#sherlock drabble

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

You Do Something To Me 1

Warnings: non/dubcon, manipulation, roughness, degredation, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Characters: Sherlock Holmes (modern)

Summary: you do your best to please a man with high standards.

Note: wasn't expecting this tbh.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

The knock echoes through the house. You can't help the shiver as you peer over your shoulder. You know there's nothing there but those old antique halls always put you on edge. Or maybe it's him.

No, you love your husband. That's not it. He can just be very intense. That's all.

You wait. No answer comes. That's as usual as the silence throughout this old house. You tap once more and upon a second lull, let yourself in.

You don't say a word as Sherlock's eyes stay on the folder clutched in his large hands. He looks like a man out of time. He always dresses proper. You gently place the tray on his desk.

You pour him a cup and carefully add milk. The dairy plumes in the deep red tea and you place the saucer and cup by his elbow.

"You've interrupted," he says without looking up.

"You wanted tea and I did not want it to go cold," you touch his shoulder gently. He rumbles.

"Wise woman," he muses and sits back, his attention still on the page. He hooks a single finger through cup handle and lifts it. He hums. "The only who ever does my tea right."

Loose leaf. That's the trick. Your ratio is precise. Just as he likes all things.

"Let me not disturb you further," you appease and back up.

He huffs and drops the paper, then clinks down the porcelain.

"I wouldn't complain," he leans back in his leather chair. He smirks.

"Oh, and now he demands dessert with his tea," you shake your head.

He tilts his head, "I demand my wife."

A chill runs up your body. When he puts that voice on, your chest goes hollow and you feel all shaky. You can't deny that voice.

"Yes, husband," you come closer.

He runs his hand up your satin skirt and examines the seam. There's a stitch that's bunched. He never misses the detail. He clucks.

"This skirt is ruined," he tugs, "you will take it off at once."

It would be thrilling if you didn't know beneath it all that he's serious. He does not like inconsistencies. You suppose it is the reason he chose to be a detective. That and he's very skilled at untangling mysteries. As talented at seeing through deception.

You reach behind you and unzip the skirt. It slackens and you let it go. It pools at your feet and your legs speckle with goosebumps. These vintage houses are hard to keep warm. He has the thermostat as well to keep from waste.

"Come here," he urges as he spreads his shoulders wide. 

He grips the arms of the chair as you approach. You stop to strip off your panties. His chest rises and falls slowly as he sits patiently. You know what to do and it's better you don't make him tell you.

He's already hard, you can see him in his pants. You undo his fly and pull him out. He growls and holds the air in his chest. You turn and reach between your legs to line him up.

You press him against your folds and rub his tip against you. You try to focus and ready yourself for him. You take him inch by inch, urging yourself through the stretch. As you settle on his lap, he sighs.

"Mm, honey," he purrs.

You go to tilt and he grabs your hip, his other hand on your stomach.

"No, you will wait," he girds and reaches to the desk. He retrieves the paper. "When I've finished my work, you may finish yours."

You wiggle in his lap. He groans and pinches your thigh. You still and lean back, certain to keep out of his way.

He pets your head with his free hand as he reads. Little hums escape him. You feel him twitching inside you. He sets down the paper once more.

"My tea, honey."

You lean forward and quiver at the friction in your walls. You take his tea and give it to him. He drinks deeply and hands it back. You put it down and he frames your hips.

"Perhaps I might think better if I destress," he guides you up his length and you moan.

You place your hands over his as he moves you in his lap. You arch your back and follow his rhythm. You slip your hand down your pelvis and twirl around your clit. He grunts as he keeps the pace slow and deliberate.

"Mm, I've needed this," he growls. "Mm, yes, my wife, how you serve me so well."

You flick your fingers and tremble, your walls clenching as you get close to release. You reach back and clasp onto his thick side as you cum. As you spasm, he quickens your motion. You mewl through your climax as your head lolls.

