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Sherlock BBC Prompting Meme

"we get all sorts around here."


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Prompting: Part IV
Giggles at the Palace
sherlockbbc_fic
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


GENERAL GUIDELINES
+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 FILLED PROMPTS POST
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.

CONTACTING MODS
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.

RE: OFFENSIVELY WORDED PROMPTS
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...
DISCLAIMER
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!

LINKS AND AFFILIATES
- 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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Sebastian Moran vs. John Watson

(Anonymous)
Sebastian Moran is a cold-blooded killer and Moriarty's right hand man. He got kicked out of the army under suspicion of involvement in several unnecessarily brutal killings. He is uncanny with a rifle, a top notch assassin, and once crawled into a drain after a wounded man-eating tiger.

Moran is less than impressed with John Watson. A crippled ex-army doctor who wears jumpers that his grandfather wouldn't have been caught dead in. He's quiet, bland, and a complete doormat, letting Sherlock order him around. And he's tiny - Moran could pin him down with one hand. Sure, Jim told him that Watson was a crack shot, but Moran figures it wouldn't take much to kill him. After all, they snatched Watson off the street and strapped a bomb to him easily enough.

Moran and Watson bump into each other. Perhaps on purpose - Moriarty sent Moran to intercept Sherlock's pet so that he could play with Sherlock alone. Watson beats the ever loving crap out of Moran, then goes on to interrupt whatever plan Moriarty is concocting.

Re: Sebastian Moran vs. John Watson

(Anonymous)
Gosh, I love me some secretly!BAMF John. Totally seconded!

Re: Sebastian Moran vs. John Watson

(Anonymous)
Are you me?

Seriously, been having this same thought for a month now! XD

SECONDED! (Thirded?)

relevant to your interests?

(Anonymous)
From the wording of your prompt I strongly suspect that you've already read this, but if not, you might enjoy it while you're waiting for someone to fill this one. It contains unimpressed, crack-shot, dishonorably discharged, big-game-hunter Moran and secretly-BAMF John wearing jumpers that Moran's grandfather wouldn't be caught dead in.

http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/2727.html?thread=5168295#t5168295

semper fidelis, 1/?

(Anonymous)
There's someone following him.

He's excellent at it, but doesn't quite keep himself out of John's peripheral vision, always drawing himself back like he's chomping at the bit. Impatient, then. A quick glimpse of the man in a shop window shows a wrinkling in his jacket on the side of his torso – some sort of weapon hanging beneath his arm, either a pistol or a knife. Probably not one of Mycroft's friendlies - they tended to better dress sense and squeakier shoes.

John sips his coffee a little slower and lets his feet wander aimlessly towards a nearby alley, loosening the lid on his cup as he does so. He sighs a little – Sherlock had appropriated the teapot and the kettle for yet another experiment that morning, this had been the only non-instant cup of caffeine he'd had the whole day and now he wasn't even going to get to finish it.

There! The edge of a sleeve in the corner of his eye -

John pivots, ducks down and whips his steaming hot coffee directly into the man's face. The man yells, bends over – John sees a glint of edged silver before he strikes up twice, quick, into an unprotected windpipe, blocks the man's uppercut, drives his other fist up into the man's solar plexus and takes out his knee with a savage stomp.

The man crumples to his good knee, breath wheezing out painfully from a half-crushed throat, full syringe dropping from his hand. His other hand dives into his jacket – John breaks his nose, rams his fist into the man's jaw, wrenches the hand out of the jacket and breaks the first two fingers. A judicious application of his foot to his assailant's shoulder sends him on his back onto damp cobblestones.

“Right,” John says, pulling his pistol from his newly-purchased (because try as he might, he couldn't forget his sergeant's bawling about gun safety and the dangers of a gun down your trousers) shoulder holster and leveling it at the man's head. “Generally speaking, in this country it's preferable to say 'hi' by shaking hands rather than through abject assault.”

