Sherlock BBC Prompting Meme

"we get all sorts around here."

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Prompting: Part VII
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.
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+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.
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+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 or written by someone, do not be afraid to offer up a second fill.

There's a link to this at the bottom of the post. I ask that if the part you wanted isn't up yet, just wait and one of the archivists will get to it, but please, once it is up, 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.
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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.
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  • 1
Directly post TGG.

After the explosion John is trapped under rubble and slowly dying. Sherlock must keep him awake until the ambulance and firefighters arrive.

Confessions of love and hand holding are incredibly appreciated.
Bedside marriages too :)

Coronation Street is destroying my brain...

Um. Omg, yes. So filling this. Should be done soon.

(Mycroft says "now, mellce." I'm hurrying, Mycroft! No need to call me names!)

Guns and Rubble 1/7

His head should hurt.

It’s hard to think, that usually means his head hurts. It’d hurt, once, he thinks he remembers feeling a headache when he first came around, but now it doesn’t.

That’s all right. The rest of his body hurts enough to make up for that. Maybe his head does hurt, it just doesn’t feel like anything compared to the rest of it.

If he thinks about it, it does concern him, a bit, the way his head is so muddled but doesn’t seem to hurt much, but if he goes down that route too far it ends up with him trying to assess the rest of his injuries, and John’s already discovered that down that path is not somewhere he wants to go. Or even can go, really.

At least he remembers how he got there. He remembers a lot, actually, can see it in his mind like it’s happening again. Sherlock pointing the gun at Moriarty, then lowering it to the bomb. John watching Sherlock’s hand, waiting for the twitch that would let him know Sherlock was getting ready to pull the trigger. When that’d happened, John had lunged for Sherlock, hitting him right after Sherlock had shot, trying to barrel them both into the pool. Get in, get down, use the water to buffer the explosion, stay at the bottom of the deep end, use the water to buffer the pieces of ceiling falling down around them as well.

But he didn’t make it. The explosion wasn’t as big as he’d thought, maybe because Moriarty hadn’t put as much Semtex into a bomb he knew he’d be standing next to, but the building wasn’t built as sturdily as he’d hoped. A piece of it collapsing caught him in the leg, stopping him inches from the pool. He’d shoved Sherlock the rest of the way in, the motion pushing him a little further away, and then he remembers rolling to avoid more ceiling crashing down, cursing himself for moving away from the pool when he should have been going towards it. He rolled around a lot, but he couldn’t avoid them all, and he remembers – yes, pain, something hit him in the head, and then nothing.

When he woke up, it’d been to Sherlock digging around in the rubble and calling his name. He’d managed to answer, and Sherlock had found him, but he couldn’t get him out. The rubble was too heavy, too precarious, and the best Sherlock had been able to do was free his head, his left shoulder, arm, part of his chest.

The rest of John is completely trapped. He hurts, everywhere, even his head now, and part of him is grateful for that, because at least if it hurts, he knows he’s still got feeling in all of his limbs. He’s not paralyzed. He can’t move, much, because of the weight and the pain, but he’d twitched a bit, enough to know that his legs are responding, at least.

His stomach and legs have the worst of the weight. He can breathe all right, though it hurts his ribs if he tries to breathe too deeply. John can move his neck, his arms, his hands, perfectly well, even if it hurts and makes him tired. His right shoulder had been dislocated, but he’d managed to angle it against a chunk of concrete and pop it back into place.

The worst of it, the part he hasn’t told Sherlock, is that there’s liquid warmth at his side, trickling down his leg, and it’s not stopping. There’s a pool, he can feel it, it’s soaking his trousers, and he doesn’t know how badly he’s injured, but he’s losing blood. Has been losing blood for awhile, and he knows, the longer the ambulance takes to get here, the less chance he’s got of surviving.

Guns and Rubble 2/7

Sherlock had left him, only for a few minutes, after they’d realized they couldn’t get John out, to call for help using the phone in the locker room. Sherlock’s had been damaged in the pool, and John’s had been taken by Moriarty. Who was, of course, nowhere to be found, but both of them had rather expected that.

