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

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+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.
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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!

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FILL: 1/6

(Anonymous) beta, no britpick, and I may have some tense slippage. Apologies if it's rubbish.

Five Times John Surprises Someone with His Oral Skills (And One Time He Didn't)



Her name was Sharon, and everyone called her Sherry. She had long blonde hair, pin-straight when she didn't have it pulled back in a ponytail, and amber-brown eyes. She was smart and funny and she was the first girl to let John do anything past kissing.

Still, he was sixteen and her legs were miles long and his hand cramped up after a while, so one day, with all of the daring his adolescent hormones can muster, he asked if they could do anything more.

"I'm saving it for marriage," she said resolutely, pushing him backwards on the sofa, looking disappointed.

"No, no," John said, even though, yeah, damn it. "There are other things..."

She wrinkled her nose dubiously. "I don't know, I've never..." Then she smiles, eyes bright with a solution. "Well, if you do it for me, I'll do it for you."

Clearly, she expected this declaration to thwart him, but he thought about it for half a second, then nodded.

John ended up curled uncomfortably at one end of the sofa, one knee bent under him and the other foot on the floor. She tasted too strongly of soap at first, and he got turned around by the new angle and approach, but once he got the hang of it she'd given little shocked, hitching gasps that made his toes curl and his dick twitch in his pants.

After a while of this at varying volumes, she dragged him up by his shoulders, the muscles in her thighs trembling. "Oh my god," she said, eyes wide and hair straggling out of its elastic. She repeated it a couple more times. John grinned down at her, his jaw feeling stiff. He didn't care. The stunned, flushed look of her filled him with a glowing sense of pride.


FILL: 2/6


John never had any problem memorising lists and diagrams, or with handling dissection or psychology or procedures.

Biochemistry, however, had him stumped. It was maths with letters, of all the bloody things, and he was going to fail if he didn't get help. So he found a tutor, a senior whom he vaguely recognised from the few parties he'd gone to, by the name of Spencer.

Spencer was whip-smart, patient, and tireless, willing to stay as late as necessary until John got the hang of the latest lesson. He had messy ginger hair, moss-green eyes, and sandy eyelashes as long as a girl's. Despite the distraction, John kept focused (mostly) and managed to pass his exams.

Spencer showed up on John's doorstep the following Thursday, beer under one arm and a broad grin on his face. "Thought I'd keep our regular appointment one last time, to celebrate," he said, and John had a flash of gratitude that his room-mates were out.

An hour later, they were sprawled over John's bed, their legs and arms tangling as they stripped each other down to skin. John kept getting hung up on the new details of Spencer's body, pleasing contrast against John's experience with women. There was stubble rasping against the corner of his mouth; broader, stronger hands tracing his spine; and lean planes where he was used to soft curves.

Spencer - with the same patience he used walking John through oxidative phosphorylation - allowed John to set the pace, giving him free rein to do as he pleased. John mouthed his way across Spencer's shoulders, naming each muscle and bone while Spencer laughed at him. He set the edge of his teeth gently against a flat nipple and Spencer hissed appreciatively; more pressure and Spencer writhed, cursing.

And when John traced a meandering path from base of sternum to the iliac crest with his tongue, Spencer propped himself up on his elbows, a half-hearted protest on his lips. John rolled his eyes at him and kept going, dragging Spencer's briefs down carefully.

He knew enough from experiences with women about what worked and what didn't, but he was still careful at first, adjusting to the weight and fullness in his mouth, the different taste and texture, keeping his teeth well away. Spencer swore and bucked into his mouth when he applied suction, and John tried not to gag, wrapped a hand at the base to prevent a recurrence.

From there he built a rhythm, listening carefully to the ragged sounds of Spencer's breathing, feeling the lean furry thighs beneath his forearms clench and jerk. And when Spencer clutched his fingers in John's hair, hissing warning, John held on, kept going until Spencer came in long salty spurts across his tongue.

"Fuck," Spencer said when he caught his breath. "I though you said you haven't done this with a bloke before."

