Sherlock BBC Prompting Meme

"we get all sorts around here."

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Welcome! (Prompting: part i)
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

This is a fic prompting meme based around the BBC series Sherlock, written by Stephen Moffat & Mark Gattis.

There are a couple of communities that have sprung up already, namely here and here and here, and also a very busy sherlockkink meme based around the Robert Downey Jr/Jude Law film, but since there's a GAP IN THE MARKET for a BBC Sherlock prompt meme and people are gnawing off their own hands in need of fic, here we go!

ETA: There's also a very dedicated meme here which covers all varieties of Sherlock Holmes adaptations/ spin-offs.


1) This is a Sherlock meme, so no RPF please! We don't want any legal trouble.

2) Feel free to post anon by all means, it's a matter of personal preference.

3) Remember to include a warning in the title for anything a little more "niche" or that people might have a problem with - non-con, dub-con, death!fic, incest, death!fic etc. Other than that, anything goes - crack, slash, het, gen, fluff, angst, whatever floats your boat.

4) Feel free to prompt as much as you like, but do try to fill as well as prompt; we don't want pages full of frustrating unfilled prompts!

5) Have a look beforehand to see whether your prompt has already been prompted - we want to avoid duplicate prompts as much as possible!

6) Please, be civil, be friendly, but don't be shy!

*Any problems, please message jjgd *


Delicious Archive * sherlockfest * List of all the Prompting Posts * Overflow Post *

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If someone could write me anything involving transgenderism/gender ambiguity/etc., I'd ♥ them forever.

Seconded so hard.

Like normal people, 1/maybe 4?

Somehow this is actually the second fill I started writing for this prompt? Sherlock is sort of embarrassingly bossy like that, so I just sort of let this one get out of my system before I finished the "real" fill. So, hopefully you will eventually have two fills, OP? I'm sorry? Anyway, well, this one just happened last night and got all edited while I was recovering from epic squee, so it might not be particularly terrific and might be a little silly with the mush factor getting cranked to 11.

Mild spoilers for all episodes, but mostly just stuff about Sherlock's idea of stocking the kitchen. Super apologies for being so American--I do what I can, but I pretty much just remember British spellings of medical terms and that is as far as I ever get. Thank you, OP, for the prompt!


He might never have found out in the first place, had they just been able to knock on the bathroom door like normal people

It was as common a day as any--John had spent the morning working at the clinic, only to beg out of the afternoon's appointments to run some apparent life-or-death errand Sherlock had texted about--and John preparing for the usual post life-or-death debriefing.

He was bloody well used to Holmes barging in the bathroom for urgent affairs. If his showers were open to interruption for a lecture on sterile technique in the rearing of botfly maggots, Holmes could damn well listen to why it isn't polite to trick your flatmate into running off work to pick up your own damn dry-cleaning. He could only hope, as stormed through the flat, that Holmes needed the hangars to save some heiress or solve some bank robbery.

"Sherlock," he yelled again as he prepared to shoulder the bathroom door open, unsurprised when he realized Holmes hadn't even bothered with the by-now-beyond-repair latch, "I'll have you know that I--"

Living with Sherlock meant being well-used to scenes that could toss you into a stunned silence. Refrigerators full of disembodied heads, jars of microwaved eyes, that tea cup with some green decomposed mass that John swore he saw move--at this point, John simply expected the unexpected. Hell, it'd only been two Saturdays past that he'd found the bathroom infested with oysters.

But there was still little more unsettling than Sherlock Holmes with a syringe in hand.

"The hell do you think you're doing?"

Before he'd realized it, John was across the room with his hand over Holmes', stalling the trajectory of the injection. Fresh as the memory of Lestrade's drug bust still was, John only belatedly--pressed close against an irritated Holmes, hand gripping tight--stopped and observed what Holmes would likely think he should have seen from the damn street. The gauge and length of the needle, clearly sized for intra-muscular injection; the colour and amount of fluid in the syringe; the presence of the small vial on the sink, handwritten label and all.

He glanced up at Holmes, taking in the wary, resigned expression, and said the first thing that came to mind.

