#sherlock favourite drugs

[badass-queer-couples-battle]

Gay wrongs tournament, quarterfinals of the major bracket

Propaganda:

For House and Wilson:

Literally the most insane couple of all time from medical malpractice the show. They’re best friends, they live together, they’ve drugged eachother, they make stupid bets together, they manipulate each other, they ride off into the sunset together. They’re Sherlock and Watson, they’re the best doctors in their fields and you’d never want them anywhere near your medical care.

Medical malpractice <3

For Will and Hannibal:

Ive previously only heard the term "murder husbands" refer to hannigram so it feels flitting. The whole series culminated with a murder they did together bathing in blood. 

The show and ship that coined murder husbands. It’s in the text in s3 from a journalist side character. They do Many murders either together or as a message to each other. Usually this involves turning the dead body into an art piece. The show ends with them killing a guy together in a slo mo scene backed by porno music.

They're both batshit and manipulative.

ALRIGHT so they're not canonically together but it is HEAVILY implied and they have some sort of fucked up psychosexual obsession with each other. in the later parts of the show they start committing murder and cannibalism together and they're soooo unhinged but it's awesome

kill people for each other. maim each other. kill people together. most batshit insane metaphors. send each other to jail. ruin everyone’s lives. someone can probably say this better than me but these gay people are insane

Literally THE murder husbands. They kill for each other. They've tried to kill each other. They're canon in all but name, like the homoeroticism between these two is the driving force of the show.

one time hannibal folded a guy into an origami human heart

They are in love and they kill and eat people. They are called Murder Husbands in canon.

The original murder husbands (literally, that's not just their ship name, they get called that in canon)

The show begins with Will working for the FBI and trying to catch Hannibal, but because Hannibal is so intrigued by the way Will is able to see the world and the motives behind the killings so easily, it becomes a game of Hannibal isolating Will even more from the people around and seducing him to try and kill. By the time Will starts embracing the side of him that Hannibal sees, he starts oulling back and trying to distance himself so that when the time comes for Will to fully embrace himself and Hannibal, no one really suspects what they have planned. 

hannibal literally does murder as courtship and it works bc will is also a fucked up little guy

I'm actually quite offended they aren't included by default (joke). They are THE murder husbands!!!!!! (mod note: they should have been, but I wanted to see how many submissions they'd get. They got 19, making them a little more than 6% of total submission count).

do i have to say it. they literally get called murder husbands IN THE SHOW

There are 3201 works for Hannibal on ao3 tagged Murder Husbands. They are the ogs, they are the pioneers we owe it all to them.

THEE murder couple. You know it. I know it. They commit crimes at each other as courting and then commit crimes together and then fall off a cliff to wash up somewhere and live on to serve cunt. Get referred to as 'murder husbands' in canon. What more do you need

Hannigram were literally called Murder Husbands in canon, they are the og, they are THE blueprint. They were gay as hell and comitted so much murder so many crimes. THEY RAN OFF TO EUROPE TOGETHER.

[raina-at]

Hobby

This is another sequel of sorts to this ficlet from last year, but this too stands on its own.

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

Sherlock hates it, hates it, when someone calls his violin a hobby.

It’s always the same. People see his violin. Ask him if he plays professionally. When he replies in the negative, they make a comment about how music is such a ‘rewarding hobby’.

Music isn’t a hobby. At least not to Sherlock. Sherlock, to use Mycroft’s words, doesn’t have hobbies. He has obsessions. 

Music isn’t an obsession. It's more than that. Music is a lifesaver. It’s a necessity. It’s language, and emotion, and freedom. It’s release valve, expression, relief.

Music is the only thing he’s found that can consume him the way the drugs did, the way a good case does. It engages him, wholly, mind and body and heart. It’s the only time he feels at peace with himself, whole in himself, and yet totally in control. The only limit to what he can express with his violin is his own skill and imagination. 

John doesn’t have a musical bone in his body. He’s not only tone-deaf to the point where the tune of Happy Birthday is a challenge to him, but his taste in music is both underdeveloped and conventional. He likes Mozart, and Brahms, and Tchakowski, but he has little appreciation for Locatelli, for example. (John thinks his favourite composer is Mendlesson, but it’s actually not true. The pieces John especially likes are actually Sherlock’s. But Sherlock has never told John this. Every time John asks, Sherlock tells him it’s Mendlesson. Sherlock is the only person who knows John’s favourite composer is actually Sherlock himself. Sherlock doesn’t know why he lies, but it feels like a secret too precious to share. He hoards this knowledge like a glowing ember in the hearth of his mind palace, a source of warmth and light on bad days.)

One of the reasons John is so amazing is that he isn’t musical at all, doesn’t play an instrument, barely ever listens to music, but somehow, he’s the only person who understands. Who seems to know, instinctively, how much Sherlock needs the music. It’s miraculous, and quite inexplicable to Sherlock, how John somehow knows so many of Sherlock’s secrets without having to be told.

John never bothered Sherlock when he used to play, back home in Baker Street. He never told Sherlock to stop playing, even when all he did was screech on the instrument. He never complained, never asked questions. The only times he offered any comment at all, it was when Sherlock played a piece he especially liked.

Sherlock thinks now that he never truly appreciated these moments enough, these quiet times in Baker Street when Sherlock was playing his heart out through his violin, and John was listening.

*-*

It’s hot in Istanbul. It’s August, and the days feel endless. Sherlock’s shirt is sticking to his back and his hair to his forehead as he comes back from trailing the mark the whole afternoon. He’s sunburned and his entire body feels like one exposed, over sensitised nerve ending. He’s uncomfortable and overstimulated, his head hurts from the sun and he wants nothing more than a cold shower and five hours of complete silence.

It’s never silent here. The boiler clanks and the floorboards creak and the neighbours’ telly blares through paper-thin walls. The upstairs neighbours have three children who scream at each other all day, and the right hand neighbours veer between having vigorous fights and even more vigorous sex. The windows overlook a busy intersection and traffic seems to rattle right through Sherlock’s head at every hour of the day or night.

Sherlock lies down on the bed and closes his eyes. He wants silence. Just for a minute. Just for a breath. He needs to find that quiet space inside his mind where he can go when everything outside gets too much. 

He puts a pillow over his head to drown out the noise. It helps a little, but not much.

He doesn’t know how much time has passed when he feels cool fingers in his wrist, trying to be unobtrusive. “I’m not dead,” he mutters from underneath his pillow.

“You have a pillow over your face and you haven’t moved in ten minutes. Sorry for not jumping to conclusions.”

Sherlock removes the pillow from his head and glares at John. “And where have you been? You were supposed to be back by six.”

John shrugs. “Got a bit sidetracked. Did a bit of shopping.”

“John, we can’t afford to get sidetracked. We’re not tourists, this is not a pleasure cruise. We need to be alert at all times if we’re going to break up Moriarty’s—”

Sherlock breaks off mid-sentence, stunned into silence, because John  is holding a violin case. It’s obviously old and well-used, and Sherlock suspects that the violin inside will not be in much better shape.

Sherlock takes the case form John, who’s smirking at him in a way Sherlock finds both annoying and sexy, and opens it with shaky fingers.

The instrument is lovely. It’s clearly well-used and well-loved, but it’s in good shape. He gazes at it for a long time, runs his fingers over the strings, enjoys the wood-rosin smell. 

Then he looks up at John, who’s watching him with an indecipherable expression on his face and a small smile on his lips. 

“Play something?” 

There’s a whole universe of meaning in John’s words and in his blue eyes watching Sherlock with an intensity that would be scary if Sherlock were the type to be scared by extremes. 

I’d jump off a building for you.

You did. I’d kill for you.

You did.

Sherlock lifts the instrument out of its case and lets his fingers run over the body, gently, carefully, curiously, the way he wishes he had the courage to touch John. 

He rosins the bow and checks the tuning, trying to get his wildly beating heart under control. He’s ridiculously nervous as he lifts the instrument to his shoulder and puts bow to string.

The first notes of music unwind most of the tension in him, the relief feels like breathing out after holding your breath for too long. He plays a few scales, and it feels like water cascading down his overheated senses, leaving cool tranquillity in its wake.

“Play something by my favourite composer,” John says, with a smile in his voice and a sort of greedy hunger in his eyes that makes Sherlock shiver.

“Who’s that?” Sherlock asks, feeling something bold and new emerge between them, in this place where nothing is familiar except the two of them, where nothing is reliable but whatever this is between them, where nothing is certain but that they’re going home together, or not at all. And he wonders if this shivery wanting feeling in Sherlock’s belly is one of the things John knows about without having to be told, a secret they share without ever having spoken a word about it. 

John just looks at him for a moment, then he smiles. “You.”

And just like that Sherlock knows what that shivery intensity is. He lifts the violin to his shoulder again and he plays. He says all the things he can’t say with words. Thank you. Your eyes are lovely. I want to touch you.

I love you. So much. With everything I have. 

Listen, can you hear it, how much I love you?

And John, as always, listens, and understands.

--------

Tags behind the cut as usual, please let me know if you want to be tagged or untagged.

@calaisreno @totallysilvergirl @weeesi @peanitbear @keirgreeneyes @meetinginsamarra @lisbeth-kk @salmonsown @jolieblack @jrow @friday411 @givemesherbet-blog-blog

[louisaslawyer]

He is the best, I love Herlock so much, he is a fascinating creature that must be caged and studied for centuries. Truly one of my favourite Sherlock's out there. I love him so much ‼️‼️‼️‼️ He is a consulting detective, wax statue, father, roommate, master of disguises, canonically does drug (like the real Sherlock), awesomely caring, soap eater. Everything. I think he and Reigen from Mob psycho should meet.

[inevitably-johnlocked]

can you suggest fics with love confessions/first kiss

Hey Nonny!

It's not much, but I do have enough fics compiled for a new Love Confessions list! Check these out, and also have a look-see at my other lists below! I just recently posted Part two of my First Kiss list, so enjoy that as well!!

As usual, suggestions are welcome, friends!

LOVE CONFESSIONS Pt. 6

Love Confessions / Slow Burn / Dev. Rel. (Fluff Version)

... / Love Confessions, Slow Burn & Dev. Rel. Pt. 2 / ...

