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Sherlock BBC Prompting Meme

"we get all sorts around here."

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Prompting: Part XIV
Giggles at the Palace
Please check the Sticky Post to find the newest active part and post your prompts there.

+Anon posting is most definitely allowed, but not required.
+All kinds of fills are accepted! Fic, art, vids, cosplay, interpretive dance--whatever. Go wild! :D
+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.
+Please do not re-post prompts unless the last time they were prompted was on an older part. Simply put: ONE posting of each prompt per part.
+RPF (real person fic, i.e. fic involving the actors themselves) is not supported at this meme.
+Depending on the rate of activity, there may or may not be a prompt freeze when a part reaches 2000 and 4500 comments.
+However, there will be one when it reaches 7000. Also at 7000, after the freeze 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.
Do not be afraid to ask questions about how it works if you are confused! The mod would be happy to explain.

Your mods for this meme are snowishness and marill_chan. If you have any questions, concerns, comments about anything at all on the meme feel free to send a PM or contact us via the page-a-mod post.

Please consider warning for triggery prompts (and also for fills, because some people read in flat view) and phrasing prompts in a manner that strives to be respectful.

Things which you might want to consider warning for include: Rape/Non-Con, Death, Suicidal Thoughts, Self-Harm, Underage Relationships, among others.

That being 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.
You are highly encouraged to scroll right past a prompt that you dislike.

Remember, guys; Be civil, be friendly, but don’t be shy!

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I can't get over the ridiculousness of this prompt, I apologize in advance. I just want an AU where Mycroft has been arranged to marry this returning war hero because it will look great for the monarchy or some shit. He's pretty blase about it, and Sherlock could not care less, is just thanking his lucky stars he's the second in line and no one cares what he gets up to (mostly).

So of course the day Mycroft is supposed to meet his future husband there's some sort of international crisis, and Sherlock is sent to tell a no doubt pretentious, jingoistic social climber the monarchy is sorry and will have to reschedule. But who he actually meets is a jumper wearing badass with nerves of steel, who follows Sherlock when there's a case to solve and is amazed by Sherlock and is bright like nothing Sherlock has ever seen before. And he isn't overly interested in discussing the wedding, actually seems to want to avoid it, which Sherlock hadn't expected in the slightest.

They solve the case and Sherlock is about to ask John why he's doing this, why he's agreeing to marry someone when he clearly doesn't want to, but John leaves, is picked up by Mycroft's people for the much-delayed introduction, and Sherlock watches him drive off, this weird twist in his chest he has no idea what to do with. Sherlock already knows John doesn't really want this, can tell from the set of his shoulders, the way he diminishes the minute he gets into the car. What he doesn't know is how he's going to convince John not to marry his brother and move in with him instead.

tl;dr John's been betrothed to Mycroft, but meets Sherlock and sparks fly.

yes! Yes! Yessss. Um.



nadigh index


I love this ridiculous prompt. I would hold its hair back when it's sick, and not even make it brush its teeth before kissing it sloppily on the mouth

This prompt is beyond adorable and really well written. <3 100th or whatever this is on.

Yes, I want this very badly!

Everyone wants this; fillers, this is a sign.

Question for OP

Hello! Possible author here.

I make no promises, but I love arranged marriages prompts and this one has been gnawing at my brain ever since I read it.

So, OP, how do you picture Sherlock and John? Sherlock wants John to be his friend and feels it will be impossible if he's married to his brother? Sherlock is smitten with John and wants more than friendship and feels it will be impossible if he's married to his brother? Sherlock just doesn't want to share his toys?

What about John? How does he feel towards Sherlock?

And were you hoping for Sherlock's plan to succeed or not? Happy ending or angst fest?

(Like I said, no promises, but it's tempting...)

OP (Anonymous) Expand
Re: OP (Anonymous) Expand

FILL: Marriage à-la-mode

A/N: Afternoon! It is me, the same anon who was tempted to fill in earlier comments. So, I supposed I am filling this now and here is the first part, a sort of prologue. Not much Sherlock/John shenanigans for now, but there were some things I needed to establish first.

