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Sherlock BBC Prompting Meme

"we get all sorts around here."

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prompting: part iii
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.
+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 Page - Sherlock RPF Request Post - Overflow Post -

Sherlock has been asked to help at a murder scene and all evidence points in the direction of John. Sherlock doesn't want to believe it, but facts are facts. Or aren't they?

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Innominate [1/1]

I'll just leave this mini!fill here, and back away very slowly...
connection aprods? really, captcha?


It starts when the knuckle of Sherlock's forefinger grazes along the small of his back. It's a light brush, a dismissible sensation not quite reaching past fabric to skin, so John barely registers it in a moment of distraction, promptly forgets it within the next passing second.

The second touch is more purposeful, objective - leather slides against the dip of his spine, eases the hem of his shirt over the line of his belt. John turns his head, slackens his mouth to voice some kind of complaint, some kind of exclamation, but then Sarah's fingers curl against the crook of his elbow and his tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth, useless. Sherlock's gaze is directed towards the stage, unwavering. John drops his chin to his shoulder, swallows, then drags his head back in front of him.

His thoughts are a frantic litany of what- and I don't- and this can't be actually happening, he's clearly not even left the flat, must have fallen unconscious or some such because this, this-

Sarah leans in towards his shoulder and Sherlock's fingers press against his waistband, an insistent heat that blazes through his nerves, branches out to the very fringes of his limbs. There's minimal give between John's hips and his belt and he feels Sherlock's hand flex, contort, twist; forcing itself underneath. His glove drags and grinds against John's flesh and it's a rough, unforgiving burn- John sucks in a pained hiss, barely manages to pass it off as a surprised inhale, awe at a performance he's facing but not seeing.

His hand pushes down, curves as far as Sherlock can reach without leaning in, and John thinks he stopped actually breathing several seconds ago, because all he can feel is the sleeves of Sherlock's shirt and coat bunched up against the waist of his trousers, Sarah's nails absently scratching against his coat and Sherlock's fingers, falling just short of his balls.

They're- they're going to have to talk about this, or something, and isn't that a mad notion, John thinks hysterically. Perhaps there's something more inherently dire, here, something more twisted and churned and wrong, if this is the only thing his mind can muster- that Sherlock groping him in a darkened theatre hall is something that simply requires a debrief. A little chat about feelings and boundaries over a nice spot of tea, or something.

Sherlock's hand works back, fingers parting the cleft of his arse just as he leans in towards both of them, narrates the performance with all of his composed detachment. John can barely string his words together in his mind, too focused on the baritone of his voice and the shift of his hand, the cup of his palm as he crooks his finger and presses, and John's ribs seize as the tip of his index pushes in. It takes all he has not to just break apart there, crumple in on himself as the insides of his thighs spasm and clench in turns.

It stays there, a foreign pressure that makes him feel like his being is in reverse, twisting and testing and stretching until Sherlock says something, something castaway concerning the acrobatics before them that John doesn't hear, and then the pressuredragsear is gone and John can breathe and think again, just like that. Just like so.

It's all he can do to bring his hands in front of him, clasping them across his groin in the hope that he can hide his arousal, will it down as he registers in the peripheral of his mind Sherlock stepping back, disappearing from John's sphere of awareness.

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Sherlock never finished school.

This is actually my personal canon (specifically that he went to uni, perhaps more than one, but it was all so BORING and POINTLESS so he just left. Probably in a grand and fabulous manner too.)

I would love to see a fic using this! Seconded!

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Sherlock makes a spreadsheet of all the times/places he would like to have sex and then gives it to John.

OH GOD YES. I will not be a big whore and fill this myself because otherwise it's just getting ridiculous ;A; *mumbles*

Sherlock hates Anderson because he's secretly dating Mycroft.

THIRDED because...because Mycroft/Anderson that's why.

Time Traveler's Wife crossover with John as Clare and Sherlock as Henry.

Oh yes, of course, though the reverse would be quite interesting, too.

(no subject) (Anonymous) Expand
Let the Right One In x-over.

John Watson is the nerdy boy picked on at school all the time. Pale and mysterious Sherlock and his "older brother" Mycroft move in next door.

...castrated Sherlock? Also girlish but not girl Sherlock?

I'm a horrible, horrible person for this, but

do want.

(no subject) (Anonymous) Expand

Moar Anderson + Dinosaur fic.

You know the Doctor Who episode "The Vampires of Venice", wherein Narcissa Malfoy Helen McCrory is this vampire fish disguised as a human?

Anderson is a dinosaur, disguised as a human. Therefore, his dinosaur "fixation" is totally normal! Right? Right?

Only he can't let it get out that he's a dinosaur alien thing or Torchwood will get him/he'll get sectioned/people will divide by zero and the world will explode. So what happens when Sherlock/John/Lestrade/Donovan commandeers (or otherwise gains access to or sees him on it, whatever) his computer and finds this nsfw porn involving three pterodactyls and a girl who moans annoyingly?

I'm sorry in advance. I've had the Anderson-actually-is-a-dinosaur + potential Torchwood/Who crossover idea in my head for ages now, but a totally unrelated, different fandom fic linked to the dinosaur porn and I couldn't resist breaking everyone else's brains with Anderson's wank material.