Love Confessions Pt. 3

Love Confessions Pt. 4

Love Confessions Pt. 5

Christmas-Time Love Confessions

First Kiss (Updated March 24/23)

First Kiss Pt 2

The Skin Over My Heart by standbygo (E, 8,849 w., 1 Ch. || Post-Hiatus, Fake Relationship, Case Fic, Dog Tags, Military, Homophobia, Gay Bashing, POV First Person Sherlock, Friends to Lovers, First Kiss / Time, Declarations of Love, Undercover, Haircuts, Flashbacks, Touching, Pining Sherlock, Hospitalization, Metaphors, Introspection, Hand Jobs, On the Couch, John’s Past, Angst with Happy Ending) – Sherlock and John are still trying to adjust to Sherlock's return from his hiatus when John's friend Bill Murray brings them a case. Someone is targeting the LGBTQA+ members of Bill's unit. John and Sherlock go undercover at the unit, but when they end up having to flirt to flush out the suspect, Sherlock realizes he's in over his head.

A Comprehensive Taxonomy of Tobacco-Ash by Silvergirl (E, 11,475 w., 2 Ch. || No TRF AU || Cranky Sherlock, Alternating POV’s, Self-Esteem Issues, Jealous John, Pining John, Confessions, First Kiss, Frottage, Bed Sharing, Sensuality, Cuddling, Touching) – A handsome academic approaches Sherlock about publishing his magnum opus on tobacco-ash in a prestigious scientific journal. Sherlock is quite flattered and flustered, and John’s nose is out of joint.In this little AU there is no Fall and no Mary. Instead, there is humor and smut. Truly a disproportionate amount of smut.

Both Sides Now by Silvergirl (M, 14,724 w., 5 Ch. || Post-TEH / Reunion Fix-It, Bed Sharing, First Kiss / Time, Undercover John, Couple for a Case, Assassin Mary, Big Brother Mycroft, Norfolk Coast, Angry John, First Kiss, Worried Sherlock, Pining Sherlock, Hand Holding, Bed Sharing, Alternating POV, Infidelity, Meddling Mycroft, Emotional Love Making, Matchmaker Mycroft) – Sherlock, undercover on the Norfolk coast, texts that he needs help; John is still seething after Sherlock’s gambit in the train car, and he refuses. When Sherlock goes missing, Mycroft sends John in to pose as Sherlock’s bit on the side.

The Slow Dance and Death of a Carbon Copy by batslikepastel (T, 15,576 w., 8 Ch. || Angst with Happy Ending, Mutual Pining, Mental Health Issues, Mary is Not Nice, Idiots in Love, Eventual Fluff, Developing Relationship, Alcoholism, Love Confessions, BAMF John, First Kiss) – He hasn’t talked to Sherlock outside the bedroom since that first night. Today, though, when Sherlock painstakingly makes John’s favourite breakfast- eggs Benedict- he smiles delightedly and kisses his cheek. “Thanks, Mary.” The first sign of delusion.

Swallow the Night by ArwaMachine (E, 87,873 w., 15 Ch. || TSo3/Stag Night Fix It, TAB/S4 Divergence, Toplock, Mutual Pining, PWP, Drunk / Public Sex, Anal Fingering/Sex, Alcohol-Induced Amnesia, Everyone Knows Except Them, Emotional Love Confession, Demisexual Sherlock, Internalized Homophobia [John], Parentlock with Rosie, First Kiss, Drug Relapse, Infidelity, Texting, Masturbation, Oblivious John, Emotional Love Making, Angst with Happy Ending, Dreams and Nightmares) – “Do you know how long,” John panted, his cheek scraping against the wall, looking back at Sherlock through half-closed eyes, “I’ve wanted this?” Sherlock pressed himself against John’s back, biting at John’s ear. “Not nearly as long as I have,” he whispered.

Bakers with Benefits by Raina_at (E, 88,130 w., 14 Ch. || Great British Bake Off AU || Strangers to Lovers, Switchlock, Friends with Benefits, Mentions of Alcoholism / Past Drug Use, Banter, Flirting, Fluff, Light Angst, Semi-Public Sex, Past Sherlock/Victor, Mutual Pining, POV Sherlock, Obsessive Sherlock, John’s Bum) – Sherlock Holmes has a successful YouTube baking channel, but what he really wants is his own bakery. When an old friend sends him a call for the very first Great British Bake Off, he seizes the opportunity to finally win a sponsor for his bakery. Here's the plan: Win Bake Off, get the bakery, don't fall in love with the handsome Army doctor at the neighbouring station. Easy.

Drawn to Stars by Silvergirl (E, 109,272 w., 60 Ch. || S4 Compliant to TLD / TFP Doesn’t Exist, Sherlock’s Italian Adventure, Sherlock/OC and Johnlock, Jealous John, Mutual Pining, Misunderstandings, First Kiss/Time, Idiots in Love, 3 Part Story, Slow Burn, Inexperienced Sherlock, Bottom Sherlock, Introspection, Multiple Alternating First and Third Person POV, Separation and Reconciliation, Emotional Love Making, Love Confessions via Letters, Angst with Happy Ending) – After the Culverton Smith case Sherlock is clean, working, and looking for a romantic partner—since John has told him that’s what he needs. Shame John didn’t mention he was interested in that role himself, before Sherlock went off to Rome with a gorgeous Italian copper to try to fall in love and become a complete human being.  Part 1 of the Drawn to Stars series

[myths-tournaments]

Awful Characters Round 1 Part 4 (2/8)

Propaganda under the cut!

VEGAS THEERAPANYAKUL

he's such a polarizing character because there's the group of us who are like Vegas <3!!! and then there's the people that point out his many crimes against humanity and lack of redeemable qualities or actions. he brutally tortures his love interest. he commits lots of crimes against the protagonist including drugging him. he's literally the villain. I love him so much though he's the poorest little meow meow of all time

As the oldest son in the minor mafia family in Thailand, Vegas seeks every opportunity to outdo his cousin from the main family. He hires an assassin to go after him. On another occasion he drugs, kidnaps, and assaults a guy to get at his cousin. He secretly schemes with the Yakuza, plots to frame that same guy as a mole working for the main family, fakes being in love with his cousins ex-boyfriend to the point of getting engaged (and then ditches him), and allegedly has done the same thing with the actual mole working for the main family. The definition of manipulate, manwhore, manslaughter. Vegas has a whole ass Patrick Bateman-style murder coat for torture. Methods of torture used: extracting a man's Cochlear, electrocuting a man's balls, forcefeeding by shoving said man's head into slop, whipping him with his own leather belt, setting a fake escape trap only to chase the hostage down and tase him. Whenever he makes deals he'll slip his hand into the other person's with a firm grip before they've consciously expressed a choice (so it always goes in his favor). He shields himself with other's bodies during shootouts, letting several people die for his sake. He's into BDSM (this isn't one of the bad things, but hoo boy people will act like it is). Listen, he's a piece of work. He cries because his pet hedgehog dies. He falls for his hostage, fucks him, and then continues to be shitty so the guy knocks him out to escape. He gets pathetic about it. He confesses his love and kisses him in a parking garage full of dead bodies in the middle of a mafia coup that he is leading. He's absolutely reprehensible and is treated as the main villain of the show for several reasons. Except I love him and his insanity. He gets a lot of shit that he doesn't deserve (both in canon and in the fandom). Not that I wanna fix him, that wouldn't be fun! Vegas and his partner deserve to serve cunt, be disgustingly in love, and murder to their hearts desires because I said so.

CHARLES AUGUSTUS MILVERTON

This is based on vibes and general like…hesitancy in others to agree that Milverton is worth simping over. He's the true evil foil to a necessary evil protag. He is always on a power trip he finds himself smart but can't pivot when things go off script, he's the king of blackmail because he isn't trying to get the money he's trying to make the person come to ruin and really wants to watch. His goon pissed on what they thought was Sherlock Holmes' Stradivarius, simply to humiliate him. He's a wet rat, sexy as hell, and entertaining af.

Look, the man is pure evil, he blackmails people not for the profit of taking the ransoms but to watch them frantically scramble to gather the ransom and then watch the light die in their eyes as he brings their worst nightmares to life before them. He ordered the death of a disabled child (and i’m still mad about it). He made his boyfriend destroy a violin (as far as he knew, a very expensive violin at that) by pissing on it. He would kick a puppy. But he’s also dramatic and fun about his pure evil, and I’m attached. He tries to make clowns out of my favourite couple, and gets called the whole circus for it. It’s funny. Also, his depiction in the musicals (specifically the fourth musical) dials this drama up to 11, while also giving him a very cute relationship with Ruskin. He’s the literal worst, but he’s fun about it, so it’s all totally okay.

He blackmails people for fun. He isn't after their money, hes already rich, but still he asks amounts of money that are over the limit for the people he blackmails. His greatest joy is to see good people blackmailed into doing bad things.

[olderthannetfic]

This recent talk about authors has me curious: Do you have favourite authors? Or favourite books that you'd recommend (as in not specifically recommend to a person looking to read a specific genre etc. but rather a book you loved reading and would love to shove into absolutely everybody's faces if you could)? Do you only read in English or do you also like to read in other languages? What book or books are you currently reading?

And just so these aren't one-way-street-like snoopily curious questions: my favourite authors are Emma Donoghue and Hannah Kent; my favourite books are "Slammerkin" by Emma Donoghue, "Burial Rites" by Hannah Kent, "Christmas Eve Kittens" by Wilma Counts, Cathleen Clare and Debbie Raleigh, "Every day" by David Levithan, "Der Kristallpalast" (The Crystal Palace) by Oliver Plaschka, Alexander Flory and Matthias Mösch; I'm currently reading "Time of the Magicians" by Wolfram Eilenberger and anxiously awaiting Hannah Kent's most recent book "Devotion" to be translated to my native language.

I am very bad at accurately sorting books into genres, but I'd guess most of the books I've read may be classified as YA, though I personally don't know what classifies a book as YA apart from "is written with young adults as the target group," but that's too broad a description to be useful to anyone in my opinion, heh. Some things I've read I'd sort into (also way too broadly classified) stuff like romance (Christmas Eve Kittens), crime or detective fiction [Krimi in german combines both] (for kids The Three Investigators and The Famous Five, and arguably for adults Sherlock Holmes, Miss Marple, Hercule Poirot though I've only seen Poirot films not yet read Poirot books, shame on me!), horror (Fear Street series as horror for kids and Lovecraft for adults), historical fiction (books by Hannah Kent and Emma Donoghue, Lilac Girls), historical nonfiction (Time of the Magicians and The Visionaries by Wolfram Eilenberger), steampunk (Der Kristallpalast, World Shaker, Steamed, Magierdämmerung), nonfiction (Zoo Station: The Story of Christiane F.), poetry (Heinrich Heine and Edgar Allan Poe) among other things like light-hearted children's books (St. Clare's series).

