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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
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

+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 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.

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.

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...
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!

- 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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hurt!John - long prompt is long - sorry

John came back from Afghanistan psychic.

Near-death experience, latent ability repressed since childhood, whatever, John returns with a slowly emerging sixth sense. It's a vague thing, sometimes near-predictive dreams, or dreams of past things he shouldn't know, sometimes it's snatches of other people's thoughts or emotions, sometimes it's just that he has a bad feeling about this ;)

It makes his dreams/nightmares more vivid and the tension caused by him constantly trying to block it out resulted in the psychosomatic limp. He told the therapist at first and she just prescribed him medication and he saw her notes that maybe he was losing touch with reality. He dumps the meds and pretends it was just a temporary stress thing because he's afraid he'll get diagnosed with something more than PTSD. John's seen the guys who return home so destroyed they end up in secure units and he's terrified of it, he's a doctor so he knows all about what the meds they would put him on would do to him, he's even more scared that his therapist was right and he is just going insane by inches.

Sherlock doesn't notice so much at first because he knows the same things by process of logical deduction, but on a case John slips up, knows something he can't possibly, or maybe warns Sherlock, or something. But that's all it takes for Sherlock to figure it all out. It flies in the face of all his logic, but however unlikely or improbable, it is the only conclusion. Sherlock never ran scared from the monster that is his intelligence despite, no doubt, threats from schools and therapy to send him away, therefore he is almost ideally placed to help John come to terms with himself and use it, rather than let it rule his life.

lots of h/c please

Re: hurt!John - long prompt is long - sorry


Re: hurt!John - long prompt is long - sorry

YES. Oh god, please, yes. This is like... the perfect prompt. Anon, whoever you are, I love you. And I want this filled so I can love the author too. Pleeeease?

Re: hurt!John - long prompt is long - sorry

Much agreement! This needs to be filled!

Re: hurt!John - long prompt is long - sorry


part 1

He doesn't know why he says it. Normally he doesn't say anything, for fear of saying the wrong things. But Anderson is mouthing off about his theories and it just-- comes out.

"She wasn't killed here." he says; a mild correction, but it sounds shockingly loud in the quiet of the room. That would count as the wrong thing, something John Watson couldn't possibly know unless he'd actually been there at the murder. Which he hadn't, he just knew, the way you knew the earth was round and the sky was blue and the woman had been looking up at it when someone had wrapped their hands around her neck.

His fear only lasts a moment. "Obviously." Sherlock says. "Just look at the heels of her shoes."

Since from where he's standing, John can, he pretends that's what he was doing all along. Sherlock beams at him, like a proud parent, and goes back to interpreting the woman's movements in the last twenty-four hours from the contents of her pockets and the dirt under her fingernails.

"You spend too much time around the freak." Sally says, and John tries not to flinch at the word, because she really has no idea.


He dreams of the lake in Regent's Park, of feeding the ducks, of the gunshot wound that blooms across Sherlock's lower abdomen. Wakes up shaking and sweaty, which part, at least, is nothing new, and three days later tackles Sherlock to the ground because his mind screams now. Lestrade's people have the man in custody before he can take a second shot. Sherlock is mostly annoyed that the man didn't use a more interesting way of attempting to kill him.

Nobody questions how John knew; they wave it away as John being ex-military and having good reflexes, or something of the sort.

"And that." Lestrade says, "is why you shouldn't use yourself as bait. Good work, John."

"If you come at me with one of those blankets again--" Sherlock complains, and that is that.


It becomes easy, or at least easier, to accept these things, to trust his new instincts. He's been afraid for so long, but Sherlock makes it easy. Sherlock is a built-in excuse. Sometimes John says things, just little things, and as long as Sherlock is there, he steps in automatically, to explain. And he's always so proud of John when he does it; even if John doesn't know for the reasons Sherlock thinks he knows. Sometimes John saves Sherlock's life, and sometimes those times are because he just knew what to do and when, because he dreamt it or saw it or for whatever reason. Everyone just assumes that, well, of course, there's nothing unusual in that. John's a soldier, after all. Mycroft even jokes about getting him a medal for going above and beyond the call of duty in keeping Sherlock out of trouble.

