#sherlock prompts

[221booksinthetardis]

Ok this may be the cheesiest prompt ever but listen..

Sherlock is a wedding planner. He's THE wedding planner. Everyone knows him, everyone wants him. He's able to cater to even the most peculiar whims his clients may have. But he's a nightmare to work with, of course. He can predict exactly how long a marriage's gonna last and is extremely picky about the projects he takes on. 

So when unassuming, plain, "do we really have to? We don't need a freaking fairy godmother following us around!" John Watson reluctantly limps his way in 221b, with his more than enthusiastic fiancé, "don't be absurd, John, of course we do, since you clearly can't distinguish lilac from purple!" Mary Morstan, it's clear as day the ill-assorted couple is doomed from the beginning. But instead of dissmissing them on the spot, he promptly decides that the project is definitely worth working on... Pity that his number one rule is do not get involved with the groom! 

 But that's alright because artiste extraordinaire "But what do you mean 'any variety of Peruvian Lilies will do'? I don’t understand, they’re all thoroughly different from each other! " and fed up army doctor "listen here cheekbones, I don't give a monkey's if she walks down the aisle with a bouquet of portoguese artichokes alright, I'm bloody knackered, I just want to.. is that double chocolate fudge cake?" drive each other completely up the wall.. right? :)

[go-imagine-it]

Guilt - Sherlock x Reader

Requested by Anon, I hope you enjoy it!

Request: Can I request SherlockxReader with prompt sentences 167 and 200? Like reader still angry with him for something from the past, but Sherlock feeling overprotective over them, though he can't understand why. I'd be eternally grateful, I love your writing already :D

Prompt 167: "If he’s going to treat you like shit I’m going to kick his ass.” Prompt 200: “I’m doing this to protect you.”

Word Count: 2069 (oops)

Warnings: kidnapping, unrelated creepy guy being creepy

It had been six days since you’d spoken to Sherlock, and for good reason. This was the longest you’d gone without speaking since the day you met him two years ago, but when you wanted to give someone the silent treatment, you could certainly do it properly. After all, he deserved it.

- seven days ago -

Standing in the rain, you waited for Sherlock by the entrance to Piccadilly Circus station. He had told you to meet him there at 11pm, telling you he needed your help with a case.

You loved it when he let you tag along on his cases, and you were getting to go with him more and more frequently as time progressed. You occasionally asked him why he wanted you there, it’s not as though it was often you could actually offer any advice, but he would just wave you off or mutter “you’re just helpful” under his breath without bothering to look at you.

Many people, including John, constantly asked what was ‘going on’ between the two of you, but the answer was simple. Nothing. And as much as the idea of the answer at least being ‘something’, you knew that it was never going to change; that just wasn’t who Sherlock was and you could accept that.

And that is what you were thinking about as you stood getting soaked in the middle of January. That is also why you were suddenly pleased when a van pulled up next to you, your eyes hopeful as you waited for Sherlock to climb out, take your hand, and drag you to the scene of a crime. You’d barely be able to keep up, but it didn’t matter because the adrenaline would keep you going for as long as you needed it to.

Three men in balaclavas got out and started walking towards you.

Before you even had time to process what was happening, their arms were around you and you were being lifted off the ground, something being pushed into your neck, and thrown into the back of the van with a bag over your head. The adrenaline that would usually keep you moving was keeping you frozen, unable to move or speak and barely able to breathe in the confined space.

Their speech was muffled and you couldn’t make out what they were saying, but in the distance you were sure you could hear shouting. Shouting your name? Whatever you had been drugged with made it’s way into your bloodstream, and before you could have another fraction of a thought, you blacked out.

When you woke up, you were back in your flat in your own bed. Your wet clothes had been replaced by a t-shirt and a pair of shorts, and it took you a few moments for your eyes to get accustomed to the light. Remembering what had happened, you shot up, sending a torrent of pain through your head which made you groan loudly.

Finding your phone on your nightstand where you would usually leave it, you knew it wasn’t you who had put it there this time. 6:23AM. 12 missed calls. All from Sherlock. Checking the times of the calls, you saw that they had all been between 11:02PM and 11:27PM the night before.

Sherlock had sent you into a trap. It all became clear as you sat there with the worst headache you’d ever felt and a bruise on the side of the neck from the needle you’d been knocked out with. Your friend, someone who you thought must care for you at least a minuscule amount, had knowingly sent you out to be bait for god knows who. Murderers? Rapists?