When Sherlock had gotten back, he’d sat next to him, taken his free hand, and started talking. About the people coming to help them, at first, how they’d be there soon, and then about nothing, really. Just talking, probably to keep John awake.

And John appreciates it, because he needs it. He needs to stay awake, alert, if he’s going to survive, but the pain is making it hard to concentrate, hard to think about anything but fuckpaintrappedtrappedtrappedcan’tmovecan’tbreathe. So he’s focusing hard on Sherlock’s voice, to keep himself from panicking, or passing out. On his voice, and on Sherlock’s hand holding his, and on the gun in John’s other hand. John’d found it when he reached out his right hand under the rubble, trying to figure out how much space he had, and his fingertips had touched the gun. He’d grabbed it instinctively, pulling it in close, and he hasn’t been able to let go of it.

It’s working, but only barely. Sherlock’s voice is washing over him, John’s focusing on the sound, the tone, but not the words. Maybe that will help, if he forces himself to actually hear what Sherlock’s saying.

“Why?” Sherlock’s asking. “Why did you do that? I don’t understand, John, you were against the wall. It’s an interior wall, structurely sound, the safest place to be during an earthquake, which isn’t unlike an explosion except for the actual exploding part, the wall’s still standing, you could have been there, away from the ceiling collapsing. Or the door, the door is right there, you could have run. You clearly had enough warning to lunge across and get me into the water, you could have gotten out of the room before I even pulled the trigger, gotten clear and-”

“Would you have jumped in the pool on your own?” John asks.

Sherlock blinks at him, apparently thrown off from his train of thought. “I-” he starts, then admits reluctantly, “I hadn’t thought of what the best course of action would be. I’d considered several-”

“Exactly,” John says. “And while you were considering, you’d have been exploded. Or buried. Even your brain isn’t quick enough to think through things faster than an explosion. Luckily, I don’t think. I act.” John frowns, because that hadn’t quite come out right.

Then again, it’s true, isn’t it? He is having a bit of difficulty thinking right then.

Lucky?” Sherlock repeats. “John. Perhaps you’re not completely aware of where you are, but-”

“Trust me, Sherlock, I’m really aware,” John says, interrupting Sherlock yet again. Sherlock hates it, John knows, but right then John’s feeling pretty entitled to do whatever he wants. And Sherlock calling attention to the situation is ruining his plan to concentrate only on Sherlock’s voice, so he closes his eyes and tightens his grip on his gun, like a safety blanket. “I’m just an army doctor, Sherlock. An ex-army doctor. I may help a bit, but I’m nothing special. You? The world needs you. No else like you out there. World’s only consulting detective.”

“Never think that,” Sherlock tells him. “Never. You are the most intriguing person I have ever met. There is no one in existence like you.”

Guns and Rubble 3/7

Sherlock’s voice is soft and earnest, tinged with a hint of something that John would almost call desperation. John wonders if Sherlock’s expression matches, if he has that slightly open, unguarded look that John’s only seen a few times, the one that lets John see a little of what Sherlock’s actually feeling. John wishes he could open his eyes to check. It’d be nice, he thinks, to see Sherlock, the real Sherlock, whatever Sherlock’s feeling, even if it’s a little desperation the way it’d been when John was wearing the vest, before he dies. While he dies. But John can’t get his eyelids to work properly, no matter how hard he tries. At least he’s still got Sherlock’s voice. It’s enough, that that will be the last thing he hears.

It would worry him, that he’s stopped thinking in terms of “if” and moved on to “when” he dies. He’s supposed to be a fighter. But he’s already got what he was fighting for: Sherlock’s okay. Sherlock made it through this, and he doesn’t need him anymore right now. John’s thoughts are too foggy to think in terms of the future, and he’s too tired to worry about accepting the inevitable.

“Thank you,” John says quietly.

“For what?” Sherlock asks, sounding uncertain.