In a moment, he's up. He has you over the desk. Your hips slam into the edge as he bends over you and grips the far side. He rams into you, each thrust long but sharp. He pulls back only to slam so hard the wood sends a pang through your pelvis. You whimper as the contents of his desk wobble and pens fall of their stand.

"You did this on purpose, yes? You interrupted my work for this?" He gropes your ass, his pelvis slapping the back of his hand as he ruts. "My wife, the whore."

He grabs the back of your neck and pinches until you squeal. You gnaw on your lip and hiss through your nose. That side of him is only yours. That deep, dark, feral side. He only lets you see it. It scares you but it feels special. It's just between you two.

"Yes, husband," you reach back and touch his pants as he pounds your hips into the desk. "I wanted this all along--"

You grit your teeth and your back racks. You measure your breaths as he puffs like a wild animal. His nails dig into your skin and your thighs tingle.

"I know it. You want it," he snarls. "You need it."

[darkmasterlistyouneveraskedfor]

Dear Husbands AU

Bucky Barnes 💍 Can’t Have One Without the Other | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5

Steve Rogers 💍 I’ve Got You Under My Skin | 2 | 3

Thor 💍 These Foolish Things

Loki 💍 Moon River

Sherlock Holmes 💍 You Do Something To Me

Jake Jensen 💍 Fools Rush In

Brock Rumlow 💍 My Way

[ryuusea]

sherliam rkgk, flirting with “mr. scott” + drabble:

A pleased smile pulls at the corner of his lips, easily mistaken for pleasantries by anybody else. But he isn’t just anyone else. Sherlock Holmes recognizes the playful invitation to a game, and lets himself be tugged in.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of a visit by the renowned consulting detective, and London’s savior, the Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”

“You teach maths, correct, Mr… Scott, was it? Do you like maths puns?”

With that, Sherlock crowds into him, so close that his chest is but a mere breath’s take away from the teacher’s back. Mr. Scott isn’t daunted by the bold move, does not allow himself to be pushed up against the blackboard. He indulges Sherlock with a curious lilt of his head.

“Indeed. As for the latter, perhaps. Impress me, Mr. Holmes.”

A wide and eager grin, egged on by his words, splits across his face. Sherlock picks up a piece of chalk and leans around Mr. Scott, to messily scratch in the answer to the arithmetic problem on the board just beside his head. Sherlock doesn’t miss the way the other turns his face in towards his exposed neck, nor the surreptitious inhale. It sends shivers along Sherlock’s spine, not unlike the first time he had been allured by scarlet eyes admiring sequences in a spiraling staircase.

Sherlock sets down the chalk, leans back just enough so he can drink in the look the maths teacher is giving him from beneath hooded lashes, also dyed dark – that kid really is thorough with his disguises – it’s a patient, expectant look. One you don’t want to disappoint.

“Ya know, I feel like we could manage some integration later.”

“Oh? What kind of integration?”

He licks his lips, an already eager grin turning wolfish. “The type with undefined limits.”

A shift as he considers Sherlock’s words, spectacles catching the light through the windows. For but a split second, Sherlock cannot see those eyes through the reflected sunlight on the lenses. Then, a soft laugh puffs out from between lightly pursed lips. Mr. Scott raises a hand to his mouth, chuckles again. It reminds Sherlock of mornings over shared coffee, filled with amused, yet most importantly of all, approving smiles. Sherlock feels his heart surge, chest swelling with warmth – it’s been far too long, he’s missed seeing and hearing that –

The maths teacher fully turns around then. It’s his turn to push him back, to invade Sherlock’s space.

“I’m afraid that’s well above my pay grade, Mr. Holmes, I am but a teacher to primary school children…” His eyes narrow, sharpening, darting towards the classroom doorway in warning. Ah. But, shielded from view by Sherlock, he lifts a hand to run a teasing forefinger down Sherlock’s shirt placket, down until he’s caught at the intersection of his closed jacket, then withdraws, “But we can continue this conversation in my office.”