Some of the aforementioned books are classified as YA, and in my opinion reasonably so, though I do believe that classifying YA as a genre itself is quite useless since it only describes the target group but barely describes what a book is about, if that makes sense.

If I had to write down some classifiers for YA, I'd say it's maybe books that are written in a way that's accessible to a person who is no longer a child but still may be likely to not have experienced much of the adult world yet and may not necessarily be very well-read or knowledgeable about more "mature" topics on a deeper level. I'd guess that for example a book that's about topics that people may have come into contact with during their adolescence in some way may be YA like drugs (Blue Highway by Diane Tullson) and emotional rollercoasters and bullying (Thirteen Reasons Why by Jay Asher, Easy Meat by Maureen Stewart) and stalking (Unheimliche Nähe by Patricia Schröder) and mental illnesses like eating disorders (Jeansgröße 0 by Brigitte Blobel) or depression and physical ilnesses (Before I Die by Jenny Downham, Skellig by David Almond though it's mainly about fantasy and arthritis isn't the focal point if I'm not misremembering) etc. (all of the examples are YA I've read and would also classify as such) or maybe a book that contains entry-level knowledge about philosophy that you may have learned in school or that you may yourself have come across in some way unrelated to school but that doesn't require deeper knowledge on that topic or on specific philosophers or philosophy schools for its target audience to understand well...

Now that I've forgotten whatever point I wanted to make: sorry for rambling, I've been sitting in your askbox trying to remember the titles and looking up their translations and the authors' names for the past hour or so instead of doing the household chores I had planned to do today lol. Off to eat bread for lunch because now I'm too hungry to cook, oops.

Have a nice day!

--

I'm currently reading Invitation to a Banquet: The Story of Chinese Food by Fuchsia Dunlop.

I don't have any books I want to thrust upon everyone. I think that's a good way to breed haters for things I love.

In general, favorite authors of mine are... hmm... Agatha Christie, Tamara Allen, Loretta Chase, Georgette Heyer, Mary Elizabeth Braddon... IDK. It's hard to think of people off the top of my head. I like the current indie "m/m romance" scene in English, but it feels like it's still early days for that industry, and I can't think of a lot of authors I love who have multiple series and who aren't going through a career slump. (Like I love Jordan L. Hawk in general, but his latest stuff isn't making me rush to read more even if I'm still backing his Patreon. KJ Charles not only irritated me with dumb posts but started writing suckier books till I no longer buy her at all.)

I've read a lot of Golden Age detective fiction and some hard boiled US stuff (think 1930s and 40s). I've probably reread those sorts of books more than any others. While I certainly have authors I like, I only very, very rarely reread anything, and a lot of what I read is by non-prolific or long-dead people, so I don't have a bunch of names I go to the bookstore for currently.

My grandmother owned a fuckton of Three Investigators books, so I devoured those as a kid, though I think most Americans my age don't care about them.

I read in Spanish too. The only thing I've gotten through a lot of that springs to mind is the capitan Alatriste series. In general, if I travel somewhere Spanish speaking, I'll try to pick up some books, but I usually end up with things that are too highfallutin and literary for my taste or that are real downers. (Plus I'm a slow reader in Spanish, so the more literary stuff is a slog.) I like fun trash, and most of the fun trash I've seen on bookshelves is translated American romance novels and that kind of thing. I'll read in translation, but not if it's from English.

I do read manga in Japanese, but I'm not anywhere near good enough to read novels at this point.

[lokidokieokie]

Beyond the Pages | Chapter #1 - Into the Unknown

Series Summary: It was just your weekly trip to the comic-book store. While looking for a comic for your collection, you stumble upon an old-looking book, with an odd combination of symbols on the cover. You, being drawn to the weirdness of it, pick it up and open the cover. A strange force surrounded your person; and the next thing you knew, you were waking up on the steps of what looked to be 177A Bleecker Street. What had you gotten yourself into?

Pairing: Stephen Strange x Fem!Reader

Warning(s): none that I can think of, lemme know if I've forgotten something

You blinked in confusion as you looked at the world around you. The last thing you remember was holding that old comic book. And now you're lying on the steps of a building that you'd pretty much memorised. A building straight from the scene of your favourite movie.

You sat up slowly, trying to rub the ache in your head away as you tried to make sense of what was happening. Your mind was reeling. This couldn't be real. Something must've happened and you passed out. You were dreaming; you had to be.

The sound of the Sanctum door opening, and someone clearing their throat brought you out of your thoughts. There in all his 1.83m glory, stood Doctor Stephen Strange, the Sorcerer Supreme; your hero.

He took one look at you and sighed, "I suppose you're the reason for the cosmic shift?"

You gulped, a lump forming in your throat. This was the Stephen Strange. The most notorious neurosurgeon the Marvel Universe had even seen; probably the greatest Sorcerer Supreme in the multiverse...and you were sitting at his doorstep like some drugged out weirdo.

With your eyes wide with embarrassment, you quickly stood up and squeaked. You swore you saw a flash of amusement in his eyes at the sound.

"Now I'm only going to ask this once, because, quite frankly, I have other problems I need to attend to. What master do you serve?"

You giggled at that. That line was ten times better said in person than any movie could ever portray.

"Does that line work on anybody?"

His eyebrows raised, "All answers so far lead to no."

You smiled, "I didn't think so."

You swear his lips almost quirked up in a smirk, and that made you feel a rush of relief. Maybe now he wasn't going to banish you or cast some sort of spell on you. But the situation itself was still bewildering.

"I'm sorry for my lack of manners," you said, fidgeting with the comic book in your hands. "I didn't mean to intrude in the Sanctum."

Stephen seemed to study you intently, his gaze seemingly piercing through your soul. "You possess an otherworldly energy," he said, his voice calm yet laced with curiosity. "It's unlike anything I've encountered before. How did you come to possess it?"

You blinked, taken aback by his astute observation. Maybe he's a sort of Sherlock in every universe...

"I- I don't know how I got here," you stammered, struggling to find the right words. "One minute I was holding this comic book in a store, then everything went...strange--no pun intended. Next thing I knew, I was here on your doorstep."

His expression softened as he listened to your words. "An enchantment," he murmured to himself, "Multiversal travel?"

A look of clarity flashed across his face, "The Nexus of All Realities."

You tilted your head, confusion written across your face, "The nexus of what now?"

"It's sort of a cosmic crossroads," Stephen began to explain, his voice laced with a bit of fascination and caution. "A convergence of different dimensions and realms. If you were holding an artefact connected to the Nexus, it's possible that it transported you here."

You glanced down at the comic book in your hands, suddenly seeing it in a new light. "So, this comic book...it's more than just a collectors item?"

Stephen nodded, his eyes never leaving yours. "In this reality, it seems to hold a deeper power. And by some twist of fate, it brought you to our world."

A mix of excitement and trepidation coursed through your veins. You, like many other Marvel fans, had read countless fanfics about the possibility of shifting or travelling to the Marvel Universe; but now that it's come to fruition, it was both thrilling and overwhelming.

"Are you alright?"

You let out a shocked laugh, "It's just, I-I'm just a huge fan," you admitted, a sheepish grin spreading across your face. "I never expected to end up in the Marvel Universe. It's like a dream come true! But, I don't know what to do about it."

Stephen's eyes softened, a glimmer of understanding shining within them. "Rest assured, I will do everything in my power to help you, uh..."

"Oh! Y/n, my name is Y/n."

He smiled, "I will do everything in my power to help you, Y/n."

You nodded, feeling a mix of gratitude and nervousness. "Thank you, Doctor Strange."

He inclined his head in acknowledgement. "Trust, Y/n, is not something that I hand out freely, so we'll start somewhere simple. Call me Stephen."

With a wink, Stephen led you into the Sanctum, where a whole new world of possibilities was awaiting for you...you just didn't seem to know it yet.

A/N I'm so sorry for this taking so long...I've been so caught up with life. Here is my little going away present.

🏷 @thewaithfuckingannoyme @evelyn-kingsley @moonlight-ee @fall-myriad @ironstrange1991 @night-spectrum 

[j-eryewrites]

The Dancing Men (II)

Part 16 of The Arbitrary Lives of the Occupants of 221B Baker Street

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SERIES MASTER LIST | MAIN MASTER LIST

Word Count: (9.1k)

Author’s Note: Is this a filler chapter...? yes. Is this chapter over 9 thousand words...? yes. (This was also a chance to explore other characters besides Sherlock, John, and Y/N) 

Also, I did not realize the dancing men code did not insert the last chapter, so I went back an added that. (Thought it might be fun for yall to figure out the code alongside Sherlock.)

Warnings: Drug usage, mentions of drugs, murder, descriptions of blood and injuries, Sherlock is Sherlock (let me know if I have missed anything)

Everything was in place: buttery popcorn, fluffy blanket, lights dimmed down low, and the chosen movie on the television screen. Bjørn sat cozied up on Y/N’s lap. His brown fur was a stark contrast to the white light blue blanket on her lap. Across from the two of them was John. His back was relaxed as he sank into the soft cushion of Y/N’s couch. All worries of the workday were forgotten as they dived into the latest choice for their movie night. 

Bjørn quite enjoyed these evenings. One, John was present and Bjørn liked John very much. Second, Y/N was holding him close and petting his fur; an action the cat loved. Third, Sherlock was nowhere to be found. Bjørn remembers the first movie night they held and, unfortunately, Sherlock had been invited to that, until he predicted how the entire movie would play out, so then John had heroically banned the man from movie nights. 

Mrs. Hudson, one of Bjørn’s favourite people, would occasionally be invited to the movie nights, but those were only the rom-com nights. The cat could easily recall the woman’s fondness of the romance genre from all the soap operas and romance films she watched while watching over Bjørn for the night. Bjørn didn’t mind the sappiness of the movies at all because he was well rewarded by Mrs. Hudson with treats and baked goods that were only meant for pets. 

Bjørn purred as Y/N reached over to grab the remote to play the movie. His owner had heard of the movie from word of mouth. It was something called “The Eyes of My Mother.” Apparently, it was scary good or at least that’s what Y/N had mentioned when telling John. 