The title comes from the set of paintings from Hogarth, a nice satire on the concept of arranged marriages. I may change it if I find a better one, but right now let's shut that author up. If you want to beta and brit-pick through the comments, feel free to do so. I also welcome suggestions.


The three Holmes were having tea in the Winter Garden restaurant of the very prestigious Landmark Hotel. The location had been Mycroft’s idea, he had chosen it for its proximity to Baker Street because he knew his brother well enough to feel certain that he would have found an excuse not to come if he had been summoned to the family’s estate. Mycroft had something very important to discuss with his mother and brother, something that would affect the whole family and therefore he needed both of them to be present.

He looked at his two closest relatives and smiled as something close to affection fluttered in his heart. His mother, ageing so gracefully, had her two piercing blue eyes fixed on him, probably trying to deduce the reasons behind their meeting. Sherlock, on the other hand, was looking everywhere except at him, his fingers drumming on the table while his teacup remained untouched in front of him.

“Well go on then, tell us what we’re doing here,” Mrs Holmes said, bringing Mycroft’s attention back to her.

Mycroft put his teacup on the table, leaned against the back of his chair and crossed one very long leg over the other. He paused for a moment, remembering the speech he had prepared for the occasion and, when he felt he had made a dramatic enough effect, he began to talk.

“I am now forty-one years old,” he began, ignoring Sherlock’s snort, “and I feel like, career wise, I have accomplished what I wanted to. The position I am in is comfortable, empowering and, let’s be honest, extremely lucrative.”

His mother nodded while looking at him expectantly and Sherlock continued to look away, but Mycroft caught a glimpse of him rolling his eyes. Ignoring him, he continued to talk.

“I have achieved most goals I had set for myself and I am now ready for something new in my life—“

“Is this about a new diet, Mycroft?” Sherlock taunted, “Because if it is, I don’t think it was worth disturbing my work.”

Mrs Holmes glared at her youngest son and he fell silent once again, but not without expressing his discontent with a huffing sound.

“What I’m trying to say is that I feel it is time for me to get married,” Mycroft concluded before picking up his teacup and taking a sip.

Immediately, Mrs Holmes face lit up with a radiant smile and her eyes shone with joy. She had waited many years for that moment to come, ever since her son, a teenager at the time, had told her that even though he wished to find someone to spend his life with, he wished that other person to be a man and he wanted to wait until he had accomplished his career goals. Mrs Holmes had been disappointed, not by her son’s choice of a same sex partner, but by the fact that she wouldn’t get to arrange a wedding since, at the time, it wasn’t legal. However, she was glad that Mycroft had decided to follow the tradition and rely on her to find him the perfect life partner.

OP (Anonymous) Expand
Re: OP (Anonymous) Expand

FILL: Marriage à-la-mode 2a/?

Six months after he had tea with his mother and brother, Sherlock found himself in a cab, which wasn’t that unusual. What was unusual was the situation he found himself in. He was heading to the train station and he was late. Very late. He was supposed to pick up Mycroft’s betrothed, a task that should never have fallen into his hands if it hadn’t been for a series of unfortunate events. A conflict has erupted in the Republic of Côte d’Ivoire and Mycroft’s help had been required, therefore rendering him unable to welcome the man he was supposed to marry. Mummy would have been the next logical choice, but she had woken up with a migraine and she had called Sherlock, begging him to welcome the no doubt pretentious jingoistic social climber (Sherlock’s words, not Mummy’s) at the train station. Sherlock had protested vehemently, but his mother was nothing but determined and Mycroft’s upcoming wedding was so important to her that she refused to trust anyone who wasn’t family with the simple task.

The train station was crowded, but even if he had never seen the face of the man he was supposed to pick up, he knew exactly what he was looking for: a man younger than Mycroft, but older than himself, someone irritated that no one had come for him yet and nervous, thinking that no one would. After just a few minutes of scanning the crowd, he spotted someone who fitted that description, but something wasn’t right.

