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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
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  • 1

Long prompt - but I think you'd like it!

A witch that Sherlock pissed off puts a curse on him, so that he empathizes heavily with the person standing closest.

Not only does the curse make him know what the person feels, which would be a boon to a detective, but he feels it as well, which is very distracting.

Cue Sherlock feeling a warm fuzzy feeling whenever John is looking at him, and wondering what the hell that is.

Bonus points: Sherlock starts choking up when talking to a family member of some victim, and Scotland Yard having a collective question mark dangling over their head.

Re: Long prompt - but I think you'd like it!

Ooh might have a go at this...any preference on pairings, etc?

Blood from a Stone (1/?)

Not the anon from above. Hope that they still write this as well.

I started writing this and then it grew. I'm a little nervous about posting it because it's weird and nothing like I usually write things, really, and also has strange NC-17 content that isn't really that NC-17.

And it's Sherlock/John...


Sherlock, generally, does not believe in magic.

This is not so much an objection to the concept as the fact he has never found a provable example. It is entirely possible, he acknowledges, that there are things beyond science and mortal understanding. That doesn’t mean he believes there are though, it just means that if he ever does find a provable example he won’t exclude it based on prejudices.

It’s a similar thing with God. Sherlock’s world revolves around that which can be observed and quantified in some way. Often the things he notices seem invisible to others, but that does not mean they are not there.

God (or gods – he’s an equal opportunities agnostic) is not something he has ever observed.

His theories on magic, on the other hand...


There are very few occult themed murders. People refer to ‘satanic cults’ and ‘pagan sacrifices’ but in the real world the theories of evil, devil worshippers and witches do not really feature.

That said, Sherlock knows more than fifty different methods of human sacrifice all practised at one time or another in some part of the world.

But in the modern world, the occult has become ‘new age’ and pagan worship has become a feel good religion. Sacrifices are the things of myth and history books.

So when he discovers that the lead suspect in the murder investigation is a witch, he does not absolutely exclude the idea, but he does regard it as highly unlikely.

It isn’t her, anyway, but that’s not the point.

Her lover is lying dead in a morgue and Sherlock tells her, without any preamble, that he was seeing at least three other women and planning to leave her by August.

The silence that follows is deafening, stretching out and out as everyone stares at him. John shakes his head and his sigh, finally breaking the complete quiet, seems to shatter it completely.

The woman rants, she raves, she screams at him. Lestrade attempts to calm her down, but only succeeds in almost getting hit round the face.

“I curse you,” she begins, as Sherlock watches her with fascination. It is always strange to see what grief can do to a person. “You will learn what it is to feel,” she says, her voice low and hissing. “You will understand other people’s pain.”

Lestrade manages to manhandle her out of the door and Sherlock turns to John with a small chuckle.

“We do see to find the crazy ones,” he says. John rolls his eyes, but there is a slight hint of a smile on his face.

“You mean you do,” John tells him. “Before I met you, everyone I knew was normal.”

“You must have been dreadfully bored,” Sherlock tells him as they head for the door. John laughs, still shaking his head, and Sherlock finds himself unable to hold back a smile. He feels warmer than usual.

Perhaps he is coming down with something.

“Do you know what?” John says, standing aside to let Sherlock exit first, “I really was.”

They are still laughing at the bottom of the stairs, where Lestrade glares at them both and tells them, for what must be the five-hundredth time, to remember empathy.

“I’m incapable of it,” Sherlock tells him, there is an edge of frustration there that he wasn’t aware of.

“You’re not incapable of acting though,” Lestrade says.

“I’ll poke him when he starts getting out of hand,” John promises, before pulling him away. “Come on, let’s get out of here before she turns you into a newt.”


Blood from a Stone (2/?)

Sherlock wakes up angry.

That is unusual. He has no reason to be angry, there is no logical progression of thoughts or ideas that could have led him to this position.

He stares at the ceiling, his hands balled up into fists and the anger a hard, hot ball in his chest, and he contemplates the feeling.

The door of his bedroom crashes open.

“What the bloody hell did my laptop ever do to you?” John asks. There are pieces of circuit board in his hands.