"Did you just buy that on the street?"

"John, I do hope you know there's more to the Internet than blogging. And is that really your only question? Aren't you going to ask something even more idiotic--perhaps, for example, 'the hell do you think you're doing'?"

"There's only so many reasons to inject oestrogen. I assume you're not worried about your bone density." And you could give me some credit, I just might know a bit about medicine, he thought; but learning not to take assumed idiocy personally was part of knowing Sherlock.

"Yes, but it surely must be surprising. Statistically speaking, you should be--"

"Shocked? Disgusted? Violent? For god's sake, Sherlock, has it ever occurred to you to trust someone?"

"Not entirely, no," Sherlock said, a low murmur, glancing aside.

Like normal people, 2/3

Not for the first time, John could see how vulnerable Sherlock was, under all that intellectual hubris. Sherlock had always seemed so young, always seemed so strangely touched by the slightest compliment. Though they'd been living together now for months, John felt he was always just meeting this arrogant and oddly delicate person.

"You know the kind of stuff they find in black-market hormones? You could just go to a GIC, you know," he said, and added to bring back that arrogance, "Like normal people."

"And have a vapid and over-worked correspondence degree holder attempt to psychoanalyse my mind? You do know they get a bit upset when you demand hormones and don't quite add up to what they think a woman ought to be like. At least attempt thinking, John."

"Could get a private doctor," John said. He didn't have much else to suggest. It wasn't quite his specialty, he had to admit, and the girlfriend of one of his old medical school mates had been (like, he imagined, everyone else in England) a bit more ordinary than Sherlock. For all he knew, Sherlock could quite easily purify black-market hormones with a few stolen pipettes and a coffee filter.

Perhaps his concerns were entirely baseless, and Holmes was merely becoming more annoyed at his crowding and hounding him in the middle of some self-advised transition appointment, and was only thinking of an even better insult to put John in his place and--

"Ah, yes," Sherlock said, smiling in that sudden mercurial way John was all too familiar with, "But where to find one?"


So maybe, strictly speaking, writing prescriptions for your flatmate's anti-androgens and hormones wasn't proper medical practice.

Particularly when you were adjusting the dosage based on bloodwork she was drawing and running up personally.

In your kitchen.

But, as John reminded himself, trespassing on private property and playing coroner at all hours and sleeping while at your real job wasn't professional behaviour either, and that was all just your typical Tuesday.

Months later, the changes weren't exactly subtle. Still, no one save for John seemed to notice and Holmes never seemed to mind. If anything, she was merely amused by the continued proof in the utter inability of the human race to process any external data.

Holmes dressed no different, made no effort to inform anyone besides John and her arch-enemy--who, of course, knew already and only alluded to Mummy tearing up next Christmas. She responded unpredictably to any difference in John's behaviour to her--no, she was not changing her name; yes, she would like a bit more privacy in the bathroom; no, John was not extended the same--but John couldn't question it. Any person who shot harpoon guns at pig carcasses as early-morning exercise wasn't likely to be much for conventionality.

What confused John was the timing of it.

Why now? Why bother? Sherlock had no friends to speak of, her enemies were largely disinterested, her colleagues obtuse and already resigned to her status of Consulting Freak. While Sherlock did seem more comfortable these days--though certainly no less intense--John wondered why she hadn't sought out some favour-owing physician earlier. It seemed difficult to believe she could predict a destitute army doctor would just drop in St. Bart's one day looking to go in on a flat.

Eventually, it became one more of those mysteries around Sherlock to which John had resigned himself. Besides, he had more important things to worry about--paying the bills, making sure Sherlock ate at least once a week, and avoiding getting any bullets lodged in the either of them were a bit nearer to the top of the list.

Like normal people, 3/3, again sorry it is a bit mushy

As was the fact that he'd been finding himself with fewer and fewer dates lately. Somehow, he just seemed to have more and more excuses for Sarah, who'd eventually just given up trying. Most of these were, he thought, pretty valid--big family murder involving whistle-powered snakes, probably best to check it out, that sort of thing.