John’s not sure. He’d known a moment ago, but now he can’t remember. Or maybe he does remember, he just can’t think straight long enough to put it into words. “I don’t know,” John says eventually. “For saving me.”

Sherlock makes a sound, somewhere between a disbelieving scoff and a surprised chuckle. “I believe you’ll find it’s often the other way around.”

John starts to shake his head, then stops, because that was not the best idea. It makes his head fuzzier, and the best he can do to counter that is, “You saved me first. Guess it’s fitting that I save you last.”

“John,” Sherlock says, and now he sounds alarmed.

“It’s fine,” John tells him, squeezing his hand to reassure him. “Better me than you.”

No,” Sherlock says, sharp and desperate, and it startles John’s eyes open.

Sherlock’s mouth is tight with worry, eyes feverish and frantic. There’s blood on the side of his face, and the doctor in John tries to assess it, but he doesn’t have much better luck than he did with his own injuries. Can’t even see where the blood came from.

“Yes,” John replies, because it’s important. If he has to die, he needs to make sure that Sherlock knows he doesn’t regret it. That he’d do it a hundred times over if it meant Sherlock wasn’t hurt. “I’d rather me than you. You can go on.” Which, of course, implies that John couldn’t, which is normally firmly in the category of Things That John Doesn’t Let On To Around Sherlock, but he supposes he’s rather past the point where it matters. “You’ll have to be more careful without me and my gun, but you managed before.”

Sherlock’s shaking his head before John’s even finished talking. “I can’t,” he says, very quietly. “I can’t go back to the way it was before, without you. Don’t ask me to.” He’d ended up almost pleading at the end there, but now he suddenly looks angry. “It isn’t fair. You can’t insert yourself into every part of my life, and then simply remove yourself without even asking.”

John chuckles before he can help it, though he regrets it immediately and winces at the pain. “You’re one to talk about doing things without asking.”

“The things I do don’t involve you dying,” Sherlock snaps. “Stop talking now. The paramedics will be here soon, just – continue to not be dead.”

Sherlock says it in the same tone as he says, ‘John, pass me a pen,’ and ‘John, my phone,’ and ‘John, have a sip of this and tell me how it affects your sense of taste,’ and it makes John smile affectionately. It also makes him want to listen, but he’s not quite sure he can.

“I lied,” John says instead.

“What?” Sherlock asks.

“Reasons I gave you, for why I pushed you instead of running, wasn’t all of it. Wasn’t even most of it,” John tells him. He’s saying too much, he’s going to say too much, but he can’t stop himself. “Couldn’t live with myself, if you were hurt and I didn’t do anything to stop it. Can’t live in a world without you, Sherlock.”

Guns and Rubble 4/7

Sherlock’s silent for a long time. It’s probably not as long as John thinks, but without Sherlock’s voice and conversation to focus on, he’s back to thinking about the pain, the weight, the taste of blood in his mouth, knowing he’s trapped, can’t breathe, and it feels like forever.

Finally, Sherlock says, “And yet you’re asking me to live in a world without you.”

“That’s different,” John replies.

“How is it different?” Sherlock asks.

John stares at him, because duh. Stupid. Obviously, Sherlock would ask how, and now John has to answer. And he’s going to be honest, too honest, because he doesn’t know what else to be. But then, what better time to be too honest than when you’re not sure if you’re going to survive the next few minutes?

It occurs to him that he’s back to “if” instead of “when,” though he doesn’t know why. The pain hasn’t gotten any better, the ambulance still isn’t here, his head isn’t any clearer. It’s like there’s something he’s waiting for, something he’s holding on to, and even if he doesn’t know what it is, some part of him feels it.

“I love you,” John admits quietly.

He doesn’t realize it’s been so long between Sherlock’s question and his answer that Sherlock doesn’t connect the two until Sherlock stares at him, wide-eyed, and asks, “What?”

“That’s why it’s different,” John clarifies. “Because I’m in love with you.”