—

Thanks to this Reddit post for inspiration:

[swamp-adder]

I have often asserted, to my friend Watson and others, that I am not a man who is susceptible to the softer emotions; and for the most part this is true. Yet I insist that the single exception is not due to any weakness upon my own part. Such is the nature of Watson's character that I truly believe there is not a single person on this earth who, if they truly knew him, could resist loving him. And in the battle of unstoppable force against immovable object, I am afraid it is I who have been forced to yield.

[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

[calaisreno]

100 Word Story

See sequel below!

Thank you, @chriscalledmesweetie, for the invitation to play! And to @notjustamumj for the inspiration of writing drabbles.

This one might need a sequel... Premise: what if John hadn't grown a moustache? I'm calling it The Beard.

***

Discarded script from S3Ep1: The Empty Hearse

INT. MYCROFT’S OFFICE

Sherlock studies the picture of John with his new beard, his eyes wide, drool beginning to collect in his mouth.

SHERLOCK: Dear God! 

MYCROFT: I know, right? 

SHERLOCK: He looks amazing. I need to get over to Baker Street right away. How does my hair look?

MYCROFT (frowning): Baker Street? He isn’t there any more.

Sherlock looks surprised.

MYCROFT: Why would he be? It’s been two years. He’s got on with his life.

SHERLOCK: What life? I’ve been away. And he’s grown a beard. Now tell me where he is.

@totallysilvergirl @keirgreeneyes @lisbeth-kk @a-victorian-girl

@ghostofnuggetspast @notjustamumj @chriscalledmesweetie

[hambiichu]

Jealously

Sumarry: Sherlock Holmes never show jealously up until now.

Divider by @/enchanthings-a

Sherlock Holmes was never one to indulge in jealousy. He often admitted that he was a highly calculated individual, preferring to manage his own emotions rather than seeking assistance—even from those closest to him. His stoicism was a defining trait; he rarely showed his feelings openly. Yet beneath that composed exterior, he harbored a deep affection for you. When he attempted to express his love, it often came off as awkward or stilted, as if the very act of sharing his emotions challenged his carefully crafted demeanor.

One day, however, everything changed. Sherlock noticed you at work, engaged in a seemingly light-hearted flirtation with a coworker. You had assured him countless times that these interactions were innocuous, mere banter among colleagues. Yet, to Sherlock, they represented a potential threat—a toxic presence that loomed over the relationship you both shared.

As you stepped away to retrieve some important documents from your office, a wave of unease washed over him. Sherlock knew he had to confront the situation head-on. As you left the room, he strode purposefully toward your coworker, his expression a calculated blend of calm and composure. It was a facade; while his smile was polite and carefully crafted, his eyes betrayed his inner turmoil: they were narrowed and twitching, betraying the irritation and anger bubbling just beneath the surface.

“Can I help you?” the coworker inquired, glancing up from the paperwork he had been poring over. He seemed oblivious to the tension in the air. “If so, please do say,” he added, a hint of nonchalance in his tone as if he were unaware of the storm brewing in the depths of Sherlock's gaze.

“Oh, yes!” Sherlock exclaimed, a smile creeping across his face but quickly morphing into a thin line as he clasped his hands behind his back. “Would you mind if I analyze you?”

“I—what?” The coworker blinked in astonishment, his expression one of utter disbelief. Before he could gather his thoughts, Sherlock dove right into his analysis, his words flowing rapidly as if he were spouting secrets from the very depths of the man's soul. Sherlock was reveling in this — after all, he harbored a profound disdain for this man who had been flirting with you.