"Haven't," John said, sitting back on his heels, wiping his thumb across his chin where he'd missed some. "Guess I'm a quick study." He grinned.

"Well, I can't wait to see how you are after some practice," Spencer replied, laughing. He pulled John down, wrapping one broad hand around John's prick. "What else d'you want to try, then, prodigy?"


FILL: 3/6


John's first post in Afghanistan was to help with relief efforts in Mazari Sharif. The mountains on the horizon were a constant presence, but spirits ran high with each hard-won victory. Caught between celebration and dread, a line of tension ran beneath even the most mundane activities.

John took longer than most to succumb; some snapped one way, requesting transfer to some place with some "real action," but he went the other.

Her name was Nasira, and she was brown skinned, dark-eyed, and while she wore traditional dress, she was indistinguishable from the local women at a glance. Her carriage was wholly different when one looked closer, and she was more prone to laughter.

John met her after a gruelling day and a half of surgery. He was leaning, exhausted, against a courtyard wall, when she sidled up to him and handed him a flask.

He looked at her in surprise, and she laughed. He recognized the sound of it, and smiled back at her with a disbelieving lift of his eyebrows.

"I'm not a very good Muslim," she said in response, in American-accented English. "You looked like you could use it."

"Thanks," he said, even more confused. "I'm John, with the British-"

"Oh, I know," she said, dimpling at him beneath her scarf. "I've seen you around. My name's Nasira. I'm a translator from the States."

"Ah," he said, comprehending. He took a drink then coughed at the burn. "Nazeerah, was it?" he asked, mangling her name badly, and she corrected him with another laugh, making him repeat it over and over until he gets it right.

"Good," she said finally. "Now you know what name to use if you want to find me." She reclaimed her flask and hid it away in her clothing, tipping him a wink before disappearing inside.

He didn't know what to make of her. Every time he saw her alone, she was like a ghost, flitting in to flirt with him and then disappearing before they can have anything resembling a meaningful conversation. When he spotted her in public, she was cool and professional and deferential, only breaking the pose to slant him a meaningful look when everyone else had their backs turned.

From what he could tell, she was only close with one other person: Alicia, a tomboyish, blonde nurse from the Red Cross. Alicia caught him staring after Nasira with a puzzled expression one day, and patted him on the arm. "Oh, sweetie," Alicia said fondly, "just go for it. Or didn't you know there's a war on?"

John rolled his eyes at her but remembered her advice. Soon, he was stealing kisses with Nasira in quiet corners, drinking in the familiar texture of a woman's body, even through layers of cloth. She was careful enough for the both of them, always with one ear out for patrols and one hand ready to push him away.

When they finally found a whole half-hour of solitude in one of the barracks, John didn't waste any time, rucking up her skirts and lifting her onto his cot in one motion. She stifled a giggle, then swatted at him when he moved to shift downwards.

"We don't have time for that," she whispered.

He caught her hands and pushed them away. "If this is the only thing we have time for, that's fine," he said, well pleased by how her eyes rounded in surprise.

He wasn't lying, either; he took his time, savouring the tastes and textures of her, pulling one knee over his shoulder to feel the familiar line of a woman's leg wrapped around him. He let her dig her nails into his scalp and strained to catch every muffled gasp and cry that escaped her lips.

"Whoa," she said when he finally surfaced. "You Brits are thorough."

They even had time left over, which she put to excellent use.


FILL: 4/6


Nasira was transferred before they had a second chance, moved to another area more desperately in need of translators. She left two things behind: her flask, which she gave to John, and vivid rumor of John's enthusiasm in bed, by way of Alicia.

He was fortunate to have an impeccable record of professionalism and an excellent marksman rating, for everything that followed. He learned to brush off innuendo and dodge direct queries, playing up the unreliability of rumour when his superiors asked.

Though he was quiet about it, John also wasn't stupid. He took a few offers over the next months, a scant handful of women whom he knew were more discreet.

There was, memorably, one man, one of the American helicopter pilots - John's forgotten his name - who brought in supplies. John had gone out to pick up a last load and found the 'copter empty, the pilot leaning against it at an indolent angle.