The man’s hair was not quite brown, yet not quite blond, with streaks of grey. He was frowning, which made him look tired and older than he probably was, and he had a very obvious nervous habit; he was licking his lower lip every minute or so. His ears were too big, his mouth was too thin, he had bags under his eyes and the shadow of a beard was visible on his rough cheeks. He was sitting on a bench, a large suitcase beside him with a hospital-issued cane leaning against it. How could this ordinary handicapped man be Mycroft’s betrothed? Sherlock thought he must have been mistaken, but he very rarely was. He wished he had remembered the man’s name, now he had to walk up to him and ask if he was the one supposed to marry his brother. How inconvenient.

The man probably felt observed because he looked up at Sherlock and for a very small second he looked surprised, his eyes widening very slightly. For a moment, he stood still, taking in Sherlock’s appearance and when their eyes met, Sherlock was instantly sure that this was the man who would be marrying Mycroft in a month. There was something in those blue eyes that spoke of hidden strength, a willingness to fight—yes, he did look like an army man with his severe haircut and the stiff way he held his shoulders and torso. Then, while Sherlock was still staring, the other man got up, picked up his cane and limped towards him.

“Are you Mycroft?” he asked and Sherlock cringed at being mistaken for his brother.

“I’m his brother, Sherlock Holmes,” he answered, “you’re the husband.”

“Yes, John Watson,” John answered and he looked relieved, probably because he hadn’t been stood up. He looked younger, Sherlock thought, closer to his own age than Mycroft’s. John extended his hand and Sherlock shook it, noticing how straight John stood and how he didn’t seem to be favouring his injured leg. Psychosomatic injury, then.

“Come, I am to take you to the family house, but I need to stop somewhere first,” Sherlock said and he watched as John limped to his suitcase and dragged it with difficulty.

When John was level with him, Sherlock turned to leave the train station, but not before he noticed the Royal Army Medical Corps insignia on his suitcase. An army doctor, then. That was interesting. Sherlock was making long strides that John had difficulties following and when he found a cab, the driver shot him a disapproving look before helping John with his big suitcase. For a moment, Sherlock wondered if John had expected him to carry it, but surely if his limp was psychosomatic he was perfectly able to take care of his luggage.

FILL: Marriage à-la-mode 3a/?

A/N: I expected to post sooner, but Easter got in the way. As a result, I’m totally high on Cadbury Cream Eggs and it’s probably why this chapter got so out of control. I never expected it to be so ridiculously long, but I hope you’ll still enjoy.

OP: Please don’t worry; I’m getting there. I can’t seem to write short fills and I’m afraid this is slowly turning into a complete monster. I hope you don’t mind. The WHEEEE induced by crime fighting will begin in the next chapter; I wanted them to spend a little mort time with each other before they start being all BAMFy. I know Sherlock isn’t Disney smitten yet, but he’s getting there. Also, if you want to make suggestions for the upcoming parts, I’m always more than willing to include them when possible.

Thanks to everyone who commented. I never thought I would get such an enthusiastic response after two chapters and almost no plot, so a lot of love to those who read, liked and commented. You’re all extremely amazing and I’m still quite new to the fanfiction world, so it means a lot. To that person who started camping: thanks for making me smile, it’s the first time something I write prompts a camping trip. Here, have some marshmallows.


Sherlock didn’t sleep much that night, he kept looking at his phone in case he had missed a text message from Lestrade, but either no crimes were committed or the DI was reluctant to involve him. That wouldn’t do. The sun was up, John would eventually come down into the living room and Sherlock would have to take him to Mummy’s house. Or worst, Mummy would pick him up here. Either way, it was too soon. He needed more time, he needed to know why he had been chosen to marry Mycroft and, most importantly, why John had accepted. A lifetime as the husband of a boring government official, being dragged to dreadful functions and benefits… John was a doctor, he was a soldier, and he had sewed people up while missile alarms rang in the camp. He had showed such an interest in Sherlock’s cases, he seemed thrilled just hearing about them; surely he wasn’t the type of man who would enjoy being married to someone like Mycroft. More time to acquire data, that’s all he was asking for. He was still working on a plan when his mother called him and she started talking as soon as he answered.

“Sherlock, what exactly do you think you’re doing?”

“John is safe, he spent the night in my flat. He was tired yesterday after we had dinner so I offered my spare bedroom.”

