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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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Because somebody had to do it - Sherlock/His Dark Materials crossover.

I--noooo... This will be like fandom #4342324 I'd've written this for, why must you be so cruel and suggest such things, anon? D:


(Lestrade's should totally be an Alaskan Malamute. or maybe some other kind of hunting or working dog, but a malamute was the first to come to mind.)

I could see Lestrade's being a Newfoundland, or some sort of spaniel. Working/hunting dogs, but irresistibly cute & fluffy at the same time. <3

Silly Puppy

If nobody's going to write a grand epic of a crossover, I'm just going to indulge myself with a random little snapshot, 'kay?

...And then everybody joins in, debates daemons, writes epic fic, I dunno, but we must have as much Sherlock/His Dark Materials as possible, dammit.

Most people think Adonia is a dog, some sort of crossbreed, the type meant to look as close to a wolf as possible. Obviously she can't be an actual wolf. Her fur is the wrong shade, too much brown, and she's a medium size, smaller than a 'proper wolf', as seen in countless movies. Nobody would mistake her for what she actually is. It's a game she and John have been playing so long among the civilians they almost forget it's a game.

She wags her tail and moves like an overgrown puppy, like all dogs do, certain of where the next meal comes from and there's no need for a wolf's hunting grace. There's something vulpine about her muzzle, but she's always wearing a stupid happy dog smile, it's so easy to miss.

People almost always look at her askance a little. John is far from the typical dog-daemon possessor.

Then he meets Sherlock Holmes. And Adonia --

She looks at this madman, and lowers her tail, and raises her head and every hair seems to stand on end and John--

John is struck by a realisation he cannot articulate, and looks at Adonia as if she's betrayed him. This is the man we're meant to follow, this is the reason you took a dog-shape, this man alone, and how could you know we'd ever find him?

Adonia, she rests her head upon her paws and croons “Silly puppy,” like there was never a doubt.

Dear god, the animal representation of John's inner self is an utter sap.

It takes a while for John to catch up. He's already killed a man for Sherlock Holmes in that time, which you would think would be a clue, but it isn't. They're at another crime scene, and the words just... escape.

“We're not,” John says.

“No,” agrees Adonia. “We're not, we are absolutely not.”

John looks at Sherlock, declaring to all and sundry why everyone but him is an idiot and why does he even bother? “Okay,” John says. “Okay, maybe we are a little in love.”

Adonia utters a throaty little sound that John has never heard from her before and yet instinctively just knows is the noise a female wolf makes at the sight of her mate. He nudges her gently with his foot.

“Jesus,” he says, “Don't give him any clues.”

“Oh John,” Adonia sighs, and what she's really saying is 'silly little puppy'. “Honestly. You think he doesn't know?”

“Was kinda hoping, yeah,” John says.

Adonia sighs. “Silly little puppy,” she says.

Re: Silly Puppy

John thinks it's his fault Adonia pretends to be something else. He knows he's right, he wishes he wasn't.


Adonia settled when John was sixteen; late, but not absurdly so. Enough time after nearly everyone else at his school that he started asking her, several months before it finally happened, “Is this it?”

“No,” she said. “No. This - this isn't quite right--” although each time she changed into another shape, she stayed that way just a little longer than the shape before.

“But it will be canine, won't it?” John said, because by the time he was fifteen, there was a definite trend to be found.

“Probably,” she said. “You won't - you don't mind?”

“Of course not,” John said, because he thought there was something noble about service, couldn't understand why some of the kids jeered at those with dog daemons.

And that would be that, she would try out another dog-shape and it would close, close, but not enough, and John waited so impatiently for her to finally decide this is good enough, even if it wasn't, because he didn't want to be the last in his entire school to settle.

It happened when they were walking home late one night from rugby practice, Adonia bulldog-shaped, the way she'd been for awhile. They saw a girl in trouble, and maybe it wasn't any of their business, maybe John was a fool, but he saw the man touch the girl's daemon and he just didn't think, Adonia didn't think--

Everything happened so fast, it took him forever to come back to himself enough to realise Adonia had taken a new shape, had her jaws around the neck of the guy's daemon and was threatening to close them, that between the two of them the guy was sobbing on the ground.

