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 enjoys orgasms. What he doesn't enjoy is being touched. And so; Sherlock and John, face to face, Sherlock touching himself and John talking, telling him how...


I need this in my life

Filled: "And the heat goes on..." 1/2

“And the heat goes on…(where the hand has been)”

a/n: title from the Talking Heads, “Born Under Punches.”

It had finally come to this.

Another night, another roof-top chase, another return to Baker Street, another pause at the bottom of the stairs, breathless and disheveled. And when Sherlock turned to him, eyes lit up with deviltry, and something else, John knew what he was seeing.

He might not have been the smoothest operator on the block, but he recognized an invitation when he saw one.

And if it wasn’t his usual M.O., well, he would just add it to the list of ways Sherlock Holmes had turned his world topsy turvy.

And if it seemed dangerous, well, maybe that was the best part about it—John could feel his balls tightening just at the thought of the perils involved. So he turned his body towards Sherlock’s, pressed those thin shoulders back against the wall, pushed a knee between those racehorse legs.

Sherlock shoved him away instantly—used both hands to do it, too.

Shit, John thought, chagrined and frustrated, misread that one. He put his head down for moment to get himself under control. When he looked up, Sherlock was a few steps up the staircase, regarding him contemplatively.

Here it comes, John thought, the ridicule, the condescension.

But all Sherlock said was, “Not here.”

He started up the staircase. And John followed him.

Followed him all the way to his disastrously untidy room, where Sherlock courteously held the door open for him, flicked on the light, waited for John to go through.

And then there they were facing each other, both breathing a little quickly, as if the chase had only just finished.

Well, in for a penny, John thought, and moved toward Sherlock slightly, his arousal only increased by their weirdly decorous progress.

But Sherlock fell back, leaning against the closed door. “Just so you understand,” he said, only the slightest thickening of his voice suggesting he might be equally excited, “I don’t touch.”

“You don’t--?” John was confused, “What? You mean—not at all?”

Sherlock shook his head.

“But you still--?” Sherlock nodded. “Oh,” John said, flummoxed, “But how do you--?”

“Well,” Sherlock said, “you can ask me to do anything, anything at all. Just, no touching.” He smiled that strange half-smile of his, “Are you game?”

Oh, John was game. He had the same feeling he’d had peering out of the plane’s open hatch during parachute training, thousands of feet up, the same butterflies in his stomach, but, fuck, yeah, he was game. Just too dry-mouthed to say anything. He nodded instead.

“Anything at all,” Sherlock repeated, propping himself against the door now with indolent grace.

“Um, okay, then” John said. He wished it didn’t feel quite so much like a quiz. Given the level of complexity Sherlock brought to everything he did, from breakfast foods to texting, John was sure he was expecting something exotic, something arcane—something interesting. And John knew himself well enough to know that inventiveness wasn’t his greatest strength in bed.

Still, here he was, being offered something he now realized he’d been wanting for a long time, every sinew in his body thrumming with anticipation, so—


Re: Filled: "And the heat goes on..." 2/3

“Uh, could you take your clothes off?” he asked awkwardly, “If you don’t mind, that is…”

“John,” Sherlock said, half-stern, half-indulgent, “you really can ask me to do whatever you want; you don’t have to ask permission.” He pulled his arms out of his jacket, letting it drop to the floor, and started unbuttoning his shirt.

And Jesus if that, already, wasn’t one of the hottest things John had ever experienced. It wasn’t that Sherlock put on a show—far from it. He disrobed with exactly the same deftness and precision with which he inspected a crime scene, or conducted an experiment in chemistry, the falling layers of clothing making a little cloud of black and white at his feet.

It was more the way he kept his eyes on John as he did it—all that brilliance, all that power, in a tight, ardent beam, offered to John like a secret treasure.

John wondered vaguely whether it would be polite for him take his clothes off too, whether that was the etiquette in this type of situation, but honestly, he didn’t think he could have mustered up the coordination if he’d tried, so mesmerized was he by the long, pale limbs gradually emerging from their habitual restraints.

Sherlock’s hair looked very dark against those planes of white flesh, sparse and straight down his narrow chest, surprisingly thick and wiry around his sex, which curved, red, already hard, against his belly. It was as long and taut as the rest of him, and John would have called it elegant, except he didn’t think that was a word one used about another man’s prick. But long, yes, and thicker than he would have imagined (not that he’d ever imagined it), with a decided bend to the right.