Tonight was horror movie night. It was one of two genres both Y/N and John enjoyed watching together. Bjørn preferred horror movie nights. It meant that the people in the room would be fighting to find comfort from the cat as the jump scares and loud scary noises crept up in the scenes on the screen. Bjørn liked to provide comfort. He loved to protect those he loved. Which was why the cat was glad Sherlock was not here. There was something about that man that Bjørn didn’t like. Maybe it was the way his black hair bounced atop his head. No one should have that dark of curls. It could have been the piercing blue eyes that reminded Bjørn of a predator or the man’s peculiar aura. Bjørn could see auras and there was something strange about Sherlock's.

The movie had begun. The two humans in the room jumped at certain jump scares. Bjørn was almost knocked off Y/N’s lap at one point. The cat began to wonder if it would be safer to sit on John’s lap, so eventually he crawled out of his seat on his owner's lap and settled onto John’s. John welcomed the warmth and comfort that Bjørn presented. In trade for the cat, Y/N got the popcorn bowl. The woman was forced to, instead, find comfort in the plastic bowl that carried the buttery goodness. 

Bjørn had just settled into his seat on John’s lap (well, of course, the man had an excellent lap) when he felt a petulant buzzing from underneath him. The movie was quickly paused and Bjørn cracked open his eyes to watch Y/N and John search for the noise. Bjørn contemplated helping them search and putting an end to the noise, but the source was soon found under the mound of blankets. 

Once uncovered,  a horrendous ringtone began to play from John’s phone. A ringtone that he had set years prior, that he meant to change but just never got around to it. John retrieved his phone and Bjørn caught sight of a pellicular look on the man’s face. 

“Hello?” John answered. 

Bjørn, with his excellent hearing, could make out the sound of a woman’s voice. Now, the cat hadn’t gotten used to the British accent. While the cat could understand Mrs Hudson, John, and reluctantly Sherlock, everyone else was a mystery. He blamed his understanding of the human language and the voice of those who found a home in 221B to be a matter of proximity. He willingly got used to John and Mrs. Hudon’s voices. He loved Y/N’s. Sherlock’s? Well, Sherlock’s was like screeching. Bjørn hated it. He hated everything about the man. Hate wasn’t a strong enough word. Bjørn loathed Sherlock entirely. 

“Hello, is this John Watson?” The voice asked over the phone. 

John’s face turned to shock. He was surprised to hear a voice he hadn’t heard in years. It belonged to one Kate Whitney. An old friend of his sister’s (and the girl he dated in his Secondary Educational years, but John prefers to use “a friend of his sister”.)

“Kate?” John asked.

“John? Oh, thank heavens! I don’t know what to do John!” Kate cried to him over the phone. 

John waited for Kate to finish talking. 

“It’s about Isa. He hasn’t been home for about two days and I’m getting worried. I heard from your sister that you were working with that detective now…” She sobbed. 

Isa Whitney. Right. Kate’s husband. Also an old friend from Secondary School. Bjørn looked up at John. The man sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose as Kate cried over the phone. Bjørn’s ears began to hurt from the whining. 

In the back of John’s mind, he knew what Kate was going to ask next the second Sherlock had been mentioned. So John took the preemptive step to ask if she knew where her husband would be. 

Kate answered immediately. “The opium den on the east side of the city. At a place called Bar of Gold on Upper Swandam lane.”

Bjørn could feel John’s actions before they came and the cat regretted choosing to find a seat on John’s lap. The cat quickly hopped off and back onto Y/N’s lap just as John’s body groaned. John’s muscles expanded and contracted shooting into motion as he stood up to fetch his things by the door. 

Kate was overjoyed. “Oh, John. Thank you! I would go myself but that place is not safe for a woman like me.” 

Of course, Kate continued to ramble on as John grabbed his keys and stumbled down the stairs and out of 221B. 

“Yes…Kate…” John tried to conclude the conversation. “I’ll have to…Kate…”

Now, John liked to think that he was a kind man. If one compared John to his friend Sherlock, he would most definitely be the “kinder” out of the two of them. John made sure to thank Mrs. Hudson whenever she brought up tea for him and Sherlock and apologize to others (clients, police officers, Greg, Y/N, Bjørn) whenever he could. Since John made the active choice to be kind, he found himself having a hard time saying no. Well, unless it was Sherlock. Sherlock was easy to say no to. 

Even with this kindness that has seeped deep into John’s bones, he knew he had to end the call soon. While Kate was talking, John cleared his throat and spoke up. “Kate. I’ll go out to find Isa. I’ll bring him home. Got to go.” Without another word, the phone call was over. 

As John tugged on his jacket and shoes by the door. Once he was all set, he turned around to Y/N to apologize. He mentioned she could continue the movie, but the woman refused and insisted on waiting for him to return to finish it. Bjørn could sense the man began to feel guilty about the whole scenario and seemingly so could Y/N.

“John, go. Help your friend. I’ll be fine,” Y/N reassured. 

That’s all it took for John to bid goodbye and leave 221B in search of Isa Whitney. Bjørn hopped up from Y/N’s lap once more and settled on the section of the couch John once sat on. The cat was not content with the idea of being thrown off another lap. As if on cue, Y/N stood up from the couch and moved to the kitchen to make herself some tea. Once the water was boiled and the tea poured, Bjørn watched his owner pick up her phone. 

Y/N scrolled through her phone looking for a worthy distraction. Of course, she could just find something else to watch, but it felt wrong. Instinctively her finger found itself drifting to the messages. There were two messages from Jim asking about their date later that week. She hovered over the messages reading them over and over again, before sending a short reply confirming the time. 

Part of her felt bad. Jim was her boyfriend after all. However, there was something deep within her that wanted someone else. It was a secret she could never admit to herself for fear of the emotions coming up front and centre displaying for all to see. Those very emotions the man in question would sense in an instant. That very man she found herself calling. The phone rang. It rang. Then it stopped. Sherlock’s voice box message played over the speakers and then Y/N hung up. 

She groaned and dropped her head into her hands. She needed to stop. Sherlock was out for a business trip, whatever that was. She and John didn’t press, but Y/N began to think she should have. She missed him. Her finger tightened around the roots of her hair. This was bad. She missed Sherlock. Missing someone was the step just before you had to come clean with yourself; because you could only miss someone if you cared for them. 

_______

It wasn’t the first time John had been called to help Kate. He was well aware of her and her husband’s troubles. At first, Kate had gone to Harriet, John’s sister, until she realized that Harriet and Isa shared similar afflictions. As one does with comfort, Kate found someone who was in a similar boat as her; that someone had to be John Watson.

At the beginning of John’s journey, he hadn't had much of an issue finding a cab that would take him to Upper Swandam Lane. Although he got a few judgemental looks from his cab driver on the way to the location. When John did arrive at the street, that was when things started to take a turn. 

Upper Swandam Lane was a vile place to be. It was an alleyway that lurked behind the high wharves on the north side of the river just to the east of the London Bridge. The alleyway itself was between a slop shop and a gin shop. There was a set of stairs that John had to climb up to reach the alley. There was litter, burnt-up cigarette butts, and mysteriously gooey substances that adhered to the ground. Overall a place that screamed germs, something that just so happened to be a doctor’s worst nightmare. 

As John trekked up the stairs, he was glad that he had chosen to wear his thick boots. He’d prefer it if he didn’t end up with a contaminated needle stuck in his foot. The further John walked through the alley the more addicts he had to step over. People who had come for the high were now suffering the after-effects as they lay on the ground. John’s eyes carefully scoured the area looking for the familiar face of Isa Whitney. 

Eventually, John reached a wooden door. Above the door was a flickering lamp that only added to the alley’s chilling ambience. John could hear the sounds of muffled voices, laughter, and cheers from the other side of the door. He thought it over and assumed that it’d be best to try his luck inside the building. As John reached for the door handle, he prayed that Isa Whitney would be in there. 

The door creaked open to reveal a long, low room. The air was thick and heavy with the smoke of opium and other drugs. The lights were gloomy as they tried to shine through the dark smog. Through the gloom, John could make out figures of all sizes and shapes. They were all lying in strange poses as they all turned their heads to glance at the newcomer. Scattered amongst the haze were little red circles of light at the end of metal pipes. Occasionally a figure would reach out for the pipes and lift it to their lips before inhaling. 

There was a hushed conversation in the building as John made his way around the room in search of Isa. As luck would have it, John found the man. Isa was in the back of the room. He sat on a three-legged stool with his back hunched over a pipe. His fists were clenched tightly around the object as he raised his arms up to shakingly bring the pipe to his mouth. 

John tried to make quick work of reaching Isa but was stopped numerous times along the way. Attendants and other addicts would offer him a smoke or try to lead him in another direction in their delirium. 

“No thank you,” John would reply before returning to his chosen path. Eventually, the crowd and temptation grew too much, so John called out to Isa. “Isa Whitney!” The room fell silent and the people around John drew back from the man. Like the parting of a sea, the crowd moved and John eased his way over to Isa. 

Now that John was closer to Isa and without the presence of the smog, John’s eyes could see clearly the state of the man. Isa was in a haggard state. His eyes narrowed so that they were tiny slits. His clothes were wrinkled and dishevelled. There were even a few brown spots scattered across, what John assumed, was once a white button-up. Isa lifted his head to peer up at John. 

There was a moment of silence before Isa spoke. “My God! It’s John!” Isa said. The man’s demeanour completely changed. There was a spark of life in his eyes as Isa took sight of John’s face. “Why are you here?” The man spoke joyfully. 

John tried to take in a deep breath, but from the smoke, he ended up entering a coughing fit. Once John had collected himself and once Isa stopped hysterically laughing. John explained his appearance. 

At the mention of his wife, Kate, Isa’s expression paled. “John…what time is it?” Isa hesitated. His once joyful expression was now one of guilt and worry. 

“It’s nearly eleven at night,” John said. 

“...What day?” Isa continued with his questions. He seemed more and more sober the longer John and him spoke. 

“Friday, October 19th.” 

Isa dropped the pipe from his hand and started patting his body up and down as if he was looking for something. “No–It’s Wednesday. It is Wednesday,” he phrased it more like a question than a statement.

John sighed and shook his head. “It’s Friday.” He pulled out his phone to show Isa the date. Again Isa paled at the sight. “Your wife, Kate, has been worried sick. Isa, you should be ashamed of yourself.” 

Isa narrowed his eyes at John in disbelief. “I’ve only been here a few hours…I’ve only had two–four, no six pipes? I forgot how many…” Isa began to trail off as he wondered about how many pipes he had smoked. 

Before Isa could spiral any further, John reached for the man’s arm and yanked him up to his feet. “Let’s get you back home,” John muttered before lugging Isa to the door. 