“If your limited brain were any less capable, then I’d be worried about devolution,” Sherlock snaps back.

Interesting... he had been intending to inform John that he needed it for parts.

Sherlock has never had a proper argument before. He remembers when he was younger and he used to work himself up into rages, but Mycroft was always so reasonable, so calm and collected and Sherlock would throw things and snarl at him while Mycroft just watched, one eyebrow raised in silent judgement. And that had made him more angry, until he couldn’t see straight or think straight or talk.

But he has never had anyone shout back before, no one else has ever been worth the effort.

“My possessions! Do you have any idea how much this cost?”

Sherlock knows exactly how much it cost, but he doesn’t say it. Instead he allows himself to indulge in some words he has never thought of before, his voice climbing and climbing.

“You arrogant PRICK!”

The fight escalates, up and up. It is as though they are feeding off one another, pouring their anger into each other and building it up.

He can see John trying to swallow down the rage, but Sherlock has never been one for self-restraint, and he’s never felt anything quite as liberating as this before.

He’s the one who escalates from the verbal to the physical. He shoves John against the wall and just growls at him.

The anger is suddenly shot by a heavy, electric feeling of lust that crackles up his body and sends him reeling, leaves him footless and floating in limbo. He can feel his body reacting to it

When he comes to himself again John is standing by the wall still, flushed, and the lust is still there, an undercurrent that runs deep... deep.

Sherlock himself is curled, half-foetal, on the floor, one hand over his racing heart. His eyes feel wide and he can’t quite get to his feet.

“Are you alright?” John asks.

Like that, the rage is gone replaced by...

Sherlock cannot identify what is left behind in the emptiness after the anger has vanished. It is gnawing at him, makes him fidget. He needs to check... something. There’s something he’s forgotten, somewhere he’s got to be. He can’t put his finger on it.

He takes a deep breath and acknowledges that this... is unusual.

John touches his arm, lightly, and the feeling of uncertainty (and when has he ever been uncertain before? He cannot remember one single incidence) grows. He jerks back.

“I’m fine,” he says. “I didn’t... you’re not?” He doesn’t quite understand why he’s saying the words. He can see even at a glance that John is fine, his collision with the wall did no serious damage, but he needs to know, for one aching minute he needs to know – almost as much as he needs to find solutions and answers – that he hasn’t hurt John.

“I’m good. Believe me, I’ve had far worse than that.” John smiles, but Sherlock cannot respond, there is still the worry at the base of his throat, so thick it feels like it is choking him.


That’s new.

John puts out his hands to lift Sherlock up and Sherlock promptly faints.


Blood from a Stone (3/?)

When he wakes up again John is still watching him from the corner of the room, eyes serious. He is as far away as he can physically get. Sherlock can’t quite reconcile that position with the obvious concern of a Doctor with (what must be) a patient.

He asks.

“You seemed worse when I got close,” John explains. “But you haven’t got a fever, and everything else seems normal.”

Sherlock pulls himself up and forces himself to keep his face completely blank.

“I am fine, John. There’s no need to watch over me. I simply hadn’t eaten for a few days, that’s all.”

That’s not all, but it’s enough for the time being. John goes out to make him some sandwiches and the knot in Sherlock’s throat lessens somewhat. The worry is draining away.


A handful of sandwiches and a pot of tea later, Sherlock feels fine. He doesn’t feel himself, not by a long shot, but he feels at ease.

He has never felt this comfortable in his own skin before, it’s similar to the sensation of having a long bath, he thinks, almost drowning in comfortable warmth.

Contentment. He classifies.

Another new one.

The warmth grows a little, colouring his cheeks slightly with a little rush and there is a curious heart-stopping feeling in his chest, like the first few seconds of a drop on a rollercoaster, where your internal organs haven’t quite caught up with your skin and bones.

He catches John looking at him and the feeling fades, as does the contentment.

He wants...

He doesn’t know what he wants, but he knows he wants something.

He sticks two nicotine patches on his arm and the feeling just doesn’t go away.


By the end of the day Sherlock has come to this conclusion.

He feels...