“Touch yourself,” John said hoarsely, hardly recognizing his own voice, and Sherlock did, curling tapered fingers around his cock, running smooth strokes down its length.

“Faster,” John told him, a little surprised at his boldness, but entirely caught up in the thing now, “squeeze—that’s it—drag your nails along the back there—rub your thumb over the top—that’s right. You like that, huh? That feels good?”

Sherlock didn’t say anything, but his changed demeanor was answer enough. His face had gone a little slack, his focus blurred, turned inward, his head looser on his neck. A flush had started to spread down his throat, over his collarbone. A few drops of pre-cum glistened on the head of his cock.

Suddenly, John’s own jeans were too tight against his straining erection. Without thinking, he reached down, undid a button, adjusted.

“Now,” John said, leaving the plane without a parachute, “now finger yourself.”

If Sherlock was surprised, he didn’t show it, just pushed himself away from the door, started reaching behind himself with his other hand.

“No,” John said, “get them wet first. Suck them.”

And Sherlock did, slid two fingers into his mouth with almost pornographic slowness. John could see his cheeks hollow out as he took them in, imagined he could feel Sherlock’s tongue sliding over them, between them, slicking them.

The fingers emerged, glistening, and John could read the burn of their entry on Sherlock’s face—the muscles around his mouth tightened; then he gave a little gasp of pleasure as he hit the sweet spot.

Suddenly, everything in the room seemed more intense to John—he could smell the sweat on both their bodies, feel the rasp of his clothing against skin grown sensitive to every pressure. He drew in a shaky breath, tried to wrap him mind around what they were doing.


Re: Filled: "And the heat goes on..." 3/3

Sherlock was close now, John could tell, the hand pumping his cock had lost its rhythm, devolving into jerky, frantic strokes. His head had fallen forward, waves of dark hair shadowing his face.

With a deep, guttural sound, halfway between a growl and a groan, he came, thick ropes of cum striping his stomach, spattering over the pile of clothes at his feet.

It was the sound, more than anything, that pushed John over the edge—there was something uncivilized in it, something almost savage. To know that his words had pulled that noise past Sherlock’s polished surfaces, his brittle veneer, it—

He pushed one hand into his briefs, grasped himself, and came more quickly than he had since was fourteen.


Slowly, John came back to himself. Somehow, he’d ended up on the floor, back propped against the bed. Sherlock mirrored his position against the door, still naked, eyes closed. And there they were, two civilized men, in a room they’d left even messier than when they’d found it. He located a box of tissues, ineffectually tried to clean off his jeans.

“Hey,” he said to Sherlock, “don’t fall asleep over there.”

Sherlock blinked, and John tossed the tissue to him, not sure whether the embargo against touching had lifted yet. “Um,” he said self-consciously, “was that--?”

“Yes, John,” Sherlock answered, “yes it was.” And the rare warmth of his smile was like a caress.


Re: Filled: "And the heat goes on..." 3/3

Seriously, that was almost impossibly hot. I'm shaking.

Re: Filled: "And the heat goes on..." 3/3

loordy. i'll be in my bunk...

Re: Filled: "And the heat goes on..." 3/3

HOT. Very very hot. I really love that John is a little self-conscious and wondering what Sherlock is going to think, which is a perfect reaction. And that he has no cause to worry really :D *loves*

Re: Filled: "And the heat goes on..." 3/3

Fuck. I just got a new bunk and now that one exploded too. Holy shit. What really did it for me was how uncertain John is at the beginning and how quickly he adjusts to the situation. Guh.

Re: Filled: "And the heat goes on..." 3/3

God I love this so much. So beautifully written.


Re: Filled: "And the heat goes on..." 3/3

Muuuuh, that was good.

Re: Filled: "And the heat goes on..." 3/3

I am deeply in love with you, anon.

And this fic too. Gorgeous and blisteringly hot.

Re: Filled: "And the heat goes on..." 3/3

Here from prosodi's fic recommendations.

This was so hot but I think this was my favorite line, "“Um, okay, then” John said. He wished it didn’t feel quite so much like a quiz."
Ha! Perfect description of Sherlock and sex.

Re: Filled: "And the heat goes on..." 3/3


Ghg. Gng.

OMG, it's so sweet, too. John's uncertainty about exactly where the boundaries might lie, before and after. Pushing away with BOTH hands! Argh! "Not here": holy hotness! Elaborate descriptions of one whack-off, versus 12 seconds in the pants (just on case we were wondering who we were identifying with here)? Perfection.

C. Please. This must bc very soon!

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