Log in

No account? Create an account

Sherlock BBC Prompting Meme

"we get all sorts around here."

Previous Entry Share Next Entry
Prompting: Part IV
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 2500 and 4500 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 -

  • 1

Man's Original Virtue - pt1

Hee. I finally managed to write this. This is attempt number five or something. The earlier ones just didn't work. I went by Book!verse Ella Enchanted, btw (because the film is a travesty and should be confined to the lowest circles of hell) for the curse nuances etc. and I do believe that I'm collecting all the bonuses. *high fives self* Hope you enjoy it.


Disobedience, in the eyes of anyone who has read history, is man's original virtue. It is through disobedience and rebellion that progress has been made. - Oscar Wilde

“John, hold this.”

John’s hand doesn’t move of its own accord, but he couldn’t stop it if he wanted to. It goes out and takes the box of what looks like it might be brain matter and John doesn’t even flinch.

Lestrade and Donovan are staring at him like he’s mad, and he probably is. But he just shrugs.

“Doctor, remember,” he tells them. “I’ve seen worse.” And he has. It’s a lot worse when the brains are oozing out of someone’s head, or splattered on your clothing, when they belonged to someone you knew.

He looks at the sludge in the Tupperware container and sighs.

He really should stop automatically following Sherlock’s orders.

Not that he could stop following them, but he should fight it a bit. Shouldn’t he?

“Smell them,” Sherlock says. John leans down obediently and sniffs the brain matter. It smells of vinegar. Pickled brains, what a delicacy.

He just sniffed brains. This is definitely getting ridiculous.


Man's Original Virtue - pt2

John Watson is 5 years old when he and his sister realise exactly how abnormal he is.

“Change the channel,” Harriet says (she is still Harriet at this point. She likes My Little Pony and loves Disney’s Robin Hood).

John gets up and changes it, even though he’s twice as far away from the set as Harry is. There’s less on ITV than there was on the BBC, though. It’s just the news.

“Change it back,” Harry says again.

He does so.

She likes this game. By the fourth time she has told John to change the channel he sticks his bottom lip out, determined to tell her to do it herself. He manages five seconds that feel like hours, before the pressure in his head makes him turn around and walk back to the television.

After he’s changed the channel for the ninth time, he’s crying, but he’s still moving. Harriet always waits for him to sit back down before she tells him to get back up again.

Half way back, before she can order him again, he leaps at her, abandoning resistance in favour of attack. He pulls her hair and she slaps at him angrily.

“Get off me!” she yells, and before he can do anything else, he’s already moving away from her. He wants to hit her, but...

His mother finds him two hours later in the corner of his bedroom, huddled in on himself and crying.

“Don’t cry.”

He forces himself to stop.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. She is warm and she smells of washing up liquid. “Tell me what’s wrong, sweetheart.”

He doesn’t want to – Harriet hates getting into trouble – but he tells her anyway. He can’t stop himself. The words trip over themselves and come out in a flow that’s unstoppable. His mother listens to his hiccups, her face drawn.

Harriet gets bread and butter for dinner that night, and shut in her room. Mummy asks her how she would feel if she was made to do things whether she wanted to or not. Harriet points out that she doesn’t want to be trapped in her room. The resulting argument shakes the house to its foundations.

Three days later, after many hushed conversations in the kitchen, Mummy and Daddy take them both to one side and explain that John is very special.

They always say that, for the rest of their lives ‘you’re very special’. But what they mean is cursed. ‘You’re cursed’.

Daddy upset a fairy (he’d been drinking, hadn’t he always?) and the fairy had cursed John with obedience.

Harriet was forbidden to use this knowledge, which she was free to ignore if she wanted to, and John was forbidden from telling anyone, which meant he never could, and life went on as usual.

But John always let Harriet have the biggest slices of cake.


“Stop,” Sherlock calls. John is half way out of the door and he wills himself to take the next step, though he knows he won’t. He freezes and refuses to look back. Sherlock had only said ‘stop’ after all. He hadn’t given any indication of turning round or coming back.