That’s pretty much it. He feels. Properly.

Well, not properly: too much, all the time, any time. It’s everywhere. He is happy, he is sad, he is angry and then he is a myriad other emotions that he cannot quite identify, but which he is quantifying and measuring one by one.

And it’s so tiring to live like this, to feel like this. It’s like a door has been opened, or a curtain lifted and suddenly he’s not just watching anymore, he’s experiencing and...

He should be frustrated right now, he thinks, but he’s...

He’s not...


His hand spasms on the neck of his violin as he feels himself begin to flush, he feels himself begin to grow erect. The low down sense of lust he has been feeling on and off all day is suddenly rising again.

He quashes it down. This is not the time for lust. This is not the time for...

He sits down on the edge of the sofa, a little shaky.

Not the time.

Not the time.

Not the time.

Oh, this is... not the time.

He refuses to touch himself, though the pit of his stomach is churning and he is growing light headed. He has taught his body to obey him. It is transport, transport and plumbing and this is not going to...

He can’t quite keep his breathing steady.

He hasn’t been this aroused in years, not really. He can already feel his pulse in every inch of him, hear his blood rushing in his ears. His eyes close of their own accord and he forces himself to breathe.

The end comes as a rush, gathering and gathering until he can’t quite hold on any longer, though he has done nothing to bring it on.

He sits, shaky and tired, on the sofa, a little uncomfortable in his rapidly growing damper trousers.

This, he decides, has got to stop.


Blood from a Stone (4/?)

He is up all night, though he changes his clothes. A rush of embarrassment and shame came after the arousal making him strip them off and throw them into a corner.

He has never felt embarrassed before, or shameful, but that is the only way he could quantify the new flush that came over him in the aftermath, and the hollow feeling right inside him, the way he had wanted to be smaller, to shrink and shrink until there was nothing left of him visible.

When he looked in the bathroom mirror as he went to clean himself up he saw himself cringe.

He had never seen himself cringe before. The look was so alien to his face he blinked for a second with lack of recognition.

When John shuffles out of bed in the morning, he is staring at the ceiling and wondering what is different about him, about the situation.

The woman from two days ago comes to mind, but this cannot be... it can’t be.

As soon as John shuffles through the door, Sherlock feels a strange combination of emotions that he is forced to break down into individual parts. There is one part contentment, another part amusement – that at least is not a stranger to him – and another part irritation.

He never knew those three could be combined quite like that. It is fascinating at the same time as it is terrifying. Emotions are more complex than he has ever even considered.

He ignores John, who eventually grabs his toast and shuffles out to sit on the sofa.

He feels...



Walking through the streets of London is usually an overload of useless information at the best of times, but suddenly he is bombarded with the visual and the emotional and he blames how slow he is to catch up with what’s actually happening to him on the complete inundation he experiences.

He is laughing, he is crying, he is lost, bewildered, excited, horny, scared... so scared, and then the next second he is vengeful and angry. He wants to cry, to shout to laugh to scream to run so far far away.

And it’s all the time, everywhere. He looks at a person and he sees their life and then they come closer and he understands, in one sickening moment of pure clarity, exactly what they are feeling, and he experiences it too.

He grabs hold of John’s hand, links their fingers together, and feels a tendril of calm flow into him. It is a blessed, blessed relief.

He shoves John into an alleyway and glues their foreheads together, closing his eyes and concentrating on that calm, though he’s losing it. It’s floating away in front of him, lost in confusion and worry and a slight hint of excitement and... longing.

“Calm down, Sherlock.”

“I can’t be calm if you’re not calm,” Sherlock tells him and...

“Oh!” he says, opening his eyes wide again and releasing John. “Of course... she... it worked.”

“What? Who?” John asks, and confusion, with its chaos and hateful, hateful muddle, begins to overtake Sherlock again.

“Calm, John, stay calm.” He says, keeping his voice low, because now he knows what this is he knows how to work it, how to control it.

John takes a deep breath.

“What’s going on?”

Blood from a Stone (5/?)