But at a certain point, you do have to admit that answering texts reading "Sarasate, tickets from thankful party, come at once," from your flatmate is a rather poor excuse for not going on a date.

In fact, he thought one night--probably a bit belatedly, considering they were midway through what looked suspiciously like a romantic dinner, no stake-out in sight and with Sherlock actually eating something--it was almost as if he had been on dates in the last few months.

Quite a few of them.

With Sherlock Holmes.

And it was later that night, after he'd tried to ask her if they were dating by now while pretending he didn't just figure it out, and after he'd almost shyly (unsure as ever of Sherlock's reaction to this kind of thing) stood on the second step to kiss her, and after they'd barely found the patience to push the pile of month-old papers off of Sherlock's bed that the timing question came back to him.

In bed the height difference wasn't nearly so absurd, and he lay curved against her back, face in her thick hair. Beneath his palm her sleek thigh was relaxed--almost surprising, seeing her so drowsy, so human.

He wondered briefly--almost asked about it, but was he wasn't about to waste having that incessant brain switched off for once--if Sherlock had done all this misguidedly for his benefit. Though he'd never say as much, given Sherlock's ego barely fit in the city limits anyway, she was easily the most incredible woman John had ever met, regardless of external appearance. He imagined she'd be just as happy a brain in a jar anyway and not have to bother with all that hassle of eating and sleeping.

Sherlock probably thought she knew as much about John's feelings. He could almost imagine her saying as much, "John. Honestly, Percy Phelps? Rest assured, the dark secret of your bisexuality rests safely with me," and he'd have to spend the greater part of the night explaining no, not really the point, thanks. Brilliant as she was in other matters, when it came to some things--astronomy, politics, any sort of knowledge of human emotion--she came up a bit short.

Whoever Sherlock thought she was doing this for was a bit of a mystery. She wasn't too adept at reading her own emotions, after all. John knew he'd likely have stopped being so obtuse himself and realize that he probably cared for her more than was entirely sane no matter matter what she did.

But he also knew, admit it or not, Sherlock needed him to care for her like this. As she was.

OP here (Anonymous) Expand
Re: OP here (Anonymous) Expand
I know you already got a fill, but this has been lingering in my head and I wanted an excuse to get it out.

Sally can't stand Sherlock Holmes, everyone knows that. They think it's because of Anderson, because of how delighted he gets at every twisted murder. That's part of it, sure, but not all of it.

It was several months after he started working for the police, sordid details of her last breakup pouring out of his mouth when he suddenly stopped.

She saw the look in those pale eyes--he knew. Past the surgery and hormones and being careful, so careful. He'd probably congratulate her on hiding it so long, the sick fuck.

It made her nauseous, thinking about what would happen if the others knew. How she'd no longer be one of the best-looking women in the office but a freak.

But he didn't say a word, just smiled and talked about how her hair somehow meant her mother was disappointed in her or whatever it was that he needed to rabbit on about to feel superior that day.

She hated leaving her secret to a man like that, and hated him even more for keeping it.

It made him almost seem like a decent human being.

Aw, poor Sally... Thanks for writing this, anon. More fills of this prompt, the better. <3

(Deleted comment)
Great take on the prompt! I love this idea of why Sally hates Sherlock so much! :D

Brilliant and Commonplace (1/9 or so)

Well the title is a bit crap but I don't do titles. Anyway, hi again OP! This was what I really wanted to write you in the first place (when Sherlock was like "ooh, me, pay attention to me, I'm so great"). Namely, porn! It is probably a bit clunky because I'm not used to writing Super First-Time Sex (attack of the Virgin!Holmes here), and I finished it up last night at 0300 in a sort of I-just-need-it-done mood. Still, hope everyone enjoys, and sorry for filling up this comment thread. :D

Living with Sherlock Holmes was, John thought, easily one of the more complicated affairs in his life.