“I must say,” Sherlock continued, a teasing glint in his eyes, “I notice you have a small stain on your collar, and is that a faint lipstick smudge? Ah, yes. You’re married, with three kids, no less? What a shame to be carrying on an affair. Is that a hotel booking I spied on your desk? Bringing your dalliance to a hotel for, shall we say, some ‘naughty’ activities?” He leaned in closer, the smirk on his lips growing more pronounced. “As I analyze, it seems you’ve never really held your wife’s hand or kissed her goodbye. Instead, it’s your mistress you’re eager to touch.”

The coworker swallowed hard, his face draining of color as he stammered, “Please, don’t tell my wife. I’d do anything to keep this from her!”

“Anything?” Sherlock enunciated slowly, letting the word hang between them. Then he added your name, clenching his jaw as he did so. “Here’s my recommendation: stay away from her. If you continue to flirt with her, I suggest you pack your things and leave London, unless you’d prefer to have your affair exposed. Yes?”

The man nodded vigorously, fear etched across his features. With trembling hands, he gathered his papers and hurried away, retreating upstairs to the second floor as though he were fleeing to his boss for cover.

When you returned, Sherlock turned his attention to you, a slight smile gracing his lips. He leaned in and planted a gentle kiss on your cheek. “How’s work?”

“Work? Sherlock, what are you doing here?” you asked, chuckling at the unexpected appearance. “And where’s my coworker?”

“Oh, he’s busy,” Sherlock shrugged nonchalantly. “Up on the second floor retrieving documents, I suppose. Nothing to worry about.”

“Oh?” You laughed lightly, holding up a document clipped on your clipboard. “That’s a shame; I was supposed to give him this as well.”

Sherlock nodded, his expression shifting as he deftly redirected the conversation. “Indeed, a shame. Anyway, I’ve booked a movie that you always love. Would you like to go see it after work?”

“Do I? Yes!” you replied, a genuine excitement lighting up your face. Sherlock bestowed another quick kiss on your cheek.

“Wonderful,” he said, taking your hand into his, the warmth of his touch adding to your delight as you both prepared to return to your day.

-

If you prefer to read at ao3

[dross-the-fish]

"Do you know the story of Genesis, Adam?" Dr. Watson asked as he swept away the fallen locks of hair from the floor around the creature's too small chair.

The being nodded, "I know it well...though perhaps not as you should understand it."

"No? As I understand it God created Adam and then Eve and gave them dominion over the Earth," Watson was not an overly religious man but he made it his habit to attend church once in a while and on rare occasions he would even absorb the tired sermons recited with comfortable hollowness by a priest who knew them to the letter but had never in his half-a-lifetime in the pulpit stopped to consider their meaning.

"Oh no, Doctor Watson. That is not how it goes," rasped the newly christened Adam. He propped his elbows on his bent knees and brought his joined fists to rest under his chin, unblinking yellow eyes staring hard at the old man before him, "Not at all. The version of events as I have come to understand them are thus: God created Adam, despised and cursed him, and when Adam fell he dragged God by his wax wings into Hell with him."

Rage, such potent rage and depth of despair the likes of which Watson had never seen on a human face twisted the aberrant features before him and the old man halted.

"That is blasphemous," he whispered.

Adam leapt from the chair, toppling it and seized Watson's hand laying it against the Y shaped stitching on his chest where a heart beat so sluggishly it was nearly imperceptible, "Touch and feel then Doctor! I am blasphemy! I am heresy! Mark thou that I am the very proof that man should not think himself God lest he damn all he touches! If thy heart is too craven to accept the burden of a Godless Adam then revoke my name and cast me back into the wilderness. I shall return to haunting my barren rock and trouble man no more nor it trouble me!"

Summoning whatever steely nerve he could find Watson shook his head and set his shoulders, "No! No, you are here dash it all! I have taken responsibility for you and I say are a man, Adam. Once we make land back in England I'm going to find you a tailor and a tutor. You will be not merely a man! I give you my word that I will make you as fine a gentleman as ever there has been."