At least, he thinks that was a joke. Often with Mycroft Holmes he finds it hard to tell.

part 2

Sherlock hands him the pocket-knife. "Well? What do you think."

He tries, first, with his eyes and his hands. The wear on the handle, the way one of the blades sticks when he tries to open it, the rough initials scratched into the base: T.E. He can just see Sherlock getting bored, and maybe a little disappointed, with his answers. So he takes the first thing his mind throws at him and offers it up. "I think the man who owned this is a doctor."

Sherlock blinks. He doesn't look bored, at least. "What lead you to that conclusion?"

Not a question Sherlock normally asks him. Shit. Did he pick up something Sherlock hadn't deduced yet? "Um, just a hunch."

At the word hunch, Sherlock gets bored again. Lestrade saves the day by sending a message to say they've found a second body, and Sherlock leaps to his feet in glee and they're off.

John makes a mental note to be more careful. When Sherlock finally tracks down Doctor Thomas Edwards, who turns out to be the brother of the actual murderer, he gives John an uninterpretable look, but says nothing about the 'hunch'. Instead, once they get home, he spends the evening lobbing small rubber balls at John's head while he tries to write up the case for his blog (leaving certain parts out). "What are you doing?"

"Testing your reflexes." Sherlock replies.

So, back to business as usual, then.


Another day, another three bodies. Sherlock is frustrated, pacing like a tiger behind bars, because this one hasn't made a mistake yet and people are being unhelpful and he's low on nicotine patches. Sometimes, the only way to deal with Sherlock when he's like this is to keep well out of his way.

Hard to do when Sherlock leans over and stares into John's eyes, and then presses a bit of blood-stained cloth into his hands. oh god the way she screamed John thinks, and then manages, "What?"

"I've recalibrated my definition of impossible, and pick-pocketed Lestrade for the keys to the evidence lockers." Sherlock says, by way of explanation. "That's the handkerchief taken from the body of the second victim."

He's going to throw up, and he's not sure if it's from the fear that somebody knows, that Sherlock knows, or from the images that assault his mind. Sometimes he gets a headache just standing in the same room where a murder took place; this is worse. Much worse. "I can't."

Sherlock places one hand on his shoulder, touches their foreheads together. He probably read it in a book on how to comfort people, John thinks-- no, knows, it's that blue one on the far right of the third shelf down, and it's not helping. "Just tell me." he says, and his voice, more than anything else, is what makes John open his mouth, spill out information, disjointed, just everything, all at once.

He knows, without having to be told, that if they can't catch this guy, someone else might die. So he trusts Sherlock, and pushes himself to see more, more, more, no matter how much it hurts. Suddenly, Sherlock withdraws, pulls away his body and, thankfully, the bloodied handkerchief as well. "I have it." he says, eyes sparkling. "I know where the murderer is." And then, for no reason at all, he kisses John full on the mouth, and then leaps back. "You rest. I'm going to go find Lestrade." he adds, rubbing his hands together.

John doesn't need to be fucking psychic to know he's happy about the thought of solving the case, and he's not sure whether to feel relieved or disturbed by the way Sherlock seems to be treating this thing-- John's thing. Like it's just another source of grist for the gigantic mill of Sherlock's gigantic brain. He does stay, though. He does rest, or at least tries to, lying in the room alone and feeling blood drying on his fingertips, even though he's washed his hands six times since Sherlock left.

When Sherlock comes back, at three in the morning, John pretends he's already asleep.

part 3

He wakes up to crumpets. And Sherlock. "Is that strawberry jam?" And not, given the usual state of their kitchen, minced eyeballs, for example.

Sherlock looks shifty, almost embarrassed. "I borrowed a few things from Mrs Hudson. We caught him, by the way."

And then John remembers. "I--"

"Is being normal really that attractive? People seem to be obsessed with it." Sherlock shrugs. "We caught him, before there was a fourth victim, because of you, and I won't tell anybody because Mycroft would only try to steal you if he found out. Eat your breakfast."

John supposes this is Sherlock's way of attempting to be reassuring. It's oddly effective.

