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Sherlock BBC Prompting Meme

"we get all sorts around here."

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Prompting: Part XV
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

+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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Filled Prompts Post - Page-A-Mod

Check the Sticky Post to find a list of all the prompting posts.

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Genderswap or mpreg reprompt from XII

John/Jo is pregnant and doesn't know how to tell Sherlock/want him to know yet, and Sherlock deleted the signs if pregnancy earlier in life for some reason, and doesn't put two and two together until either on a case or due to complications John/Jo ends up in hospital.

H/c for both Sherlock who feels stupid for not noticing and hurt that s/he didn't say anything, and for Jo/hn who is guilty for not trusting Sherlock and worried about the baby. Happy ending please.

Re: Genderswap or mpreg reprompt from XII

gold bro, gold.

Re: Genderswap or mpreg reprompt from XII

this is...fascinating

The Blogger's Life (1/4)

Most of the time the introduction is the same. Jo follows Sherlock as if one of them is on a short leash; sometimes she is the one holding him back with a quick, "Keep your cool," or, just, "Sher-lock," (though she hates when she has to bring out that voice, it sounds like her mother nagging her brother. Her brother is a drinker and her mother died still nagging him and it did neither of them any good). But most of the time she feels like she is the one leashed and dragged behind, trying to keep up with his long legs and swift, monotone quips.

And the introduction is always the same. "Who's that?" the new person asks (an unfamiliar constable, a weeping victim, a grouchy client). Their eyes are always suspicious. They look at Jo and they see a rumpled, dumpy chick with a ponytail that made Harry call her a dyke when she got back from Afghanistan, and she whacked him with her cane but couldn't forget the word.

"That's my blogger," Sherlock always says, the way he says, "Pass me my phone," or, "We're out of milk." As if she is a practicality he needs on hand.

And their eyes always narrow, and they are always thinking, sad woman, tagging after a man she'll never catch.

It makes Jo furious. When she sees those eyes narrow, she wishes she was a dyke, or a bloke, or that she was in her desert gear and could cock her rifle and say, "Fucking say it, I dare you, you sodding cocksucker. Say I'm only here for the man. And when I blow your cerebellum out the back of your thick skull the last thing you'll remember is that I'm here because they wouldn't let me do another tour."

But when they're running, when they're hunting, when she screamed Sherlock's name through the window as she watched him lift the poison pill into the light - oh, then she forgets the narrowed eyes and Harry's snark and her mother's nagging. That is when Jo's bad arm stops shuddering, that is when the handgun becomes a living organ fused to her skin. That is when Jo comes alive.

'Welcome back,' Mycroft had said.

And if she hadn't been stubbornly refusing to cooperate with him, she would have replied, 'Thank you,'.

The bomb severs Sherlock and Moriarty and the cold water of the pool swallows them all up, and Jo hauls her unconscious flatmate out before he drowns. Blood dribbles through her eyelashes. They make it three blocks before they hear the police sirens.

At home, bruised but bandaged by late-shift hospital doctors, Sherlock collapses on the couch and pinches the bridge of his nose. But Jo, with two stitches at her hairline and the explosion still stinging the side of her neck, is so alive. She is alive and in love with murders when they aren’t her own. She hasn't gotten laid since before Afghanistan, before the bullet that made her arm tremble and before the limp that made her feel crippled as well as rumpled and dumpy. Before she can think twice about it she straddles Sherlock and kisses away the surprised look in his eyes (imagine him, surprised!) and takes his hands and cups them around her arse while she runs her tongue over his teeth. When he squeezes, she takes that as consent and begins to tear at the buttons of his shirt. She takes him right there on the couch.

After she slides off him, panting, she pulls her trousers back on and goes to her own bed. They never talk about it. Perhaps he is embarrassed or worried about flatmate dynamics; she hopes he simply understands that it has been a one of those things, a one-off fling, a momentary lust and a challenge to prove to all those doubters that she can catch him if she wants. But she is still just his blogger, after all.

The Blogger's Life (2/4)

Things are back to normal and when she follows him to the crime scenes, she still warns him, "Sher-lock," she is still introduced to the constables with narrowed eyes but she now thinks, 'Fuck you' with a pleasant smile.

And then she finds herself sitting in a public restroom with a seven quid pee-stick in her hand and a little plus sign in front of her eyes.

Jo rests her head on the heel of her clean hand and tries to think. This is not a disaster. This can be handled, like she handled all the wounded soldiers, like she handled the cabbie, like she handled Sherlock when he was unconscious in the pool. She will give herself a day, she will think about it. No, she doesn't need to think; she has never backed down from a challenge, and it's not like she's getting any younger or less single. This funny like consequence is going to happen. She can get another hospital job, she won't be wealthy but neither was her mother and it will be enough.

But Sherlock; oh Sherlock, and Mycroft's war, and the murders that she has grown to love. How can she turn her back on all that?