The creature took stock of himself, eight feet tall, sewn of animal and human corpses and stubbornly alive after one hundred and thirty years. Then he looked to the man before him, significantly shorter, rotund and bearing every sign of mortality from the wrinkled face sporting a broken nose never property set to thin greying hair, combed in a vain attempt to hide a receding hairline. But it was Watson's eyes that struck Adam, a deep blue that seemed to defy the weight of age, brimming with vitality and such boyish earnestness that Adam could not help but feel a little humbled under their gaze.

"If that is what thou would make of me then so shall I be. A civil man of culture and education."

Watson dared to reach out to pat him, "Precisely! Civil, cultured, educated and modern! Your peculiarity of speech, for one, will need to be corrected. Once I finish giving you a physical examination that will be the first thing to teach you."

Adam did not protest as Watson pulled out a roll of measuring tape and recorded the circumference of his chest. Watching the doctor work in his confident and diligent manner Adam couldn't help but allow himself to feel the barest spark of excitement. Perhaps Watson would finish the work Victor had started. Perhaps with fine clothing, good manners and an education to go with his new name Adam could finally be the one thing he had craved for all of his life.

Human.

[raina-at]

100 words

Thank you for the tag, @calaisreno and @lisbeth-kk

As an old drabble fan, this was a welcome challenge. Drabbling is so much fun, and excellent training.

I actually did two 100-word drabbles that hang together. I think you won't need any context for these ;-)

*-*

Sherlock. I was going to make a joke about this being your last chance to run away, but I think that would slightly mischaracterise why I’m doing this. We both spent so much time running away from each other. But that’s over. I’m doing this now because I know you don’t want to run anymore. I’m doing this because I trust you to stay. That’s what this is, what these rings are. A symbol of that trust. My vow to you today is simple. No more hiding. No more running. From this day, until my last. I’m here to stay. 

John. I was so afraid of my heart for so long. I was afraid of the unreliability of emotion. I thought if I couldn’t rely on my own heart, I couldn’t rely on anyone else’s. But you… We’ve been through the wringer, you and I. And yet. You never stopped loving me. Even when you hated me, you loved me. I know that now. You taught me that if I can rely on your heart, I can rely on mine. My vow today is simple. I will always trust my heart, and I will always, always trust yours. 

*-*

This was fun!

I'm not sure who has been tagged, but I'm tagging a few people anyway @keirgreeneyes @jrow @totallysilvergirl @thetimemoves @meetinginsamarra my dear wife and fellow drabble fan @nuttersinc and whoever else wants to do this.

[v-thinks-on]

“The village gossips impressed upon me most urgently that there is something inhabiting these woods,” Holmes remarked as though we were at home on Baker Street and not hiking through those same woods as the sun slowly lowered in the sky.

“Mere legends, of course,” I said, as though I did not feel that very presence creeping at the back of my neck.

Holmes tossed me a wry glance over his shoulder which suggested it hardly needed saying.

“But,” I continued, my voice hushed, “if that boy died a natural, if tragic, death, what is there for us to investigate?”

[j-eryewrites]

Stressed Out

MAIN MASTER LIST

Word Count: 1.k <

Warnings: Not really any, kind of ooc Sherlock (but who cares)

Author's Note: Finally feeling like I have time to write and that the writing gods have been in my favor. This was a fun little one-shot to write. While I'm still trying to get back into my writing groove, this one shot definitely helped get some of the dust off my creative writing brain. So, thank you @my-dear-sweet-melody for requesting this one. I hope you enjoy it!

You weren’t sure how you’d been doing it: managing the day-to-day lives of two people who also happened to be good friends of yours, assisting Sherlock with cases, seeing things you’d never thought you’d see in your lifetime (both good and bad), juggling relationships, your own well-being and health, and time to relax. Although it seemed like you had less and less time to do the things concerning yourself. You knew it wasn’t healthy, but when you were thrust into the world of Sherlock Holmes, more important things came into play.