You knew he most likely didn’t think they would actually take you, but that didn’t matter. Anger and sadness built up inside you until it manifested as you throwing your phone across the room and then immediately starting to cry. It was just too much.

For the first time in his life, Sherlock was feeling the nauseating emotion of guilt. It ran through him in waves; each time he’d remember the way those men grabbed you, realised how scared you must have been, another surge of remorse hit him square in the chest. He thought he would get there in time with the police before that could happen, but he was wrong. Someone else he wasn’t used to admitting.

He didn’t know why, but he had grown to care about you, your wellbeing and even your happiness far more than he thought he would ever be capable of. It made him hold his tongue from making rude comments that he thought could upset you, change his eating habits because he didn’t like seeing you worrying about him, and even quelled his desire for substances.

As he sat there on your sofa, Sherlock heard you start to cry. His first feeling was relief that you had finally woken up. His second was that he needed to see you. When he reached your bedroom door, he knocked, but upon receiving no reply, opened the door and stepped inside.

You looked over, knowing who would be there before seeing him. You didn’t try to hide your crying; he needed to know how much he had hurt you. But enough was enough, and you wanted him gone.

“Sherlock, get out.” You spoke through your tears, looking him in the eye. He looked shocked, and he was. By seeing you this way, he realised on an even deeper level what he had done to you. He had betrayed the trust you’d built together over the last two years, tearing it all down with one monumental mistake.

“Y/N… I’m so sor-“ “I don’t care.” You cut him off. “I just want you to leave.” The look of hurt that crossed his face was almost enough to go back on what you were saying, but at that moment a swell of pain swept behind your eyes.

“Y/N, please-“ “Just go, Sherlock!” Looking at each other for another moment, he nodded, before turning around and walking out of your room. You heard him open and close your front door, and he was gone.

- present -

As you carried another drink over to the gentleman sat in the corner of the restaurant, you tried not to let the memory of what happened get in the way of your work; you couldn’t afford to get anything else wrong. You were on thin ice with your boss already, and had been warned that one more mistake would mean getting fired. It wasn’t your fault that every now and then Sherlock would rush in, drag you out and take you on a case in the middle of a shift.

Placing the drink on the table, he thanked you, and you replied with as much cheeriness as you could muster.

“You seem a little down, love, what’s wrong?” He asked politely, but you could sense that he was hoping to get a little more than your sad story out of this conversation. “Nothing at all, don’t you worry” you replied, flashing him your signature waitress smile that you would drop as soon as you were facing away from him.

“Come on, you can tell me! It’s a man, isn't it? I can tell, it’s a man.” You didn’t really want to think about this when you were at home, and you definitely didn’t want to think about it while you were working. You just laughed as a response.

"A pretty thing like you should be with a gentleman. If he’s going to treat you like shit, I’m going to kick his ass, because I think you and me could get along very well” he smirked at you suggestively, making your stomach turn. Usually you could handle men like this; you’d had to do it on countless occasions, but right now you just didn’t have it in you.

"Excuse me, I need to get going” you told him, trying to keep your tone polite. As you tried to walk past him, the man grabbed and pulled on your arm, mentioning something about you running away from him. You were about to tell him to let go, but a fist appeared out of nowhere and collided with his nose.

He released you and started shouting as blood ran down his face. That was when you turned to see Sherlock shaking his right hand out in front of him and wincing slightly. He looked from the now extremely angry man to you, grabbed you by the hand and dragged you quickly away, through the restaurant and into a storage closet. He closed the door behind him.

“What are you doing, Sherlock!?” You couldn’t believe what had just happened, and so when something cold closed around your wrist and you realised he had handcuffed you to the radiator, you almost lost it. But before you could speak, he closed a hand around your mouth.

“I’m doing this to protect you. Just hang on.” Not a chance. You used your other hand to pry his  larger one from your face. “Sherlock Holmes, don’t you dare leave me here” you warned him. Offering you a quick “sorry” as a reply, he left you and headed back out.

Was this actually happening? You felt as though you were caught in a strange dream as you waited, handcuffed and frustrated in a closet.

When Sherlock came back, he was looking rather pleased with himself. “What did you do?" You scowled at him, but he only smirked at you. “Let's just say that that particular customer will not be returning to this restaurant. Oh, and I told him that if he ever comes near you again, the consequences would be severe.” This was too much again, and you thought back to what Sherlock had done to you.