“The witch... the other day. It worked,” Sherlock says, but the confusion is still there and his thoughts don’t seem to be in the right order. But that’s not his confusion, he tells his brain. It’s not his worry, not his fear, not his longing. “I can feel what you’re feeling, John.”

Chaos, stronger than before.

“Stop it. STOP IT!” he roars and John’s emotions go thankfully blank for a split second.

“You can feel what I’m feeling?” John asks, slowly.

“Yes, everything. Not just you – everyone,” Sherlock grimaces as he looked towards the thronging streets. “Everything, everyone, all of it.”

“You’re sure.”

“Yes, I’m sure... I’ve never been as confused as you in my life,” he snaps. “And this is your frustration by the way,” he adds, feeling bitter.

There is a slight hint of anger, but it is buried away and then, after another deep breath, all is calm again. He reaches out and touches his fingers to John’s lightly. He craves the calm.

“Thank you,” he says, heartfelt gratitude that, strangely, can only be his own.

“You’re welcome.”

John’s eyes are darting around. He is looking for an exit, an escape from all the petty emotional turmoil of the London rush hour. The calm is edged with worry still, laced through with it, but it is still calm and controlled.

Sherlock has never really understood how good John is at this, reining everything in and keeping it steady and certain. A gift, a sort of intelligence that Sherlock lacks entirely.

A man wonders down the alley, greed dogging his steps and sickly anger and want clouding Sherlock’s mind.

“Mugger,” he says, and he doesn’t even have to look.

The greed is catching, and it’s something Sherlock has felt before. He needs a fix (needs a fix). His brain is fuzzy with it (fuzzy with it). He needs...

As the guy pulls a knife John knocks him out with one punch. The world is stillness once more.

“Shit, we need to get you out of here,” John says.


“You can feel everything I’m feeling?” John asks again when they are safely back in Baker Street, sitting at the table. He is irritated, Sherlock can feel it like an itch under his own skin.

“Yes,” he snaps, unable to control himself. “Do try to keep up, John. You’re getting as bad as Anderson.”

He feels... hurt.

It’s strange, the sensation, under his skin, deep, painful and abrupt, but it is still real despite the lack of physical stimuli. He prods at it mentally, examining the wound as he would with any other. This is what it feels like.

“I’m sorry,” he says. John blinks and Sherlock fills with surprise, though nothing even flickers over John’s face.

“It’s okay – you’re allowed to be angry,” John says with a shrug.

The feeling is gone, wiped out with not even a scar remaining. Sherlock tries a smile then, John smiles back and there it is again, the warmth and the momentary loss of internal gravity. He’s not sure whether he enjoys the sensation, but it reminds him a little of the drugs, and he thinks it could become addictive – to make John feel like that and then drink it in as much as he can.


Blood from a Stone (6/?)

That night the nightmares must come for John, because Sherlock drifts off on the sofa for a nap and wakes in a cold sweat and he is terrified. His breath comes in desperate heaves and he crawls in on himself, rolling onto his side and into a ball, shaking, shaking, he can feel tears tracking down his face, over his nose, ticklish trails of water, but he cannot stop them. He wants to scream, wants to sob, but there is control there as well, restraint.

He doesn’t hear the footsteps on the stairs, doesn’t hear the door creak open, but he feels the shame and the sorrow pouring in on top of the fear, just when he thought there was no room left. The fear doesn’t lessen, though, it’s as though he expands to take in the other emotions, growing and growing with them. It is impossible from a person to explode from too much emotion, but he fears he may have a heart attack.

“I’m sorry,” John whispers to him, resting a hand on his shoulder, “I’m so sorry.”

Sherlock can’t quite keep himself from grabbing onto the warmth, holding on, clinging on to it desperately.

John clings back and there is a strange sense of relief in the pain. They are lost, but they are lost together.

Sherlock doesn’t know if that’s his feeling or John’s. It scares him even more to think that it might be both of them.


John leaves in the morning. He goes to work and though Sherlock knows he’s worried (he doesn’t understand why John even tries to hide it when they know it’s even more pointless than usual) he goes anyway.

“Probably better for both of us,” he says, “You’ll be better on your own without anyone to... empathise with.” He smirks. It is a pathetic attempt at a joke, but they both smile a little hysterically.