Granted, he'd been warned of some of it--as much warning as Stamford and a collection of police officers were willing to give, anyway. But were it only the lack of regard for personal property, the apparent inability to eat more than two meals a week, and the supposed sociopathic tendencies, Watson wouldn't have thought it so complex. True, living with Sherlock wasn't conductive to a quiet life. By this point, though, John had come to terms with the fact that he just didn't do "quiet life." It wasn't that any given night could be interrupted with a text message regarding a bit of casual breaking and entering in the name of forensic science.

It wasn't that he was concerned Sherlock would figure him out, either. Though he felt strangely protected by those early assumptions about Harry, and he'd been lulled a bit by the passing months, John figured it was only a matter of time. From the first of those fantastic off-hand deductions, John had felt uncomfortably exposed.

There was little in the last thirty-odd years which hadn't prepared him for that.

The topic hadn't come up yet, much as John kept expecting a rapid-fire documentation of gestures borne from primary school socialization or of the various ways his body likely still betrayed him, but he was used to expecting that line of interrogation from anyone above the age of two. By this stage--after the awkwardness of that "real life" test, after the first exhilarating and exhausting year on hormones, after he'd finally shaved off that ridiculous moustache he'd sported in medical school just because he could, after he'd spent time alongside and treated men in hell who'd never once suspected--waiting for someone who made up the job title 'consulting detective' to figure it out was rather mundane. Whatever Donovan (and most people who had met Sherlock, for that matter) might say, by now John knew Sherlock was hardly the violent sort. If anything, Sherlock was that kid John's old schoolmates left off beating him to go and hassle.

No, the complication about living with Sherlock--Sherlock, with his sharp and aggravating intellect, with his constant restless activity, with his long limbs and thick dark hair...

Well. John had been pretty comfortably heterosexual for years--unless, he supposed, one counted the three he'd spent figuring he was Lesbian Daughter Number 2--and wrapping his brain around what was rapidly becoming an obsession with Holmes' ridiculously elegant hands and pale eyes was a bit disconcerting. It wasn't that he was having one of those crisis-of-threatened-masculinity issues or anything.

It was just that John didn't know the first thing to do with another man.

And while he was still wrapping his brain around it all, he thought it would really have been nice if Sherlock seemed to have any clue what to do with anyone at all.

Re: Brilliant and Commonplace (2/9)

This wasn't John's usual way of going about this sort of thing, either. Usually he tried a date or two before he started making out with someone in an entryway. Proper dates, too, not the "spend three hours chasing around a dank warehouse getting shot at and barely saving Sherlock's life again and running home to avoid the police" sort of thing they'd just been up to when they'd stumbled in the flat. He couldn't even say how it'd all started--one minute Sherlock was on about how clever he'd been, same as ever, and next thing John knew he was wedged tightly between a wall and a surprisingly amorous consulting detective. Still, even if Sherlock kissed like someone who'd learned how from a crash course of Internet tutorials and didn't seem to know where to put his hands, like with anything else concerning Sherlock, John just went along with it.

It probably helped a little that, truth be told, anywhere Sherlock put those hands was honestly all right by him. The kissing matter, though--

"Ow, Christ, watch the teeth," he hissed, pushing Sherlock back. Bit late to prevent having a split lip at this stage. At least he had the whole crime-fighting alibi if anyone asked.

Between the sharp pain and the oxygen he was finally able to get in, for a moment, John was able to think clearly. He got about as far as 'Okay. Shit. What am I doing? This is your flatmate. The mad one. In case you hadn't realized,' before looking up at Sherlock--with that intense expression John had never seen outside a case, and with his lips looking about as bruised up as John felt--and his brain promptly went right back out.

"Apologies," Sherlock said, smiling in a way that said he wasn't sorry in the least, "I had rather expected to depend on your not-inconsiderable expertise in these matters."

"You know, it would help if you let me do more than get shoved about," he said. Not that he had much experience kissing virginal madmen, or even people much taller than himself. At least not this much taller.

"Hmmm." Sherlock was closing in again and he'd apparently figured out John's hips were as good a place as any to put his hands, "Well, it was just a hypothesis."