“Since when did you care about protecting me?” You weren’t angry any more, just sad and let-down. He looked directly at you now, straight-faced, and you knew he was thinking hard about what he was going to say. When he spoke, he spoke softly.

“Since I realised that even the thought of losing you made me want to just… stop existing.” He was looking down now, unable to meet your eye. “I’m unfathomably sorry for what I did. I thought I'd get to you in time, but that doesn’t change the fact I should never have put you at risk like that, and I will never do it again. I can’t stand you not speaking to me. I don’t even understand why I feel like this, I’ve done far worse things to John, but I…” He paused again, while you stood in shock.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you.” He looked at you again then, and you knew he meant it, and although you forgave him instantly, you could only nod with teary eyes.

You realised at this moment just how close you were to him, there not being much room in the closet you were stood in, and you saw the realisation cross his face at the same time. His eyes fluttered to your mouth and back up again, making your heart thunder.

“Please stop me if… if this isn’t what you want…” Sherlock whispered, and raised his hand to the side of your face, your eyes closing naturally at his touch.

And then his lips were on yours and he was kissing you softly, almost nervously, and everything else in the universe melted away apart from the feeling of kissing him. Sherlock brought his other hand to your face, and you threaded your free hand into the hair on the back of his head, never wanting it to end.

After a few seconds or minutes or hours - you weren’t sure - he pulled away, looking at you expectantly. You could only giggle, making him break out into a wide smile, still holding your face, only an inch apart.

“How about you set me free from this radiator and we go for dinner?” You asked him, making his smile even wider. He took a key from his pocket, unlocking the handcuffs and put them back into his pocket.

“Oh, one more thing” looking from your slightly sore wrist to Sherlock, he continued. “Your boss told me to tell you that you’re fired.” You just rolled your eyes and laughed.

It was definitely worth it.

[decemberdancer04]

Mycroft Holmes imagine: Trapped in an elevator

(I was encouraged to try a drabble by timelady35 so forgive me for the length and any mistakes shown. The post I’m starting off with is: Imagine being stuck in an elevator with Mycroft Holmes and he tries to lighten the mood with a dumb joke.)

With a sickening shudder the elevator stuttered to a grinding halt shaking both you and the man sharing the closed compartment nearly to stumble over in its wake.

Oh god, you think as the lights flicker above and a prerecorded voice drones on about safety procedures in Spanish, this is definitely not what I needed today. 

Today was supposed to be the start of greater things for you in your career path, today you were supposedly running with the international political ‘big dogs’ as an paid intern for your government, today was the day you could prove your mettle against the other more experienced peers and bosses that you were more than just a woman but ___________.

Today was supposed to be great-magical even! This was the time where you were supposed to shine dammit!

Everything had been meticulously planned out for this; from what you would say to the very pantyhose you wore-all this was for your one chance of a flattering first impression that could make or break your career but now this!

For the life of you could never recall where this infantile fear of enclosed spaces or that of high places but you knew it was only a matter of seconds until you reached your prime for a colossal panic attack.

The metallic walls were closing in at a glacial speed only to continue your amounting anxiety to new levels.  Breaths coming in frequent pants as you desperately try to ignore how your stomach is threatening a mutiny with the dearly departed breakfast and blood quickly racing from your head its all you can do to keep vertical.

I-I think…I think I might just pass out, you faintly think even as your body swayed with a lack of oxygen to keep you upright-your dominant hand unable to find purchase on either walls for support.

Yup, gonna pass out in an elevator only twenty-seven  floors away from my dream job in a suit I nearly took a loan to buy and dear god no one’s going to find me for hours-

“What do you call a deer with no eye?”

The voice is deep but so faint to the dull throb overwhelming your ears that it takes considerable force of sheer will to focus on it.

“I said; what do you call a deer with no eye?”

Finding a bit of purchase on the cool metal you turn to look at the source, a bespoken suit, dark-that might be a brolly? Convinced that wall wasn’t going to fall from under your grasp you slump to it finally able to gaze more easily look at your sole companion.

Had you been in the right frame of mind it would have occurred to you that this man nee gentleman was quite a looker with his ginger locks all coiffed harboring a distinguished nose but as it stands you’re more about having something-anything that can ground you.