Sherlock was the first to notice how the stress was weighing on you. It was a total shock when he casually announced your current state to John. The moment the words of concern were uttered from Sherlock’s lips, the puzzle in John’s mind had been completed. With the help of Mrs. Hudson, the two men began to conspire to make life easier for their dear friend.

At first, Sherlock’s conscious decision to wash his dishes and put them away in the correct cabinets struck you as odd. Sherlock’s mind was usually too busy for such arbitrary tasks, and such magnificent brain power couldn’t be wasted on such a thing. Then came the tidiness of his experiments. You could swear you hadn’t seen a stray finger or eyeball dissolving in vinegar for quite some time.

When you had asked Sherlock about his new behavior, he shrugged it off with some wildly strange research idea he had come up with. You tried to follow along, but your brain began to hurt after a moment, so you opted to believe him instead.

Meanwhile, John took extra care to charge his and Sherlock’s devices. He knew no matter how brilliant Sherlock was, the man seemingly ceased to forget that computers, phones, and the lot needed to be charged via a charging cord and port. On the other hand, Mrs. Hudson made the note to prepare extra tea and biscuits to save yourself the trouble of doing that for Sherlock and John.

Now, you felt no need to question John and Mrs.Hudson’s new behavior. It was in character for them to do small things like that. However, you continued to question Sherlock; he grew tired of it. Why couldn’t you see that he cared for you, too? That maybe he cared a bit more for you than he should. He was growing weary of the excuses he made to your insistent questions when all he wanted to do was throw them up and tell you the truth. Truthfully, the truth was something he insisted upon. Sherlock always found it one way or another. Yet, he could only fib when you had a new query about his altered behavior. Was it hard for you to understand that Sherlock could care? That he, too, could be human?

“Sherlock,” you called as you sat on the couch, pouring over the current case. It was usually your job to organize each thing into its Sherlockian category to save Sherlock his brain power. However, when you opened the file, it had already been done. “Did I happen to organize this in my sleep?” You raised the file and peered at him. Sherlock felt his mind conjure up the latest lie. Just before it left his mouth, he paused. He got up and marched to the window, where he began to gaze out onto the street below. He couldn’t lie anymore. He had to tell you the truth.

“I organized it,” Sherlock said.

You froze. Something was seriously wrong with the man if he was now organizing his own cases. “Sherlock, you never orga–”

“Why can’t I?” Sherlock’s voice grew tense. His eyes clenched shut, all while his back was still towards you. He wouldn’t dare look at you. He knew if he saw your eyes, he’d crumble and tell you everything, but everything was what you needed to hear. Everything was what he needed to say.

“I never said you couldn’t. It’s just,” you faltered, “…strange.”

Within a moment, Sherlock whirled around. His icy blue eyes began to thaw under your gaze. “I observed you have stressed: Your trousers falling to your hips instead of hanging snuggly on your waist, the dark circles under your eyes that only grew prominent by the day, the growing urge to sleep instead of join Mrs. Hudson for the weekly watch party of the latest soap opera,” Sherlock shut his mouth. He had said too much already; he shouldn’t say more, but his lips moved again. “I wasn’t the only one who noticed, John and Mrs. Hudson, too. We devised a plan to lessen the blow of our–my constant mess.”

As Sherlock spoke, you realized his words were only the truth. You had noticed you suddenly had more time to eat a meal, spend time with your favorite landlady, who was more like a mother, go on walks in the park with John, listen to Sherlock compose his latest piece, sleep, and live life as it should be lived. Amidst Sherlock’s rambling, you whispered, “Why?”

“Because we–because I care you for,” Sherlock choked.

Slowly, you remove yourself from the comfort of the couch cushions and find a place in front of Sherlock. You watch as Sherlock shudders from the touch of your hand on his cheek. “Thank you,” you said as a smile grew. “Thank you for caring when I forgot to take care of myself. Although…”

Sherlock frowned.