"Sherlock, I told you to keep out of my kitchen! That was the last of my jam!" Mrs Hudson hollers from somewhere outside, and John laughs despite himself.

He supposes that ever since he's been living with Sherlock, there's been an awful lot of abnormality in his normality as it is.


He still dreams, and wakes up shaking. He still hesitates before speaking, in case he says something he shouldn't in front of other people. He still sometimes sleeps uneasily with other people's memories clinging to his fingertips or lurking at the corners of his mind.

And then sometimes, when it's just him and Sherlock, he has one of those moments where he's not afraid of it, not at all.

John holds out his hand.

Sherlock looks over, and passes the glove. "Go on, then. Give me one of your hunches."

Not the OP, but

Just wanted to say that I thought this was fantastic! Way better than the nebulous ideas floating in my head for it. I love John's hunches, and the way Sherlock figures him out. Kinda makes me wonder, though: what were John's initial thoughts upon meeting Sherlock? He must have gotten some vibe from him . . .

Still, anon, excellent job with the prompt! :)

Re: part 3

This is gooooood. Very well done, Mous!

That was awesome. I want you to make this a whole 'verse so that I can follow it/you FOREVER.

Re: part 3

You know what's the problem with this fic? THERE ISN'T ENOUGH OF IT. How do I love this, let me count the ways...John being badass and saving Sherlock, Sherloc l not wanting Mycroft to steal John away, the boys eating strawberry jam (the list goes on)...

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Re: part 3 (Anonymous) Expand
Re: part 3 (Anonymous) Expand
OP HERE (Anonymous) Expand
fill, the continuation (Anonymous) Expand

PartFill - part 1

So, wow, first bit of fan fiction in 10 years. I love this show too much.

Firstly, please forgive the part-fill, the lameness and most of all the Canadian-isms (I spent some time with a British slang dictionary and still missed things). Feedback is love and so is constructive criticism. That is all.

At 23:54, the alarm on Sherlock’s mobile rang as he sprung from the cab. If it had been a call or a text he would have ignored it, but having never set the alarm on his mobile the sound was surprising and required a cursory investigation, even if he had no intention of slowing.

Curiously, the alarm was linked to a reminder in his calendar that simply read “Check your voice recordings” the date stamp indicated that the reminder had been created that morning at 05:42. ‘John then.’ He sighed irritably, his eyes flicking to the looming building; he fidgeted with the mobile, before slipping it into his pocket and heading toward the pool. The alarm rang again. A second reminder left at 05:44.

SH stop being a stubborn idiot. M can wait five minutes. Check the voice recorder. JW

When John was five, already shorter than the rest of his class and a touch chubby, it was a game he and his mates played. If the world was different, what super power would they have? Tim wanted to fly, Mike wanted to walk through walls or be invisible. John wasn’t picky; anything would do as long as the future would leave him alone. He told Tim and Mike about wanting to control fire. He never told them about the future. Never told anyone.

M? Sherlock raised a brow. Interesting. He had not informed John of his intent to meet Moriarti. Although it was conceivably straightforward to deduct who Sherlock would meet once left to his own devices, it was interesting that John had deducted the approximate time of the meeting eighteen hours in advance. That -did- merit investigation. Sherlock flipped through the phone applications before opening the voice reminder app, which blinked to indicate a message left at 05:01. John had been in his room at that time, pacing and talking to himself. Sherlock had been assembling his thoughts on the bombings, Moriarti, and individuals likely to be subsequently targeted. Sherlock had not thought to investigate John’s soliloquy and phone pilfering; He was beginning to wonder if that had been a mistake. He pressed play and continued to stroll towards the pool.