Blankly staring at the gentleman in the closed compartment for what felt like a rushed eternity he easily picks up the speech as none was forthcoming from you.

“Considering my scant knowledge of Zoology terminology I confess I would find myself lacking in the correct moniker. But in the event that I was so sorely pressed I would garner that I would have a no I-Dear.”

Slowly you blink trying to fully comprehend even a fraction of the sentence when the man who had been standing at the opposing corner now was in yours, abet kneeling to maintain the skewed eye level.

“Now are you feeling any better?” he asks gently  touching your shoulder, “Here, I think that you’ll find sitting down would be a better course than attempting to remain standing wouldn’t you agree?”

Honestly you were surprised that you remained standing for so long without hitting the floor that you give a shaky nod before allowing yourself to be slowly guided to the ground to sit beside the man.

Once your butt graced the evaluator’s deck it was almost second nature to lean against the shoulder next to you and thankfully the man allowed it but made no move to touch you further.

He kept up the cool commentary this soft gentleman that the ghosts of his cologne clinging to his suit jacket, his very  tone so collected and steady that it helped put you at ease on that frigid floor.

Ever so gradually bided your heart to slow its pace and blood flow to recirculate back toward your throbbing head that it came as a horrid shock when another-more grating voice called out into the cabin.

“Heya folks; sorry we didn’t realize sooner, but don’t cha worry none-we’ll get cha out onto the nearest platform rickety split!” the crackling voice proclaims before it switches back into the English/Spanish on safety procedures.

It was a struggle not to bolt at the invading sound but it was the gentleman’s light press of his own cheek upon your brow that kept you from flinging yourself forward, “It would be unwise to try and stand by yourself at this juncture. If you would permit me to escort you Miss…”

His hands are now open in offering that you readily comply by giving yours.

Obviously more coherent than the past previous minutes you answer, “My name is _________.”

Firmly grabbing both arms to help you stand-it’s a bit if a struggle even in your sensible heels but he manages all the same.

With your arm tucked into his he replies just as the compartment starts to move again, “A strong name, forgive me, my name is Mycroft. Mycroft Holmes, now what floor did you say your meeting was on?”

“Um, floor thirty-three, room three hundred and ninety-four,” you parrot back hugging onto his arm a bit tighter as the sides jiggle to a stop.

As the doors are pried open and with much gusto as you could afford on cramped legs you follow Mycroft’s lead out of the compromised shaft and more hesitantly into the adjacent one.

Mycroft’s gave a little squeeze with his free hand, “It will be alright _______; our chances of being trapped again are astronomical and more importantly you won’t have to fear passing out again because you’re not alone. I’m here to help as long as you’ll grant it.”

The ride up to the promised floor and walk to the anointed room were bathed in more serenity than you ever felt possible for a day like today.

A day of reckoning, a day that would and could define your career on a whole that made it all seem so surreal as you rode on Mycroft’s side all the way to the room’s entry passing guards and handlers alike with ease.

It’s never this easy, you internally laminate, I’m nearly twenty minutes late and the room must be locked by now.

However, upon reaching the doorway it opens on its own accord and to see every man and woman eyes blown up to comically proportions entering the room on Mycroft’s arm should have been alarming had it not been for present state.

“Apologies, we had a bit of a situation in conveyor as it were,” Mycroft says in lieu of a greeting before making a move to sit you beside him at the head of the table forcing  clearly disgruntled man to rearrange himself elsewhere.

Confused and slightly in awe you watch as the man that just helped you pass a panic attack in an elevator and personally walked you back taking charge of the entire meeting like he owned it or something…wait a second.

Oh my god.  

(I don’t know, this seems too long. I think I did it too long for a drabble. And ARGH! This doesn’t look cute or sweet at all like I planned it. I dunno; should I continue? Did this even make sense? Any comments would be welcome.)