“Ah,” Sherlock says.

And then he falls silent again, and John has to squeeze both Sherlock’s hand and the gun, because he can’t take silence again. He needs something to focus on, even if it’s Sherlock explaining again that he’s married to his work.

Sherlock stares at their hands, then shifts his grip so that their fingers are laced together. “Then it’s not different.”

“Sherlock?” John asks, because he’s not quite sure what he’s hearing.

“It wouldn’t be different. You can’t live in a world without me, and I don’t want to live in a world without you for the same reason.”

John tries to process this, but the only response he can manage is, “I’d really like to kiss you right now.”

“Too bad,” Sherlock tells him. “I’m not granting you a last request, and I’m not going to kiss you if I can never do it again.”

“It’s not a last request, Sherlock, it’s to give me something to hold onto until the paramedics come,” John says.

“What if you’re wrong?” Sherlock asks, voice small. “What if I kiss you and you leave me?” He sounds completely lost right then, and there’s something helpless in his eyes.

It breaks John’s heart, and suddenly he’s not thinking about painrockstrapped, he’s not thinking “if” or “when,” he’s thinking “never.” His head clears enough to see the future, and he’s clinging to it.

“I won’t leave you,” John says.

Sherlock leans forward to stare in his face, eyes intense. “Do you promise?”

John’s hand tightens on his gun, then he braces himself for the pain and lifts it up. He sets it on his chest and pushes it as far as he can through the space between a large chunk of rubble and his left shoulder. It’s not far, but it’s enough that when he pulls his left hand from Sherlock’s grasp, he can reach up, grab it, and pull it the rest of the way out. He can hear faint sirens now, and though he understands their significance, his mind is focused entirely on Sherlock.

“Your gun?” Sherlock asks, with the carefully blank expression he uses when he’s confused but doesn’t want to admit it.

“Hold out your hand. Your left hand,” John adds when Sherlock starts to move his right.

Sherlock obeys, and John double checks that the safety’s on and flips his gun upside down.

“I promise,” John says, and pushes the gun forward, sliding it onto Sherlock’s left ring finger between the trigger guard and the trigger.

Sherlock frowns. “I don’t understand,” he says reluctantly.

“Don’t you recognize an engagement gun when you see one?” John asks.

Sherlock’s entire face lights up, almost the way it does when he’s figured out something particularly interesting about a case, except now there’s a hunger in it in a way that John’s never seen. Desire. Warmth fills John’s chest, and chases away some of the pain.

Guns and Rubble 5/7

“You are amazing,” Sherlock breathes, lips an inch from John’s. “My wonderful mad doctor.”

He kisses the corner of John’s mouth, and John tries to tilt his head to catch the kiss full on, but pulling the gun from the rubble took too much energy, and all John can do is lie there.

“Next kiss will be much better,” John murmurs.

“Still want it now?” Sherlock asks.

“Oh, God, yes,” John replies. “Though you’ll have to ignore what I’ve just said and apply it to the kiss after that instead.”

“Duly noted,” Sherlock says, and kisses him.

John can’t lift his hand to cup the back of Sherlock’s neck the way he wants to, tangle his fingers in the curls there, or even move his head much. But he can kiss back, open his mouth slightly to flick his tongue across Sherlock’s lower lip before drawing it in between his teeth and sucking softly at it.

Sherlock makes a sound, low in his throat, almost a whimper, and John wants to keep doing it, to hear that noise again. But he has to let Sherlock’s lip go and pant heavily against his mouth, because his ribs hurt and he can’t breathe.

They stay silent for a moment, while John tries to hold on to the kiss to keep himself awake.

“The paramedics and rescue crew are here,” Sherlock says eventually, and John realizes he can hear shouting outside. “Have been for some time,” Sherlock continues. “From what I can make out, they’ve been determining the stability of the building before allowing the paramedics in. But they’re entering now.”

The relief is so great that John almost passes out right then. “Stay with me,” he says while he can still manage it. “On the way to the hospital.”