There's absolute fury in the eyes that glare up at him through coffee-soaked hair, the stance of the tense shoulders screaming foiled arrogance. John's known men like this – top of the class soldiers, the best at what they did, their swollen egos burst and brought back down to earth unexpectedly. He shifts one foot back a little and keeps his gun steady: he's known men like this and he knows they're most dangerous when they're humiliated.

He spits. “Fuck you.”

John feels his lip twist. “I'd rather not, thanks. You're not really my type.”

The anger dies away from the (probably ex-military, John thinks, or at least ex-law enforcement) man's eyes and John feels a thread of something curl up inside him – the power's shifted, he doesn't know why and men like this one on their backs with a loaded pistol pointed at their heads don't feel satisfaction in a situation like this without the possibility of more bloodshed in the future.

“It doesn't matter,” he says, victory in his bared teeth. “You'll be too late anyway.”

And John knows.

“Maybe,” John says, mouth suddenly dry, “but it doesn't mean I won't try.” He switches the grip on his pistol and smashes the butt into the man's temple – he feels bone crack underneath the metal and can't bring himself to care.

semper fidelis, 2/?

(Anonymous)
The man collapses, mouth gone slack – John rifles through his jacket, finds the suspected knife, jams it into the back of his belt and goes through the wallet. 'Sam Middleton', the license reads, and John stuffs the wallet into his own pocket, because Sherlock would want to see it, he thinks determinedly. Sherlock would want more data. He skims his fingers along the belt, hoping for handcuffs, a rope, duct tape. He comes up empty. “Bollocks,” he says. He doesn't want Middleton waking up and making a break for it.

Nothing for it, John thinks. This isn't the first time he's had to use his medical knowledge in ways it was never meant to be used.

He dials Lestrade, mobile jammed haphazardly between ear and shoulder as his hands find the carotid artery in Middleton's neck. He presses down gently, then firmly with even pressure, feeling blood thrum frantically against his fingers. He starts counting.

”DI Lestrade.”

“It's John – I've just had a man try and assault me with a loaded syringe in an alley about a block north-west of the Tescos in Kensington. He's unconscious, should still be here when you get here. I've got to go.”

”Wait – Doctor -”

John lets the phone drop. He gets to eleven and lets go – hopefully he managed complete unconsciousness only and none of the brain damage, but as long as there's a live body for Lestrade to question he's not fussed about the particulars. He dials Mycroft. He starts speaking the moment he hears the line click.

“It's John – where did your surveillance see Sherlock last?”

Mycroft, bless him, doesn't miss a beat. “The pool, ten minutes ago, no visible signs of coercion. No texts on his phone. They lost you back at the Tescos – where are you now?”

“Alleyway a block north-west from the Tescos, across from a curry house.”

“The closest car to is two blocks west, license plate AD04 YSG heading east. I'll have them expect you.”


“Ta,” John says. “I've still a bone to pick about the CCTV trained on the bedroom window, though.”

“Have my brother tucked home safe and sound and we'll negotiate,” Mycroft says. “My men will have standard issue P90s – please refrain from shooting them.”



What John's doing is starving the brain of oxygen to get complete unconsciousness. Ten seconds ensures it - twenty seconds causes irreversible brain damage. Technically this could be termed a brain ischemia. For the love of god do not try this at home.

Re: semper fidelis, 2/?

(Anonymous)
wow! I want more of this!!!

Re: semper fidelis, 2/?

(Anonymous)
Brilliant! And the fight scene, with John disabling Moran with such brutal efficiency, that was fantastic!

semper fidelis, 3/?

(Anonymous)
what's going on?

JW




text me back
goddammit

JW




please don't tell me
you're with moriarty

JW




fucking christ
i'm going to make
you do the dishes
for a month




sherlock?



John shoves his mobile back into his pocket, hand firm and steady. He breathes out slowly, barely-healed ribs aching from his exertions in the alley. His skin is still speckled with green-yellow patches, lovingly gifted from exploded rubble and a Semtex-festooned vest. He checks his magazine – thirteen rounds.

“Any chance of a spare magazine?” he asks.

The driver of the blacked-out BMW – black-suited, anonymous sunglasses, bland forgettable looks – jabs a thumb over his shoulder. “Footlocker under the seat.”