[transcribistwritings-blog]

Sherlock announcing to John in various different languages that he loves him [Anon Livejournal Prompt]

"John?" "Yes?" John pulled his eyes up from the morning paper to look up at his flatmate, finding that usual calculating gaze, though for reasons unknown to John, it seemed a bit softer than usual. "Jag älskar dig." Sherlock gauged his reaction carefully, tapping into his laptop without bothering to look down at it. John watched him for a moment, utterly confused. He didn't even know what the language was, much less what had been said. Rolling his eyes, he went back to his paper. "That's nice." ~~~ "John!" Sherlock was sitting in the kitchen floor, clutching his hand. On the table sat his Bunsen burner, which he had quite purposefully knocked on it's side. He couldn't let John know how he had really been burnt. After all, any idiot could make tea without burning themself. 'Next time,' Sherlock promised himself. 'Next time I make tea for John it will work.' John entered the kitchen, seeing the knocked over burner and immediately assuming the worst. He knelt next to Sherlock with panic evident in his eyes, but Sherlock waved him off with his uninjured hand. "Fine." He muttered. "Just slightly burnt." John helped him up, running the burns under cool water and retrieving his burn cream. As John gently rubbed the cream into the scorched flesh, Sherlock asked softly, "John?" "Hmm?" "Kuv hlub koj." Sighing the smallest of bits, John naturally assumed the phrase meant thank you. "You're welcome, Sherlock." ~~~ "Sherlock! It's over here! I found it, this way!" John turned back the way he'd come and Sherlock ran after him to the spot on the river where the clothing had been dumped. Everything he needed to solve the case and bring in the serial killer, sitting in a tidy bundle. "John." Still trying to catch his breath, John looked up at him with another huff, merely arching a brow in question. "Те сакам." Sherlock grinned as he picked up the bundle, pulling out his phone to call Lestrade. "Yeah, sure." John rolled his eyes as he finally straightened and took a deep breath. "No problem." ~~~ Sherlock had been missing for days. John felt like he'd been searching for centuries. He leaned against the wall of the alley, fighting back tears. He had to find Sherlock. He had to. He felt a tug on the end of his jumper, looking down to see a young homeless girl. She pulled on his sleeve again, urging him to follow. Hope glimmering in his eyes, John followed her as she lead him to an abandoned warehouse, leading him in and to Sherlock. The girl disappeared shortly after, but John hardly noticed. "Oh, Sherlock..." His friend wasn't moving, though his breath was even, his pulse sluggish but strong. He had a black eye and several broken ribs, and John lifted him carefully. Carrying him out of the building as fast as he could, John ran him to the nearest hospital. With all of the jostling, Sherlock awoke with a wince, looking up at his companion. "John." He said weakly. "We're almost there, Sherlock. Just hold on a bit longer for me. We're nearly there, nearly there." "John." Sherlock clutched a hand to the front of John's jumper, coughing out his words. "Mi amas vin."

~~~

Sherlock awoke to the sound of a heart monitor, looking around with annoyance at the Holmes family private hospital. He must have been transferred here as soon as his condition was stable. He was fairly certain he had been bleeding internally. In the chair next to the bed sat a very haggard looking John, asleep with his chin in his hands, elbows propped up on his knees. "John." Head raising immediately, John rubbed the sleep from his eyes to look down at Sherlock. He smiled softly, whispering, "How you doing?" Though he immediately regretted the action, Sherlock shrugged. He was impressed with how John had managed to keep his military alertness even in sleep. "Quérote." John groaned in frustration and Sherlock smiled, closing his eyes to avoid the oncoming lecture about running off on his own. ~~~ "John." Sherlock lay sprawled on the couch, staring up at the ceiling in boredom. "Yes?" John asked, poking his head out of the kitchen to look over at his flatmate. "Я люблю тебя." "Russian." Sherlock's eyes widened at the word No. No, John wasn't supposed to understand yet. He couldn't be allowed to understand yet! "That was Russian. I can look that up." "Я не знаю, о чем ты говоришь, я просто бродить на разных языках иногда. Неважно, не платить мне никакого внимания." Sherlock rambled off the words as quickly as he could, hoping to confuse John and make him forget the initial words. Sure enough, a look of confusion came over John's face and he stomped back to the kitchen with a huff. ~~~ "John. .من شما را دوست دارم" Sherlock blurted the phrase out and watched John's reaction carefully. He had decided that tonight would be the night, sitting here comfortably in 221B. John looked up from his book with a small frown. "Come again? Slower please, it's been a while." ".من شما را دوست دارم" Sherlock drew it out this time, letting John take his time to carefully pick through the Farsi, the language spoken in Afghanistan. As an army doctor Sherlock knew that John had to know it. Or at least he hoped so. It took him a minute, But John's eyes finally lit up, chuckling lightly as he met Sherlock's eyes. "I love you too, you git." Content, Sherlock pulled the blanket around him, falling asleep on the couch to the sound of John's steady breathing.