“…while I appreciate the sentiment of you organizing your own cases, John charging the computers, and Mrs. Hudson always preparing tea, I’d still like to be able to do my job. After all, the great Sherlock Holmes still needs to use his brain power to solve cases and save the day.”

Sherlock could only smile at that response for he'd give you anything you'd ask. "Of course. Of course, Y/N."

____

Comment below if you would like to be added to the tag list! Please comment or reblog if you can; I want to hear from you.

Tag list:

@bartokthealbinobat

@astudyinlaura

@sherlockstrangewolf

@yourleastfavoriteguyinthechair

@biggerthancalli13

@themartiansdaughter

@sunsumonner 

@silversword7000

@starlightaurorab

@my-dear-sweet-melody

@neroarrow83

@khaleesihavilliard

@agentxx92

@myszur-blog

@halestorm0707

_____

[lisbeth-kk]

100 Word Game

Thanks for the tag @chriscalledmesweetie @calaisreno

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

The Clue

"Why are you so good at this, John? It's hardly fair."

"Well, I pay attention, AND I don't delete stuff like you do."

"I pay attention!"

"Not to the less important things; in your opinion, I might add."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Let's just say I read other sections of the paper than you."

"True."

"If you'd looked at the photos - "

"You didn't mention photos!"

"The clue was right in front of you the whole time!"

"Stop being smug. I would've spotted Gavin's tattoo from miles away if I saw him in person."

"Greg, you git."

"Greg? Seriously?"

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

This was much harder than anticipated! Fun, though. Tagging some of you who might find this amusing. Don't feel obliged to play if you'd rather not.

@totallysilvergirl @raina-at @meetinginsamarra @shirleycarlton @mydogwatson @helloliriels @221beloved @ninasnakie @jobooksncoffee @cumbercurlygirl @thegildedbee @blogstandbygo

[dragonbugthing]

lil s&co drabble that I wrote based off a post I saw. SPOILERS FOR THE DANCING MEN (PART 3)

[Sherlock grabs John’s wrist and checks his pulse]

John: W-What are you doing?

Sherlock: Feeling your pulse.

John: And…uh— Why is that?

Sherlock: So I know you’re alive.

John: You can see that I’m perfectly alright, wh—

[Sherlock cuts him off]

Sherlock, tense: I need to feel it.

John, concerned: You okay?

Sherlock, nonchalant: I’m fine. Don’t worry about it.

John: Do you want to… talk about it?

Sherlock: No.

John: I’m here if you change your mind, mate.

[fbfh]

do you still write for jj?

ooooh not only do I write for JJ but I kiss you on both cheeks for giving me an excuse to talk about one of my favorite obscure JJ thoughts. JJ x ballerina!reader (gn so technically ballet dancer reader, but you do dance pointe and in a more feminine style in pas de deux so do with that what you will)

They thought you were a kook for the first few summers since you clearly went to school off the island. It turns out you're not, you're just a scholarship kid to whatever fancy school you go to (something that Pope LOVES to pick your brain about since he's dying for a scholarship to his dream college)

at some point or another, there's a hurricane. you end up sticking it out with the other pogues. that's when they notice how... weirdly flexible you are. especially JJ. mostly JJ. it started off small, with you stretching a little while you guys are hanging out in the aftermath since the day after a hurricane is always a free day. JJ looked away from you for like two seconds and you just fuckin... dropped into a perfect split. he's surprised by this obviously, but he's more surprised when you seamlessly shift to a split on the other side, then a center split, bending and moving with impossibly flexibility. then a moment later, you're asking him "hey can you grab my leg?" as you stand up and stretch into a scorpion/needle pose. soon you're dragging him out of the room to "help you with something else." he FULLY thinks yall are about to hook up, but instead you put on this beautiful, artsy, erratic piano music, kick off your sandals or sneakers or whatever, and begin moving like a fucking vision.

you're rambling to him while you dance like it's nothing, but his jaw is on the fucking floor.