"Fresh out, your boys got the last of it," he drawled. Something about the angle of his shoulders, the line of his waist, made John want to linger, even for a few minutes. John sat down on the edge of the open hatch, enjoying the stolen moment off his feet. "You're Doc Watson, right?"

John checked to make sure his name was still attached to the front of his fatigues. "Seems like," he answered, glancing up.

The man smiled, slow and lazy, his eyes a cipher behind his sunglasses. His hair was dark and so messy it looked like it hadn't seen a comb in weeks. "Lotta rumours going around about you," the pilot observed.

John rolled his eyes and looked out over the airfield, the dark patches of asphalt still gleaming wetly in the heat. "Rumours are usually rubbish," he commented.

"That's a shame," the pilot replied, his smile showing an edge of teeth. John blinked. "I mean, one might wonder if your rumoured skills had any broader applications." John felt an anticipatory tremor creep up his spine and fall back down to twist in his gut.

"Aren't you lot supposed to avoid asking?" John said, quietly.

"Ah, that's a stupid rule anyway," the man answered with a negligent shrug. "Besides, you don't count, do you?"

"No," John said, leaning back on his elbows, letting his legs fall open just a little wider. "I don't suppose I do."

It was approaching midday and getting ferociously hot; anyone with any sense was indoors, likely in the canteen. They ducked into the shade at the back of the 'copter, where cargo netting and the lack of windows was as much a screen as they were ever going to find.

"Christ," the man said, looking down at John. His sunglasses had gotten lost at some point. "They weren't kidding." John lifted an eyebrow and pulled him down to the floor with fingers laced through his belt loops.


FILL: 5a/6


Sarah dumped him and the only person on his mobile he could think of calling is Lestrade. He couldn't have said why at the time, aside from "Sherlock is too... Sherlock" and he didn't know many people in the area.

It turned out to be a good choice. Lestrade let him ramble a bit, then countered with an "it could be worse..." and a story about a domestic he'd had to handle earlier in his career that started out appalling but looped back around to hilarious the further on it went.

It was precisely what John needed, a good cathartic laugh about doomed relationships that left him curled up on his bar stool, leaning against Lestrade for support. When the chuckles subsided, he righted himself and signalled for another round. They lapsed into companionable silence, watching the television at the end of the bar.

After a while, John didn't realize that their thighs were still pressed together, his eyes on the match and a pleasant warmth from his third beer buzzing in his veins. Then Lestrade nudged him with his hip, looking over with a knotted forehead and the crooked ghost of a smile around the corners of his mouth.

"Why'd you ring me?" he asked, and not for the first time.

"Misery loves company?" John offered, tipping his bottle towards Lestrade's glass, clinking it quietly.

The smile flickered in and out of existence on Lestrade's face too quick to process. "What kind of company are we talking about, then?"

John blinked, realization setting in. "Yeah," he said, grinning a little. "Yeah, all right." And before he could ask, Lestrade was standing, notes tossed on the bar as he went.

He put a warm hand on John's lower back and said very low into John's ear, "I'm parked out back."

FILL: 5b/6

They didn't actually get that far. John caught up with him in the dimly-lit back hallway that led to the rear exit and the bathrooms and the storage closet, and dragged him against the wall, feeling reckless. "Fuck,"Lestrade breathed against his mouth roughly before their teeth clashed and tongues slick-slipped against each other. He swore again when John dug his fingertips into the back of Lestrade's neck, another hand gripping Lestrade's hip so that they aligned through layers of denim and cloth.

Lestrade shoved him through a door - the men's room, as it turned out, blissfully empty - and threw the bolt over John's shoulder. John was too far gone to care about anything but the feel of Lestrade's fingers creeping up the back of his jumper, the scratch of Lestrade's stubble on his cheek and the faint taste of aftershave at his jawline. The room could have been crowded with people and all he would have done is keep rutting against Lestrade's thigh and mouthing his neck.