'Oh, good, just a hypothesis, let's get back to getting off where Mrs. Hudson will run across us, sounds just brilliant,' John thought, but that part of his brain that tried to shove common sense in the path of a good time had decided to come back online. His hand--the one not on his flatmate's ass--was still on Sherlock's chest, and he pushed back again.

He meant to say, 'wait, we have to talk,' let the two of them calm down and be sensible so he could go in to the usual what-to-expect-when-you're-expecting-John-Watson's-pants-to-come-off speech.

What came out was, "Wait, so you had a hypothesis about shoving me against a wall?"

"Yes, and one I'm perfectly content with disproving. Now, if you'd like to continue..."

"God, yes--I mean no, hold up. What exactly was this hypothesis?"

Sherlock sighed. It was a sound John had never heard him make, never thought he'd hear. Sherlock Holmes, impatient to get off. Stranger things could happen.

"You don't want to know."

Probably not, and he could think of a number of things he'd like better to do with Sherlock's mouth, but curiosity won out. "No, I think I really do."

"Very well. Your room, desk, third drawer down--"

" locked."

Re: Brilliant and Commonplace (3/9)

"Somewhat, yes, but that's not important. Amongst various other paraphernalia, you own a strap-on harness, not a luxury model, but decently constructed. It's not been used for some time, I'd say perhaps prior to deployment. The straps, however, show wear from the last individual to use the device--inconsistent wear, yet remarkably little at the notch one would expect for your waist size, even correcting for the weight you lost whilst in Afghanistan. Not something received as a gift, and as you are still the happy owner, I believe it was your interest, not that of your last 'colleague.' Right so far?"

John stared. Apparently there was a certain point at which you could be so mortified, you couldn't even blush. Interesting.

If someone wanted to kidnap him and strap bombs to his chest, now would be a really great time.

'Why should it be sized to me,' he wanted to say, just to get that particular lecture on deduction out of the way, but when he'd recovered he had more pressing questions.

"Right. Yes. So you were picking the lock for..?"

"You'd hidden your laptop again."

"Because it's my laptop, Sherlock. If you absolutely had to steal it--which you didn't--couldn't you tell where I'd hidden it from marks in the carpet or scuffs on the furniture without completely disregarding my privacy?"

You had to give Sherlock credit, John thought--when he killed a mood, he did a nice thorough job and hid the body well. They were still having this discussion with only a foot of air between them, but mostly, John assured himself, because he couldn't back up any further into the wall.

"Boring. Naturally you keep it in the first drawer of your desk, any idiot could realize that much. I merely thought it prudent to conduct a proper investigation while I was there. Now, if we're done with this stimulating conversation..." Sherlock was pretty quickly cutting down on that foot between them, about as astute as he ever was with the petty feelings of humans.

"Hold up. You admit to rifling through my entire room--"

"Just the desk," Sherlock corrected, voice low against John's ear.

"Fine. Through my entire desk, and you just expect me to go along with it?"

Sherlock pulled back again, looking frustrated and a bit perplexed, like he did whenever John did something he found irrational. "I said you would not like to hear my hypothesis, and you insisted. Now you're upset with me. I only investigated in order to have more data--"

"About your flatmate's personal sex life?"

"I had hoped it would become considerably less private tonight. And I hate to proceed without facts. You know that, John."

Sighing, John found himself letting the annoyance go. What did he expect--of course Sherlock thought picking locks part of dating.

"Yeah, well," he said, pulling Sherlock closer, "so you know, not everyone who likes penetration wants to be shoved about."

"So I've seen. Interesting, considering the pornography I researched showing a 90% correlation between pegging and domination."

How many research hours does it really take to work up to having sex, John wondered, but Sherlock just continued with, "Now, if you'd like to find if the converse is also true..."

Maybe he hadn't performed dedicated weeks of paysite research like Sherlock, but there was only one response to that.

"If that crate from the severed foot case is still on your bed, we're going upstairs."


LATE OP IS LATE (Anonymous) Expand

Fluidity of the British Government

Uh, I have a WIP about Genderfluid!Mycroft, if you're interested:

(Mycroft says 'pick me!', I think he's read it...)

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