The footlocker contains enough ammunition for a four-man cell, eight grenades and what look like two deniable carbine rifles – even an MP5. John takes two more magazines – he's a crack shot, yes, but he's learned that being able to fill the air with bullets is sometimes extraordinarily handy. The rifles he ignores – he's foot mobile and needs to move fast. A rifle's extra weight.

The building housing the pool comes into view. “Stop,” John says. “Let me out here.” The building's gutted, a quarter of the roof fallen in from the explosion, crime scene tape fluttering lightly in the breeze.

John swallows, grips his pistol a little tighter and doesn't think about water or a bomb or little red dots. His lungs ache in sympathetic memory.

“Sir?” the driver asks. “Do you need active support?”

“No,” John says, thinking. “Though if you'd stay out of sight and run interference -”

“Understood. ETA on backup is seven minutes.”

The car leaves him near the neighboring running track. Assuming it is Moriarty, he's previously had contingency plans upon contingency plans, so – John keeps low and heads for the perimeter. Middleton came prepared with a syringe, so Moriarty must've wanted him alive and held hostage – he doesn't know why now and with this method, but that means no one's expecting him to be conscious and therefore any theoretical snipers Moriarty's got hanging around here won't be expecting resistance.

He finds the bodies a hundred metres from a small sloped hill bordering the pool. John feels the breath catch in his chest before his brain registers the lack of coat on either. From the shoes and suit on one, it looks like he's found the reason for the delay in Mycroft's surveillance. Shot through the face, another through the heart - John's no ballistics expert, but it looks like a close-range shot and a nine-millimetre calibre bullet. There's a dirt-encrusted pocketknife lying near his limp hand. He touches the cheek – cold, and the blood's congealed when he dips a finger into a spill.

The other body is sprawled out on his back, clothed in black battledress with no insignia. The man's surrounded with the characteristic spray of a severed femoral artery, leg laid open and several pints of blood pumped into the ground beneath him. “Good man,” John murmurs. Mycroft's un-named staff hadn't gone down without a fight – it looked like he'd delivered a fatal blow before being murdered.

Moriarty's dead man has a Bluetooth still clinging to his head and a silencer attached to his Sig Sauer. John takes both.

--

Re: semper fidelis, 3/? (Anonymous) Expand

semper fidelis, 4/?

(Anonymous)
The second he hears Sherlock's contemptuous drawl in his ear he feels something loosen in his chest.

- eally,” Sherlock says, voice tinny through the receiver, “this is rather sub-par for you, isn't it? Not even a new, clever location, you've got to recycle through your old ones. And holding me hostage with a gun – a gun! That's boring.

Ahead of him John sees two – no, three flashes of light from sniper scopes. He heads for the closest one.

A rustling in the background. “Hmf – I did try and arrange for a wee surprise, but it seems to be running late for some reason,” Moriarty says, and oh, John hates that voice, he dreams about it so vividly he sometimes wakes up with his hand wrapped around his pistol grip and his teeth clenched tight. “Never send a minion to do something you should have done yourself,” Moriarty sighs. “I'd so hoped to give Moran something fun to play with today – he does love a good hunt. Perhaps he's stuck in traffic,” he muses.

John darts up quick and shoots sniper #1 four times in the back. The man goes limp and John shoots him once more in the head, because there's probably Kevlar underneath that battledress and he can't afford to be squeamish. “At least now I've a name for that bastard,” John mutters. Moran.

He flicks bits of bone off his hand as he sprints to the second gleam.

A tight pause. “You should have sent ten men and not one,” Sherlock says, vicious satisfaction wrapped around his voice. “I expect your man's already dead.

John's breathing hard, ribs sending up more and more of a protest. He's louder than he'd like to be and sniper #2 raises his head at the noise – his bullet's a little low and ends up taking the man through the throat.

You've so much faith in him! A doctor in wooly jumpers versus my Colonel? My Colonel, with seventeen official confirmed kills? Hope does spring eternal, doesn't it, Sherlock?