“I could have,” Adonia had said later. “I could have closed my jaws and killed him. It would have been easy.”

John hadn't liked that, wasn't used to it, the thought that she could do that, was capable of that. That he was capable of that. “Change back,” he said.

Adonia looked at him, and John noticed for the first time how different she actually was - how much more she was, compared to the dog-shapes he was used to. “I can't,” she said. “John, I don't think -- I think this is it.”

“Oh,” John said.

“You're beautiful,” he said, and hesitantly stroked her ears, but neither of them forget the pause before he said it.


They finished med school. John had fought the restless ache from Adonia for as long as he could but in the end it didn't matter.

“This isn't going to work, is it?”

Adonia looked at him, resigned. “No,” she said.

They signed up for the army the next day.


The army, it was perfect, was the first place John had ever been that made Adonia's fur shine like it should, that let her stand proud as she should, was the first place John had been that didn't make her wag her tail and dip her head and play at being a dog so other people stopped looking at them funny.

So of course it didn't last.


Adonia spends their sessions with the therapist lying beneath his chair, growling at his therapist's daemon with lips drawn back from her long teeth.

When they walk back to their Spartan hotel room, she slinks like a dog that's been badly beaten, and it makes his chest ache. You'd have to look at her more than twice to realise she isn't.

She tries so hard. John thinks maybe she thinks if she pretends hard enough, maybe John will stop wanting it so, the battlefield they left behind. Maybe if she tries, John can fit back in to civilian life, the life he'd wanted, would have been content with, if she hadn't settled into something wilder.

She crawls onto the single bed and lies next to him silently for a long time, until she says, “This isn't going to work, is it.”

“No,” John says unhappily.

She makes a noise in the back of her throat, a whine of pure misery.

John buries his face into her ruff and tells himself not to think about everything that's not waiting for them.

“I'm sorry,” Adonia says.

“Shut up,” John says. “Adonia, shut up. We'll be okay.”

“This is right,” she whispers. “I know it, there's something- something for us even now, please believe me.”

Tomorrow, an old friend will introduce them to Sherlock Holmes.

Re: Silly Puppy

This is amazing. Adonia is perfect--a brave, beautiful dog daemon, and exactly what John ought to have. I ache for them when they say This isn't going to work, is it, and I have to hope that with Sherlock they'll find what they need.

This is fantastic! Please tell me you're planning on doing more with it. I could read HDM crossovers all day long. xD And I want to know what Sherlock's daemon is!

Re: Silly Puppy

I love this so... I hope we get more soon! :D

I love this. So awesome.

The biggest problem with kinkmemes is that there are so many anonymous authors and HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO STALK YOU LIKE THAT.

Re: Silly Puppy

I hope you're planning on continuing this, I can't wait to see what Sherlock's daemon is. And I usually loathe crossovers.

Re: Silly Puppy (Anonymous) Expand

Sally Donovan In Five Daemons

Everyone wants to know what Sherlock's daemon is, so of course I go and write Sally Donovan. *headdesks*

i. Itzalkemen

Sally wants Itzalkemen to be a bird. Sally has always known what she wants to be, is always looking forward - nobody ever mentions it in polite company, but everybody knows there is something like daemon discrimination. It's rare - it's not very often you see someone go for service when their daemon is a tiger, for instance, or you see someone with a seabird try to work inland. It's usually more subtle than that. Police would take a person with a dog-daemon over a more highly-qualified person with something else, for instance, because a dog-shaped daemon implied someone more willing to listen to orders, having an instinctive understanding of the hierarchy, someone who would loyal to the service and have a desire to protect others.

Sally wants to a policewoman. Sally also knows herself, knows Itzalkemen, knows he won't settle as a dog. So at some point she decides the next best thing would be a bird, showing a willingness to try and get past barriers, to reach the top.

A bird would have been good. But when Sally wakes a week before her thirteenth birthday, Itzalkemen is huddled on top of the wardrobe, cat-shaped, and even after she manages to convince him to come down, he won't change no matter how she asks him.