So John leaves and Sherlock finds that things tilt back to normal – or what amounts to it anyway.

Mrs Hudson comes and goes, and he barely feels more than a fuzz of affection, there is nothing overwhelming.

So, when Lestrade strides in, feeling frustrated and worried, he doesn’t think that it will be that terrible to go along with him.

He has been to dozens of crime scenes, after all, and the dead don’t have emotions.


His cab driver is irritated, lonely and more than a little bored. Sherlock ignores him and looks out the window at the faces flashing by. The emotions are still there, but more distant, and they flash past as well, becoming blurs of happysadapathylostalonedesperatepleasedproudhappynervous.

They draw up to the crime scene and, as soon as he steps out of the car he can feel it.

Grief, thicker than treacle and sharper than a hundred knives digging into his chest, stabbing at him again and again and never stopping.

He stumbles.

‘So this is what it feels like’ he thinks. ‘This is grief.’

It is agony and he could let himself get swallowed by it. It’s a strange thought, that maybe he wants to feel these things, maybe these things that are being forced upon him could become as essential to him as the cases and the...

A hand clamps down on his shoulder and he is suddenly afloat again, no longer drowning. Determination, a twinge of concern and Sherlock knows without looking up who it is. He can tell from the hand as well, the grip, the size, the shape of it. He can tell by the slight scent of sweat and deodorant and the whiff of a secret cigarette.

“I’m fine Lestrade,” he says, straightening. “The ground’s a little uneven. Where’s the body?”

He walks past Sally Donovan and feels the sharp tang of her dislike, an undercurrent of fear and anger and, over it all, the sickly sweet decay of disgust. She makes a comment, but he doesn’t look at her. She feels so much, and all over him. It would be flattering if the disgust weren’t still churning his stomach.

Anderson is seething hatred and the bitterness of envy, Sherlock takes one look at him and points at the door.

“Out! You’re making me feel sick.”

For once it isn’t an exaggeration and he is grateful that this is not unexpected or unusual of him.

Then it is him and Lestrade alone in the room with the body of a dead teenage girl, and the emotions die to a hum... except the screaming grief, that is still out there somewhere, stabbing at him.


Blood from a Stone (7/?)

Once he focuses, he finds that he can get his brain to drown out the feelings, especially now that they are further away. Lestrade, like John, seems to have more control of himself than the others, milling about downstairs.

He finishes quickly, turns the body over, pokes and prods and swipes at it and piecing together the puzzle in his mind. The connections are racing and he doesn’t stop to think before he heads out of the door again and right into the wall of emotion.

He grits his teeth and barrels through until he brushes past a woman and he is falling, falling, to his knees and the pain as he hits the ground is nothing compared to what is trying to claw its way out of his chest and up his throat. He thinks he might be screaming, he can’t tell, he feels so alone and so lost and so scared and there’s so much pain. He’s angry, so angry that he wants to tear the world apart, and part of that anger is inwards. He hates, like he has never hated before and there is the same ache that he has felt from John, only stronger, more desperate, more all consuming.

“They took my girl,” he hears the words as though they are miles away, but they are written clear across his mind. “They took her. I loved her.”

The feeling grows and he thinks with dawning horror and clarity, that now he understands.

This is love – this seething mass of pain and emotion. It is everything that he has felt magnified a million times. He thinks that he might be exploding with it. He hates the feeling, hates it. It is pain and it is horrible.

“Why?” the woman asks, and Sherlock feels so cold. “Why?”

Strong arms pull him up and yank him away and he knows from that constant thread of calm and worry that John’s there all of a sudden. There’s a fierce rush of protectiveness, and a wave of anger and frustration.

Sherlock starts to talk, he doesn’t know what’s coming out of his mouth – nonsense, most likely. Words like ‘love’ and ‘loss’ all tangled up with ‘How do you do it?’ ‘Why do you do it?’ ‘How are you still standing?’

John sits him down somewhere and the pain ebbs a little.

“Hey...” he hears through the fog of ‘pleasestoppleasestoppleasestop’ “Are you back with us?”

