Shadows on the Wall 12(/17?)

oh. my. god. that was stunning. absolutely, completely, stunning and i have no words. the writing and imagery is astounding.
this is definitely one of the best fics i've read in a long while. and i thank you so very much for it!

please keep posting we need to know what happens next!

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