It’s the little rebellions that he has to make to keep himself sane.

“You can’t go out,” Sherlock tells him.

“Sarah’s waiting,” John replies, though he already knows that he’s not going. He probably wouldn’t even if he could.

“Text her, tell her you can’t come.”

John lets out an exaggerated sigh, but his hand’s already in his pocket, fishing out his phone and his fingers don’t hesitate on the keys.

Sorry. Can’t make it. Reschedule?

He resigns himself to Sherlock’s company, which isn’t such a bad sentence when he thinks about it, and shuts the door. He turns round and Sherlock is watching him intently.

“Come and sit down,” Sherlock tells him.

There is a moment of panic in that moment where John thinks ‘does he know?’

But after he has sat himself down on the sofa, Sherlock starts off on a monologue about the indecently inept criminals that Lestrade asked him to track down last week.

It’s fine. Sherlock has no idea.


Man's Original Virtue - pt3

When Harry Watson is thirteen years old, she learns about slavery in history lessons. She goes home that night and sits across from her little brother at the dinner table and thinks.

Her mother asks if she’s quite well, she’s too quiet and Harry assures her that she’s fine.

That night she knocks on John’s door and waits for the answer. John opens it, peeking his head out.

“What do you want?” he asks. Harry shifts uncomfortably, looking down at her shoes.

“I’m sorry,” she says, “for bossing you around all the time.” John blinks.

Yesterday she told him to stand on his head. The week before she had made him run round the house seven times. She had thought it was funny. She remembers the video from history.

“If I tell you to do something you don’t want to,” she says after a moment, “ask me if you have to, okay.” He nods.

She shrugs and begins to shuffle away.

“Thank you,” John calls after her.

“Don’t mention it,” she replies.

“Do I have to?” John shoots back. Harry laughs.

“No,” she says. “Mention it if you want to.”


The thing about Sherlock is that he doesn’t realise he’s giving orders half the time. It’ll be ‘get my phone, would you?’, or ‘hand me that scalpel’. He’s so caught up in his thought processes that he doesn’t notice that you’re not just an extension of his own limbs. It’s that, more than anything, that means John doesn’t fight the curse when Sherlock tells him what to do.

Sometimes he doesn’t understand, like when Sherlock told him to note down every registration number he saw on the way to a crime scene once, but in the end, everything usually becomes clear.

Sometimes, when Sherlock’s giving orders, it’s because he doesn’t have time for explanations, and that’s fine too. John knows that sort of order. If you waited for an explanation every time you were given an order in the army, then you’d be dead. So he follows them without thinking about it sometimes. Some are more difficult than others. ‘Climb that wall’ for example, is sometimes nearly impossible, and it’s not like the magic gives him amazing climbing abilities. He has to do all the hard work himself, or the sick, painful pressure in his head begins. But he usually manages in the end, and if he knows that something is impossible, he hems Sherlock in with questions until he gets an order he can actually follow.

But Sherlock’s the only one. He won’t follow anyone else without question. It’s a matter of principle more than anything. He knows that if he lets the curse rule him he’ll be nothing more than a puppet or a robot. It’s not a happy thought.

“Out of the way,” Anderson says on the staircase one day. John holds on as long as he can, ignoring the rushing in his ears, feeling the pain beginning to cloud his mind, just so he can have those few extra seconds of free will.

Anderson glares at him, but John doesn’t care. He is still human.


Man's Original Virtue - pt4

John and Harry’s mother dies when John is sixteen, drink driver. Their father, in one of the cruellest forms of irony, then descends into true alcoholism. It takes him another three years before he dies, but he’s a shell of a man long before that.

At the funerals, Harry and John stand side by side, solemn and sober in black.

John has to listen to people telling him to ‘keep his chin up’ and ‘be brave’. His chin doesn’t drop to his chest until hours later, after the reception, when Harry notices his perfect posture and stares in surprise.

“Bloody hell,” she says. “You’re not meant to take that literally.” But they both know he has no choice. “Relax, John,” she says after a moment. “Feel whatever you want to feel, do whatever you want to do.”