“Yes,” he says dully.

Yes, he is with them, but he wishes he weren’t. He wishes he were back where he was before, before everything went wrong and he had to experience.

“Sherlock?” It’s like hearing through ear muffs or after an explosion. “Sherlock?”

“SHERLOCK?” He blinks and John is crouched right in front of him, feeling fear and worry and lost.

“I’m alright,” he says, lying through his teeth. He can’t be alright again, never again. He wants to rewrite time so he will never have felt what that woman felt.

“Men have died from time to time,” he mutters, the words coming so easily through the fog, words that he never really understood until this moment, “and worms have eaten them, but not for love.”

There is a pang of some emotion that is too swiftly muffled to understand, and that must come from John.

“That’s the worst part,” Sherlock says, “it doesn’t kill you. You just keep on...”

A life spent feeling that.

“You shouldn’t have left the flat,” John says, firm. He sounds calm, but he is still scared. Sherlock wonders what he must look like to inspire that sort of fear.

“Why?” he has to ask, “why do people let themselves feel like that, when it hurts?”

John has no answer, he just sighs and shakes his head.

“Most people don’t have a choice,” an unwanted and familiar voice says from behind them.

Sherlock turns and glares, but relief is flooding in from somewhere, he glances at John and realises that he called Mycroft. He was worried and he called Mycroft.

Then John feels something warm and comforting and Sherlock lets himself relax a little. Even if his own emotions are anger and frustration.


Blood from a Stone (8/?)

Mycroft is a sea of calm, more so even than John. It is alarming though, to feel that strange warmth-bitterness of affection pulsing through him, so deeply rooted that Sherlock can’t quite tell whether it has ever had a beginning or an end. There is also a cold, controlled, ball of anger, like a lead weight, but it is so carefully held and concealed that Sherlock can barely sense it.

“A curse,” his brother says, “fascinating.”

The anger pulls a little, but it is pushed down firmly and it obeys.

“Yes,” Sherlock says, “it does allow a new, remarkable range of investigations and experiments.”

John is unimpressed, and a little angry.

Sherlock is beginning to sort out whose emotions are whose, there are flavours and tastes to them that are unique.

“Quite,” Mycroft says, “I will do some research. Until then, I recommend you remain indoors and as far away from emotional stimuli as possible. Perhaps it would be best if Dr Watson were to...”

“I’m staying,” John says, at the same time as Sherlock opens his mouth to object. Is it his consternation that he feels, thrumming between them, or John’s?

“Of course.” Mycroft stands. “Should you have any more problems, call and I will relocate you to an area of isolation where you should be unhindered by this... ability.”

Disability, Sherlock wants to say. This is not a power, like in comic books, it’s a curse, and it acts like one.

“We’ll be fine,” John says after a moment, the protectiveness creeping up in him again, working its way up Sherlock’s spine. “I don’t think it’s necessary to cut him off from humanity any more than he already is.”

Mycroft smiles and nods. He feels... reassured, Sherlock realises. His brother is grateful to John.

“Goodbye, Sherlock,” Mycroft says, offering his hand. Considering the increase in sensation physical contact seems to encourage, which has already been related to Mycroft, this is not an idle invitation.

Sherlock takes the hand suspiciously, wary of another of his brother’s tricks.

From the palm to palm contact, swell only three emotions, and Sherlock knows without having to think about it that this is deliberate, that Mycroft knew what he would feel.

There is concern and there is still the anger, but it is not directed at Sherlock, he can feel that clearly, but at someone far away, and then, underneath it all, there is...

He lets go and turns away.

“I doubt we’ll need any more of your interference,” he says, and he goes to his room and he slams the door.

When he’s inside he slumps against the door and tries to steady his hands.

...underneath it all, there is love.


John goes out to work and it is quiet.

Too quiet. There is nothing there at all. He feels empty and stuck. He has the itching again, the twitch and the itch and the need. He is an addict without a fix and he can’t quite understand why.

He doesn’t want those emotions, doesn’t need them. He got on perfectly fine without them, but he feels hollow now.

