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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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Sherlock/His Dark Materials crossover.

Sherlock/Watson + daemons with maybe Sherlock touching Watson's daemon as an experiment and Watson being all, "sdkjgndfkjgn" over it.

Ooooh hell yes

i am a smoke fire [1a/2]

John finds Sherlock Holmes’s daemon to be a little unsettling. Vesta is a lynx and she is always watching him. Regardless of what Sherlock is doing – experimenting, investigating, watching telly – John always finds the wildcat’s eyes fixed on him, like she’s planning something. Aelia jokes that Vesta innate creepiness is further evidence that they are living with a closeted serial killer or at least one of those types you hear about on the news.

“—throat slit in a public bathroom, trousers down. That’s where we’ll find him.” John hushes the border collie, glancing up from his laptop to glance at his bedroom door. Half of him is worried that Sherlock will come bursting in, eyes filled with anger at being talked about. As if Sherlock would do such a thing. As if Sherlock would get angry.

Sherlock Holmes seems to have two emotions. Bored and not bored.

“Don’t forget creepy. There’s always creepy,” Aelia pipes up from his position at the end of John’s bed. John rolls his eyes and goes back to typing up their latest case. The border collie sniffs lightly, as if offended and delicately hops down to the floor, padding softly over to the desk and pressing her warm body against John’s bad leg. On instinct, John’s hand comes down to rest on the back of her neck.

Their next case involves a group of smugglers and explosions. Lots of explosions. John and Sherlock sprint away from their latest run-in with The Suspect, having barely escaped turning into sloppy piles of flesh and bone. John didn’t need to remind himself that he hated bombs. The two men pause to catch their breath and Aelia is pressed up against John as close as she can get. Her tail is between her legs, her body hunched low to the ground and John knows what she is thinking of – Afghanistan. A tremor runs through his hand and he flexes his fingers, makes a fist.

Sherlock looks like he’s just unwrapped his first Christmas gift and discovered a severed head. In other words, he looks downright giddy. Vesta paces in circles, her ears upright and alert, her fur sleek. “Well,” says Sherlock. “We can certainly rule Griffin out as a suspect.”

“You think?” John snips, remembering the sight of the man’s body that was probably now reduced to a few spare body parts. Gunfire sounds somewhere in the distance and while John remains still, Aelia jumps and suddenly presses up close to Vesta, who seems alarmed at the contact.

“Come along, then,” Sherlock adds, reaching down toward his daemon. Instead of the lynx, his fingers trail across the border collie’s fur, scratching lightly behind her ears. Then, he’s running again, leaving John standing in a dirty alleyway, feeling like his vital organs have suddenly dropped away. He coughs sharply, a sudden rush of heat replacing the feeling of disorientation and he shakes his head, vowing to think about this later. When there are less guns.

John thinks about it approximately two hours, 39 minutes, and 45 seconds later. He has washed the grime and ash out of his hair and now, he’s in the kitchen, making tea and quietly having a panic attack.

It was taboo, what Sherlock did. Touching another person’s daemon is so…intimate and John can’t even decide what bothers him more – the actual violation or the fact that it was Sherlock who did it. There’s also the fact that Aelia keeps shooting looks at the detective, who is currently occupied by trashy talk shows, and John stifles the urge to kick her.

“Stop that,” He hisses at her. The border collie blinks slowly at him and sniffs. John rattles around in the kitchen for a few more minutes before he decides that he’s physically incapable of making tea at this juncture in time and stomps off toward his bedroom when Sherlock’s voice stops him.

“It was an experiment.” John pauses, turns. Vesta creeps toward Aelia.

“Excuse me?” Sherlock doesn’t even look away from the television.

“Touching your daemon. I was conducting an experiment.”

“I’m so glad that violating me was for the sake of science.” The words come out harsher than he intended, but that doesn’t stop John from leaving the room in a huff, Aelia trailing at his heels, casting looks over her shoulder at Vesta.

i am a smoke fire [1b/2]

John remains in such a mood for days that Sherlock begins texting him rather than speaking to him directly. This is nothing new since Sherlock always insists that he prefers to text, but it doesn’t usually take much social isolation for the detective to start setting fire to things or shooting walls. As far as John can tell, the apartment is relatively intact. His phone buzzes and John doesn’t feel like using the energy required to grab it off his night table. He hasn’t gotten out of bed today. Instead, he’s stayed in bed and tried not to think about the rush of heat that followed Sherlock’s fingers running across Aelia’s skin, how it did not in any way feel, maybe, a little nice. His phone buzzed again.