Non-anon because I have no shame. And also no paid account, so I can't track comments otherwise.

Re: Moar Anderson + Dinosaur fic.

SECONDED. (Though this porn hurts my heart...and my stomach.)

Holmes family vacations.

Sherlock divides by zero


LOLOLOL. See two prompts up. Great minds?

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Someone has Sherlock committed.

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Weird Prompt Is Most Obviously Weird

I've read a lot of fics of Mycroft giving John the customary "Hurt Sherlock and I will unleash the fury of the British government on you", and I'd love to see it said to Sherlock for once, so -

Sherlock and John have finally realized their feelings for each other. But before they embark on a romantic relationship, Lestrade (who has become total BFFs with John over the last few months) shares a few words with Sherlock.

Cue Lestrade being all "Hurt John and no more cases for you!" and Sherlock being all =0.

Re: Weird Prompt Is Most Obviously Weird

Dawww! That's awesome! BAMF!Lestrade giving Sherlock 'the talk.' Do want! :D

Snape is Sherlock's father. Let's just ignore the fact that Snape died in the final book.

This is so awesome! Hopefully somebody picks up what clearly needs to be canon. And yes, let's!

Having watched The Last Night of the Proms last night (the last half hour is so amazingly stirring! Makes me so proud!) it popped into my head that Sherlock's so epic with his violin that he could blatantly be a soloist during a piece of music.

So my prompt is, not long after John's moved in, Sherlock tells John that he's going out for the evening and not to wait up. Thinking that Sherlock's checking something out for a case, John's bored and flicks the TV on only to be confronted with a close up of Sherlock performing!

What happens after that is up to you lot, but I do love a bit of fluff and snuggles (:

Hungarian Dance No. 1 [1/2]

Hey look everybody! It's a fill!

Let it be known that this is my very first attempt at an exclusively BBC!Sherlock fic. Based on the following prompt, of course.

“... it popped into my head that Sherlock's so epic with his violin that he could blatantly be a soloist during a piece of music.

So my prompt is, not long after John's moved in, Sherlock tells John that he's going out for the evening and not to wait up. Thinking that Sherlock's checking something out for a case, John's bored and flicks the TV on only to be confronted with a close up of Sherlock performing!”

The song that Sherlock plays is Brahms’s “Hungarian Dance No. 1”, hence the title. You can listen here:


Hungarian Dance No. 1

It couldn’t have been a very long time after their initial mad chase around London looking for the elusive poisoning cabbie that John Watson began to question whether or not it was a good idea to move in with Sherlock Holmes.

There was no doubting the man was brilliant. A genius, really. If detectives had their own religion, it would be deduction and Sherlock Holmes would be a god.* Well, he certainly had an ego large enough for such a weighty role.

The man was as maddening and (at times) insufferable as he was clever. There had been almost no cases since the cab driver, and Sherlock’s “hobbies” were starting to drive him around the bend. Patient as he was, there was only so much John could tolerate.

He never bought milk, never cleaned the kitchen or tidied up the flat, leaving such ‘mundane’ and ‘pedestrian’ matters for more mundane and pedestrian people. He wouldn’t eat or sleep for days when on a case, and was hardly better when there was none. There were the experiments, of course, though the eyeballs in the microwave had mercifully vanished.
This was all well, and John could forgive most of these oddities, but his flatmate’s Stradivarius was another thing entirely.

The violin itself was a thing of beauty; meticulously polished and cared for, and expertly tuned. It had a most impressive range and quite a wonderful, colourful voice. Or at least, it would if Sherlock actually played something that even vaguely resembled music.

Sherlock played the Stradivarius at the most inconvenient of times, when the madman was trying to think, or to viciously fend off the clouds of ennui that would shroud him between cases. Played may be a bit too kind of a description for the horrible noises he would make. He would screech and scratch aimless, tuneless notes. They no doubt must have made sense to him in his wonderfully odd brain, but to John’s ears it was no more than cat wails and screeching chalkboards.

When asked if he had ever performed, the detective would shrug off his flatmate’s questions, directing the conversation firmly in another direction flawlessly. John had no doubt that Sherlock was a good violinist if he put his mind to it, but this all remained speculation.

Naturally, when Sherlock got a text that pulled him out of his dreadful boredom, John was more than a little relieved. He was slightly surprised to learn that it was not Lestrade that texted (or if it was, Sherlock wasn’t saying anything) and Sherlock made to leave regardless.

Rising to his feet to get dressed, Sherlock told him that he was going out, and to not wait up for him before disappearing into his room to change, before re-emerging in a slim-fitting suit (Armani, by the looks of it) and a bustle of movement, Sherlock swept out of the door and hailed a cab. He never noticed the case the taller man held in his hand.

John wasn’t particularly worried by this sudden departure. His flatmate was prone to sudden flights of fancy or investigation, and could return anytime between midnight and noon the following day. Seeing this as an opportunity to finally unwind, he made himself some tea, grabbed a few chocolate digestives, and sat himself down on the chesterfield.

Molly is not a social creature, but she is capable of obsessions. And, in fact, you might say she has a *type* when it comes to men. They're what she doesn't allow herself to be. A sinister Molly/James Moriarty fic.