When he groped at Lestrade's belt, his hand ran into the badge and he laughed, breathlessly, into the other man's collar.

"Shut it," Lestrade growled at him, picking up on the joke and smiling as he covered John's mouth with his own.

They scrambled at flies and shirttails, pushing away only what was necessary and leaving the rest. John almost wished that they were somewhere private, with a bed and better lighting, so that he could find out if Lestrade's body hair was as appealingly peppered with grey as that on his scalp, or if he had any scars. So that he could see what Lestrade looked like, stretched out and wanting.

But this would do.

He dropped to his knees on autopilot, and Lestrade carded his fingers through John's hair, twisting and tugging the strands. John glanced up, spotted Lestrade's startled expression. "All right, then?" John asked.

"Thought I was supposed to be comforting you," Lestrade said, looking wry.

"I like this," John replied, taking Lestrade in hand and licking a tight circle around the head.

Lestrade groaned, "All right, just- fuck. All right." And John took him deep, feeling the head bump across his soft palate and then against the top of his throat. Lestrade was a good size, more girth than length, the kind that was likely to give John's jaw a pleasant ache but wouldn't leave him hoarse for days. He set a brisk pace, and Lestrade was soon swearing as he came, hips flexing under John's white-knuckled grip.

John let go, tucking away Lestrade's softening prick with gentle hands.

Lestrade leaned against the sink, drawing in ragged gulps of air. "Christ," he said after a minute, "there had better not be any weird murders this week; I won't be able to see you without thinking of you on your knees."


A/N: Mycroft is 'croppy keep'. Yup, about right, I wasn't going through this section to delete a piddly 300 words when 2 posts will do. ^_^

FILL: 6a/6


Nine months after he moves in with Sherlock, John thinks he's got his bearings. "Predictable unpredictability," he'd tried to explain to Harry, after the first time she'd seen the flat and met Sherlock. It hadn't gone well, even though he'd tried to minimize the damage by taking her out to lunch almost immediately.

"You mean he's reliably mad," she'd said bitterly into her coffee. Things weren't going well with Clara, despite Harry's recent stint in rehab, and Sherlock had spotted it straight off.

"Well," John said musingly, crooking a smile at her. "I guess I got used to relying on madness in my life, growing up with you."

She'd snorted, then grinned despite herself, and spent the next five minutes throwing sugar packets at him. He'd borne it, glad to have his sister back without her slipping a fix in her coffee from a flask.

So. It's nine months in, and everything's settled into some semblance of order. John gets to see Harry every other week or so, and Sherlock's stopped answering John's mobile just to hang up on her when she calls. The noxious experiments are kept in the crisper or on the bottom shelf, and any corrosive or poisonous substances are labelled with at least a large 'X' (if not their specific contents) in black chinagraph pencil. There are similar markings on any appliance that is currently in use for unspeakable reasons.

John still has to do the shopping, and Sherlock still texts him with impeccably bad timing.

However, when Sherlock is being specially irritating, John gets to put on his coat, say "I'm going to the pub," and meet up with Lestrade. And if Lestrade's had a rough day at work, he sends a text to John (which John always deletes immediately) for the same reason. Unsurprisingly, these two qualifications frequently overlap. They aren't exclusive by any means - each has gone on dates with other people since this began - but it's a pleasant option to have available.

John doesn't pretend that Sherlock is ignorant of these rendezvous, but neither is he obvious about it in such a way that Sherlock will feel free to bring it up. One of the things John made clear after his disastrous relationship with Sarah was that John's personal life was absolutely not a conversation topic unless John broached the subject first.

He'd made Sherlock repeat it three times, slowly and clearly with eye contact, to make sure he'd understood.

I will not discuss John's personal life unless John mentions it first.

I will discuss John's personal life unless John mentions it first.

I will discuss John's personal life unless John mentions it first.

And those had been Sherlock's last words to John for three days.

They would have been three blissful days were it not for the violin filling the void.

For all that method to the madness of living with Sherlock, there are still startling moments. Every time John has to shoot someone, for instance. There's a heady thrill of transgression underlying the absolute, ingrained rightness of eliminating a threat, of having hit his mark and removed another criminal element...

