#my sherlock ficlets

[meetinginsamarra]

100 Word Game

Rules: Share a story that's 100 words or less.

Thank you for tagging me @chriscalledmesweetie !

I wrote this drabble three years ago for a writing challenge, prompt "mark". It's on AO3, too.

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Mark by meet_me_in_samarra

Today marks the hundredth day after my fall. Is there any significance in numbers?

Should I have cried one hundred tears, leaving John? I cried many more.

Have thought of John one hundred times? Hunting down Moriarty´s web to protect John, I did, every day.

Would I kill one hundred men to return to John? There are 27 dead now.

Take one hundred scars, keeping John safe? I have 15 already.

While I hide in this dark cellar, bleeding, cold and alone, I know the only important mark is four. Four words I should have said.

I love you, John.

-----

tagging anyone who likes to share

[shirleycarlton]

100 word game

Thanks for the tag @lisbeth-kk and @totallysilvergirl!

Rules: Share a story that's 100 words or less.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Sherlock, standing near the window: “Oh, hello, buddy.”

John, looking up from his newspaper, frowning: “Who are you talking to?”

Sherlock, ignoring John: “You’ve got a lovely little house there!”

John, frown deepening: “Are you deducing a prospective client? You can see what kind of house they have now, from the wrinkles in their sleeves or something?”

Sherlock, continuing to coo at the invisible addressee: “Oh, look at how smooth you are!”

“Seriously, Sherlock, what in the name of god are you on about?”

“It’s a snail, John. A beautiful specimen right in central London, slithering up our window pane.”

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Yay, I managed to write *100 words exactly* this time!

I love how little exercises like this one often manage to get me back into writing after long hiatuses. (In fact, it was a similar exercise - write a fic of exactly 1895 words - that got me into fic writing to begin with, back in 2013!!)

Tagging some of you who might like to give this a try too. No pressure, though!

@blogstandbygo @hubblegleeflower @alexaprilgarden @otter-von-bismarck @stellacartography @a-victorian-girl @shiplocks-of-love @lisbeth-kk @totallysilvergirl @mydogwatson @fluffbyday-smutbynight @amindamazed @vulgarweed @addictedstilltheaddict @ohlooktheresabee @pagimag @johnlockheartor @justanobsessedpan @inevitably-johnlocked @iamjohnlocked4life @calaisreno @raina-at

[ultraviolet-ink]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: 大逆転裁判 | Dai Gyakuten Saiban | The Great Ace Attorney Chronicles (Video Games) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Sherlock Holmes | Herlock Sholmes/Mikotoba Yuujin Characters: Mikotoba Yuujin, Sherlock Holmes | Herlock Sholmes (Dai Gyakuten Saiban) Additional Tags: Post-Canon, Post WWI, 221B Ficlet, Old man yaoi, soft love letter to The Beekeeper's Picnic, Art, 1920s, Retirement, Sussex, Fluff, Sherlock Holmes and Bees Series: Part 2 of HomuMiko Week 2025 Summary:

After the war, Herlock and Yujin retire at last

[sakshi-s-blog]

Gift for @a-victorian-girl . I couldn't get this plot idea from my head! So I spent 4 hours as soon as I got home from college & here it is. I hope you like it. 😃

Fic Title:

"Still Black, Still You"

Summary:

Sherlock secretly dyes his greying hair for John. John finds out—and loves him, black curls or not. Fluffy, sweet love.

Fic glimpse:

It started with the curls.

They were as much a part of Sherlock Holmes as the violin or the coat. Dark, stormy, untameable things that matched his mind—brilliant, intense, a little wild. John used to tease him about them, back in their thirties. Called him "the shaggy genius" once, to Sherlock’s eternal smugness. And now, in their fifties, John still watched those curls with something like wonder. Because they were still dark. Still sharp. Still the same.

And that was strange.

Because John Watson, in contrast, had gone fully grey by fifty-three. Not silver or salt-and-pepper—just honest, stark grey. The kind that said, "Yes, I’ve been through a war. Yes, I’ve aged. Yes, I’m still standing." Sherlock didn’t tease him about it. In fact, Sherlock barely said a word about John’s hair at all, aside from a soft look now and then. A hand in it when they curled up together on colder nights. No mockery. Just quiet fondness.