Isa stumbled into John, nearly knocking him over as they scuffled over to the exit. “I’ll go with you, John,” Isa said as he wrapped an arm around John before leaning his entire body weight on John. 

John grumbled as he tried to get solid footing underneath Isa. 

“Kate must be so frightened–poor little Kate…my love.” Isa gazed off into the distance thinking about Kate. 

By some miracle, John had led Isa out of the building and the two of them were now walking down the alleyway back to the street. 

“John! Give me your hand!” Isa exclaimed. 

John cried out as Isa lunged for his hand and was now holding it hostage. “Isa!” 

Isa ignored John’s outcry. “Do you have a cab?” 

“Yes, Isa. I have a cab.”

“Good!” Isa squeezed John’s hand. “I owe you, John. I owe you!” 

“Yes. I heard you the first time, Isa,” John said. 

Then John continued to lead Isa out of the alley and to the cab that was waiting for them. The alleyway seemingly got darker the longer they walked. It was a narrow lane that made it hard for two grown men to walk side by side. In turn, John walked behind Isa making sure that the man didn’t trip over his feet or stop moving forward. 

Even though they were outside and no longer in that horrific building, John felt his lungs begin to burn from the smoke. He found it hard to breathe. Instead, John took to holding his breath. He deemed that it would be better to not breathe in the smog than to breathe at all. That was until he heard a voice speak to him. It was a voice that was too low to have ever come from Isa. 

John reluctantly took his eyes off of Isa and looked around the alleyway when the voice spoke again. 

“Walk past me, and then look back at me.” 

John froze before doing as the voice said. He turned around and looked down. His brown eyes fell upon a tall figure hunched over. There was something familiar about how the figure on the ground sat. John would have expected someone who sat upon the vile ground of Upper Swandam Lane to not sit with an air of arrogance. 

The whole scenario piqued John’s curiosity. He found himself leaning over and getting a closer look at the man who had spoken to him. It took all of John’s self-control to not grab the man and cry in astonishment. 

It was Sherlock Holmes. The man who had told both Y/N and John that he’d be away for a business trip. Sherlock turned his head so that John could see him clearly now. There was no doubt about it. There were the striking blue eyes that seemed to glow in the dark of the alley, the curly black hair, and that wicked smirk. 

“Sherlock!” John harshly whispered. “What on earth are you doing here?!” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes at his friend’s concern. “Speak as quietly as you can. I have excellent hearing. Also, get rid of that…” Sherlock turned his head to look at Isa who was now leaning up against the wall of the alley. “...friend of yours. Then I’ll talk.” Sherlock said it with such pompousness that John scoffed. 

John was considering just leaving Sherlock there and taking Isa back, but then John thought of Y/N. He knew he wouldn’t be able to face the woman without spilling the news about Sherlock. 

“I have a cab, Sherlock,” John whispered. 

“Good. Send him home in it.” Sherlock’s eyes flashed with disgust as he looked Isa up and down. “He won’t do anything mischievous. He appears to be limping to hold his own body weight up.”

“Which is why I should make sure that he gets home!” 

Sherlock tsked. “Quietly John.”

John pinched the bridge of his nose tightly. This was a moment where he should have said no. He should have taken Isa home in the cab. John should have arrived back at 221B and then spilt the news about Sherlock to Y/N. That’s what any good friend should do when they find someone they care about in a compromising position. But John knew Y/N had too much to worry about. He was her friend too. John clenched his jaw tightly before huffing in agreement. This time, he’d agree with Sherlock. He’d save Y/N some worry. It was the least he could do. 

It was surprisingly easy to place Isa Whitney in the confinement of the cab before sending him on his way back home to his wife Kate. Out of courtesy, John texted Kate telling her that her husband was on his way home in a cab. As John finished the message, Sherlock appeared beside him. 

The two of them didn’t speak a word as Sherlock led John down the street. It seemed the two of them were going for a stroll. The longer the silence progressed, the longer John grew worried. He knew of Sherlock’s addiction. The nicotine patches. The side comments from Mycroft offered a brief picture of Sherlock’s past. 

About two streets later, Sherlock stopped moving and let out a light chuckle. John whipped his head around to look at Sherlock like he was insane. (Although, John did think that Sherlock was partially insane most of the time). 

“I suppose, John, “ Sherlock said. “You’re imagining that I have added opium smoking to my nicotine patches.”

John’s jaw was slack and his eyes wide at his friend’s words. “What the hell were you doing there Sherlock?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” Sherlock replied. 

John placed his hands on his hips and stared at Sherlock. “I came to find a friend.”

Sherlock raised his brows letting John know that he already knew that. “I came to find an enemy,” Sherlock stated. 

John was unimpressed. The last ‘enemy’ of Sherlock’s that John had met was his brother. It was more likely that the said enemy was someone else from Sherlock’s past. A cousin, a friend, another relative of some sort. “An enemy?” 

“Yes; one of my natural enemies.” Those words from Sherlock’s mouth sealed the deal in John’s mind. This was another Mycroft situation. “John,” Sherlock continued, “I am in the middle of a case and I hoped that I could find a clue from the incoherent ramblings of these addicts. Something I have done before.”

“What case, Sherlock? Cause if I remember correctly, Y/N knows about every case you take and she made sure that you’d be free so you could go on this business trip.”

It seemed like the mention of Y/N’s name ticked off something in Sherlock because the man began to walk again ignoring John’s question. 

John sighed. “What case, Sherlock?!”

“Follow me, John!” Sherlock called out as his long legs took him farther and farther away from John. 

_____

It seemed like the place Sherlock took John was back to Baker Street. How the two of them walked all over London to get back to their flat that late at night astounded John. He was sure how exhausted he was feeling while watching the horror movie with Y/N that he’d have enough energy to travel all the way back home physically. He knew Sherlock had the energy. The man seemed to have a never-ending reserve of energy. 

Once the black door of 221 B Baker Street closed, Sherlock began to strip off his coat and scarf. He marched up the stairs with a passion beckoning John to follow. John winced as the stairs creaked loudly underneath his and Sherlock’s steps. If Y/N and Mrs. Hudson weren’t already awake, then they would be now. 

“Sherlock!” John hissed at his friend. He was careful of his own volume. 

Sherlock turned around to John as he flung his coat and scarf on the hanger by the door. 

John stood expectantly in the doorway. His hands crossed over his chest as if he was urging Sherlock on for an explanation that was due long ago. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes before answering John. “A few years ago, a man named Neville St. Clair came to London. Not long after he got married to the daughter of a local brewer, someone he has two children with now. I have been told that he’s a good husband and affectionate father and that the family is in a good financial situation. This means that there is no reason for him to be worried about his family or money troubles.”

John pursed his lips and raised a brow at Sherlock. In all honesty, John had no idea where Sherlock was going with this. 

Sherlock tilted his head as he remembered something. Suddenly he pulled out his phone to show John a photo of Neville. John peered at the picture. Neville was a man with flaming red hair and sad-looking eyes. His face was filled with freckles and covered every inch of skin. Yet the thing that drew John’s attention the most was the long scar that ran from the tip of Neville’s forehead down to his chin. 

“Last Monday,” Sherlock continued, “Neville went into town to run a few errands. Meanwhile, Mrs. St. Clair had her lunch near Upper Swandam Lane. Afterwards, she did some shopping, and at exactly 4.35, she was walking back through Swandam Lane on her way back home. Are you following me, John?

John’s brow raised higher as he continued to stare at Sherlock. He still had no clue as to why a certain Nevill and Mrs. St. Clair had anything to do with a case. In fact, John was positive that there was no case. 

Sherlock took John’s silence as a yes, so he proceeded. “If you remember, Monday was a cold day, so Mrs. St. Claire took extra care in looking for a cab. While she was walking around Swandam Lane she heard a loud cry from above her. She saw her husband frantically waving at her from an opening in the window. She also described him as being terribly agitated before a force from behind him tore him away from the window. She tried running after her husband and soon found herself in the same building you were in tonight. She tried making her way up the stairs but was stopped by an attendant and forced back out onto the street. Filled with fear and concern, the woman called the police.”

John finally took a step forward and closed the door behind him. His intrigue was piqued. 

“They arrived and searched the place but there was no sign of him there. In fact, there was no one to be found. The police were determined that Mrs. St. Clair had been delusional. That was until they stumbled upon a watch that belonged to Neville. Mrs. St. Claire confirmed that it was her husband based on the engraving on the inside of the watch. After further inspection, the police found some blood as well as all the clothes of Neville St. Clair. There were no signs of violence and there were no more signs of Neville. According to witness accounts, the last one to see Neville St. Clair was a man named Hugh Boone.”

By now John was sitting in his chair. His hand rested underneath his chin as he watched Sherlock pace back and forth as he recounted the information about the case. 

“Boone is a professional beggar. He claims that he was not the last one to see our missing man. Detective Gavin–”

“Greg,” John corrected. 

“-searched Boone and found traces of blood on his clothes, but the man told Lestrade that it was from a cut on his hand. One that was still bleeding. An injury from the window, where the traces of the blood had been found. Lestrade also took the opportunity to have the nearby area checked. Neville’s coat was found in an alleyway. Inside the pockets was the man’s wallet.”

“So then where’s the body?” John asked. He was sure that finding all of Neville’s clothes and blood but no wallet meant that the man was dead.

“There was nobody, John.” There was a sparkle in Sherlock’s eye as he said it. “However, Boone was arrested and taken to Scotland Yard, but there was nothing against him. The blood had been his own. The only thing that could be used as evidence were Neville’s clothes, but even so, that is substantial enough.”

Everything clicked in John’s brain. “That’s why Y/N didn’t know you had a case. Greg called you himself.” 

Sherlock halted his pacing and looked at John. John was right of course, so Sherlock nodded. 

Now that John was satisfied with that answer he asked another question. “Why was Neville St. Clair was at an opium den and what does Hugh Boone have to do with the disappearance?”

Sherlock smiled at John. “Now you’re asking the right questions.”

“Sherlock…” John began to fiddle with his hands. “Do you think Neville is dead?”

“Yes–” 

Suddenly there was a banging on the door downstairs. John and Sherlock made their way downstairs. It seemed like the knocking had woken up the other residents of 221B for Mrs. Hudson and Y/N were peering out of their doorways at the noise. Mrs. Hudson was in more of a dazed state than Y/N with her overnight hair curlers and cosy pink pyjamas. The elderly woman’s tired eyes quickly acknowledge John and Sherlock making their way down the stairs. Satisfied with what she saw, Mrs. Hudson crept back into her flat and shut the door. 