[fallenangellinwonderland]

Hey, imagine this. Sherlock goes to solve a case and he finds reader beautiful or captivating in general. So for the first time he takes the initiative to talk to her and he's like, "hi"

And reader with all annoyance says, "you're a showoff".

Just imagine Sherlock finally liking someone and she's not interested at all. So he takes it as a challenge that he has make her like him too.

@asherloki Hi ! I re sent myself the prompt you sent me because i feel more comfortable talking about prompts in my side blog.

I think this is a very interesting idea, it sounds good, I'd like to see how it develops without any of them being too harsh, you know?... like not being stalk-ish or ken-ish. More like being themselves and realizing they aren't as bad as they thought and how they understand each other.

Maybe in the first meetings they have with each other they are sarcastic and a bitrude and they apologize and they are sarcastic frenemies, they don't put each other down, they are able to joke around without hurting their feelings and when anderson is rude or something she stands up for him because she know understands him...I don't know... my ideas are messy

[taakopogayto]

I want a dark!Fawnlock fic where John goes to stay in a cottage to get away from the world for a month and meets Fawnlock. They get close over the time they share, but John has to go back. Fawnlock not wanting him to leave goes into the oldest part of the forest to get something that will make his John stay. [Insert edible thing here] is given to our unknowing army doctor as a "farewell" present. After taking a bite John starts to feel strange. Pain spreads through his body and he blacks out. Fawnlock watchs in awe as John transforms into a fawn. Just like him. John can't leave him now. Then John wakes up and is fucking angry and demands to be turned back, but Fawnlock says it can't be undone. Bonus points if you make Fawnlock have power over John. Like I want this bad. Somebody wanna make me a happy girl? Dx

[chrispineofficial]

Calling For Prompts

All right guys, one night only, scullyseviltwin, thescienceofobsession and I are gonna cowrite a short fic as we drink wine out of graduated cylinders and marathon Sherlock, and we want your prompts!

Crack prompts, fluff prompts, definitely smut prompts - SEND US YOUR PROMPTS.

[sherlockstoryboard]

"Doctor Watson", Mycroft began, in the solemn tone he used when he was about to introduce you to one of his irrevocable decisions. It was usually preceded by a deep, fairly-condescending-but-somewhat-empathetic-sigh; and this time was no different.

"My brother will be going away for a while. He is making preparations for his trip as we speak”, he said, pausing on the word ‘trip’. John had the distinct feeling that wasn’t the term he really wanted to use. “I just thought I would tell you now, myself if you don’t mind, since he will not be able to do so”.

John’s eyes went wide for a split-second. Then they narrowed, and he regarded Mycroft with his own, knowing expression. He’d played these sort of games with him before.

"What are you talking about", he said, slowly. He took a half-step forward - his way of subconsciously challenging his opponent. "What do you mean, ‘trip’".

"The details I’m afraid do not concern you at present", Mycroft replied, elegantly taking one last drag of his cigarette before putting it out neatly in one of the designated bins on the polished wooden table.

He was smoking. He was calling him ‘Doctor Watson’.

John didn’t like this situation one bit.

"Mycroft, what - this is ridiculous. A trip? Since when-" he stopped, looked down, took a breath that was meant to be calming. "You know it doesn’t work this way. Your methods don’t work with us".

"With us?" Mycroft smiled, lightly. John’s eyes narrowed again.

"With Sherlock. He doesn’t do what you say - he, he knows your ways, he sees right through them. It doesn’t work, and I don’t know why you are doing it".

His hands had balled up into fists without his knowledge. John took another breath, and stood more firmly, set on maintaining eye contact without wavering. This situation was somewhat surreal, yet so very familiar  - he’d almost expected it, he realised, gritting his teeth.

"Doctor Watson, while you are aware that the only person aside of me who I regard of having any sort of acceptable intellect is my brother, I have always been willing to accept you might be able of intelligent thought, too, despite your completely ordinary brain", Mycroft responded, leaning slighly back on his seat, but still sitting up, proudly, as the situation required. "Right now, however, I am starting to doubt this belief. You cannot possibly refuse to acknowledge the kind of situation I am being forced to address".

A flicker of something strange appeared in his features.