Sherlock looks at him like he’s an idiot. “Of course.”

“I might fall asleep,” John warns.

“Okay,” Sherlock says.

“I’ll wake up,” John adds.

“Yes.” Sherlock looks down at the gun that’s still on his finger. “You promised.”

“And you believe me?” John presses, but before Sherlock can answer, people pour into the room.

There’s a flurry of activity while the rescue crew and paramedics assess the situation, and John knows that digging him out safely will take some time. He also knows that he won’t last much longer. Sure enough, he passes out while the paramedics are kneeling beside him, trying to get Sherlock to move enough so that they can monitor John while the rescue crew digs him out. He remembers thinking something along the lines of ‘don’t make him go too far,’ but he doesn’t know if he manages to make it go from thought to words before his mind goes black.

Guns and Rubble 6/7

When John comes to, his head is still fuzzy, but this time it’s not from pain. He’s delightfully pain-free, in fact, and it’s such a shock that it jolts him completely awake. His eyes bolt open, and he takes in his surroundings in a matter of seconds. Hospital. Hospital bed. IV. Heart monitor. Sherlock’s voice saying his name. Pressure of fingers against his IV-free hand.

John relaxes, and looks over to see Sherlock sitting next to him. One of Sherlock’s hands is holding his, and the other is closed tightly around John’s gun. He’s dressed in normal clothes, and there’s no obvious signs that he’s injured, though John can see part of a bruise on the side of his neck, disappearing under his shirt.

“Hi,” John says.

Sherlock smiles, open, unguarded, happy, and John’s breath hitches.

“Are you okay?” John asks. “You were checked out, right?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Yes. And released. You’ve been unconscious for two days.”

John grimaces. “How bad is it?”

“You lost a lot of blood,” Sherlock says. “They gave you a transfusion. Nineteen stitches on your right side, fourteen on your right leg. You’ve broken several ribs, your right ankle. Severe bruising. They said there were signs you’d dislocated your shoulder, but that had been taken care of. You’ll make a full recovery.”

John nods, breathing out shakily. It could make been worse. It could have been so much worse. “I told you I’d wake up,” he says.

“I believed you,” Sherlock tells him, then frowns. “I don’t know why. You’re the only one I always believe.”

“Good thing, that,” John mutters, almost absently. “Hate to be engaged to someone who never believes me.”

Sherlock’s grip on John’s gun shifts, drawing his attention to it.

“How d’you even have that in here?” John asks.

“I hid it from them,” Sherlock says. “They can’t have it.”

“You can’t have it, either,” John says gently.

Sherlock’s brow furrows, somewhere between confusion and mild alarm. He pulls the gun closer to himself, hugging it to his stomach. “It’s mine. You promised.”

“No, Sherlock, the gun is not yours. The gun’s just a symbol. This-” John lifts his free hand and taps the left side of his chest, over his heart. “This is what’s yours.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow at him. “Your gun is your heart?”

“Shut up,” John mutters. “You try coming up with a better metaphor when you’re buried under rubble or high on morphine. No, don’t reply to that, I don’t want to know what you’d come up with. Besides, it is somewhat apt. I use both only for you, after all.”

Sherlock looks pleased at that, and John smiles.

“Can I have my gun back, then?” he asks.

Guns and Rubble 7/7

Sherlock’s pleased look turns into something resembling a pout, and he looks forlornly at the gun. “You shouldn’t have proposed to me with it if you wanted it back.”

John laces their fingers together. “I’m still yours, Sherlock, for as long as you want me.”

Sherlock looks back up at him. “Forever.”

“Forever it is, then. Only I’ll need my gun to make sure that happens,” John says.

Sherlock debates this, then nods. “Things turn out better when you have the gun.”

“I’ll get you something else,” John offers. “A sword, you like those. Or boxing gloves.”

“Engagement boxing gloves,” Sherlock says consideringly.

“Or we could be completely crazy and get rings,” John says.

Sherlock thinks about that. “Can I have the sword and gloves as well?”