But Sherlock? Sherlock remained dark-haired. And John wasn’t suspicious, not really. Genetics, maybe. Or stress expressing itself differently. Or sheer stubbornness refusing to let Sherlock change.

Until one Tuesday morning, when John found the receipt.

He’d been clearing the table—Sherlock had made one of his messes again, writing theories in the jam stains on the back of a Tesco receipt—and as he gathered the scraps, one of them stood out. A receipt from some boutique cosmetic place in Marylebone. Regular visits. Black hair dye. One bottle per week. Cash paid. Same day, every time.

John stared at it for a long minute, trying to reconcile it.

Sherlock Holmes. Dying his hair.

Every week.

In secret.

The thought landed heavy, and somehow very small and very large at once.

Sherlock was hiding the grey.

John sat back in his chair, clutching the slip of paper like it was an unsolved clue.

Not because Sherlock was vain. No, Sherlock couldn’t care less what the world thought of him. But… maybe he cared what JOHN thought. Maybe he was keeping his curls dark because—

Read more at AO3. Just 928 words.

[gregorovitch-adler]

Slippery

It was a chilly, December morning. John was at the entrance door of 221 Baker Street, heading out for a morning walk.

He knew it was a bad idea and maybe silly, but he had to stretch his legs after all those hours he slept right after their last case was closed.

The moment he grabbed the door handle, though, John's foot slipped, and he fell on the floor with a loud thud. "Ow!"

Sherlock came running downstairs from 221 B in his PJs. He had been up all night and was probably going to go to bed now. "Are you alright?" He rushed towards John and offered a hand.

John took Sherlock's hand and they both let out a grunt as he got up with some difficulty. "It was your turn to clear away the melted ice!"

"Sorry," said Sherlock as he brushed off something from John's jacket, looking genuinely remorseful.

John nodded and decided to let it go. "I'm going out for a walk."

"Might help reduce the chances of your falling. In the long run, at least."

John knitted his brow. "How?"

Sherlock stepped back and shrugged. "Newton's first law. 'An object at rest remains at rest, or if in motion, remains in motion at a constant velocity unless acted on by a net external force.' Also known as Law of Inertia."

John vaguely remembered that from secondary school. He narrowed his eyes. "... And?"

"And inertia happens to be directly proportional to mass. Lower the mass, lower the inertia, and vice versa. His words, not mine."

John stepped forward and punched Sherlock on the shoulder. "Shut up!"

"Ouch!" Sherlock rubbed his shoulder with a grin on his face.

John could not help but smile too.

They waved at each other and John finally went out of the apartment building to take a nice and fresh walk around a few blocks.

--

Prompt: Slippery by @fluff-cember

Tags: @helloliriels @lisbeth-kk @calaisreno @gaylilsherlock @jamielovesjam @peanitbear @totallysilvergirl @topsyturvy-turtely @keirgreeneyes , etc.

[sillygirlsmindpalace]

Day 11 : Ribbons 🎀

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The Secret Ribbon Code

Finding oddities at 221B, Baker Street wasn't something new - Sherlock's bizarre scientific apparatus and horrifying specimens, John's scattered medical journals, Mrs Hudson's occasional baked delights left on the table, or even the toys Rosie sometimes left in the fridge.

"The dinosaurs will vanish again if they don't find a good home", Rosie had once protested when John insisted on keeping them back in her toy box.

Today, as the duo returned to the flat after a long and tiring case, Sherlock found something new.

A red ribbon tied neatly to the doorknob of his bedroom.

Pausing, Sherlock tilted his head, examining the knot. Simple yet clean, practical and perfect. Rosie's work, undoubtedly. He untied it carefully, carrying the ribbon into the living room.

Rosie was sitting cross legged on the floor with a box of ribbons in every colour imaginable. Upon sensing Sherlock coming, she turned to look, her face lighting up.

"You found the first one!"

"First one of what exactly?", Sherlock inquired, holding the ribbon high up in the air.

Rosie grinned, "Oh! That's my secret ribbon code! Red means that you have to come and talk to me."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, intrigued.

"And what about the other colours?"

