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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
sherlockbbc_fic
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



GENERAL GUIDELINES
+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.

THE FILLED PROMPTS POST
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.

CONTACTING MODS
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.

WARNINGS/OFFENSIVE WORDING IN PROMPTS
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!

LINKS AND AFFILIATES
Delicious Archive - Delicious Prompt Archive
Filled Prompts Post - Page-A-Mod

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

Flat View of This Page
Love Post - Rant Post - Chatter Post
Sherlock RPF Request Post

Overflow Post


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Fill: The Theory of Narrative Causality (1d/4?)

(Anonymous)
To: consulting_detective,
From: jumperfucker,


I'd noticed. The draft is attached.

Speaking of the pool, I'm still
a bit blurry on Moriarty and what
his appearance should be in this
'verse; d'you think you could sketch
me a quick outline of what you think
he should look like? it's like, your art
makes it clearer to determine my
writing. Or something. All my canon
fics are based off your art, anyway.


To: jumpefucker,
From: consulting_detective,


Are they, now.






"… I loved him best when he was asleep, when his face slackened, and his body's ever-brilliant intensity was assuaged with his exhaustion; at intervals, on days that grew hot and close in the evenings, he would curl on the settee for long hours, a dark coiling comma that was all legs and dressing-gown, and his lazy eyes followed me 'round our sitting-room, sometimes flickering like a pale candle, sometimes — sometimes touching at my neck, my wrists, as though he dreamt of softer things. Sometimes, they slipped shut, and I saw his chest rise and fall, gentler than I had imagined; it was the chest of a bird, fluffed and vulnerable, and the bones of the same, thin and delicate, moving under his skin.

I loved him best like this, although it was different — it was subdued, mellower than his chemical explosions, the supernovas he kept in his drawers, his maps and constellations. I had seen them once, glimpsed at long rolls of darker paper, and he had shrugged a laugh, quite literally — I had seen the rippling movement topple off his shoulders like a bathrobe — and said something about astronomy. Here, though, was no brilliance and no stellar thoughts, and for the first time in the day he looked absolutely human, clenching his pipe between his teeth, making soft sweeping declarations about humanity as he dozed.

I would not have given him up for all of London, the man with wet hair and open waistcoats who sat very late in the fireside armchair; by day, I treasured his exclamations and cutting, knowing eyes, the ever-quick composure he cherished so fitfully in all his dealings with other men and women. But when he was like this he was quite ruthlessly
mine. In four years of rooming together I had seen every step and hook in that direction, the stages he had very cautiously taken before he had deemed it acceptable to sprawl.

It has become public knowledge, now, that I made lists to puzzle him out — they were hundreds of scribbled thoughts, on thin little slips of paper; I tried to organize them, made timetables of his regular thoughts and reactions. He saw them all, for I was not attempting to hide them from him. I thought he was flattered, perhaps. He certainly laughed at them often.

My hands itched at times for something different from ink and pen, when I wished to retain the image I had of him just then — the graceful curve of my friend's body became something I could have drawn, the angle of his bent knee where it became sharp, the arch of his fingers as his arm near fell to the floor. I am not an artist, and when the words did not come as easily to me as they usually did, it was something of a regret to know that I would forget tonight, let it shift and loosen into the memory of a dozen such evenings, tinged with red fireplaces and long, pale hands."


A Day Like Today; part III




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