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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
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+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.
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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!

- 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 -

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John is a dream wanderer. When he sleeps, he can jump into the dreams of other people, and they don't know he's not a natural part of the dream.

This is not an Inception prompt, btw, I haven't seem the movie so I have no idea what their rules are on dream wandering.

This reminds me of the Wheel of Time series! \o/

Wanderlust [1/?]

In Afghanistan, everyone almost always dreams of the war.

Sometimes, John forgets where their dreams end and the real war begins anew; he blinks away passing seconds and hours both, and nothing changes. It’s all exhaustion, numbness, perseverance, detachment. It’s the same dirt, smells and aches, coupled with the drone of an ever-present (undefinable) hunger.

John will admit, albeit under the duress of reluctance, that he is at his most comfortable here. He slides between the dreams of his comrades effortlessly, unconcerned about the possibility that he won’t fit or blend wherever he goes; if they aren’t dreaming of him, they dream of places where he can conceivably be.

It’s the most freedom he’s ever had.

When he is shot in an ambush, his first thought is whose dream is this? He’s been shot before, died even, in other people’s heads, but this- this really hurts, like he can’t believe, and the pain’s not usually so specific-

It’s a few moments before it registers, oh- that this is all real and this is him; and it’s then that he asks aloud (please, God-) if he can be allowed to live.

In the hospital, everyone dreams of dying. John sleeps more than he has in months, but never drifts too far from his own bedside, and dreams far too much of dying too.

Wanderlust [2/?]

John can’t recall if there was ever an actual beginning to it.

As far as he can think back, it has always been present, possible. Not like breathing, an immediate knowing, a passive mastery; but a knack. An affinity, mastered over time, perfected through practice.

At first, his mother calls it a miracle. (As if it is a gift, some almighty benevolence.) After a while, she simply refers to it as John’s thing, discouraged but nevertheless optimistic; so positive that it could only be a blessing, even if it was no longer a divine one in her eyes.

John doesn’t know how to start describing it. It almost feels like it’s just a part of him, merely an extension – using it is akin to learning how to walk, swim, ride; he starts with shaky steps outside of his body, short reaches, momentary stays in the dreams of his parents, his sister.

By the time he turns thirteen, he can extend himself across three blocks, can hold himself in the same dream until one of them wakes, isn’t shocked awake from the sensation of being thrown out of someone else’s head.

(He rarely suffers, as he used to, in the dreams of others where he dies. Sometimes, though, sometimes it still takes him by surprise, and he’ll wake, gasping and disorientated, shattered by uncontrollable trembles and nonspecific pains.)

The rules are something he learns for himself – John has no illusions of grandeur that he’s alone in a world with billions of people, but if there others, they’re certainly not writing handbooks and how-to guides – through trial and error. It’s a constant theme of education in the hardest manner achievable; there are no easy feats, things given freely. He discovers that some are more aware in their dreamspaces than others, that strangers become suspicious of him if he can’t be explained away as a faceless bystander, after a particularly unnerving confrontation with his neighbour at fifteen – he ended up pushing said neighbour in front of a bus so that he’d wake, and the neighbour eyed him strangely for a fortnight afterwards. Others are utterly disconnected, dream darkness or unselective flickers of colour until they wake, and never remember him being there.

The dreams that are just an individual’s memories are the hardest to navigate, he discovers. They are also the most telling, the most intimate – where John feels some initial, moral discomfort in his wanderings elsewhere, in dreams of someone’s past he feels incredible guilt, a wrongness. In the absence of any telling indicators, though, it’s often hard for him to discern what is a dream and what is a recollection; not until it is far too late, until he’s seen too much.


“We need to set up a system,” Harry says to him one evening, as she’s padding across his bedroom to perch stiffly on the edge of his bed.

When John doesn’t reply, trying to find his voice through his own breathlessness, snapshots of his sister’s dream – her memory – still vivid in the forefront of his mind, she adds: “Because, you know, if you give me a heads up on days you’re going to take a walk in my head, I’ll promise not to watch any porn before I settle in for the night.”

John thinks sure and you liar, but he says “Was it just her, or-?” and hates himself instantaneously for it.

Harry licks her teeth, bites down on her bottom lip. “Damn, I mean- that was my first time, you know, but- but no. It’s not just her. Oh, shit.” She fists her hair, rakes it back from her face. “I haven’t even really thought about it, yet.” She snorts as though it’s funny, but she can’t muster a laugh.

“Harry,” John whispers.

“I don’t know, John,” she chokes. “Help me.”

“Come here,” John says, at a loss. He pulls his duvet back, shifts over to make room as she crawls up his mattress. There is nowhere near enough room for the both of them, not in a single, but John pushes himself as far back as he can, she tucks her head underneath his neck, and it somehow all works out.

“Little prick,” Harry sniffs into his collarbone, “stop dicking about in people’s heads.”

He pinches her on the shoulder, and shushes her when she hisses.

Re: Wanderlust [2/?]

This is just brill, can't wait for the rest

Re: Wanderlust [2/?]

Thank you! ♥

Oh, this is brilliant, please do continue soon :)

Re: Wanderlust [2/?] (Anonymous) Expand

Wanderlust [3/?]

FFFFFF, that was an embarrassing anon-fail. /o\


Invalidated home, all John relives is the war, the ambush. Experiences again and again and again every moment in every perspective the long moments where he lay on the ground, slowly bleeding out.

In comparison, the dreams of his nearby neighbours are hardly worth acknowledging. He stays in his own head because it is all he really knows now, civilian life and wide, countless possibilities too strange, foreign, unpredictable. He wakes up exhausted from thrashing, can’t cross the length of his room or hold on to anything in his hand on the very bad days, but it’s okay.