An order, true, but not one he’s reluctant to follow.

The tears start and Harry lets him bury his head in her shoulder.

“It’s okay,” she mutters, rubbing her hand up his back awkwardly. It’s a parody of what their mother used to do, but Harry can’t quite get it to work properly. “It’s all going to be okay.”


Mycroft doesn’t give commands. It’s probably the most curious thing John has noticed about him. The man rules the country (if not the world) but everything he asks you to do is a request, or a favour. It’s all ‘could you do this’ and ‘may I that’.

John would have expected that to endear the man to him. With Mycroft he is in the exact same position as every other poor bugger in the world. He doesn’t have to do as Mycroft asks (so very politely) but if he doesn’t there will be the sort of... Consequences that come with a significant pause and a capital C.

In truth, it unnerves him. People give orders all the time, silly little things like the American ‘Have a nice day’ which is supposedly polite, but makes John’s days a nightmare, in truth. Or the occasional ‘be careful’ or ‘don’t do anything I wouldn’t do’. They’re platitudes and clichés but John is stuck with them.

One night in university his flatmate (a rather overly energetic, heavy drinking and sexually enthusiastic Rugby teammate) had said ‘don’t do anything I wouldn’t do’ and John had woken up at midday the next day in a ditch without his trousers on and completely stripped of all his valuables.

But Mycroft doesn’t even do those. John sometimes longs for him to say ‘tell me about my brother’, because then John would know where he stands. But he never does.


Harry starts drinking heavily when she’s twenty-two. Their father has been dead for a year, his liver pickled beyond belief, and John is at university.

John tries to start a conversation about it, but Harry just says ‘don’t even think about it,’ and John’s mind obediently wanders away from it, though it takes great effort on his part. He has to pinch himself every time his attention catches on her hand on the glass, or the way she throws down a shot like she’s done it all her life.

She apologises the next morning, hung-over, realising what she had said.

“God, I controlled your thoughts... I shouldn’t. I’m so sorry, John.” She rescinds the order, but replaces it with a request that he not talk about it. She’s so upset about the ‘don’t think about it’ remark and so careful to phrase it as a request rather than an order, that John lets her get away with it.

Years later he remembers that night and thinks that he really should have pressed the matter.


“Stand by the window,” Sherlock tells him at a crime scene. John walks over without even thinking of saying no. Sherlock’s working now, after all. This is probably vitally important for something or other. Sherlock smiles when he reaches the window. Sally Donovan is frowning.

“You don’t have to do everything he says, you know,” she tells him. John just shrugs.

“It’s probably important,” he replies.

“Of course it’s important,” Sherlock agrees, launching into an explanation about shadows, illusions and the convenience of disguise. John doesn’t catch it all, but it distracts Donovan.


Man's Original Virtue - pt5

Girlfriends are the worst, John learns. They tell you things for your own good or for their own good. They don’t even realise that they’re giving orders, most of the time. “Leave it alone,” one girl tells him when he’s fussing with his tie. “Give me a hand,” another asks when she’s carrying in the shopping.

It’s not that he minds, but he will only help out with one hand (that is all she specified) or he’ll then start messing with his hair.

They get irritated quickly, and none of them really knows how to deal with it.

They do agree that he’s good in bed, though. It’s one of the upsides.


Moriarty straps the bomb to John’s chest himself.

“Now, say exactly what I tell you to and nothing else,” he commands.

John has to follow orders.

He walks out and he says everything he’s told to say and nothing more. He pauses a few times, tries to rebel because he doesn’t care so much about dying himself. If Sherlock can get a head start he might come out of this alive.

Sherlock asks him if he’s okay. exactly what I tell you to and nothing else rings in his ears.

Moriarty rescinds the order and John can talk, but he’s not going to right now. He’s not this man’s puppet. He will talk when he wants to talk, not when some overdressed git in a suit tells him he can.

He nods instead. Sherlock doesn’t seem completely happy with the situation.

He seizes Moriarty from behind, grateful that there had been no embargo on his actions.