Less than five metres away from the third a rib gives out completely and John misses, bullet burying itself in the ground. He's too close, his aim's off - the man whips his head away from the scope, jumps up and reaches for his own sidearm – John fires again, muscles screaming, bullet taking the man low to the side in the torso. He's almost face-to-face with the sniper now, it's too close for a gunfight and the man tackles him, taking him to the ground and John feels yet another rib give up the ghost, hand opening reflexively, his pistol gone flying out into the air.

The man's fist lands on his cheekbone with a dull crack, he's yelling obscenities and he's got his whole weight on John's hips – he strikes up sharply into the man's xiphoid process, feels it break under the tips of his fingers. The man gasps – John yanks the knife taken from Moran out from the back of his belt and slams it up through the man's ribs until it slides home into the heart.

And I thought I was supposed to be the arrogant sod,” Sherlock says, smugly confident.

John pushes the body off, blood still pumping wetly all down his jumper. He limps over to his pistol, picks it up and checks the count – five rounds left. He slots in a fresh magazine. His side is agonising, the sick grind of bone rasping against bone a morbid accompaniment to his throbbing face.

He's maybe sixty metres away from the pool. John grits his teeth, wraps one hand around his side and runs as fast as he can.

--

battledress: basically combat uniform. For Americans: BDUs. The xiphoid process is that wee bitty sticky-out bit of bone at the end of the breastbone - this is the bit CPR instructors warn you about breaking, because underneath it is all the squishy parts you need to, you know. Live.

Also this is totally fast-and-furious popcorn-munching action crap so while I'm trying to be as realistic as possible this probably really isn't. But it's John! being fantastic! yeah.

Re: semper fidelis, 4/? (Anonymous) Expand
Re: semper fidelis, 4/? (Anonymous) Expand
Re: semper fidelis, 4/? (Anonymous) Expand
Re: semper fidelis, 4/? (Anonymous) Expand

semper fidelis, 5/7

(Anonymous)
There's little cover in the pool, burnt debris scattered all over the grimy tiles. John edges his way around what used to be a water fountain and stifles a curse as his bad shoulder knocks against the wall. I am, John thinks, finger laid alongside the trigger guard, getting too old for this. He nearly giggles at the sheer absurdity of it – not an hour ago he was headed out to do the shopping, wondering whether Nutella or jam would best survive the week at the flat without getting whisked away into an experiment. Nutella, for god's sake!

He's close enough he can hear Sherlock's voice echoing off the tile, a twinned version a beat late in his ear. He shuffles one foot forward, crouches down and cautiously peers around the corner.

Moriarty's got his back towards him, pistol dangling jauntily from one hand, Sherlock a few feet away. John takes a quick look and doesn't see any more little red dots hanging around, so either he'd gotten them all or they weren't actively tracking at the moment. He doesn't fancy getting another one of those trained on his back, so he really, really hopes he's gotten them all.

“The good Colonel really is late,” Moriarty says, a vaguely perplexed note in his voice. “He's usually so efficient! There was this one man who needed his lover killed and my goodness, that was some of Moran's most excellent work,” he says gleefully. “Flayed her wide open and set it up as a random junkie attack for the coppers.” The crisp line of his suit wrinkles as his back tenses. “Ooh!” he says, delighted. “Your little doctor must be giving him the runaround – but Moran does love a good chase – doesn't do much exercise otherwise, the lazy bastard,” he says sadly. "Terrible for his cholesterol."

Sherlock smiles, lips peeling back from his white teeth. He doesn't say anything. He looks, John thinks, victorious.

John darts another look around – Moriarty's not got his finger on the trigger and the pistol's being twirled lazily. “Ah, hell,” John says out loud.

He stands and fires as he says it, bullet making a neat hole through Moriarty's right hand. Moriarty falls to his knees with a shocked breath, the pistol clatters to the ground – Sherlock takes two quick steps forward and boots it neatly into the pool.

John limps out, keeping a bead on Moriarty's head, because living with the world's only consulting detective has only refined his already well-earned paranoia.