“There shouldn’t have been a dinner,” she said in a tone that never failed to make Sherlock feel like a repentant eight-year-old child.

“I wasn’t even supposed to pick him up, I had other plans and they took longer than I expected,” he said, hiding the fact that he had deliberately prolonged their visit at the morgue. “Did you expect me to drag him into a cab without offering food when he was clearly hungry?”

“Well, what’s done is done, but I expect John Watson to be in my house in no more than four hours. I’ve had enough trouble finding him and getting him to agree to this marriage, I will not have you scaring him off.”

“I am not—” Sherlock began, but the line went dead when his mother hung up on him.

He looked up to see John looking at him curiously from the top of the stairs. His hair was ruffled and sticking in all directions, he was scratching the back of his head, his t-shirt riding up in the process and exposing a small slice of skin with a very soft looking trail of golden brown hair.

“Do you mind if I use your shower?” John asked, his voice rougher than usual.

“Go ahead,” Sherlock answered before hurrying downstairs to ‘borrow’ a couple of teabags from Mrs Hudson.

Back in his kitchen, he rinsed the teacups they had used the night before and, as soon as he heard John turn off the water, he put the kettle on and waited for the water to boil. Other than the biscuits Mrs Hudson had brought up the night before, there wasn’t anything edible enough to be called breakfast, perhaps they could go out? Sherlock examined the countdown that had been running in his mind since his conversation with his mother: she wanted John back before 11:00; therefore they needed to leave by 9:30. Enough time to go out for a bite.

Marriage à-la-mode 4a/?

A/N: Hey, it’s me again! Once again, I want to thank everyone who left lovely comments. You’re very encouraging and I love every single one of you. I think I know where I’m going now and I don’t want to auto-spoil my own story, but I’ll just say I’m pretty excited and I hope you’ll like it.

Today, I bring you the beginning of the case. I couldn’t think of an interesting crime, so I decided to borrow a few elements from the movie Untraceable: the murders and the computer talk. Still not British, but I needed a British bar so I randomly picked a real one from the area I needed, so once again feel free to Brit-pick in the comments.


When Sherlock and John entered DI Lestrade’s office, a few people were already gathered around his desk. There was Lestrade, of course, and Anderson, the one whose job was described as ‘forensic expert’, a description Sherlock didn’t agree with. There was also a man in his early thirties Sherlock had never seen before. He was wearing brown trousers, a thin slice of neon yellow underwear visible under the waistline, and a very tight white shirt with a plunging V-neck. Not the kind of man who was usually spotted in Scotland Yard, let alone in Lestrade’s office. The DI looked up at Sherlock and frowned when he saw that he wasn’t alone.

“Who’s he?” he asked.

“Doctor John Watson,” Sherlock answered before adding, “he’s with me.”

“What do you mean he’s with you? This isn’t a social event, you’re not allowed a guest!” Lestrade said and Anderson sniggered.

“I said he’s with me,” Sherlock insisted, “are you going to be difficult or are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

For a moment, Lestrade seemed torn between the urge to push the subject and the need to brief Sherlock on the recent events. Finally, the latter won and Lestrade sighed heavily.

“Oh, all right. Sherlock, this is Jim; he works for the Police Central e-crime Unit. Jim, this is Sherlock Holmes, the man I told you about,” Lestrade said and Jim smiled, extending a hand that Sherlock shook very quickly.

“Sherlock Holmes! What a pleasure to meet you, I’ve heard so much about you!” Jim exclaimed, but Sherlock barely looked at him.

“Lestrade?” Sherlock asked with a raised eyebrow.

Looking weary, Lestrade turned his laptop around so Sherlock and John could get a good look at the website the others had been looking at before. The address was ‘www.youareamurderer.co.uk’. The website had a black background, on the top of the page there were two bright green countdowns, one showing ‘254 active users’ and the other one read ‘2.01ml (total dose)’. Most of the page was dedicated to a video feed of a struggling man next to a close-up of a drip chamber. On the right side of the site, a small chat box with comments appearing sporadically. On the lower part of the website, messages in bright yellow letters ran across the screen. Right now, it said ‘The more people watch, the faster he dies’.