He’s not one of those sleek, elegant cats, either, the sort that automatically own the room they enter. She could have been happy with that. No, he's a tough, rangy tomcat that wouldn't look out of place screaming challenges in an alleyway, and Sally has to swallow hard against her bitterness.

“It's okay,” she tells him, but she’s lying, and if even she can hear it in her voice, he certainly can.

“Sorry,” he says wretchedly. “Sorry.”

“It's okay,” she says, her disappointment a heavy thing that makes his misery feel muted and washed out. She doesn't mean to hurt him, but Sally had her whole life planned out, and now she knows herself instead of just thinking that she knows herself, and she's not what she thought she was.

They go out and walk silently for a long time, and the silence is unnatural, hurts almost as much as the disappointment.

Sally is too sunken in misery to know when Itzalkemen leaves her side, but eventually she looks up to find him stalking one of London's many pigeons.

Something cracks and lets go inside. “Look at you, mighty hunter,” Sally says. Itzalkemen sniffs, continues to stalk across the pavement, tail waving. And trips over his paws.

Sally smothers her giggle. It will take a long time, but eventually she'll be able to say honestly that she doesn’t wish he'd settled as something else.

Like they're going to let someone else tell them what they can't do. A cat, after all, knows all the ways out of a room it’s been locked in.

Sherlock and Zahra (Anonymous) Expand
Sherlock and Zahra 2/? (Anonymous) Expand

Of Walking The Ways Of The Moirae

For the anon with the puppy dog eyes! Mycroft and his spider!

There’s always been something a little off about the way Sherlock and Zahravidya react to each other. Mycroft has never met anyone else who sometimes has trouble understanding what their daemon is saying.

It worries him. There are rumours--

There’s a word, for people who have trouble communicating with their daemons.

“He’ll grow out of it,” Adrasteia says, not because she believes it, but because one of them has to be the optimist, has to consider how to proceed when things actually go as planned, rare as that is.

“No he won’t,” Mycroft says, cups her head in his hands - she’s python-shaped and has stayed so for the past seven weeks and two days - and kisses her brow, dry lips brushing smooth scales. He entertains some hope that perhaps this will be her final shape - Mycroft has a good education, and remembers the Oracle at Delphi - but there is still time. He is, after all, barely twelve.

“He won’t,” Adrasteia agrees, because there’s optimism and there’s blind faith and only the first is permissible. “We must protect him,” she whispers, as they watch serious little Sherlock reading a book years too old for him, oblivious to Zahravidya, sitting further away from him than Mycroft and Adrasteia have ever cared to try.

Mycroft listens; he hears things--

“Adraste, there’s no need to tell me that,” Mycroft says, the command as heavy as know thyself.

Adrasteia presses her blunt face to his cheek, flicks her tongue across his skin. “It bears repeating,” she says.

Two weeks later, she settles. There is no great catalysis, nothing of significance occurs. She simply stops being a python and starts being a spider. Mycroft does not need to be told this is the shape she will wear for the rest of their lives.

“Was colouring so very important?” he says, touches her back very lightly.

“Black is slimming,” she says primly.

“Yes, of course,” Mycroft says, in the doubtful tone of one who knows that’s a lie at best, and not a very comforting one. “But... an American spider, Adraste?”

“I see a great big gap in your omniscience,” Adrasteia says gleefully, waving her first pair of legs playfully. “Really, Mycroft, don’t be uncouth. I’m an Australian spider.”

“A penal colony. How delightful.”

“Come now, Mycroft.” Adrasteia scolds. “I’m telling you that I am a creature to be feared - or respected, at the very least - even in a land where everything tries to kill you - including some of the trees - and all you can think about is the distant past?”

“Australians don’t have the sense to be afraid of anything,” Mycroft points out. “Or they wouldn’t be Australian, would they?”

Adraste scuttles up his arm to sit on his shoulder with a dignified little hmph. Her speed is quite remarkable, though that won’t stop Mycroft making plans for a protective box as soon as he can get hold of the materials used to make the Flight Recording Devices.

He studies her out of the corner of his eye, her tiny black body sleek and shining in the sun, the splash of red too perfect an hourglass to belong to nature. It doesn’t occur to him to be disappointed any more than it occurs to Adrasteia that he might not be impressed with her settled form.