“We are the hollow men,” he announces to the room, but the words are flat, they’re hollow.

He crawls to the wall and presses himself against it. He can feel a thread of irritation, hear a voice raised slightly.

“That was the best china,” someone says – Mrs Turner? The Married Ones next door? It doesn’t matter who. He drinks in that trickle of emotion thirstily.

He wants to go out, but he is... he is afraid of it too. Afraid that he will lose what makes him Sherlock while he drowns in what it is to feel. He knows that sensation too well, the loss of self and the loss of awareness in any drug.

He sits crosslegged on the sofa and stares at the wall, remembering withdrawal and counting the symptoms idly.

He is still there when John gets back and the emptiness is filled up again with concern and amusement, frustration and contentment.

He has an idle thought that he is alive.

Yet he has always been alive, so that’s illogical.


Blood from a Stone (9/?)

At quarter past nine, he feels the first stirrings of it. Not from John, this time, but from next door.

His throat grows dry, his face gets a little hotter.

Ah... he has been here before. He closes his eyes and feels the curling, churning in his abdomen again.

John is on the other side of the room and Sherlock wonders whether he should leave. There is a distinct possibility that this could get awkward. Then the slight burn rises and he has to take a breath, more of a gasp.

This is more than last time, he can feel it.

John looks up, concerned again.

“Are you alright?” he asks. Those words are becoming his mantra.

“Fine,” Sherlock replies, but he doesn’t sound fine even to himself. John’s concern rises, and the lust from the other side of the wall rises too.

Sherlock wants, he needs. The heat is covering him now and he feels shaky and unsteady. His body is not under his control and he hates that, yet, compared with the emptiness of earlier this is bliss.

“Sherlock,” John says, “what’s going on?”

“I believe that Mrs Turner’s lodgers are reconciling after their earlier argument by having intercourse,” he says, a little strangled.

“Having inter-“ Sherlock, even with his eyes closed (and when did that happen?) can feel when John starts to understand. There is a hot rush of embarrassment that adds to the lust and then.

There’s the longing again, the want. Sherlock wants.

He wants...



His eyes burst open, staring at John and there’s no mistaking that expression, even if Sherlock hadn’t really understood the emotions until just now.

Sherlock doesn’t want. John wants.

John wants Sherlock.

John must see his understanding in his face because there is a sudden load of self-hatred and shame and...

“Stop it!” Sherlock snaps, standing up on shaking legs and unable to stop himself because he needs more than he has ever needed anything before, and he has to have now. He has never been a master of self denial.

He drags John out of the chair and slams them together, gripping and tasting and feeling He is a nexus of emotion all of a sudden, receiving from John and the couple next door and... he thinks, maybe, himself?

It doesn’t matter in the long run, he can’t think, he can’t breathe he can’t do anything but feel.

They are stumbling and his hands are tearing at clothes and his mouth is biting and kissing and sucking at whatever it can find. There is so much heat and so much fire. He can feel what John is feeling more immediately than ever before and he wants more of it. He needs it closer, needs more contact with it.

He is starving for it.

They end up on the floor, a sweaty sticky mess of limbs and emotions, fumbling with each other and tugging at each other.

Just when Sherlock thinks he can’t take any more, one of John’s hands closes around his cock and the sensations very nearly blast him away. Movement and friction make him climb, and he’s mumbling things across John’s skin and leaving impressions with his hands as John’s leaving impressions with his emotions and then he realises, as he’s being pressed into the floor and slick fingers are working over him, inside him, he looks up at John and sees himself reflected back and understands that this, this thing that is swallowing him whole, is not just lust.

He opens his mouth to say something about it ‘of course’ or ‘how did I miss it’ or maybe just ‘oh!’ But his words are swallowed by John’s mouth on his.

There is a crescendo from next door and Sherlock cannot help but ride it. He feels, somewhere under everyone else’s emotions, lost.

And then he is falling, over and over again, falling three times, four times.

He loses all sense of where he is and who he is for a moment, until he is anchored again by John, the heavy weight of contentment lying over him like a blanket.

He falls asleep.


Blood from a Stone (10/10)

The morning is empty, lifeless.