But the snipers put paid to that.


The army is the last thing John had thought of doing when he was younger. So many orders, he would have considered it hell.

Older and, he hopes, a bit wiser (though that is most likely wishful thinking) he realises that the best place to hide a stamp is on a letter. Or, rather, the best place to hide obedience is in a place where it’s expected.

It doesn’t go quite according to plan, but it does make him flourish. The rest of the recruits don’t understand how he learns everything so quickly. But when he’s told to correct his stance, he does it, and when he’s told to do something differently, he does it. He learns the correct technique out of self defence. If he doesn’t do things properly the pain rises up, so he’s forced to get things right, every time.

That’s what happens with the shooting. The first time on the range, John can barely shoot a wall. His arm kicks back and the bullet goes wild.

Three days later and every shot is on target. It takes an effort, but the orders are there and he has to follow them.

Three more days and he can shoot three bullets through the same hole, practically.

Years later those skills, which an army doctor shouldn’t really be capable of, will save Sherlock Holmes’ life and John Watson will feel a curious sense of gratitude to that bitch of a fairy who thought to punish a man, now long dead, by taking revenge on his new-born son.

Every cloud has a silver lining and all that.


Man's Original Virtue - pt6

The car stops next to him and the door opens.

“Get in,” a familiar Irish voice commands.

John tells himself not to. He shouldn’t. Moriarty will use him again; he will use him to get to Sherlock. He needs to walk away, he needs to turn around and run.

He gets in the car.

“Hello, John,” Moriarty says, smiling at him in a way that might be pleasant if it weren’t gracing the face of a mass murderer and psychopath. “Say hello,” he adds. “It doesn’t hurt anyone to be polite.”

John grinds out the word ‘hello’ through gritted teeth. He stares straight ahead. Moriarty will not beat him.

“I’ve been keeping an eye on you, John Watson. For a while now, but especially since that day in the pool. Our last date, you might say.”

John doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have anything to say except ‘fuck off’. He’ll save his breath.

“I’ve noticed something curious about you,” Moriarty continues. “I didn’t know what to think, at first. I thought perhaps you were just being a good puppy. But then I double checked and I noticed that you really are very well trained.”

John can feel his world grinding to a halt. His heart almost stops beating; he feels the strange emptiness caused by it missing a beat, and his stomach drops out of him. Moriarty knows.

He has never considered the curse a danger to anyone other than himself. Not really, not in any physical way, but he should have. He should have realised back in Afghanistan when he had orders to kill people he’d never met, if necessary, that he could just as easily be given orders to kill someone he knows, someone he loves.

Moriarty knows and this is the worst thing that could happen to anyone.

“You’re terribly obedient, aren’t you, John?” Moriarty whispers. His voice is low, almost velvety. John thinks that maybe he could kill the man before he can speak again. He is only on the other side of the car, it would be a matter of seconds to ram an elbow into his throat and then strangle him to death. Sherlock wouldn’t appreciate it, but it would be better than this.

But before he can even begin to move, and the thought itself has only take a split second to flitter across his mind, Moriarty is speaking.

“Don’t hurt me,” he says. “Stay where you are and listen very carefully.”

John’s mind is in freefall. He can’t think of a way out now. There is no way out now.

He remembers Harry laughing as she said ‘stand on your head, John’, he remembers Louise saying ‘forget about your girlfriend. Have some fun with me,’ and then, later, the look on Jessica’s face. He remembers his Mum telling Harry ‘this isn’t fair on John’ remembers his Dad dying in a hospital bed with John’s hand tight in his, whispering ‘don’t ever be like me, son.’

He remembers Sherlock. ‘Come on, John,’ ‘Keep up, John,’ ‘Faster, John,’ and a million other orders that weren’t meant to be cruel or to enslave him.

He knows that this is going to be the end. He’ll put the bullet in his own brain first.

“Don’t harm yourself, either,” Moriarty continues. “Oh, what? You didn’t think I’d realise that would be your next point of call. You rather showed your hand at the pool, Rover.” There is a lengthy pause, and John’s mind runs round in circles ‘I’m going to kill Sherlock’.