Y/N, on the other hand, seemed to grow more conscious the longer she looked at the scene in front of her. She thought that her mind was tricking her. It couldn’t be Sherlock. Could it? Sherlock caught sight of the woman from the corner of his eye. He could help how his brain tuned out the sound of the banging door to look at Y/N. 

She had that same tired look in her eye as she did when she slept over in his flat. Her hair was slightly ajar from sleep and her pyjamas were scrunched up in just the right way. She looked comfortable and for a moment Sherlock felt guilty about waking her up. 

“When’d you get back?” She mumbled. Her voice was filled with sleep. 

Sherlock smiled and took a step towards her. “Not long.”

“I called you…” Y/N said. She nervously ran a hand through her hair. Internally scolded herself for acting like a schoolgirl. So much for not showcasing her newfound feeling. No, Y/N couldn’t have feelings for Sherlock. She couldn’t. She was dating Jim. Jim was perfect. He was kind, gentle, witty, and handsome. But Jim wasn’t Sherlock. She winced. She was screwed. 

“You called?” Sherlock replied a little too quiet for his liking. He hadn’t checked his phone. His mind was too busy with the case. His mind was a little too preoccupied with a case that was purely a distraction from the chemical defect called sentiment. 

John cleared his throat reminding Y/N and Sherlock that he was also present and so was the knocking on the door. Sherlock and Y/N turned to look at him, both of them hiding a blush that crept on their faces. John took that as a sign for him to be the one to open the door. 

In front of him stood a woman. Her dark hair was a frizzy mess and two dark circles underneath her eyes made her look like a skeleton. John peered at the woman with a confused look but before he could ask her anything, Sherlock pushed him to the side letting the woman enter. 

“Mrs. St. Clair,” Sherlock stated. 

John’s eyes widened. Y/N wore a confused look on her face. One that John pitied. She still had no idea. Without another word, Mrs. St. Clair was ushered up the stairs into John and Sherlock’s flat with Y/N in tow. She was curious as to why a strange woman appeared on their doorstep in the early hours of the morning. 

“ He wrote me a letter,” was all Mrs. St. Clair uttered before shoving the letter into Sherlock’s hand. 

_____

Lily, 

Do not be scared. Everything is fine. There is a huge error which may take some time to fix. 

Love,

Your Neville. 

_____

Sherlock took the letter and scoured over the letter. His blue eyes took note of every detail. John looked over Sherlock’s shoulder trying not to notice, Y/N’s puzzled look. He could see the gears in her head turning as she put the pieces together. 

“Whoever addressed the envelope had to go and ask about the address.”

This caught Mrs. St. Clair’s attention. “How can you tell?”

“The name is written perfectly in black ink. The rest is in a greyish colour which means that the paper was blotted. Whoever wrote it was not familiar with the address. Are you sure that this was your husband?” Sherlock asked. 

“There was a ring. His wedding ring.”

Sherlock nodded. “And this is his handwriting?”

The woman nodded. 

Sherlock’s brow pursed at the confirmation. This didn’t make sense. He was so sure that Neville was dead, his body missing. “If Neville is alive, then why has he not returned?” Sherlock asked. 

“I…I don’t know.”

Before Sherlock asked another question, Y/N cut him off. “Hold up, what’s going on here?”

“Not now Y/N–”

“Sherlock–” Y/N warned. 

“I’ll explain later. Mrs. St. Clair. On Monday your husband said nothing about leaving you?”

“What do you mean you’ll explain later? Sherlock a strange woman showed up on our do–” Y/N hissed. John shot her a look letting her know that he'd explain later if Sherlock didn’t. 

“No.” Mrs. St. Clair replied. 

“Were you surprised to see him in Swandam Lane?” Sherlock questioned. 

“Yes.”

Sherlock looked to the side before coming up with another question. “He only cried out to you?”

“Yes.” Mrs. St. Clair nodded. 

“A call for help?”

“Yes. He waved his hands at me.” The woman explained. 

The longer the interrogation continued the more confused Y/N grew. She was much too tired to deal with anything right now. 

“Couldn’t have been a cry of surprise? He could not have expected to see you in such an area.” Sherlock noted. 

“That’s possible, but…” 

“And you thought he was pulled back?” Sherlock continued. 

“He disappeared so suddenly.” Mrs. St. Clair’s voice began to grow quiet as Sherlock’s questions intensified.

“He could have leapt back. You didn’t see anyone else in the room,” Sherlock noted. His height towered over the woman and he began to lean over her small figure. 

Mrs. St. Clair shook her head. “No, but that horrible man confessed to having been there.”

“Right. Your husband was wearing his clothes?”

The woman gulped, unsure of where these questions were going. “Yes, but he wasn’t wearing his tie. I remember seeing his throat.”

“Has he ever spoken of Swandam Lane?” 

“No.”

“Has ever shown signs of taking Opium?”

Mrs. St Clair looked from Sherlock to John and then to Y/N. She bore a nervous and confused look on her face. 

“John. What are the symptoms of some who have taken Opium?”

John had been startled by Sherlock’s sudden question that it took his mind to process what he had been asked. “Mood swings, irritability, changes in appearance, risky behaviours, dizziness…”

Sherlock cocked his head to the side. “Well?”

“Um…no. No Neville hasn’t,” the woman said. 

Sherlock snapped back into his upward position. His back was tall and straight as he walked to the door and swung it open for Mrs. St. Clair. 

“Very well, Mrs. St. Clair,” He looked to the door and then at the woman before flashing a tense smile. 

Mrs. St. Clair took that as her cue to leave for the night. Once she removed herself from the flat, Sherlock shut the door and turned around to face John and Y/N. 

“John, Y/N. Pull out your phones.” Sherlock instructed. 

“Sherlock you haven’t explained–” Y/N began. 

“Phones.”

John and Y/N grumbled as they did as Sherlock asked. Once that was complete they looked up at Sherlock. They were half expecting he’d take their phones and do whatever he liked to them. So when they saw that Sherlock had his own phone out, the two of them were confused. 

Before they could ask any questions, Sherlock continued his instructions. “I’m going to call Grayson. Then John. Then Y/N. We will continue to do this until he picks up.”

“Sherlock, it’s 1 o’clock in the morning. Greg is not going to answer,” Y/N said. 

“Call,” Sherlock commanded as he dialled Greg’s number.

______

Greg quite liked his days off of work. Typically he would start it all off by sleeping in. A luxury he was not used to having in his everyday life. Then he’d wake up and lie in his bed for a moment, sometimes he used the time to read a book or scroll through his phone checking the daily news. Then maybe he’d make himself breakfast or go out to a local cafe. He had all the time in the world and he had the power to choose what he did with it. 

However, this was not Greg’s ideal day off. It seemed like the world was out to get him as his phone deafeningly rang on his bedside table. He was sure he silenced his phone before falling asleep last night. Blinded by his tiredness, Greg let the phone ring until it eventually ended about thirty seconds late. Again it was silent and Greg was well on his way to fall back into a deep sleep. That was until the phone rang again. Greg groaned and rolled over in his bed. His eyes peeled open to look at the time displayed on the alarm clock next to his bed. It was 1.15 in the morning. His mind began to fumble around thinking about who could be calling him at such an hour. It couldn’t have been Scotland Yard. It couldn’t have been…. Greg would have finished the thought if the phone continued to ring. Once again it stopped and the man’s body came crashing back down on the mattress. 

There it was again. That boisterous ringtone. Greg shot out of bed and grabbed his phone, yanking the charger out of its socket. 

“What in the hell do you think you’re doing calling me at one in the morning!” Greg grumbled into the phone. He hadn’t bothered to check the caller ID, so when a soft voice from the other end of his phone started speaking he felt incredibly guilty. 

It was Y/N. She hardly ever called and whenever she did it was always for a good reason. 

“Sorry Greg,” She whispered, taking into account the early hours of the morning.

From the sound of her voice, Y/N wasn’t fairing any better than he was. 

“No…forgive me…sorry. Why are you calling?” Greg began to rub the sleep from his eyes. 

There was a pause as Y/N thought of the best way to say it. “...Sherlock needs you to meet us at Scotland Yard.”

Greg groaned. He should have known that it was Sherlock’s doing. Only one man would have the audacity to call Greg this early in the morning, especially, on his day off. 

“Sorry, Greg, but he says it’s urgent. Something about the St. Clair case.”

Now this caught Greg’s attention. The case that had been plaguing his desk ever since he received the call a few days earlier. He would have been glad that Sherlock wanted to see him. It meant that there was a breakthrough. However, Greg was tired and had been woken up from a deep sleep. 

“Couldn’t this wait until tomorrow morning?” Greg voiced. 

Sherlock’s voice spoke over the phone loud and clear. “It is the morning Lestrade.”

“Oh, Sherlock it’s you,” Greg said with disdain. 

“Of course, it’s me. Meet us at Scotland Yard in twenty minutes. I’ve solved the case.”

With that, the phone hung up. Greg had no choice but to remove himself from the comfort of his bed. He had to forgo any thought of a nice morning sleeping in topped with a warm breakfast. He knew Sherlock had commanded that he be at Scotland Yard in twenty minutes, but that was the same amount of time as the commute there. If anything, Greg wanted to take as much time as he could before having to confront Sherlock. 

As Greg changed and prepared himself for the day, he prayed that the coffee machine in Scotland Yard had been fixed like it should have been weeks ago because Greg knew that he could not deal with Sherlock without a little help from caffeine. The praying was more for Sherlock’s sake (Not that Greg was contemplating murder or anything.)

_____

One of the first things Greg took notice of that morning was that the coffee machine was still broken. However, it seemed like an angel was smiling upon him that morning, that angel was Y/N. She handed him a warm cup of coffee that she had made herself. He couldn’t help but smile at the woman for her kind gesture. A smile that seemed to sour Sherlock’s mood. 

“You’re a godsend, Y/N.” Greg thanked her. 

“Oh, Greg there’s–” Y/N tried to reply. 

“You’re late,” Sherlock stated. 

“I know that, Sherlock,” Greg said. “It wasn’t physically possible to arrive here in twenty minutes. Speaking of, why am I here?”

“I need to see Boone.”

Greg took a sip of the coffee. The warm, quite frankly delicious drink made quick work of waking Greg’s body. He raised his brow at Sherlock’s request. 

“The beggar?” Greg asked.

“Yes. I know he’s here.” Sherlock replied. 

“He is,” Greg confirmed. 

“Is he quiet?” Sherlock questioned. This earned a few strange looks from his friends. 