Sherlock sat down and his eyes immediately focused on the man shown onscreen. He was tied to the low ceiling of a basement with cable ties, his wrists were heavily bruised, he was gagged, and he had the address of the website carved on his chest, the wounds bleeding in small rivets down his torso. He looked a little older than Lestrade; he had grey hair and his face was deeply lined.

“Is it real?” Sherlock asked, his eyes never leaving the computer screen.

“Unfortunately, it is,” Lestrade confirmed before looking at Jim, gesturing for him to continue.

“The website has been up for about a week now, it was brought to the PCeU’s attention because a man was killing a cat by feeding it poison. There were counters just like the ones there; the more people watched, the more poison was fed to the cat. The cat died after three days, then the site went down for a day and when it came back up, there was a dog in the same basement and it suffered a similar treatment. It was sickening enough when he was killing animals, but now it seems he’s moved on to killing people.”

“Are you sure it’s streaming live?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes,” Jim said, “there’s a television in the background, right there,” he added, leaning over Sherlock’s shoulder to point at the screen. “It was turned on before and we could confirm it was live by watching the channel it was on.”

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Marriage à-la-mode 5a/?

A/N: Once again, I want to thank everyone who left lovely and encouraging comments. It’s amazing to know that some people love the story and the universe. I really hope you will appreciate this new part because I had so much fun writing it.

The next morning, Sherlock made tea while thinking that he had made more cups of tea since John’s arrival than he had made in the last month. Surprisingly, it wasn’t that painful. He found himself wanting to be able to offer tea when John woke up, which would happen soon since he had every intention of waking him up in the following minutes. The hospital administrative offices were bound to open soon and there was something they needed to discuss while the case was on hold. Sherlock’s mother had given him an ultimatum; John was supposed to join Mummy that very morning and, once again, Sherlock found he wasn’t ready. On that calm day where the flat was quiet and just beginning to be bathed in the morning light, Sherlock wondered if he was ever going to be ready to let him go.

John had been brilliant ever since they had met, but the night before had been something special. John had figured out what kind of drug was administered to Patrick Howarth, he had been the subject of Anderson’s sarcasm and had risen to the occasion with class and cleverness. Unlike Sherlock who couldn’t help being a jerk to the forensic expert (expert? Ha!), John had remained cool and collected. Sherlock admired him for that, and that was unsettling because Sherlock rarely admired other people. John was effective, he was precise and to the point. While Sherlock had been compared to a wildfire or a hurricane, John was like a fire ant: small, unthreatening-looking, but strong and dangerous, a whole army within one small body. He was fascinating.

He was shaken out of his reverie when the water boiled. He poured it into two mugs, threw a teabag in each and brought them to the sitting room where John was still fast asleep under Sherlock’s heavy duvet. After setting the mugs on the small table, he kneeled beside the sofa and watched John’s sleeping form. He looked very peaceful and a ray of sunlight was hitting him, making his hair look more golden than brown. It was ruffled, but it still looked soft and, without thinking about what he was doing, Sherlock stretched a hand until he could catch a lock between his index and middle finger. It was even softer than it looked and he was considering running his whole hand through John’s hair when his phone beeped, announcing a new text from Mycroft. ‘Well done, brother,’ he thought and he lowered his hand to gently shake John’s shoulder.

The doctor woke up with a start and it took him a few seconds before he realised where he was. He blinked several times, yawned and stretched his sore shoulders before smiling at Sherlock.

“Mornin’,” he said groggily and Sherlock smiled back, offering a cup of tea.

“Good morning John, I’m sorry I woke you up, but the sun is up and we have work to do,” Sherlock said as he grabbed his own mug and sat on the table beside the sofa, facing John. Remembering the text message from Mycroft, he checked his phone.

Is John still alive?

Of course he is.

When Sherlock mentioned the work they had to do, John was reminded about the case and the poor man tied up to a ceiling somewhere in a London basement.

“How is he doing?” he asked and Sherlock didn’t need to ask whom he was talking about.

“There are now 6 864 people logged in and he received a little less than 65ml of anticoagulant,” Sherlock said and John grimaced.