Rosie scratched her chin. "I haven't really decided but wait. Blue means you're very busy with your work and I shouldn't bother you. Yellow means it's snack time and green means it's time to play deductions!"

"Hmm, interesting", Sherlock mumbled, sitting down beside her. "But, do tell me, what happens if I forget them?"

"Sherlock, you better store this in your hard drive", John stated softly without taking his eyes off the telly.

Rosie giggled. The idea of him forgetting such a simple code seemed preposterous. "You're the smartest person in this world, Sherlock".

Sherlock allowed himself a smile, a rare one.

"Flattery will get you anywhere, my dear Watson".

From that day onwards, the ribbon code became their private language. Sherlock would find green ribbons tied to his violin or the Cluedo Board, yellow ribbons around his mugs, and even a blue ribbon tied neatly around his microscope when he was deeply absorbed in one of his experiments.

But his favourite moment came on one evening when Mrs. Hudson invited everyone to dinner.

Rosie, with her tiny legs sprinted across the room to tie pink ribbons on everyone's wrists.

"Uncle Greg, here's one for you! Aunt Molly, you should get one!", she squealed as she went on with her mission.

"Oh thanks sweetie!", Molly watched Rosie knit her eyebrows as she secured the knot into place.

"What does this mean?", John asked.

"Pink means that I love Uncle Greg and Aunt Molly. Mrs Hudson too, but she won't let me tie one now. She says the flour will make it dirty. I have one for Uncle Mycroft, but he isn't here today", she pouted.

Rosie ran to her box and fished out two gold ribbons. She tied one around John and hopped towards Sherlock's chair, who extended his wrist at once.

John couldn't help but smile at the sight infront of him. Rosie stuck out her tongue in utmost concentration while finishing off her knot neatly.

"That's something new", Sherlock asked softly.

Rosie beamed up at him. "Yes, gold also means that I love you, but it's different from the others. You and Daddy are my best friends. We're best friends forever, aren't we?"

For a moment, Sherlock was silent. John could feel himself tear up. Then, with a rare gentleness, he picked Rosie up and made her sit on his lap. Rosie wrapped her arms around his neck.

"Thank you, little lady. I'll make sure to remember that one", he smiled and planted a kiss on her cheek.

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Writing a story after a long, long, long time.

@helloliriels @hesagoodone @a-victorian-girl @aziraphalianfangirl @holmesianlove @totallysilvergirl @ghostofnuggetspast please give me your feedback 🤗

Thanks to @notjustamumj for the prompts 🩷

[chriscalledmesweetie]

But It's a Ten, John!

“Don’t you dare respond to that text.”

“It’s Lestrade.”

“It could be the queen for all I care. Don’t respond.”

“It might be a case.”

“It could be a hundred cases. Don’t even look at your phone.”

“It’s a locked room triple homicide!”

“I told you not to look. Put the phone down.”

“But it’s a ten, John!”

“I don’t care if it’s an eleven. Drop the phone.”

“The scale only goes up to ten.”

“Sherlock, I am not going to ask you again. Drop the phone or I’m pulling out.”

“Fine. But this fuck had better be a ten.”

The OTW invited folks to create drabbles incorporating the number 10 on February 15th to celebrate the 10th annual International Fanworks Day. I spent 10 minutes on this little tidbit for you. It’s inspired by a scene from The Only One in the World, I Invented the Job by @apliddell.

I’m tagging some folks who might be interested. Please let me know if you’d like me to tag or untag you.

@mydogwatson  @totallysilvergirl  @bluebellofbakerstreet @sarahthecoat  @helloliriels  @daisyfairy1 @imnova  @kittenmadnessandtea  @marta-bee  @whodwantmeasaflatmate @iwantthatbelstaffanditsoccupant  @jobooksncoffee  @peanitbear @bakingsherlycakes @missdeliadilisblog @kettykika78 @stellacartography @shelleysprometheus @iamjustreading @chinike @sgam76 @loves-to-read-fanfic @inevitably-johnlocked @johnlockismyreligion @calaisreno @with-a-ghost-mr-holmes @macgyvershe

[strawberrywinter4]

So. This is part of two things.