“Tell you what,” Moriarty says, “because I’m such a nice guy, I’ll revise that last one. Don’t harm yourself until after you’ve done what I asked. Then you can do whatever you want to yourself.”

The orders take less than a minute to give and Moriarty pulls them up and John gets out, just as he’s been told.

Man's Original Virtue - pt7

He picks up the false passport (Sebastian Moran) and then uses it to pick up the gun. He won’t be using his own, it seems. Moriarty thought that would be too much, more interesting to make them work for it, to make them see the little games he was playing around them.

The house opposite 221b is empty, has been for as long as John can remember. Moriarty handed him a key in the car, and he opens the door.

The only way he can get through this is by thinking of the orders one at a time. He’s not thinking ahead, he’s just following them in order. He has to go upstairs.

He takes each step with single-minded determination. He focuses on it to the exclusion of everything else. He is not thinking of Sherlock, he’s not thinking about what lies at the top of those stairs, he’s thinking about the step.

One foot in front of the other.

He reaches the top of the stairs and his heart sinks a little more. That means there’s one less order to go before... before that last one.

He finds the room at the front of the house. He steps in.

He crosses to the window. He can’t quite resist the look up. Sherlock is there, in the living room. His violin is caught under his chin and he is pacing as he resins the bow.

John looks down and opens the bag. He pulls the zip so slowly, hoping that Sherlock will go out or that he’ll get a call from Lestrade. Something should happen that will make him get out of there.

He puts the rifle together. It’s one of the newer, high tech things, specifically designed to kill and kill well.

Like John himself when it comes down to it.

The gun is assembled too soon John props it against the ledge and looks down the sight.

The crosshairs fall over Sherlock’s chest so very easily. He stops pacing even, begins to play his violin, so terribly still.

Keep moving John urges him, but Sherlock can’t hear his thoughts, no matter what strange ideas John might have had at some points in their friendship.

His finger is on the trigger.

He will draw this out. He will not go easily. He’s not just going to shoot the best friend he’s ever had, the greatest man he’s ever know (the most irritating, frustrating, brilliant person).

John is a fighter and he will not be anyone’s puppet.

He looks down the sight at Sherlock, eyes closed, listening to whatever music his violin is making today. Is this a classical day or a composition day, or is Sherlock making it caterwaul, like he does at three in the morning?

John’s finger begins to tighten on the trigger. He has to take the shot.

The fuzzy pain is beginning to gather above his eyes.

He must shoot.

He will not shoot.

He must shoot.

He will not kill Sherlock.

Sherlock. He fixes on the name. Afghanistan or Iraq, Dr Watson will be taking the room upstairs, insane chases over rooftops. Sherlock, who sometimes smiles at him like he’s not sure if he’s doing it right, who smiles at other people with all the self assurance of an effortless actor and conman. Sherlock who pouts whenever Mycroft comes round and Sherlock who once set fire to the rug just because he could.

John remembers Harry, four years ago now, saying ‘Leave me alone, John’ and ‘Get out and never talk to Clara again.’ Harry who had once said ‘I’m sorry’ and promised him that she would never make him do something he didn’t want to again. He remembers the argument: ‘I don’t care what you think’ and ‘just get lost’, when she hadn’t realised what she had said until the next morning and found him in the middle of bloody nowhere. He remembers her telling him, drunk off her face, to pour her another drink, and another, and another.

He had no choice... he had had to pour them, just like he has to pull the trigger.


The one word shoots through him like the starting gun of the one hundred metres. He tears his hand from the trigger, tears his eye from the sight and then the pain swells up so large that he thinks that maybe he’s been shot again, in the head this time. This is what it feels like to die.

But better him than Sherlock.

Man's Original Virtue - pt8 END

Look at this, John.

Hurry up, John, we’re losing him!

His head is full of noise and pain.

He forces himself to bear it, because one way or the other this has to end and even if it ends with Sherlock dead, then he has to be able to tell himself he fought.