She goes for coffee with Clarence, Harry's ex-husband. He and Harry tried for adoption, but were kicked off the waiting list, ostensibly because of Harry's drinking. They talk about lots of things, and he congratulates her with a only a smidgen of jealousy and tells her to go and see a doctor as soon as she can.

"I am a doctor," Jo snorts.

"That's beside the point," he pauses, and then pushes on, "You haven't told him - this flatmate of yours?"

She shakes her head, and takes a deep sip of her coffee, deciding it will be her last until after she has finished breastfeeding. Ha! Rough and rumpled Jo Watson, breastfeeding - what a joke! She laughs at Clarence's grim eyes.

"You need to tell him."

"Kids are not his style," she puts the cup down with a clink. "Trust me. He won't want to know."

"Tell him tomorrow. Promise me."

"I promise."

But the next day Lestrade calls with a triple homicide in Chelsea and she doesn't tell Sherlock diddly-squat.

It is shockingly easy to hide. She is not a slim girl any more, never has been, and she already wears loose jumpers and comfy slacks. At twenty weeks she finally checks herself into the hospital, and Sarah who she dated twice before they decided the spark wasn't there congratulates her with a fond grin. Everything is normal. Everything is going smoothly. The nurse discreetly slips her a pamphlet about welfare for single mothers. Jo throws it out the taxi window on the way home, because Sherlock would never miss a detail like that. Yet he has missed all the other details, her yo-yo weight, her vitamin supplements, her swelling bosom and avoidance of coffee and wine. Maybe it's not quite obvious enough even for him. Lucky she takes after her mother, not a shred of morning sickness.

The Blogger's Life (3/4)

Then there is the grey-haired man who murders drunk teens. Sherlock catches up with him first, dropping down a fire escape in the ally below, and finds him cornering his latest victim with a butcher's cleaver in his hand. Jo is still up on the first floor ten feet above. The grey-haired man is dragging (by one stick-thin wrist) the shrieking girl in a fuchsia party dress towards the mouth of the ally, and when Sherlock tries to talk him down he slashes at the girl's neck and leaves a gushing wound. Jo can see from this distance that the weeping girl is bleeding out. She knows Sherlock is focused only on capturing the murderer, whose name they still don't know. So as the villain passes below, Jo leaps off the fire escape and lands on top of him, locking her fingers around the hand that holds the cleaver. She feels one leg hit the pavement at a bad angle. The grey-haired man is struggling and shouting but she smashes his clenched fist into the concrete until he lets go of the weapon. Sherlock kicks it away, already on the phone to Lestrade, and uses the murderer's shoelaces to lie him up. At last, Jo rushes to the girl in the fuchsia dress, who is sitting against the brick wall with her hand on her neck. She is very white.

"It's going to be okay," Jo promises.

But it isn't going to be anything but a fucking tragedy. The girl is dead before the ambulance arrives, and it is only when the paramedics ask Jo to step back that she puts her full weight on her leg and it goes from under her in a searing flash of pain. Sherlock is reporting to Lestrade, and she leans against a skip until he comes over and asks her what's wrong.

"Sprained my ankle," she mutters through gritted teeth.

"You? Wincing like that on merely a sprained ankle? I don't think so," he kneels presumptively and rolls up her cord trousers. He looks up at her, posed like a man proposing, and tells her, "This could be broken."

"I'll deal with it tomorrow," she tries to step away from the skip and goes down onto all fours. Sherlock pulls her up and she hops, feeling faint with every step, to Lestrade's car.

At the hospital she tells them both to go home. "I'll get a taxi when I'm done here."

"No, I want to know how bad it is," Sherlock says. His expression is intensely serious. "I might need you on a case tomorrow."

Lestrade leaves them with a harried A&E doctor. After two hours they are shuffled through to the X-ray ward. Jo begins to panic. She tries to make Sherlock leave and again he refuses. There is a nurse bringing her a wheelchair so she can get into the X-ray room. There is a poster on the wall with a cartoon fetus, its bulbous speech bubble pleading, "IF THERE IS ANY CHANCE YOU COULD BE PREGNANT, PLEASE TELL THE RADIOLOGIST!" Sherlock is standing up, taking her hand, trying to help her into the wheelchair. The nurse is saying, "Please hurry up, we're very busy."

"No, I don't want an X-ray," she begs. "I want to go home."

"For goodness' sake," Sherlock grizzles. "Pull yourself together."

"Is this a religious thing?" the nurse asks.

"No, I don't know what's wrong with her," Sherlock snaps, and then goes still. He turns slowly towards Jo. He looks at her with eyes that have made cold-blooded serial killers confess. "Oh," he says, but shapes the word with his whole face, a strange little round word like a womb, filled with revelation and shock. "The vitamins," he says in a flat voice. "I did wonder."