May 15 Prompt: Nightmare, from @calaisreno’s prompt list. Check out their wonderful prompts!

AND

It’s a sneak peak for my current WIP: A Gentleman’s Shrine. You can find the post of what this fic is going to be about here.

Warnings: PTSD and Violence

A little context: This story takes place after WWI in England. John is on his way to the Noble Legacy Gala (explained in the post that I linked), and he catches himself in a nightmare.

•*•*•*•

It’s constant. Redundant. Persistent. Ceaseless.

Never-ending.

John only hears his panicked breaths, higher than normal. Dust is caught in his throat, gunfire is ringing in his ears. His sweaty hands are clinging to his rifle like it’s his one and only. Both German and English intertwine and he’s not sure which one he’s supposed to speak. He doesn’t believe he can speak.

Before John knows it, he catches a soldier’s head being pierced by a bullet, another taking the wrong step and his body detonates, blood splattering everywhere. He can’t move, or more like he doesn’t want to move because what the fuck is this?

This isn’t what he signed up for, it’s not. This doesn’t feel prosperous or close to honor. This doesn’t feel like he’s fighting for anything, let alone his country.

No, he is in the presence of hell. The Western Front is where men turn into something equivalent to animals, fighting for land they will never step foot on. It is where intelligent minds turn into a sequence of survival instincts. It is where all humanity comes to an end.

“Get up, Watson!” John barely registers a strong hand pull on his arm, hoisting him up and out of the mud mixed with blood. “You’re gonna die if you don’t–”

Whoever was speaking to him is shot to the floor, his limp body hitting the mud John was just near unconscious on. Limping away, John stumbles through the trench, looking for…something. Or was it someone? Was he even looking for anything in the first place? What was he searching for? What was he after? What is the point?

Someone charges after him with a close—combat knife, and John holds his rifle up and shoots. He shoots the man. He’s dead. He’s–

No. No, no, no. What has he done? What has he–

John kneels down next to the man, checking vital signs, as if that will accomplish anything. He hears him mutter something in German, but John doesn’t understand, he doesn’t understand anything. Realizing he’s doing everything in the wrong order, John tries to press down on the wound and attempts to stop the flow, but it's no use. When a river begins, it doesn’t cease.

John sobs, repeating an apology that won’t do any good. He’s a doctor, he’s trained for this, he can help. He can help, he can sort this out and get this man to safety because he has a family at home and they’re waiting for him. They’re waiting for him and John’s made their wait worth nothing.

This is wrong, this is all wrong. He wants to go home. He wants to go back to Mum and Harry. He doesn’t want to forget the feeling of sitting at the dinner table and eating his mum’s soup.

Keep the pressure, keep the pressure. Don’t let this man die.

He doesn’t want to forget the voice of his sister, cracking jokes and hearing his mum scold her for the inappropriate ones.

The man is dead, but John doesn’t stop the pressure. He will never stop. He will never stop apologizing, and he will never forget the man muttering in German, “Please, God, let me live.”

——

John screams as he wakes, jolting up in his seat. He takes several deep breaths, trying to calm himself, return to a leveled mindset that he didn’t have during the war.

“Sir?” a man’s voice asks. “Sir, are you well?” He puts a hand on John’s shoulder and John flinches away. Realizing his rude behavior, John forces himself to lose the tension in his body, shifting in his seat. He swallows.

“Uh–yes. Yes, I apologize. I…” John looks around the train, seeing the other participants staring at him with horrified expressions. Mothers hold their children tightly and fathers grace him with disturbed looks. John forces his eyes to the crew member, who seems unsure of what to do in this position. “Only a nightmare,” John dismisses, clearing his throat.

“Should…we move you to another cart?” the man asks, eyes flickering to the other people seated.

John’s jaw clicks. “No, this isn’t to happen again, I assure you. I’ll be fine here.”

With hesitance, the man nods. “Alright, then. Would you care for any refreshments?”

“No,” John says. “Thank you.” The man leaves and John’s face burns. He’s made a fool of himself, he never should have fallen asleep, no matter how long the journey is.

Everyone in the cart begins to forget about the outburst, going back to their conversations or finishing their small meals. John rests his head on the back of his seat and stares out the window, watching plains of grass pass by and sheep being heard.