He is dimly aware that he has curled up into a ball, like he did when he was five. But his mother isn’t here to wrap her arms around him now. His throat hurts from swallowing down shouts and pleading. Please God let me live he had said once before. Now everything’s different; </i>please God, let me die.</i>

The pain distances itself from him, and the doctor in his mind tells him clinically that he must be going into shock. It doesn’t matter. He’s deep inside himself now, the rest of the world has fallen away and there’s just him and that damn order.

Moriarty hadn’t wasted words. “Shoot Sherlock and kill him with the first shot. No warning shots, injuries or near misses, Doctor. I know what you’re capable of.”

Shoot him. Shoot Sherlock and end everything. Don’t shoot him and end his own life, most likely.

He has to follow the order.

He can’t follow the order.

Feel however you want to feel, Harry says from the past, do whatever you want to do

“I can’t,” he tells her, though whether the words are in his head or said aloud, he can’t tell.

Why not? asks a voice that sounds suspiciously like Sherlock. A curse? How tedious and unfashionable. You don’t have to follow rules, John, just because society or ‘magic’ tells you to do so.

Why not? He asks himself.

The realisation clicks into place inside him. He remembers his mother telling him ‘John has to do whatever he is told’.


Because some fairy didn’t like his drunken father? That’s a stupid reason.

Everything is calm, beyond calm. There is nothing left in him but calm and some reserve of strength that he didn’t know he had. It gets him to his feet and forces him to look across at Sherlock, who still stands there, playing his violin.

John packs up the gun without ceremony. He’s not sure what this means, right now, but this isn’t the place to contemplate it. He stuffs it back into its bag and then he goes back down those stairs, one at a time again; he crosses the street and heads into 221b. He calls a greeting to Mrs Hudson, with a strange, disconnected feeling, like it isn’t his own voice.

He can hear Sherlock’s violin now – classical today, it seems.

He opens the door to the flat and drops the bag on the sofa. Sherlock looks at it, contemplatively.

“Moriarty ordered me to kill you today,” John says. Sherlock nods, like this is to be expected, but he doesn’t reply. “I didn’t do it.” Sherlock rolls his eyes. As evidenced by the fact I’m still alive, idiot, John can almost hear in his mind. “I think that means I’m not cursed any more, which is nice.” Sherlock blinks at that, but continues playing.

John heads for his room. He needs a rest, and time to think, but before he can reach the door Sherlock calls out.

“Get me a cup of tea.”

John waits for the pressure and the pain, but neither comes.

He realises with a rush of sheer joy that he could honestly say ‘no, get it yourself’ and walk off.

He sighs and turns around.

“Just this once,” he mutters and heads into the kitchen. He might as well; he can get one for himself at the same time.


I don't have access to my DVDs atm, or streaming video, so I couldn't check the quotations and references to the episodes. Just gloss over any mistakes. Thanks for reading, if you made it this far.:D

Re: Man's Original Virtue - pt8 END

Wow, amazing fic. Brilliant.

Re: Man's Original Virtue - pt8 END

*thumbs up* :)

Re: Man's Original Virtue - pt8 END

...that was...um, much better than mine.

You had me entranced by part 1! Happy and sad and crying and squeeing throughout! (I agree, the book verse was WAY better. ^_^) This was FANTASTIC! I loved the way you described things, especially the final battle with Moriarty's orders! It was like I could see it playing out in front of me. Like I was watching a movie and could feel the emotions myself. It was wonderful! I love it! Thank you! You absolutely rock! And your virtual bonus prizes are: warm cookies, a BBC!Sherlock action figure, a teddy bear wearing a mini of one of John's jumpers, and a fluffy heart-shaped pillow! Congrats! XD

Mycroft says "named midmiag". So apparently the fairy was named Midmiag? lol

Re: Man's Original Virtue - pt8 END

Wow! That was amazing!

Re: Man's Original Virtue - pt8 END

ella enchanted is only my favorite book in the entire world. omg this was so fabulous.

Re: Man's Original Virtue - pt8 END

Aaahh cool fic.

  • 1