"Sherlock will be going away for a while. I am absolutely certain you can understand why. I am also absolutely certain I do not have to add anything else to this conversation".

At that, Mycroft stood - signalling that was to be the end of their encounter, at least as far as he was concerned.

John smiled tightly, torn between incredulity and the anger that was slowly bubbling up to the surface.He looked down; his fists twitched.

"Mycroft, you know I hate these games. I really do. I thought you’d know by now you can’t play them with me".

Mycroft smiled politely - indulgently. "I can assure you I am not playing any games, John".

John’s eyes blazed.

"You can’t - I just." He took another breath. "I just got him back".

Mycroft didn’t react; he just kept staring, his icy eyes almost amused. John felt another wave of anger blaze through his very core.

"Your brother is not something you can ship away, Mycroft!"

"My brother is not something you get back, either, Doctor”, Mycroft interjected, suddenly. John had expected him to let him go on with his silly little rant, believing it completely pointless - yet the older Holmes’ voice held something else now. Something almost like anger, too; like hurt. He seemed almost one octave away from raising his voice; shockingly so.

"You don’t get him back, John. At least not the way you think you do. The way you think you have".

The words felt like a slap in the face. John’s mouth closed, abruptly. His eyes widened, despite himself.

The echo of Mycroft’s voice hung heavy in the air between them. John's mind churned; emotions battled within his chest, so many at the same time, and he hated that he didn't seem to be able to put his thoughts into words. What do you mean? What do you know - what do you think you know about how I'm feeling? Why are you doing this now?

All his questions laid frozen low in his throat; all John could do was squeeze his fists, desperately, and watch Mycroft slowly walk away.

---TBC?

[tasarienthewardenofcydonia]

PROMPT

Hey fic writers, how about some stories about future Sherlock interviewing, deducing, and terrorizing any boy that tries to date the Watsons' daughter? You know he would, just look at his "interview" with the usher from The Sign of Three... "Oh, don't date him, he's an idiot. You can tell by the vacant expression, silly socks, and the games he has on his phone." "Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaad! Sherlock just chased off another date!"

[karlrobe]

sherlock and john want to have a baby via surrogate and sherlock assumes john will be the biological father because he won't want the baby to turn out like himself and john finds out and insists sherlock is the biological father because he wants their child to be just as brilliant and beautiful as him

[unlikelyurl]

AU: Redbeard is adult Sherlock's dog and it's because of him John and Sherlock meet for the first time.

[pictures-to-prove-it]

I HAVE A PROMPT. I HAVE A PROMPT AND SOMEONE NEEDS TO MAKE IT HAPPEN.

Because I have neither the time nor the appropriate level of talent to pull it off. 

A Sherlock/Pitch Perfect AU. 

Sally as Beca. Sherlock as Aubrey. Molly as Chloe. Hudders as Fat Amy. Greg as Jesse. Irene as Cynthia-Rose. Mike Stamford as Donald.  John as Beca's hot professor dad. Mary and Mycroft as the commentators at the ICCA.

MOTHERFUCKING ANDERSON AS BENJI.

Do this for me. Someone. Please. 

[tasarienthewardenofcydonia]

Sherlock Prompt #2

Imagine the Doctor (any incarnation, but particularly the post-Time War Doctors) running into Sherlock, and Sherlock saying something about emotions being a weakness. Now imagine them fighting some Cybermen together. 

Mr. “Caring is Not an Advantage” would change his mind pretty quick, I hope.

[taakopogayto]

I want a fic where John and Sherlock meet at Disney World as the actors around the park! Like there's a Disney movie out where two prince's fall in love and low and behold John an Sherlock look EXACTLY like them. John work at a first aid station, but longs to be more part of the magic. The Disney people see him and ask him if he'd be willing to be a actor for the park and John just can't say no. So we have prince #1. Then Sherlock comes along auditioning for a completely different Disney character and they beg him to be prince #2. John and Sherlock start out as just coworkers, but the Disney's magic gets to them and they fall in love~💕

[jaybeefoxy]

Mycroft has a twin...

Anyone ever seen Stephen Fisher from New Tricks? He has to have been based on Mycroft. His episodes of New Tricks are dated 2012, Sherlock is 2010. They are like 2 peas. I'm now wondering about a cross over.

Perhaps it's twins... Sherlock has twin brothers, Alexander Mycroft Maurice and Stephen Siger George. They hate each other, and in their youth, Sherlock often took delight in playing them off one against each other. However, when Mycroft finally marries, Sherlock is bored of his brothers’ behaviour. They're not quite identical, and Mycroft is relieved. No more so that when his new husband finally meets his third sibling. When Mycroft refered to ‘the other one’ he wasn’t talking about Eurus. 

Interestingly, Tim McInnery played Sir Eustace Carmichael in The Abominable Bride. Anyway, this just happened...