John should soon be arriving at the next train station soon enough. He closes his eyes, wondering what his life has become.

*•*•*•*

I hope you all enjoyed this little sneak peak! I saw the prompt for today and thought it was perfect for this. This fic is currently in the works and I promise that it includes a lot of research, not just assumptions or blind facts, haha. So I’m certainly trying my best ❤️

Tags: @a-victorian-girl @whatnext2020 @totallysilvergirl @thegildedbee @with-a-ghost-mr-holmes @jawnn-watson @blogstandbygo @lisbeth-kk @holmesianlove @7-percent @itsonlytext @chinike @peanitbear @helloliriels @keirgreeneyes @ghostofnuggetspast @dw91165 @jolieblack @gwendelaneyisjohnlocked @cortina @kettykika78 @johnlockbbc

(Let me know if you want to be tagged in the future)

[amypihcs]

And here for day 5 of cozytober! I'll see if i'll manage something for day 4 as well!

Just Holmes and watson taking care of each other, nothign too trascendental. And of course, why CHOSING between tea and chocolate? BOTH!

yes, i got chocolate for breakfast this morning, how did you guess?

@neverquiteeden @foolishxprincipalitee @i-dont-talk-for-days-on-end @fruitviking @cackled0g @kimgmac63 @skyriderwednesday @louieclamlent @tyrannosaurusnacks @usergreenpixel @rudbeckiasunflower @angryducktimemachine @haedraulics @friday4stripes @calaisreno @its-notlupus @sherlock-is-ace @sadieb798 @eisenkrahe @geeoharee @r2y9s-notartblog @gooolabatooo @somethingintheforest

[randomquadballpun]

DAY 0 (attempt no 1)

It all started out pretty harmless. That was: harmless measured by the Watson-Holmes household standards.

When John returned from work Monday evening, he expected to hear Sherlock and Rosie playfully debating the advantages of squared over lined paper for efficient note-taking or maybe the sound of the two of them battling each other on Rosies Nintendo Switch. Instead, he was greeted halfway up the stairs by hushed silence and a faint burnt smell in the air. Needless to say, he took the last couple of steps a little bit faster.

The picture that presented itself as he walked into the flat was both better and worse than what he had dreaded. His daughter and his boyfriend were leaning over the messy kitchen table, a bowl of ice, a stack of Petri dishes and a burning Bunsen burner between them. To give Sherlock credit, they were both wearing lab coats and gloves and Rosie had been additionally equipped with safety goggles and even wore her messy blond hair in a neat high ponytail to keep it out of the flames.

John let his groceries slide to the floor with a loud thump. "Alright, does anyone want to tell me what you two are doing here?"

Two pairs of startled wide eyes snapped over to him. He raised his eyebrows expectantly, as the two exchanged one quick and not at all ominous glance before starting to explain.

"We are making Ecollies glow green. That’s bacteria!", Rosie declared proudly.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "E.coli. I wanted to show Watson some fluorescing bacteria under the microscope and thought we could make a little lesson in molecular biology out of it. So we are cloning GFP into an expression vector and then transforming the E.coli with it."

"Er …“" John stared at him with a blank face while his mind tried to make sense of the information that had just been conveyed to him. "Alright?"

He could sense the eye roll even though his boyfriend did his best to suppress it – from the corner of his eye, he could see that Rosie had no such restraint. Sherlock clarified. "We are forcing bacteria to produce a protein that glows green under a special lamp. Green fluorescent protein - GFP. We have already put the gene for GFP into a piece of bacterial DNA and shuttled that DNA into the bacteria. Tomorrow morning we can have a first look at them under the microscope!"

That did make sense - sort of. "As long as you clean up properly after yourself. I don't want our toilet to start glowing green in a couple of days!", he reminded them sternly before he stooped down to pick up the bag with groceries again and squeezed past his two favourite mad scientists to deposit milk and butter in the fridge.

"Have you done your homework for tomorrow, sweetheart?"

There was an exaggerated groan behind him. "They are sooooo boring, Dad!"

This was not the first time that they had this discussion but Rosie did sound more like Sherlock anytime they did. "I am sorry, but you still got to do them!"