“Nice, bold colours,” she says idly. “Even those idiots you interact with every day shouldn’t be able to mistake their meaning.”

Mycroft tuts, or hisses between his teeth, the meaning is much the same. “They’re schoolchildren, Adraste. They think power comes in obvious shapes, lions and tigers.”

“And bears, oh my,” Adraste deadpans.

They look up to see Sherlock watching them with imperturbable eyes. Zahravidya whispers something in his ear, but he shakes his head irritably as if a bee has flown close by.

There are whispers, and Mycroft listens--

“This is how we protect him,” Adraste says softly into the dark of the following night, and moonlight picks out strands of the web she has begun to weave.


“Something sensible,” is all Sherlock stipulates about choosing a final shape.

“Like this?” Zahravidaya says, turns into a golden eagle.

Sherlock looks at her, shrugs dismissively. “Perhaps something a little more discreet,” he says.

Mycroft is forced to wade in eventually; it's really not the wisest thing to insult a bird with a wingspan bigger than you are.

For a moment, he is sure it won’t work, that Zahravidya will keep attacking anyway. Sherlock has a distressing habit of watching a person’s daemon, the height of rudeness, and Zahravidya, once or twice, went on to attack the person when she’d finished with the daemon, just another reason they’ve had visits from certain individuals that are not talked about. There is a careful pretence in the household that all is well.

Instead, the moment before the great wings brush his face, Zahravidya drops to the ground, bright poisonous green and slithers to the corner of the room, as far from Sherlock as she can get.

There is a chill down Mycroft's spine, a carefully unarticulated understanding that she could go further if she wished.

He looks at Sherlock. He is regarding his daemon with the sort of scientific curiosity that turns up in horror fiction, where science always goes too far, challenging God. Mycroft read an early horror novel called Separation once. Fiction, but he could see the places where bones of fact showed through, advanced science of the day meshing easily with overwrought prose. It’s still the only book to give him nightmares.

“Go to her,” he snaps, because he cannot say you should know this, this should be second nature to you, don’t be so obvious that something is wrong with you.

Sherlock stops a foot away and stares down at her, his expression thoughtful.

Perhaps, Adraste tells him as they walk past, stiff with anger that has nowhere to go, perhaps the reason Zahravidya chose to flee into a serpent form is because snakes cannot weep.

Mycroft is clever and cunning and knows how to protect his brother, but he does not know how to fix this, how to make it so that his protection is not necessary.


Zahravidya favoured large, powerful shapes when Sherlock was young, the better to protect and defend, always with some hope that perhaps if she is large and impressive enough, others will leave them alone. This lasted until Sherlock, tired of her constant, low growling while in tigress form, said “Enough,” and she took on a bee shape out of spite.

From that point on she favoured winged shapes almost exclusively, save in moments of stress or battle, another reason they are ostracised - in flight, it is too easy to forget that most humans and daemons cannot stand to be so far apart.

Personally, Sherlock sometimes wonders how they can stand to be so close.


Goshawks are difficult to train, hate the hood and forget what they've been taught as soon as they can. They'll take anything as prey, from sparrows to swans, overtaking with short bursts of speed to kill with a single crush of their talons. Not a hawk of the lure, but a hawk of the fist, arrogant, dangerous, self-sufficient, pitiless and yellow-eyed, a fine friend but foul-tempered if the mood is on it.

If you don't keep guard, they will not return from their hunt.

It takes Sherlock marginally longer to realise Zahravidya has settled than it took for him to realise Adrasteia had.

“That's it?”

“Yes,” Zahravidya says.

Sherlock eyes the wicked curve of her beak, meets her staring yellow eyes. “It'll do, I suppose.”

(“I know why you chose a winged shape,” he says one day. The police refuse to call him unless desperate because on their first meeting, Zahravidya perched on a lamppost and refused to join him, so they met him under the mistaken belief that he had no daemon, and work with him with the understanding that he has a damaged one. Bitterness coats his words. “It is so you can leave me.”

“No,” Zahravidya says, ruffling her feathers and staring into the distance. “It is so I can seek out what you won't allow us.”)

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