It’s all he can do.

Then his funds start to get perilously low, and he’s certainly not going to accept any help from Harry, no matter how improved she claims to be – not after Clara – so he thinks he may just have to leave London, abandon his box of a room and his therapist, find somewhere far too quiet and see. Just see.

Of course, then, in an uncharacteristic show of incredible luck, he comes across Mike Stamford, which results in the acquisition of a flatmate. A flatmate who happens to bring home all manners of biochemical disasters and traipses all over the furniture in ways said furniture certainly isn’t built to withstand, but John supposes it’s to be expected, at the price he’s paying.

Well, mostly expected.

Sherlock rarely sleeps – John is convinced he does, because he must, but he’s never slept while John has, or when John’s had the possibility of noticing. It works for John, even if it makes him feel as though he’s a hostage of himself; he refuses to go poking into Mrs. Hudson’s dreams on principle, and the couple next door are very... well. With how intimately John’s accidentally acquainted himself with them, he should at least introduce himself personally before he encroaches any further. (As if that makes it any less invasive – but it isn’t as if there are established social conventions for this sort of thing, and John’s the first to admit he’s inconsistent at best, a hypocrite at worst.)

Sharing a flat with Sherlock means he’s never bored for long at least, even though it usually means he’s trading good health and relative safety for the excitement.

Eventually, he dreams less of Afghanistan – dust and gunfire dissipating to winding alleyways, the screams of traffic a backdrop for endless chases and violent confrontations.

He’s hesitant to call it an improvement, but it’s something.

Wanderlust [4/?]

John likes Sarah. Likes her quite a bit, because she’s gorgeous and brilliant and just a fair bit fantastic, and she takes him as he is – extremely invasive, socially inept flatmate included.

Sarah dreams of flowers and Gloucestershire. She dreams of the clinic and visiting the shops late at night to ride trolleys down the aisles, of zombie apocalypses and bizarre musicals with matching dance numbers. John likes her dreams.

She dreams of John, too, quite a lot. Sometimes they’re racing down steps, taking two at a time, chasing a train. Sometimes they just get into a car and drive, drive until the city disappears behind them and it’s only road and countryside, the hum of music and the whistle of the wind – there are times when Sherlock comes too, where he solves crimes in the backseat until his phone battery dies, and argues with the radio. They never run out of fuel or food and John wakes up wishing they could have just slept forever, becayse those dreams are just so unrealistic, so unexplainably perfect.

Sometimes, Sarah dreams of just holding his hand. Winds her fingers in his, rests her head on his shoulder, and stays like that until she wakes. It doesn’t matter where they are, what they’re watching or what they say, because all he feels is the warmth where their bodies connect and an extraordinary sense of peace.

He still sleeps on the sofa whenever he spends the night, but John never feels as though he’s sleeping alone anymore when he’s there. He even takes the chronic crick in his neck in stride.


The first time John steps into one of Sherlock’s dreams is a strange one.

John is exhausted and pressed well beyond his limit, and after two weeks of infrequent meals and rest stolen wherever he could get it, he just wants to give himself a pat on the back for a job that’s done and gone, and sleep for two days straight. He doesn’t trust himself not to sabotage his own attempts, can’t bear the thought of being in his own head, waking up tired and shaking with the sound of guns and yelling echoing in his ears.

He honestly hadn’t expected Sherlock to be asleep, draped on the couch with his legs drawn underneath himself, arm limp over the side, as if he’d simply passed out in the middle of reaching for something on the nearby table. John’s first thought is oh, would you look at that.

His next thought is wonderment as to what kind of dreams a man like Sherlock Holmes has. And he shouldn’t, he knows he shouldn’t – two blocks away there’s an accountant who keeps strange hours and dreams a lot of the ocean, which sounds awfully nice to him right now – but he’s a fool, and far too curious, and already in the dream before he can further attempt to talk himself out of it.

John knows he should not have expectations, but he expects things anyway. He does not expect Sherlock’s dream to be nothing but sky and rolling fields of green, stretching on infinitely.

It’s quiet, and it’s beautiful, and Sherlock is looking up at him.

“How did you get here?” Sherlock asks him, surprise transitioning to suspicion.

“I walked?” John offers weakly.

“Bit of a distance to cross, wasn’t it?” he adds, lips thinning.

“Yeah,” John breathes, feeling his own panic skyrocket. “Yeah. Thanks for that, by the way.”

Sherlock merely folds his hands across his chest and returns to watching the clouds drift past, satisfied by his responses.

Nothing has changed between them come the morning, and John thinks he’s rather dodged a bullet in regards to the whole situation.

Next time, he tells himself, he’s just going to go with the accountant.

Re: Wanderlust [4/?]

<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3 forever.

Re: Wanderlust [4/?] (Anonymous) Expand
Really really enjoying this, can't wait to see where you're taking it

Re: Wanderlust [4/?] (Anonymous) Expand
Lovely ♥♥♥♥♥♥

Re: Wanderlust [4/?] (Anonymous) Expand

Re: Wanderlust [4/?]

This is really, really wonderful. I love your style, and the world John inhabits which you paint really well. Would love to see more :)

Re: Wanderlust [4/?] (Anonymous) Expand

Re: Wanderlust [4/?]

I would love some more of this so much.

Re: Wanderlust [4/?] (Anonymous) Expand
Re: Wanderlust [4/?] (Anonymous) Expand

Re: Wanderlust [4/?]

Loving this so much. It almost has its own smell. ::enthralled::

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