“Quiet? Yeah, I guess so. He is a dirty scoundrel though…” Greg trailed off thinking about how dirty the man was. 

“Dirty?” John asked. 

Y/N looked between the three men. She was beginning to think that this was all an elaborate prank Sherlock was pulling. She had been dragged from her flat and still had not been told what was going on. “Hold on. Before anyone says anything else. What is going on?!” She exclaimed. 

Sherlock sighed and looked at John, causing John to sigh as well. It seemed to the job of an explanation landed on John’s shoulders because Sherlock couldn’t be bothered when he was on a roll. So as John pulled Y/N to the side to let her know what was going on, Sherlock and Greg continued their conversation. 

“He’s dirty?” Sherlock repeated. 

“Yes,” Greg scoffed. “All we can do is make him wash his hands. His face is covered with soot and dirt. The man needs a bath.”

“I need to see him.”

Greg raised a brow as he took note of Sherlock’s seriousness. “Alright, this way–” 

“Sherlock Holmes!” Y/N yelled. “You were in an opium den?!”

Sherlock winced at the noise and turned to glare at John. In Sherlock’s mind, explaining things meant the case, not the whole situation. Hesitantly, Sherlock turned his gaze to Y/N who was staring right at him. 

“For the case.” It was all Sherlock could say. 

“For the case my–” Y/N grumbled as she marched up to Sherlock. 

“Y/N! Sherlock! It is too early for this.” John stepped in as the voice of reason. 

Greg looked at the scene before him. Then he took a long and loud sip of coffee in an attempt to diffuse the tension. After a few moments of silence passed, Greg deemed it safe enough to speak again. 

“As I was saying, Boone’s this way,” Greg said. The group followed him as he led them to the back of Scotland Yard where the holding cells were. 

It was a very whitewashed corridor. On each side of the wall, there were barred doors as far as the eye could see. A large majority of the cells were empty, something that Y/N noted as Greg led them down the hallway. 

Soon the group's pace began to slow. “Here it is.” Greg pointed to the sleeping figure behind the bar doors. 

Boone was huddled on the cot in the room. His legs were held close to his body. His chest rose and fell slowly. The man was in a deep sleep just like one would be this early in the morning. But from what Y/N could see, he was dirty. The man was covered in dirt and soot from head to toe. The grim did little to hide the broad old scar that ran across his face. Y/N scrunched her nose. She couldn’t fathom how someone could stand to be covered in such filth. 

“A beauty, isn’t he?” Greg said sarcastically. 

“Certainly needs a bath…” Y/N mumbled. 

Suddenly, Sherlock reached into his pocket and pulled out a large bath sponge. 

“Sherlock! Where’d you get a bath sponge?” John asked. 

“Don’t you recognize it?” Sherlock questioned as he tilted his head in John’s direction. 

John’s face turned red as he tried to control the sudden wave of anger. 

“Lestrade, open the door very quietly. We’ll make him much more… tolerable.” Then Sherlock turned to look at Y/N. 

Y/N’s eyes widened. “No, Sherlock. There’s no way I’m–”

“Greg, the door,” Sherlock commanded. 

Greg’s mind was in shock at how quickly he opened the door for Sherlock. It seemed as if his body was moving on its own. Once the door was open, all of them made their way into the cell. Sherlock quietly turned on the sink in the cell to wet the sponge before raising the sponge to Boone’s face. 

Y/N was surprised that Boone had not woken up from how vigorously Sherlock rubbed the grime off the man’s face. Once Sherlock was satisfied with his work, he stepped back and dropped the wet sponge to the floor.

“Let me introduce you to Neville St. Clair.” 

John and Greg’s faces all bore the same expression of shock. Y/N, on the other hand, was a bit puzzled as she looked at the sleeping man. Before them lay Neville. The scar from the man’s face, one that his wife declared was his most identifying trait, was present. 

“Christ, Sherlock. It is him,” Greg stated. His voice was much louder than a considerate whisper. 

This seemed to wake up Neville. The man took one look at the four people standing over him, and he yelped out in fear. 

“Lestrade, don’t you think it smart to let our missing man go home?” Sherlock asked. 

Neville gulped, waiting for Greg’s answer. 

Greg sighed. His coffee was all gone. “We have no case if the missing man was Boone all along…which brings me to ask. What happened on Monday?” 

Neville looked down at his feet. “I’m an investigative journalist. I write about what it’s like being a beggar, addict, or anyone suffering from the poor conditions of life. My alias is Hugh Boone…” Neville’s voice grew quiet as he admitted his secret. 

Greg pursed his brows. “Great, but that still doesn’t answer my question about what happened on Monday.”

“I had finished work for the day in Swandam Lane when I looked out my window and saw my wife. I cried out before covering my face and running away from the window. I ran to my confidants in the building asking them to hide me just as I heard my wife downstairs. In a hurry, I threw away my clothes and once again entered my persona of Boone. Doing so, I cut my hand on a nail in the window sill. Before I knew it the police were involved and I was arrested as my own murderer,” Neville explained. 

Sherlock stepped forward. “What about the letter?”

“We were told we could contact someone. I was too ashamed to call my wife. She’d hear my voice and know where I was. Instead, I wrote a letter and placed my wedding ring inside.” Then Neville buried his face in his hands. “She must have been so worried. I need to get home to her and the kids.” 

Greg hated seeing how guilty Neville felt. It was too much for one morning. “Alright, up you go,” Greg motioned for Neville to stand up and follow him out of the cell. Without another word, Neville was let off. The case was solved and everyone went their separate ways: Greg back to his warm bed to sleep the rest of the day, and the case-solving trio back to Baker Street. 

_____

A few days later, a thank you email appeared in Sherlock’s inbox. Of course, Y/N was the one to find it as it was part of her job to search and organize Sherlock’s emails. It was a heartfelt message thanking Sherlock for his work. Not very many clients thanked Sherlock after the case was solved, although Neville’s case wasn’t a normal one. 

Speaking of emails. That was the worst and probably the most entertaining part about Y/N’s job. Yes, she was also hired to clean, organize, and follow Sherlock around on death-defying cases, but emails were the bane of her existence. Dealing with her own emails was enough, the inbox filled with incessant ads and subscriptions she never remembered signing up for. However, Sherlock’s emails were much worse. There were the subscriptions: newsletters from all over the world, daily notifications about new updates on bizarre websites that would concern even the best of people and ads for the strangest things that would somehow eventually end up in Sherlock’s flat. There were also emails about potential cases, those tended to be mundane things or crazy outlandish stories to get attention from someone online, or people asking for favours.  In fact, the hardest thing was finding a job that Sherlock, John, or Y/N couldn’t solve the second the email appeared in the inbox. 

Y/N groaned as she swore to God that she’d gouge her eyes out if she had to read another email from a concerned elder about their missing cat or jar of cookies that mysteriously went empty. 

Ding!

Clenching her eyes shut and whispering hopes and prayers that this wasn’t a bogus email, Y/N opened her eyes and peered at the screen. It seemed that God or some angel watching over her liked her eyes right where they were on the screen was an email from Hilton Cubitt. The visitor from Ireland, who stopped by two weeks ago. Y/N couldn’t help the triumphant cheer that left her mouth. 

“Did you win the lottery?” Sherlock asked without peering up from his latest novel, 100 Ways to Kill Your Employees. A book of many that displayed his loathing of the whole scenario. His tone matched the underlying threat of his choice of light reading, unamused and with a pinch of disdain for his imprisonment. 

This confinement began the moment Y/N discovered where Sherlock’s business trip had been. Upon returning to 221B, John began to scold Sherlock. The man in question stood in the doorway to his own flat without a care in the world. John’s words of concern and fear never reached his ears. However, it was when Y/N began to speak up, Sherlock began to listen. Eventually, it was agreed that Sherlock would be watched over just to make sure that he had not been taking opium. (Something that was proposed by Mycroft, but Y/N had been under strict instructions to not tell Sherlock that.)

“No, Sherlock. I didn’t win the lottery, but it looks like Cubitt did,” Y/N said. Sherlock froze in his seat. He gradually moved his gaze up to look at Y/N with a burning fire of curiosity in his eyes. He looked down at the computer in her hands and looked up at her once more. In the blink of an eye, the novel in Sherlock’s hand was replaced by his computer. 

Front and Center on the screen was an image depicting more of the code Cubitt had presented Sherlock with two weeks prior. Along with the message of urgency. 

______

Come to Clifden. It may be worse than I thought.

Hilton Cubitt

______

“Y/N pack your bags and book us a flight to Ireland,” Sherlock began as stood up from his seat to grab the paper Cubitt had given him of the code. 

“Sherlock–” 

“Cubitt needs us there to solve the case. Time is of the essence.”

“Sher–”

“Oh and call John and tell him to prepare a bag as well.”

“Sherlock!” Y/N yelled. 

Sherlock froze in his step as he turned around to look at her. He raised his brow up as if saying “Why are you not doing what I asked?” 

“Sherlock…” Y/N cleared her throat. “We’ll go to Ireland, but only…”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed at the woman. 

“Only if you promise to never lie about a business trip again.”

Sherlock scoffed at Y/N. “I don’t know what–”

“Yes, you do! Sherlock. You’ve been grumbling about being kept here in your flat, so you know full well why. I…” Y/N’s voice grew quiet. “I was so worried, so just promise that you’ll take one of us with you.” Sherlock winced at her words, “ OR at least tell us where you are going. Please.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and took a sharp intake of breath through his nose. His mind was in torment. This whole scenario was ridiculous. He was being treated like a child. Everything from Y/N’s, not so secret, hovering, Mrs. Hudson’s checking in, and John’s horrific attempts of spying on him all put Sherlock on edge. In his mind, he had done nothing wrong. But she had said please. She said she was worried. She cared. Now, if Sherlock had been given this treatment two months ago when she first came on board as his assistant, he would have fired her on the spot and uttered something about her worry being misplaced. However, time is a funny thing. Now, all Sherlock wants to say is yes. But a singular yes is too harsh, too noticeable, and an easy entrance into the hard-kept secret in Sherlock’s heart. So he settled for a simple…

“Alright.” 

It was enough for Y/N to order three tickets to Ireland and transportation to Clifden. In a moment, bags were packed, an inn was booked, Bjørn was placed in the care of his great-grandmother, things were settled, and notice was made of their departure. The game was afoot. A new case was brewing, and Sherlock couldn’t wait.