"Do I reaaaally have to though?"

He had to suppress a grin at the audible pout and tried to force a no-nonsense tone into his voice as he answered: "I told you, if Mrs Harkins asks for any extra parent-teacher conferences this year, I am going to send Sherlock, and no one is going to like the outcome of that." Everyone in the room winced at that prospect.

"I can show you how to do long division once we are done here, Watson. The experiment will only take another 10 minutes, we just have to spread out the bacteria over the agar plates now", Sherlock added in Johns direction.

The doctor nodded absentmindedly before faltering. "Wait, you remember how to do long division?"

This time Sherlock did roll his eyes at him, but with a grin that softened the effect. "No, calculators have been around since before I was born." He winked at Rosie but continued quickly when John shot him a warning glare. "However, I know that there is a tutorial for pretty much anything on YouTube nowadays. Rest assured, Watson and I are going to be able to puzzle out long division."

"Good, thank you." John let his gaze swipe once again over the biohazard that was their kitchen and made the executive decision that he could not be bothered with this tonight.

"How do you guys feel about ordering Pizza for dinner?"

"YES!" Rosie threw her hands in the air excitedly, barely missing the flame that was still dancing merrily between them and not in fact missing a rack of small plastic tubes that had been placed close by as well and was now clattering all over the tiled floor. "I want pineapple, artichokes and pepperoni on mine."

John caught a quick glance at his partners face before the other man dove under the table to hunt after the sample tubes. Well, no matter what the outcome of this experiment would be, at least Rosie had managed to make Sherlocks face glow faintly green tonight.

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Troubleshooting, part 1/?

-> Will this whole series be incredibly self-indulgent and nerdy - yes!

-> The next snippet can be found here!

[meetinginsamarra]

100 word game

Rules: Share a story that's 100 words or less.

------

Thank you for tagging me @totallysilvergirl and @raina_at

I'm calling this drabble

"ONE"

~~~~~~

Hands are roaming unseen while eyes are closed. Feeling, exploring, searching for what is real but lies underneath, hoping to reach closeness and closure.

Immersing themselves in true devotion.

Finding completion.

Cherishing delicate skin makes tiny hairs shiver and rise by sheer pleasure of being touched.

Voices moan and lips open, glistening wetly in the soft candlelight when the desire to conjoin gets overwhelming.

The candle’s flame flickers and flares when bodies begin to move against each other, performing a timeless dance of unification.

A symphony only performed by two.

Yet, the shadow they cast on the wall is one.

~~~~~~

Tagging everybody who would like to share (I don't know who has all been taged already.)

[frankenjoly]

injured prompts: sherliam + Stop. No. Wake up. Wake up! I said wake up!

(preferably sherlock is the one injured?) 👀

That shouldn’t be happening. That couldn’t be happening. That--

“Stop. No.” William muttered, a tad bit more loud than he had meant to, incessantly poking Sherlock to prevent him from closing his eyes… and seemingly failing. “Wake up!” He then pleaded, grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking with desperation-driven energy. “I said: wake up!”

Failing didn’t mean he had any intention of giving up, but quite the opposite; putting all his strength and will into it, William carried on.

“Please! Sherly, please! Just-- just hold on, alright? Hold on.” Breathing deeply wasn’t helping much when it came to calming down, but at least it was better than nothing; panicking might render him unable to do anything, and that sure as hell wouldn’t help Sherlock.

Knowing that didn't prevent tears from starting to fall through his cheeks. Though it seemed letting them go free somewhat did the trick, because that and his resolve kind of acted as mind-clearers.

And yet…

“You don't deserve this. I do.” William whispered, lifting a now bloodied hand to wipe his own tears. Having his sight blocked would also be a hindrance.

“No… fucking way...” Sherlock, who thankfully hadn't lost consciousness completely, immediately said. And when he raised his own hand to take one of William's, it didn't totally lack strength. Thank goodness. “Liam… I'm gonna be fine, alright? Though I've been better too, that's true.”

Despite everything, William managed to let out a brief laugh.

(Also on ao3.)

[ultraviolet-ink]

holmes/watson for 33 :3 ?