“Bloody hell! Is it time to call the hospitals, then?” he asked while extracting himself from the duvet.

“Before we call, we need to discuss your implication in the case,” Sherlock said in a solemn tone before drinking a sip of his tea. John’s face fell; he looked dejected and a little lost, a big contrast with the way he had looked while sleeping.

“I was in your way yesterday, wasn’t I?” John said in a voice that didn’t sound like his at all.

“John! No! Having you with me yesterday was…it was good, very good,” Sherlock answered while fidgeting a little on the table. “The thing is, my mother expects you before lunch.”

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Marriage à-la-mode 6a/?

A/N: Hello readers. I am so thrilled by your support, I enjoy every single comment you leave and I want to take you all out for pie. This is the first case I’m trying to write, so I really appreciate your feedback, even if it’s to tell me something doesn’t make sense (however, not everything should make sense yet, there is still a dancing plethora of other parts ahead). Also, I welcome any suggestion you want to throw my way, this is in no way cast in concrete (giggles at her own pun that no one understands yet) and there is room for change.

Not really a warning, but some injuries could be considered gross. No graphic descriptions though. Also, hello Dexter fans, I’m winking at you later.


On a normal day, the kitchen of 221B Baker Street looked like some sort of kitchen and laboratory hybrid. On that night, the kitchen was barely visible under all the lab equipment Sherlock had managed to scatter on every surface. Lestrade’s team had left an hour before with Peter Howarth’s body, but Sherlock had had time to collect every blood, fibre, hair, saliva, nail and skin he needed. He was currently having the time of his life examining every piece of possible evidence closely; trying to find something, anything, that would lead them to the killer. John was sitting on a stool, watching Sherlock work with tired eyes, his head heavy on his forearm resting beside three beakers, a petri dish and a pair of chopsticks on the small table.

Sherlock was aware that he was showing off a very competent side of himself. Yes, he was doing the same thing Anderson would eventually do, but not only was he was doing it in a kitchen; he was also doing it quicker and better. And while looking better, but that was unimportant and perhaps he was biased. John wasn’t watching, though. He was exhausted and it was a matter of minutes before he fell asleep at the table. Sherlock was tempted to shake his shoulder and suggest he went to bed, but he was almost done with the tox screen and he wanted John to be there to hear the results.

“John?” he whispered when the test was done, but John didn’t move.

“John!” he repeated louder as he delicately put his hand on John’s arm.

With a groan, John opened his eyes and looked up at Sherlock with heavy eyes. “Did you really let me fall asleep in this position?” he asked, frowning.

“I have the blood test results,” Sherlock said, ignoring the question.

Suddenly, John was awake. He straightened up, ran a hand through his hair, and Sherlock waited until he had his full attention to show him what he had learned.

“You were right about heparin,” he said and John’s eyes shone with timid pride.

“I also discovered traces of etorphine hydrochloride in his blood. I’m not surprised by the use of a sedative; etorphine hydrochloride – or M99 - works so fast that Howarth probably didn’t have time to struggle. Are you familiar with that particular sedative John?”

“Not really, no. I’ve heard of it, of course,” John said and Sherlock could practically see the wheels slowly turning in the other man’s head. Sherlock willed John to reach the same conclusions; he wanted this man he liked so much to figure it out like parents want their child to walk.

“Isn’t it used on animals?” John finally asked and Sherlock nodded encouragingly.

“An animal sedative, that means only veterinarians can access it legally,” John exclaimed.

“Veterinarians, animal control or circus, yes,” Sherlock confirmed and John thought for a moment.

“But we’re looking for someone who has access to heparin, M99 and brand new IV equipment, there can’t be that many possible suspects!” John said, sounding endearingly thrilled and Sherlock wanted to kiss him. John had once again proved that he was brilliant. Not as brilliant as Sherlock, very few were, but very intelligent and perfectly capable of solving puzzles by himself.

“You are right John, the proverbial haystack has gotten considerably smaller,” Sherlock said as he texted Lestrade to tell him his team had to start searching in another direction. Then, his fingers still dancing on his phone’s keyboard, he found a list of all the veterinarians in London and went to his map to add several interesting investigation locations.

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