The recording started with two seconds of John’s breathing and, in the background, Sherlock could make out the discord of a violin played violently. The distortion in the background noise indicated that John was pacing in his room while Sherlock played the violin in the living room. This fit Sherlock’s recollection of that morning’s events. “Sherlock, firstly, I am not Moriarti or working with him, get that out of your head right now or rather five minutes from now. Listen…I…I know you are at the pool. This is so bloody stupid.” John sounded agitated, nervous. He had been distant all day; Sherlock had attributed it to John being annoyingly plebian about his dashed hero worship and (of course) the bombings. He was wrong. Apparently John had somehow deduced that Sherlock would be meeting Moriarti at midnight at the pool before Sherlock had come up with that scheme. Sherlock felt a surge of pride mixed with some concern regarding the evident predictability of his behaviors. “Sherlock, you know that I went to see Sarah, what you don’t know is that I was prevented from getting there.” Sherlock froze. “Wait! I am fine. It’s all fine. Or, at least, there is a 90% chance everything is fine…”

Re: PartFill - part 2 (Anonymous) Expand
Re: PartFill - part 3 (Anonymous) Expand
Re: PartFill - part 3 (Anonymous) Expand
Sequel PartFill - part 2 (Anonymous) Expand

Shadows on the Wall 1(/3?)

It starts as a whisper during basic training, a little internal voice that chips in just before he makes a decision. Like when Myers, the hot-shot with the perfect scores, fires what everyone believes is a full clip and the little voice says wait. John is the only one who doesn't stand and so the last bullet (fired when Myers spins his pistol like a western gunslinger) goes through Hodges' leg instead of John's chest.

In the endless days after Afghanistan, when all he can do is think and limp on around on a perfectly sound leg, John thinks that it had to start with his own survival. Self-preservation – that was a trait that naturally selected, right? A trait like that is valuable. In the evolutionary sense, at least.

The voice popped up again and again and again during boot camp but those first few months, it was only 100% right when his own life was on the line. That only started to change when he started the intense period of study that would get him to the lofty heights of an M.D. Again, John rationalises that it makes sense; it is an instinct, a skill and training can adapt either of those, turn them cross ways and make them useful. Doctors are trained to put their patients first, over everything.

Again, it starts with the extremes; a whisper that makes him shout for suction three vital seconds before the machines scream the low blood pressure warning: a nudge that draws his eye to the spreading blood stain in middle of the black shirt. But it keeps coming, the little voice and later, in the real war, the growing sense of deja vu that swells up from his hind-brain whenever he's on the cusp of a critical decision.

He actually had dodged the bullet that would have crippled his leg but by the end of his tour, John was sleeping maybe three hours a night, on a good night. Inevitably, his concentration eroded and the lines between what was and what might be became muddied; blurred past the point of distinction. John knows intellectually that he dodged, there's no scar under his fingers when the phantom pain spikes and he's a damn good doctor. He doesn't remember dodging. He remembers that he turned back when Callahan dropped his helmet, in profile for the crucial second after the sniper squeezed the trigger. He remembers how the bullet burned through flesh and shattered bone. He remembers the fever, the malaria that they didn't give him tablets for because he was vomiting his guts up every hour and the hushed voices as the doctors left him to God and blind chance. He remembers Harry's hysteria, that she and Clara don't divorce because Clara would never leave Harry with a crippled, half-dead brother and that their first son is called Hamish John because Harry is still a prat, even sober.

He hates himself sometimes, when his second-hand phone fills up with texts and voice-mails as Harry destroys herself, for making that choice. He thinks she would hate him, even if he could tell her, if he could explain that he had to make that choice or so many people would have died – will die, unless John makes the right choice again.

It makes therapy a bugger, that's for sure. He can't explain in a way Ella understands that he did choose to be shot. The only medic down with a bullet through the shoulder meant the Colonel turned them around and the 93rd were the first unit through the booby-trapped alley. Their demo boys were both rested and alert and spotted the IED before anyone could even be hurt. John clung to the memory of half his damn unit, alive and whole and bringing him crude 'Get Well Soon' cards instead of lying scattered across that stupid dusty track in strips of shredded flesh.

He clings to anything that helps him distinguish, anything that is difference and distinct. The tremor in his left hand isn't shell-shock, isn't PSTD or any of the hundred little things that Ella suggests but John pretends it is, waiting for the man who will tell him to his face that it isn't.

He goes back to London after Afghanistan and god, it's such a mistake. It started in London, started the day John Watson swore to give his life for for Queen and Country.

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Re: hurt!John - long prompt is long - sorry

it's like he has espn or something

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