I immediately thought of DEVI, that scene is the perfect setting for this prompt!! <3

That horrible black cloud surrounded us, images of evil and horror filled my vision. All that was evil and inconceivably wicked swirled around the odious dark cloud bank. A freezing horror took hold of me, I felt the hairs on the back of my neck standing, and my eyes were protruding. I tried to scream, but all that could escape my mouth was but a hoarse croak.

Somehow, I broke through the cloud of despair, and with great horror, I glimpsed upon Holmes’ face— white, rigid, and drawn with horror. My heart sank, he looked dead already. I do not know what came over me, save that my strength finally won out against that evil poison. I already lost him once, I could not bear to lose him forever.

I dashed from my chair and wrapped my arms around Holmes. He felt so frail, almost like a bird with a broken wing. I broke through the door and together we landed upon the grass plot. I made sure to land first, and he fell on top of me before rolling onto his back and gasping.

Slowly, that evil miasma rose, and my mind was finally clear, but Holmes was still gasping. I turned onto my side, and I cradled my poor friend in my arms. I watched as his eyes became more and more focused, and I gasped when those stormy eyes stared into my own.

“John!” he croaked.

In our years of friendship, he had never referred to me with my given name, and I never dared in return. My eyes pricked with tears, and my arms shook as I held my dearest friend closer, his head rested onto my chest, just above my rapid heart. Holmes draped his arms around my neck, slowly bringing his face closer to my own.

We stayed like that for a moment, his forehead pressed against mine, we were both clammy and sweating, but that did not bother me.

“Upon my word,” he gasped, finally breaking the silence. “I owe you both my thanks and my apologies—“

Without thinking, I cupped his face. I leaned forward and kissed him over and over. I’ve always thought of Holmes as angular, sharp and all edges, but I can now say with full confidence that his lips were just the opposite of that description.

“Holmes— Sherlock— thank goodness,” I gasped before kissing him again. “I thought I lost you again!”

“It was an unjustifiable—“ I kissed him again. “Experiment—“ Again. “Watson, please!”

“I know, I know,” I replied. “Do not blame yourself…”

He stopped me before I could kiss him once more; madness truly set in, I wanted nothing more than to keep him close, to never lose him again.

“It was foolhardy to do alone,” said he. “Doubly so for a friend, I’m so sorry, Watson— John…”

I smiled as I cupped his face. I pressed my forehead against his once more, I could no longer hold back my tears. I held him close, and we simply caught our breaths.

Later, my friend had remarked that “It would be superfluous to drive us mad, my dear Watson, A candid observer would certainly declare that we were already so before we embarked upon so wild an experiment”, and perhaps I agree, save for one note— I am far more madder than he.

Prompts are right here!! And here's another one for good measure!!

[pasiphile]

Hi there! Twiddling my thumbs on how to/whether to say this, but finding your Sherlock fic as a teenager (yeah, we’ve both been here that long, I am now eyeing my thirties in the street) was incredibly formative.

TVD (and Good Girls Don’t) was one of the first brain-changingly good pieces of online fiction I had ever read, and it made the days I worked that soul-wearying first job a little brighter. Or a lot. You gave me imagination and a playground for exploring my own writing, which continues to be a primary joy in my life. So — these two words aren’t enough. Thank you. 🩵

So, on to the writing! I have to ask for a Mormor prompt. Maybe the boys enjoying each other after a long absence, bonus for domesticity?

(gosh. I occasionally get messages like this and I always have to stare at the wall for a bit. I wrote it at a rather shitty time for me too and it definitely helped me get through it, so the thought that I made - make!- other people feel the same way means A Lot. Thank you <3)

The flat feels empty. Too empty.

It’s strange. It never did before. An empty place all for himself had been a luxury for many years. And after that, a necessity, a way to relax, recharge.

Except now all of a sudden the silence is too silent, the order too neat, the spaces too big. It’s absurd, and annoying.

He leans his head forward against the window, looking down at the street below. So many people and yet there’s just one, just one out of seven billion, who feels like –

The door opens behind him and he straightens up. “I’m back!” Sebastian’s voice bellows through the living room.

“I can see that.”