Moriarty twists around to stare at him, bloody chips of bone and cartilage spattering his fine wool trousers, taking in every facet of John's appearance - John can pinpoint the second Moriarty gets it, the second he understands what's happened. “You,” he sneers, vitriol and disbelief etched in the word. “My hiring standards must be slipping.” A grin like a knife wound opens across his face. “Or did you just crawl cringingly past them all, secure in the fact that you're too small and wee for them to see you?”

John doesn't blink and his aim doesn't waver. He doesn't say that he's heard all the short jokes before and his army mates were much better at them. He doesn't say that he'd had to earn his respect from the men he'd been treating through combat and doesn't tell the story of a last-ditch surgery to stitch a femoral artery while under live fire. He doesn't say that his size had made him an easy target and how he'd worked twice as hard in unarmed combat and on the range. He doesn't talk about being held hostage by a terrorist cell, having his men suffer torture while he was made to watch. He doesn't say anything about holding a corporal's mangled hand and having the lad ask him to put him out of his misery.

He doesn't say anything about promising himself to do whatever it takes when he needs to, because he learned that he could kill a man, have himself a cuppa and enjoy a good eight hours sleep afterwards so long as he had a decent reason for taking a life.

semper fidelis, 6/7

(Anonymous)
John says, “That and it's helpful for a bit of shoplifting on the side. Those detector things, you know, they don't go off so close to the floor.”

Sherlock snorts, coming around Moriarty to John's side, six feet of ridiculously arrogant genius in an overpriced coat. “Knew you'd make it.”

John scowls, dried blood cracking off his cheek. “No, you didn't, you idiotic prat. The hell were you thinking, haring off like that? You didn't even text me!”

At this Sherlock looked just a little apologetic. “It was part of the rules.”

“Sod the rules,” John says. “Communication, Sherlock – it's important, it's what your mobile's for and it makes sure I don't have to call your brother to find out where you are!”

“You called Mycroft,” Sherlock says, flat.

“I bloody well had to after this Moran came after me in an alleyway trying to drug me silly!”

“You called Mycroft,” Sherlock repeats.

“Oh, will you let it go - “

Mycroft,” Sherlock spits. “I'll never hear the end of it.”

“As lovely as this scintillating conversation is,” Moriarty interrupts, “I can hear the pitter-patter of little Special Forces feet outside, so - “ He holds up his left hand, a small detonator gripped happily in his fist.

“For fuck's sake,” John says, and then he's grabbing Sherlock by the arm and jumping headfirst right back into the damn pool.



“At least it was just a fireball,” Sherlock says. He's soaked to the skin but still wandering around, dipping a finger into the soot and touching it to his tongue. “Potassium chlorate,” he pronounces. A bright orange blanket is lying sadly to the side, tossed there in a fit of pique.

“Sherlock, please don't do that, you don't know where it's been,” John says wearily. He's having his ribs wrapped by a competent-faced medic with a P90 slung over his back. He's lucky – it looks like only two of his ribs were damaged and both along the original fracture: nothing complicated like an impacted or complete fracture. He experiments with a deep breath and gets a gimlet-eyed glare from the medic for his trouble.

He'd willingly offered to surrender his sidearm when they were dragged unceremoniously out of the pool, pointing out the bodies left scattered on the grass. All five corpses were loaded up into a plain van with no coroner's markings that he could see and all shell casings were quickly collected. Everyone he'd offered his pistol to had politely declined, saying that it was perhaps better if he kept it. Everything John's seen from the telly and from his excursions out with the Yard tells him this is dead wrong, but since he was the one to call Mycroft he's not really in a position to argue about government conspiracies and upholding the law.

To be honest, he hadn't been all that eager to give up his Browning, and the pistol was a comforting weight again against his thigh.