"This is the solo I learned last semester," you chuckle while spinning like a little figurine atop a music box, or something in a snow globe, or... wherever else he's seen ballerinas in passing before.

"If I'm rusty by the time I get back, Miss Raine will kill me." you chuckle playfully.

after a few moments, you finish, posed delicately on the ground. you look up at him, your cheeks flushed, your eyes glistening with mirth.

"holy fucking shit," he exclaims, making you blush. "goddamn, princess, that-"

he trails off with a disbelieving chuckle.

"That was fuckin' incredible," he says with a breathy laugh, then nudges you playfully, looking at you more closely like he must have missed something all those times he looked at you and never saw this magical ballet fairy hiding inside you. "you've been holdin' out on me." he teases.

"okay, okay, here's where I need your help." you begin, trying not to get too distracted. you reach out and grab his wrist, holding out his left arm palm up. "I'm gonna run at you like this-"

you demonstrate, taking a step forward. his attention is locked onto you even harder from the moment you grab his arm.

"And kinda... kick my leg around," you do just that, so you're twisted around and facing away from him. he lets out a little noise of surprise. you know it must seem convoluted and ridiculous, but you really need help practicing this lift.

"I need you to wrap your arm around me like this," you say, bending forward with one leg extended behind you, the other supporting you, so your stomach rests on his bicep and his hand holds the small of your back. "And then place your other hand right on my ribcage here."

"oh, my hand will be wherever you want it, cupcake." he says, making you roll your eyes at the (only half joking) innuendo.

"okay." you say, taking a step back. "you ready?"

the first few times you walk through it together are clumsy and slow, a mess of limbs and giggles, but eventually you get it. you call your friends in to show them the bluebird lift you've been working on, even having successfully taught JJ how to lower you and do a few basic steps with you to conclude. you both get through it unscathed, and your friends reactions are very similar to JJ (with only slightly less innuendo and teasing from John B and Pope), and as JJ giggles and demands you come at him so he can lift you again, you start to see a lot of potential in him.

maybe, just maybe, you can shape that potential a little more over the summer. your ballet academy always has scholarships for boys available since they're always in demand in the performing arts. you think there might just be a chance for JJ to do a lot more lifts with you.

[alexendria-rose]

*´¯`*.¸¸.*´¯`* ✨𝐹𝒶𝒾𝓇𝓎 𝑔𝒶𝓇𝒹𝑒𝓃 ✨*`¯´*.¸¸.*`¯´*

~Welcome to my masterlist fairy garden! Pick your poison 🩶

Heads up all of these are x readers!

🥀 -Benedict Cumberbatch

🥀 -Doctor Strange ⪼------➢ 𓍢ִ໋🌷

🥀 -Sherlock Holmes

🥀-Lucanis Dellamorte ⪼------➢ 𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒

🥀 -Jeremiah Fisher ⪼------➢ 𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒

🥀 -Loki Laufeyson ⪼------➢ 𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒

🥀 -Evan Peters ⪼------➢ 𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒

🥀 -Sebastian Sallow ⪼------➢ 𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒

🥀-Tyler Galpin ⪼------➢ 𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒

[earlgreytea68]

Advent Drabble 20 - Ski Trip

For K2togYo

John has this idea that a ski trip will be a fun family holiday. He’s not the best at skiing, but he likes very much the thought of going on holiday. He feels like they need it. It’s been a long year full of murder, and yes, that’s their lives, but still. He wants to sit by a fireplace sipping hot cocoa.

Mycroft says, “At a ski resort in the Alps? Nasty hotbeds of international intrigue.”

This recommends the idea to Sherlock. “Oh, excellent, let’s go.”

John supposes he shouldn’t be surprised when someone dies in an avalanche and Sherlock insists it was murder. He suspects Mycroft arranged the whole thing.