The Blogger's Life (4/4)

Later, she is in a ward with a cast on her ankle and her belly sticky with ultrasound gel. It’s black and quiet outside but she can’t sleep. She is swollen with grief at the sudden loss of Sherlock, of this life she’s come to adore. She feels stretched and heavy as she thinks of everything that needs doing – moving out, finding somewhere to stay, sorting a job to start once the baby is old enough – and everything that she no longer is. Not a soldier. Not a blogger. Not a frumpy, dumpy woman without a future. She is, as she has always been, alive and determined to stay that way. She just wishes it could have lasted a little longer…

There is a knock on the door and without waiting for an answer, Sherlock comes in. He is carrying two cardboard mugs and sits down on the chair beside her bed.

“Why are they keeping you for observation? I thought the ultrasound looked normal,” he gripes, handing her one of the mugs. “It’s hot chocolate,” he adds. “No caffeine.”

“They want to wait to make sure,” she says numbly, and her bullet shoulder twinges as she takes the cup. “What are you doing here?”

He frowns at her. “You’re always saying visiting hours are just a suggestion.”

“No, I mean…” she shakes her head. “It’s alright, you know. I was fine before you came along and I’ll be fine after you, even plus one.”

“I think there has been a miscommunication,” he drawls. “What’s this talk about after me?”

“Well clearly…”

“No, not clearly.”

“We’re not together.”

“We’re sitting two feet apart.”

“That’s not what I mean!”

“You mean we’re not married and living in a weatherboard cottage with a puppy,” Sherlock snorts. “Look, I understand that I made a mistake, I assumed that you didn’t want a romantic relationship with me—“

“I don’t!” she snaps, too quickly, and curses herself, because that isn’t what she meant.

His face changes. He abandons his coffee on the nightstand and gets up to lean over her with one hand on either side of her waist, intruding completely in her personal space and yet she doesn’t feel threatened or even mind a bit. She has never seen him look so confused and upset.

“But then why didn’t you have an abortion?” he asks, tactless as ever.

“Because I can want a baby without wanting you.”

“I didn’t know that!” his brow is creased and his voice is breaking. “I thought this meant that you wanted to be sexual and familial partners, and I was happy about that… I don’t understand at all!” he croaks.

“I don’t want to move out,” she says quietly. “I like the flat and all my stuff is there, and it’s in a good school zone. But I can’t expect you to move out, and you can’t live with something that screams ten hours a day and eats the toxic experiments you leave on the kitchen table.”

“No, no but I can!” he snatches her hand and fumbles it in his long fingers, clearly unused to physical contact as a form of intimacy. “I’ll put the experiments up high. I’ll wear ear plugs. I’ll… I’ll help with… with diapers.”

“Sherlock, you don’t want a baby,” she sighs. “You can’t even stand most adults, let alone a child.”

“You don’t understand,” there is a look in his eyes that she sees only when he is stepping into a new crime scene, a joy he gains from anticipation, “This is interesting. This isn’t like most people, boring people. This is you. I wouldn’t have blamed you at all if you’d gotten rid of it – hell, if it was half me I would have gotten rid of it, in fact the only situation where I wouldn’t have gotten rid of it was if it had been half yours, and it is, it’s half you, and you’re so interesting and this will be interesting too, it will be so new, and maybe I’ll hate it sometimes but I hate everything sometimes, even you, and… should I not have said?”

“Yes,” she says, taking his long, white hand with both of her own. “You can’t ever say that in front of the baby. You’re going to have to learn an awful lot.”

“Me! You’re the one who jumped off a building while pregnant!” he frowns again. “Does this mean you’re not moving out?”

She thinks about it, smiles and says, “We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

But she doesn’t need to wait ‘til tomorrow. She already knows that she never wants to give up being his blogger.

She just hopes the baby will inherit his legs. There may be a lot more running to do.

Re: The Blogger's Life (4/4)


this is perfect and sweet and just ugh <3 I love it, thank you so so much!

Thank you!! I know it wasn't exactly what you asked for so I'm glad you like it.

Re: The Blogger's Life (4/4)

Oh dear lord my eyes are filling with tears.

I wouldn’t have blamed you at all if you’d gotten rid of it – hell, if it was half me I would have gotten rid of it, in fact the only situation where I wouldn’t have gotten rid of it was if it had been half yours, and it is, it’s half you


Just... emotional insecurity being soothed is like my biggest kink and you have fulfilled the prompt beautifully. The thing about Jo wanting to murder everyone was both amusing and heartbreaking. You're great, so great. Thanks for writing this!

Re: The Blogger's Life (4/4)

Oh wow this is sweet. <3 Awkward Sherlock talking about diapers ftw.

Re: The Blogger's Life (4/4)

This is just so lovely. I want to have this story for a blanket. Female John is a favourite of mine, and this is so perfectly recognizable as John yet still female and gngh, LOVE.

Re: The Blogger's Life (4/4)

Sprained my ankle

You do know this is a euphemism for 'got pregnant', right? ;)


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