“Sure. You can have anything you want,” John says, and means it. Completely. He laughs.

“What?” Sherlock asks.

“Just – we haven’t had sex, we’ve barely even kissed, and we’re engaged. And I’m promising you anything and meaning it,” John says.

Sherlock frowns. “That’s...not good?” he ventures.

“No,” John replies. “Just not usual. But I don’t care. Since when are we usual? We could end up being bloody horrible in bed together, and I wouldn’t care. No, that’s a lie, because I don’t want to be horrible in bed with anyone, especially not for you. And I’m hoping we’re fantastic together, because I’ve thought about it a lot, and I think we might be.” Morphine, John decides, is bloody lovely. “The point is, even if we’re not, it’ll be fine. Because you’re the only one I want to be with, ever, even without all that. Can’t imagine wanting to spend my life with anyone else.”

There’s a long pause. Then Sherlock says, “Thank you.”

John frowns. “Why?”

“For not wanting me for sex,” Sherlock replies. “I’m quite happy you want to have it with me, of course, because I’m very much looking forward to having it with you, but it’s never been an important part of my life.” He makes a face. “It’s moved significantly up on the list since I met you, but that doesn’t change the point. Thank you.”

“Anyone who wants you just for sex is an idiot,” John says. “Of course you’re bloody gorgeous, but it’s everything else I’m in love with.”

Sherlock pauses, then asks, “If I kiss you now, should I apply your assertion that it will be better than our first kiss, or hold off until the next kiss? Though I feel I should warn you, I’ve already applied it to our last kiss, considering I’ve never made that noise from a kiss, and you managed it while in pain, losing blood, and mostly buried. I’m looking forward to seeing what you can do at full strength.”

Leave it to Sherlock to make it sound like a science experiment. And leave it to John to be completely, utterly charmed by that.

“You can apply whatever you want, as long as you kiss me,” John says.

There’s a gleam in Sherlock’s eyes that tells John that Sherlock’s interpreted that in a way that will come back to bite him, but John can’t bring himself to care, because Sherlock’s kissing him. And it’s a hundred times more brilliant without the pain, though it probably says something that it was pretty damn brilliant even with it.

Says that they’ll be fantastic, that’s what, John thinks to himself.

He might’ve started off the night buried in rubble, slowly bleeding to death, but he ends it with kissing Sherlock, with Sherlock as his fiancé. And that? Well, that is so completely crazy, considering how long John’s known his feelings were reciprocated, or how long he’s known the man at all.

But the timeline doesn’t matter, because John knows he’ll happily spend a lifetime finding new ways to get Sherlock to look at him the way he is right now. Like John’s fascinating, a little brilliant, a lot desired, and definitely loved.

And that’s a million times worth the rubble.

Maybe he should send Moriarty a thank you card.


(Forgive the incredibly lame title. >.< Hope you like, OP, and, uh, that you're still around! Couldn’t quite manage the bedside marriage, but I got rubble!side engagement?)

Re: Guns and Rubble 7/7

Ahhh ...AAAAHHHHH! Just wonderful. I needed some sweet, romantic stuff after the depressing holidays!

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Re: Guns and Rubble 7/7

Flippin' gorgeous.

Loved the slightly hysterical tinge to their engagement, because they can't do anything by halves.

Thank you.

Author Anon (Anonymous) Expand
Oh, that is amazing. I love it. This is so sweet, and what could have been a deathbed confession of love - oh my!

I was so afraid John wasn't going to make it... I'm not sure HE thought he was going to make it... the first words in part 6 were such a relief to read. :-)

I love the engagement gun, sword, boxing gloves, and rings. XD XD XD

Captcha: yeah, Mycroft, engagement swords could be nonsense, but here they aren't!

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Re: Guns and Rubble 7/7

Wonderful :-) I particularly loved John's reactions to his injuries, weighing up the likelihood he was going to die, and how calm he was about that. Also love Sherlock getting pouty because he can't keep the gun :-p

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