~~~~~~

“Stephen?”

“Mycroft,” the solemn man acknowledged with barely a raised eyebrow, as though he were deeply surprised to find confirmation of something he suspected and was doing a monumental job of hiding it. 

“I was not aware that you would be...here.” Spoken as though there were no better words to describe their current location. 

“My own brother’s wedding? Why on earth not?” 

“Because you have never deigned to stir yourself from the Diogenes for anything less than a National Emergency, that is why not,” Mycroft retorted pointedly. 

Greg was looking between the two men with barely disguised shock. If he was being honest, he was probably doing a terrible job of hiding it. He couldn’t stop looking at the newcomer, wondering. He looked so like Mycroft but not like... He gave up and fixed Mycroft with a look.

“Introduce us?” the new man suggested.

Mycroft seemed to collect himself, although, if Greg was any judge he was seething. “Pardon my manners, Stephen. This is Gregory Lestrade...”

“Detective Chief Inspector, no less,” the anonymous man said, an oily and somewhat insincere smile in place. He proffered a hand, and Greg reached to shake, noting a slightly limp hold, most likely calculated to misdirect. 

“Gregory, I would...not ‘like to’ exactly...but I will tolerate presenting my brother to you, on this occasion. This is Stephen, my twin.”

“Your twin? You...have a twin?”

“Alas, yes,” Mycroft admitted.

“Alas, true,” Stephen said, simultaneously. The two men shared a glance, then turned their attention back to Greg. Their twin gazes were unsettling.

“When were you going to tell me you had a twin, Mycroft?” Greg said, his voice dangerously low.

“Probably never,” both men spoke in unison again. Greg glared, flummoxed and somewhat upset. Even on their wedding day, Mycroft had to go and prove that he still didn’t trust his partner. 

“Oh dear, brother mine, I think there is trouble in paradise already,” Stephen observed, mildly. 

“You, whoever you are, this has nothing whatever to do with you,” Greg growled. “Really, I should have expected this, shouldn’t I? You and your idiot brother, with a crazy sister who tries to murder the both of you, and now...him! What else have you got? A mad husband locked in an attic? Oh, no, perhaps that position is reserved for me, because frankly, you’re driving me nuts!” 

“Gregory...you cannot possibly understand...”

“Oh, I think he understands too well, brother dear,” came the sarcastic reply. 

“Too bloody right, I do. This is our wedding day, Mycroft. How could you not tell me about your twin brother?”

“Easily, believe me. Has it done any good finding out about him? No. It has not. You might have continued in blissful ignorance of his existence, had he had the common decency to stay in his retreat, to hibernate like the snake he is,” Mycroft growled.

“Snakes do not actually hibernate, Mycroft. They go into a state known as brumation where they become less active and their metabolism slows down tremendously...”

“Oh, shut up!” Mycroft snapped. “Always trying to prove yourself the clever one. Why couldn’t you just stay away? You always spoil things...”

“Spoil things? Like you didn’t queer my pitch with the Brazilian Ambassador...”

“Are you still bringing that up? That was thirty years ago. He was never going to be attrac...”

“Thanks to you, I never found out!”

“Stephen, you utter Prick, just...go home!”

Read the rest on AO3

[pictures-to-prove-it]

Hello, new followers! Have my face!

::waves:: Hi! I’ve seen my follower count double since Friday, courtesy two little stories I posted. So thank you kindly:)

My hobbies include child rearing ( two kids, aged  4 and 16 months ), talking nonsense on the internet with the lovely anneincolor and the lovely futuremrswatson, sailing the good ship Sherlolly, drowning in Winchester angst, and taking massive amounts of ghost selfies using the noir filter on my iPhone, as evidenced by the above photo.

I like to write, and I’ll try my hand at any ship ( ship all the ships, why not?) Send me your prompts, and I’ll try not to disappoint ;)

But seriously, look at this ghost selfie. Doesn’t it look like I’m about to crawl out of your computer screen and haunt the shit out of something?