John rolled his eyes and texted back “NO” before rolling over and shoving a pillow over his head.

Re: i am a smoke fire [1b/2]

Oh! I am loving this so far. It's been quiet for some time, but if you'd ever be down with the de-anoning there is a Holmes/HDM crossover comm... :D

Re: i am a smoke fire [1b/2]

Oh my goodness. This is amazing, seriously, I love it. You've managed to cross the two universes so beautifully, and their respective daemons are perfect. More please?

Re: i am a smoke fire [1b/2]

This is fantastic, please continue!

Re: i am a smoke fire [1b/2]

This is great! please continue.

Re: i am a smoke fire [1b/2]

Hive mind XD I was tempted by this one, too, and gave Sherlock a black panther and John a Springer spaniel. Lovely!

Re: i am a smoke fire [1b/2]

Moooore pretty please!

Re: i am a smoke fire [1b/2]

I love this! Fuck yeah HDM/Sherlock

Re: i am a smoke fire [1b/2]

Totally awesome so far. Can we have more soon? :D

Re: i am a smoke fire [1b/2]

I wish there was more of this.

For anyone interested, there was also this prompt asking for a fusion, with a fill.

Just thought I'd cross-link!

Theory and Practice pt 1

When she had settled, it had been without the unpredictability and excitement so needlessly common to daemon maturation.

For recent events, the memory was all the more fresh. Quite young, but not so young as Mycroft's. Infuriated at the inept handling of the Powers case. He had stared her down in their bedroom late that night, said "just something sensible," both of them knowing they would never be taken seriously. Not by the police, not with an immature daemon. Yes, they were laughed off anyway when he went in--nothing more amusing than a boy hardly a head taller than his daemon--but even so, he'd always been proud of himself for it.

As a young child, he had thrilled in the fluidity of her, the vicious and clever forms she would take. For a year after, he dealt with the laughter and comments of classmates until he reached his growth spurt and she no longer seemed so poorly matched.

But from that day on, he always thought, I could do this. I can master my daemon.

Initially, he thought she settled on the form as a show of rebellion. There were dozens of forms he could imagine far more sensible than hers--snake, hawk, ferret, even Mycroft's annoyingly specific Pallas cat--but after twenty years he'd grown used to her. Her form was convenient enough. Perhaps, he thought at times, even elegant.

Now in their kitchen, she was restless and harried, stretching her overlarge wings. She could hardly do so for the amount of evidence that had accumulated in the past few days, and she angled her head back to glare at him with a baleful yellow eye.

"You can do as you like, Sherlock. I am not staying in here, pretending nothing occurred," she hissed, pacing another circle.

He had long heard she was unnerving, even beyond what was said of her early maturation. Most bird daemons, save for a few lucky genera, are perceived so by the placid masses. There was a reason Mycroft could get by in politics--felidae, anura, arthropoda, dull--and Mummy had remarked on that first morning how these things skipped generations.

"Too much of your grandmother," she'd said. Meaning, the French one. Meaning, the one with the severe-looking cormorant that everyone said flew too far afield.

Ardea cinerea. Wingspan of roughly 200 centimeters, height of 107. Once, in an alley with an individual who felt rather strongly Sherlock should take his case, he saw her nearly lance through the leg of a fox-daemon with her beak.

On those few occasions he was the target of her annoyance, he all too well understood those who were unsettled by a grey heron. Occasionally, he knew that he was wrong.

Like his weaknesses, like having a heart, at times even he had to admit his daemon was well in control of him.

"Thriaemis," he began, voice low. He hated to be overheard talking to her at all times, but particularly when she was about to win an argument.

Even more so when in the next room--

She flapped her wings again, hard enough to knock over a beaker. "I do not care if he hears us having a row. I care even less that Geta hears us, she'd at least have a laugh." Pacing around the glass, she pointedly ignored his look--the one that said, just 'Geta,' is it now--and carried on.

"They are not apt to think us any more mad. What's madness is you, Sherlock. You, not dealing with this entire night. You, hiding in your own kitchen, pretending you have ever been capable of a half-decent cup of tea. You, taking nearly an hour while they're laying out there, miserable--"

"Really fine without the tea, Sherlock," John called from the couch.

"See?" Thriaemis said, softly now that she'd proven her point. "The theory we have is a sound one."

"The theory we have isn't done, Thriaemis." It was a poor excuse, certainly, and Thriaemis was no idiot.

All the same, he had seen the rationale behind the taboo before, many times. Far too many.

Theory and Practice pt 3 (Anonymous) Expand
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