Sebastian starts, only spotting him now, then grins. “And I’m sweating like a pig. Manchester to London on public transport and let me tell you, those trains are not equipped to deal with thirty-five degrees Celsius, so if you’ll excuse me I’ll head straight for the shower.”

And before Jim can even think to react, mind and action sluggish in a way that’s totally inexcusable, Sebastian has dropped his bag and he strides past, already taking off his stained T-shirt and leaving behind a waft of deodorant and sweat and stale cigarettes, disgusting except it isn’t.

“Pick up your dirty laundry, you’re not a teenager,” Jim says, more on automatic than out of conscious thought, but Sebastian obediently doubles back to pick the shirt up, no comment.

The bathroom door closes. A moment later, the sound of the shower.

When did this happen? When he’d invited Sebastian to live with him? Before that, the first time he’d let him into the flat? When did he start to fill the spaces Jim hadn’t even been aware were empty?

He goes to the bathroom and slips in, quietly even though it’s futile to Sebastian with his SAS-instincts.

The dirty clothes are obediently in the hamper, tidied away. The steam smells of soap, not his, all alien and all familiar.

The shower switches off and Sebastian steps out. He grins, again, and spreads his arms as if to present the goods. “Did you miss me, then?”

“Yes.”

Sebastian’s smile slips. It’s too open, too bare, they don’t do this sort of thing, Jim doesn’t do this sort of thing.

“Of course I miss a loud, stinking oaf of a man dirtying up my flat,” Jim adds, and Sebastian relaxes, never mind that it’s actually true. “And you? Pining for home?”

“The moment I stepped out of the door.” Sebastian shrugs and turns to the mirror, absently running a hand through his hair. “You know me, I’m sappy that way.”

Jim grabs Sebastian’s arm and yanks him around, other hand finding his throat and slamming him against the wall, or rather, Sebastian lets him do all that because as always the balance is in his favour, Sebastian could break him like a twig if he wanted to.

But he doesn’t. That’s the point.

“Missed you too,” Sebastian says, voice slightly constricted through the chokehold. “This, especially. Now can you calm the fuck down?”

Jim loosens his grip, breathes out. “You know I should have you killed.”

“Yeah,” Sebastian says, calmly. “But you don’t. Do you?”

“No.” He leans in, nose against Sebastian’s throat, nothing there left now but the scent of soap, the one Jim got him a month ago because he was tired of Sebastian smelling like a locker room full of teenaged boys.”

“All right. Now that’s out of the way, can we  nghk “

Jim gets his teeth from Sebastian’s neck and leans back, smiling beatifically while his other hand keeps a new chokehold on Sebastian’s cock. “Yes?”

Sebastian gasps for air, then smirks, so wide it threatens to split his face. “Whatever you want.”

That’s the point.

Jim returns the smirk, then lets go and without even needing prompting, Sebastian goes to his knees.

[gregorovitch-adler]

Winter Storm

I made an observation about my Watson during this winter. He was writing a lot this time, even though we had not received any remarkable cases this month.

Moreover, he had not been writing in his usual notebook. He had only been writing in some pieces of paper here and there. Heavens knew where he had left those loose pages, but I had finally deduced what Watson had been writing about all this time.

He was writing about me. Well, mostly me.

It was the way he would glance at me sometimes—looking up from his piece of paper—and smile. He hardly did that when documenting an adventure.

Sitting beside the fireplace on my armchair with my hands steepled beneath my chin, I smiled at my little finding. Watson's presence had always been like a raft in the ocean my life. Like a warm blanket during a cruel winter storm.

I may like to criticise the way he would write and publish our adventures in The Strand magazine, but I would be lying to myself if I said I did not smile when reading the said adventures at least once.

In fact, I would love to document my ongoing thought process about Watson right now, but I chose not to—after all, I am no writer.

I had to simply wait for Watson to come back from his morning stroll so we could have breakfast together in some time.

**

Prompt: Winter Storm by @fluff-cember

Tags: @lisbeth-kk @helloliriels @gaylilsherlock @jamielovesjam @keirgreeneyes @topsyturvy-turtely @peanitbear @totallysilvergirl @nowiamcoveredinyou , etc.

[pipmer]

Brother - PipMer - Sherlock (TV) [Archive of Our Own]