John is gone and Sherlock is alone, and clothed (he must have slept through it all) in his own bed.

He feels cold.

John doesn’t come back that night.


When John eventually works his way home, Sherlock stumbles at the guilt that radiates off him. He stares and John avoids his eyes.

“What?” he asks, but John walks past him.

“I did some shopping,” he says, dropping off the bags. “Should keep you going as long as you remember to eat.”

Then he is gone again.

Sherlock analyses his reactions, but he cannot see any explanation for them. There is no reason to his guilt. There is no purpose to his shame.

The craving gnaws at his stomach and crawls under his skin. He needs to get out, out, out.

He needs more.


It is three days until he sees John again, and Mycroft is standing behind him, watching them both shrewdly.

He waits for the fix, the rush, but nothing comes.

He is left gasping by the loss of it.

“I believe the incident has been neutralised,” Mycroft tells him. “You should no longer suffer from the unwanted influx of sensation.”

Mycroft uses fifteen words when two would do. ‘It’s over’

He feels... nothing.

Empty, hollow again. Echoing with his thoughts but nothing else.

This is good, he tells himself. Good. No more distractions, no more grief and pain and love.

Mycroft leaves and John stays. The silence is awkward and Sherlock can read John’s guilt in his shoulders and his shoes. He can read that he has been staying at Sarah’s in the roll of his back and the way he sits, but he cannot feel the guilt, cannot tell whether John is missing Sarah or not.

He feels like he imagines one does when one loses a limb. It is a strange sensation. But it is not emotion.

“Sorry,” John says after a long moment.

“For what?” Sherlock asks.

“For what?” John asks, startlement written in the stilling of his hands, the jerk of his head.


“For... for taking advantage.”

Sherlock considers this for a second and pieces the world together again, trying to see it from John’s point of view.

“You weren’t yourself, and you weren’t in control and... I’m sorry,” John says.

“You think it was rape.” The word makes John flinch.

“Wasn’t it?”

“No,” Sherlock says, calmly. He had not considered it that way at all. He might have been under the influence, as it were, but he could have left John out of it... had he wanted to. Couldn’t he?

He pushes the question aside. It is not relevant right now.

“You were... hopped up on... If I hadn’t been feeling it and they,” John jerks his head towards next door, “hadn’t been feeling it then you wouldn’t have done it.”

“Wouldn’t and wouldn’t want to are different things,” Sherlock tells him. John just shakes his head.

“I’ll go,” he says, “I can’t stay here.” He stands up. “I’ll pack up the rest of my things tonight. Sarah says I can stay with her for a few days.”

Sherlock watches him and he feels...


He ponders the sensation. It is not as immediate as the others, not clamouring for his attention like they had been, but it is deeper. Seated so far inside himself he doesn’t really have a word for where he feels it.

He feels desperate and he wants.

He has felt this before.

Before his feet are moving he is crossing the room, slamming the door in front of John and pushing him into it.

“No,” he says. “You’re not leaving.”

He lowers his mouth to John’s and this time he is all control about it. He can feel the emotions beginning to rise again, but these are his.

The emptiness ebbs away as he stands there, even as the pain begins while John refuses to kiss him back. There is a moment where the desperation seems so real. Then John is kissing him back and everything falls into place again.

The bad feelings fall away and the contentment is there, the excitement, the need and the hope.

He drinks them in and revels in them, greedy with the need. He pulls John closer.

And somehow, the itching beneath his skin stills, just for the moment.

Re: Blood from a Stone (10/10)

Wow, that was really strong. From the prompt I was expecting something a little silly at best, but this wasn't at all. It completely sucked me in.

And this line made me shiver a bit. I was more than half expecting Sherlock to start getting manipulative with John just to get a hit.
He’s not sure whether he enjoys the sensation, but it reminds him a little of the drugs, and he thinks it could become addictive – to make John feel like that and then drink it in as much as he can.

Re: Blood from a Stone (10/10)

This was amazing! Seriously amazing.

Re: Blood from a Stone (10/10)

Very beautiful fic! Totally in character with _wonderful_ poignant writing.

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