They haven't found Moriarty – or his body – and there are black-clad men and blacked-out cars prowling the area with extreme prejudice. John doesn't really care how he'd gotten away (because of course they wouldn't be lucky enough to have him die in the blast), though Sherlock's already deduced the presence of a two-wheeled escape vehicle from two ruts and a lingering smell of petrol. John tries very hard not to giggle at the thought of a criminal mastermind attempting to control a motorcycle with only one good hand and is only moderately successful.

semper fidelis, 7/7

(Anonymous)
The medic finishes tying him up, pats him on the shoulder in a brisk manner, unslings his P90 and jogs off into the dark. Sherlock wanders over, feet squelching in his shoes. “All done?”

John gets onto his feet gingerly and lets his body express its dissatisfaction with him slowly. He pulls on an anonymous hoodie and resigns yet another jumper to the grave. “All done.” He shuffles forward and pitches sideways into Sherlock, who thankfully doesn't shove him away. “You wouldn't rather wait around for Mycroft?”

Sherlock's grimace must be epic, because John can feel the bicep under his shoulder tense up. “I would rather avoid as much contact as possible with my brother until it no longer becomes viable. I hate it when he swoops in like this.”

John takes in the quiet, efficient cover-up job going on around them and thinks that 'swooping in' isn't quite how he'd describe it.

One of the black-clad men jogs up to them and hands John a phone, then turns right around and heads back where he came. The phone has one text message on it.

Next time,
please call me
where there is
a live suspect
to be questioned
instead of the good
DI. Very troublesome,
getting a suspect
out of Scotland
Yard.

-M


Sherlock scowls furiously when he sees it, pitching the phone away from them. John sees yet another black-clad man scurry to retrieve the phone, tucking it away securely (to be destroyed, no doubt).

They walk in silence towards yet another blacked-out car, John leaning half his weight on Sherlock the whole way. He doesn't complain when a long arm snakes itself around his shoulders.

“You really are very good at killing people,” Sherlock says abruptly. Then, awkwardly, “I'm... glad you're all right.”

John grins a little, which is probably a bit not good but it's been a long day. “Ten men, Sherlock? A bit much, even for me.”

Sherlock doesn't deny it, though he raises an eyebrow. “Ah yes, the Bluetooth – didn't know you heard that. Clever.”

John can't resist. “It's nice to know you think so highly of my skills – it's such a boost to the ego, knowing the world's only consulting detective's given me his seal of approval - “

“Please,” Sherlock snorts. “As if you'd needed me to tell you you've already got my approval.”

The tenseness in his bad shoulder lessens a little, and John feels a small smile work it's way onto his lips. They're silent again, comfortable, until Sherlock says, out of the blue, “Maybe he could get a pirate hand. With a hook.”

John snorts and then chokes. “A Swiss Army knife-hand,” he giggles, “with multiple accessories!”

“Probably designer,” Sherlock says, deadpan. “He does seem to favour Westwood.”

John chances a look, sees Sherlock's equally deadpan face and sputters, because christ, this is their life, all snipers and criminal masterminds with pirate hook hands and powerful mysterious brothers.

They're both bent over and giggling like mad idiots when a thought strikes. John curses, stands up and winces.

“What?” Sherlock says, eyes immediately alert.

“All this,” John says, irritated, “and the shopping still isn't done.”

--

tada! All done. Anon, I know this didn't really fulfill your prompt 100%, but I hope you enjoy it anyway! Sorry, it kind of veered off into weird crack near the end.

not OP either (Anonymous) Expand
Re: semper fidelis, 7/7 (Anonymous) Expand
Re: semper fidelis, 7/7 (Anonymous) Expand
Re: semper fidelis, 7/7 (Anonymous) Expand
OP is freaking ecstatic (Anonymous) Expand
Re: semper fidelis, 7/7 (Anonymous) Expand

Re: Sebastian Moran vs. John Watson

Don't mean to step on anyone's toes here (anon, whoever you are, please keep filling), but I love badass!John so much I just couldn't resist.

So here is the short oneshot this prompt inspired me to write:

Deceiving Appearances: http://blind-author.livejournal.com/4499.html

Re: Sebastian Moran vs. John Watson

(Anonymous)
No unhappy anon toes here - methinks there needs to be more awesome arse-kicking John up in this here meme!

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