Re: FILL: 6b/6 (Final)

And then one day, Sherlock shocks him beyond expectation.

John's not quite sure how it happens. He's filling out the crossword, tapping a Biro against his lower lip, when Sherlock comes home in a dramatic flourish, drawing a breath to proclaim his latest moment of brilliance. John doesn't even glance over, trying to puzzle out one last clue before attending to his duties as audience.

Sherlock doesn't say a word. John looks up, to find the detective standing in front of him, still bundled for the cold, coat and scarf and gloves in place. Sherlock takes the hand holding the pen and pulls, hauling John to his feet before he knows what's happening. Maybe Sherlock needs him for whatever case he's working on.

"I want to fuck your mouth," Sherlock says, calmly, only the dilation of his pupils and the grip of his hand on John's betraying the raw truth of his words.

"Jesus, Sherlock," John says, completely off balance. "You can't just-" Sherlock smooths his still-gloved thumb over John's lower lip, effectively wiping away the rest of John's sentence. John doesn't know why he's protesting; he's gone half-hard from Sherlock's first statement alone.

"I want to shove my cock down your throat, watch your cheeks hollow out, and gasp your name into the air. You'd like it, I know you would. There have been a hundred signs that you enjoy giving oral sex; I waited until I reached the hundredth to say anything."

John's knees already want to buckle, but he stands fast. "And why do you assume I want to do that with you?" He asks, with as much dignity he can muster against Sherlock's unceasing arrogance.

"Two hundred and forty-two reasons, John. Don't make me go through either list, it will just waste time that we could spend elsewhere."

"Fuck," John breathes, giving up the battle.

"If you like," Sherlock says equably. "But for a start, get on your knees."


John is boneless and panting on the bed when Sherlock pokes him in the side with one sharp elbow. "Nicotine patch," he drawls, not actually asking. John fumbles blindly for the box and throws it in Sherlock's general direction. "Aah, thank you. Incidentally, you're not allowed to do anything like that with Lestrade again. Or anyone else, for that matter."

John lets his head fall to the side so he can just stare at Sherlock. "Of course not," he says, his voice slightly hoarse. "Nor are you."

"Don't be foolish; I haven't slept with Lestrade in over two years."

John flings an arm over his face, resigned. "Reliable madness," he says to himself. "Only myself to blame."

*** End ***

A/N: There you go; did I get everything you wanted? And yeah, that's totally an SGA crossover in part 4, hope that's all right...

Re: FILL: 6b/6 (Final)

Excellent! Fun, actually quite sweet, and all sorts of hot :-) Nice job, Anon.

Re: FILL: 6b/6 (Final)

thankyew! I am glad you liked it!

Re: FILL: 6b/6 (Final)

Nnnngh. That was very nice, very nice indeed.

Re: FILL: 6b/6 (Final) (Anonymous) Expand

Re: FILL: 6b/6 (Final)

Oh god yes! You had me giggling at the bit with Spencer and John, where he is naming the muscles and bones. Heh, I had already decided that in my head cannon was that pilot was John Sheppard so, Score!

Re: FILL: 6b/6 (Final) (Anonymous) Expand
Re: FILL: 6b/6 (Final) (Anonymous) Expand
Re: FILL: 6b/6 (Final) (Anonymous) Expand

Re: FILL: 6b/6 (Final)

I will not discuss John's personal life unless John mentions it first.

I will discuss John's personal life unless John mentions it first.

I will discuss John's personal life unless John mentions it first.


Loved this.

Re: FILL: 6b/6 (Final) (Anonymous) Expand
Re: FILL: 6b/6 (Final) (Anonymous) Expand

Re: FILL: 6b/6 (Final)

Hee! Brilliant and adorable.

Re: FILL: 6b/6 (Final) (Anonymous) Expand

Re: FILL: 6b/6 (Final)

Great stuff, Anon! A lot of fun!

Re: FILL: 6b/6 (Final) (Anonymous) Expand
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