_____

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Tag list:  @bartokthealbinobat @biggerthancalli13 @themartiansdaughter @sunsumonner @silversword7000 @starlightaurorab @melody7 @astudyinlaura​ @sherlockstrangewolf​ @neroarrow83​ @khaleesihavilliard

____

[jamlocked]

For the Writers Truth & Dare Ask Game

🍓 🥑🥤🧃🍄🍬🔪🌸

(SORRY COULD NOT DECIDE)

🍓 ⇢ how did you get into writing fanfiction? 

WELL. It happened because I found out I was shit at writing. I'd been abroad for three months and it was mental (not really in a good way) and I was like, 'this is the book I've been wanting to write'. So I came home and started to write it and, dear God, it was terrible. Not too long after that I discovered fandom and saw some fan fiction for the first time. And some of it was SO GOOD, which I wasn't aware could be possible with fanfic (lol, right?) So I got absorbed in that and one day thought, 'well, maybe I should try because I already know these characters and it'll be good practice so I can learn to write my own stuff well'.

Guess what, it was.

🥑 ⇢ you accidentally killed somebody, which mutual(s) do you text for help?

@lvsifer You mate, obviously. Pfft, as if that were even in question. <3 (Though I question the word 'help'. Help me commit the murder? Yes, of course.)

(...thinking further, I also question the word 'accientally' in this scenario, particularly if @lvsifer was there with me, which he would be.)

🥤 ⇢ recommend an author or fanfic you love

There are so many I could choose but I'm going to go with Sforzando simply because it's open in a tab right now so I can start another re-read, and that says it all really. I would link another one from an old fandom as well because it was beyond stunning and broke my entire soul a few years ago, but I can't remember the full name to link it.

  🧃 ⇢ share some personal lore you never posted about before

My own personal lore? Hmm. Can't remember what I have and haven't posted about. I'll go with my one severe phobia, which is shipwrecks. And that's all I'm going to say about it otherwise I'll start thinking about them and that is Unpleasant.

🍄 ⇢ share a head canon for one of your favourite ships or pairings

When Jim was a teenager he spent a long time debating whether to introduce himself to Sherlock. He didn't because he was scared, both of rejection and of it not living up to what he dreamed about. It's the only time he's ever really felt fear and he hates that he caved into it, given how Sherlock wasted years of his life on drugs and then became mostly ordinary.

I guess that's not really a pairing thing. So...in a world where Jim and Sherlock date or spend time together domestically, they frequently fight over food. Jim doesn't care about it but people have to eat, so he's going to eat well. Sherlock's diet of takeaways and beans on toast is unbearable. In the end, he forces Sherlock to learn to cook (by telling him it's entirely beyond his talents and 'yes, this is the most basic reverse psychology darling, but also, it's completely true') and Sherlock is so annoyed at not being able to tell what he means he becomes an amazing chef. And enjoys it. It's basically chemistry when it comes down to it.

🍬 ⇢ post an unpopular opinion about a popular fandom character

Sherlock was never and will never be in love with John. Or Molly.

🔪 ⇢ what's the weirdest topic you researched for a writing project?

I mean, there's a long list. Wind speeds over coastal Mexico? Wheel widths of early 19th century French carts? The political system of Bulgaria was quite interesting.

🌸 ⇢ do you have any pets? if you do, post some pictures of them

...mate, if you wanted to see pics of Coco you could have just WhatsApp'd me. :D

THIS IS COCO, ISN'T SHE BEAUTIFUL.

<3 <3 <3

[meetinginsamarra]

Whumptober Day 6 “Recording”

Danger - Alert - Danger - Alert

The high-pitched klaxon sound kept blaring in John’s mind, urging him to keep running faster. Just a little bit faster every time. He must not be late! No more hesitation to come to Sherlock’s aid.

John scaled the last couple of stairs in Saint Caedwalla’s hospital, skidding around a corner and accelerated again to sprint along the corridor leading towards Sherlock’s room.

Watching Mary’s recording at 221b had let epiphany explode with the power of an atomic bomb, blasting away the noxious haze of desperation, self-loathing and toxic ire. Once more feeling fooled and distrusted by Sherlock who had lied to him again and again. His brain had been clogged for far too long after Mary had died.

Something had clicked then. Puzzle pieces falling into place.

Sherlock seeking danger. Sherlock self-destructing with drugs. Playing mindgames with a serial killer. All of this only to get my help. Sherlock needed to be saved. And I denied him.

John’s sixth sense had alighted every nerve fibre in his body with white hot fire and the anxiety of arriving too late fuelled his lungs with a beforehand unknown level of highly oxygenated blood.

Smith droning on about showing Sherlock his favourite room. Throwing Sherlock creepy sideway glances. Prodding dead bodies in the mortuary. Talking casually about just finding a hospital to hide lots and lots of murders.

Sherlock was definitely in danger!

—

Please tell me if anybody wants to get tagged or untagged (just say it, I won’t get mad).

@helloliriels @calaisreno @7-percent @lisbeth-kk @inevitably-johnlocked @peageetibbs @gaylilsherlock @totallysilvergirl @alexisnoir @blogstandbygo @jobooksncoffee @missdeliadili @kabubsmagga

[user-needs-new-hyperfixation]

Hi. First of all I love your writing. To me, all writers have like, a "texture" or a color or a smell I relate their writing to, and yours is like a warm fluffy blanket lol

Secong, Idk if you're still doing the answering thing, but if you are, do you think you could pull more sherliam-as-uncles headcanons out your sleeve? Whether it be to Johnmary's kid, Mycroft's kid or any kid really, it's my favourite thing in the world xd

Oh my goodness, thank you so much! The idea of my writing as a warm fluffy blanket is like a warm fluffy blanket wrapped around my own heart! 🥰

I would be absolutely over the moon if canon lets John and Mary have a baby at some point. Imagine this whole motley gang of a cast handling a baby! And since things have already changed in that Mary didn't die during the years Sherlock was gone like she did in ACD canon, there's a whole future opened up there.

I think Sherlock and William would be incredible uncles, while also absolute pains to the parents involved. Kids would just soak up knowledge from them: they would make learning SO. MUCH. FUN. Meanwhile John is just begging Sherlock to stop teaching his kids how to cause smelly and potentially explosive chemical reactions. This all kind of plays into my Sherlock and William start a school fantasy, because I think between the two of them they would make learning so accessible. Kids who have a hard time studying words on a page get to do hands-on experiments with Sherlock. Kids who struggle with math get William breaking it down into such small and precise pieces that it starts to make sense. Kids who need a gentle voice get William assuring them there are no stupid questions, and kids who thrive on being challenged get Sherlock affectionately prodding them and competing with them.

Everyone's kind of scared to let them babysit, because their kids might come home with dyed hair and inkstains on their clothes and a pet rat they acquired from who-knows-where. But the kids beg to go to their place, and they always come back beaming and with fifty new facts to rattle off excitedly.

As the kids get older, Sherliam are the uncles they can talk to about anything. Crushes and sex and drugs/alcohol and sexual identity and religion and morality and the fears and excitements of living in time of constant change. Even when they're rebellious teens and don't want to talk to their parents, they always feel like they can open up to Uncle Sherlock and Uncle Will.

As for Sherlock and William, they love kids, but aren't the sort to adopt themselves. They like to have their space, ultimately, and be free to easily travel and go on adventures without worrying about kids at home and like...bang in the kitchen without having to think about little eyes around. 😂 So it's a perfect fit for them to be uncles, and maybe teachers, and invest in the next generation while still being free to do their own thing too.

[badass-queer-couples-battle]

Gay wrongs tournament, round 2 of the major bracket

Propaganda:

For Kazuki and Rei:

they're essentially contract killers. rei comes from a long line of assassins and kazuki fell into the profession by circumstance. they're 'best friends' who live together and work on their hitman cases together. they're on one of these cases when they find themselves in an accidental baby acquisition situation and suddenly unasaka miri, aged 4, is their daughter. now all that's left is for them to forge a bunch of documents to get miri into daycare! they desperately juggle being fathers and assassins until eventually they realise they'd rather run a diner, and they live happily ever after with their daughter.

They're hitmen. They share an apartment. They end up raising a kid together (after killing her dad). They try to give that kid a normal life, but are terrible at it in complimentary ways.

Assassin partners who end up adopting a child.

For House and Wilson:

Literally the most insane couple of all time from medical malpractice the show. They’re best friends, they live together, they’ve drugged eachother, they make stupid bets together, they manipulate each other, they ride off into the sunset together. They’re Sherlock and Watson, they’re the best doctors in their fields and you’d never want them anywhere near your medical care.

Medical malpractice <3

[evansemotional]

WHAT I ROLEPLAY !

The Umbrella Academy

As OCxOC , Canon ship , Canon characterxOC

More information on my umbrella academy OC will be pinned.

Stranger Things

OCxOC , Canon ships such as Mileven, Lumax, Jancy, But I’ll also roleplay non canon ships such as Byler, Elmax, Ronance, Steddie and Character x OC.

I don’t mind roleplaying any but Byler is one of my favourites.

The Goldfinch

I don’t see many people wanting to roleplay the goldfinch but if someone wants to it would be Theo x Boris, obviously. Either Angst or Fluff and serious topics may come up like drug use and violence. Kotku might also be mentioned.

Sherlock BBC

Obviously Johnlock would be the ship but either angst (drug use, violence may be mentioned/come up) as well as Mary’s death or fluff (raising rosie together, solving crimes, just cute fluff in general)

Other shows I’m obsessed with at the moment that I’m willing to role play include: IT , Steven Universe , Heartstopper , Good omens , The Owl House and Gravity Falls

Role-play rules:

I don’t mind role-playing violence/drug use or an traumatic event but this really depends on what it is so we’d have to discuss first.

NSFW/SF I don’t mind either but again we’d have to discuss this.

If we’re role playing with characters try you’re best to play that character (obviously I know it won’t be as realistic, but still)

If we’re roleplaying with OCS I’ll have to know a bit about you’re character and what they look like.

[iamsherlocked1479]

Chapter 12

Warnings: 18+ smutty (very)

His hands moved from your back down to your waist, he pulled you in and tucked his head in the crook of your neck, you heard him quietly inhale, your scent was far more intoxicating than any drug or cigarette could ever offer him. You tried your best not to fall for his advances and pulled away.

“Why?” He asked, his brows furrowed with disappointment.

“Because its too-

“Dangerous I guess.” He interrupted you

“Why are you trying so hard? I thought you didn’t do relationships, I’m not going to become some kind of toy for you to play with whenever you want!” You yell as he just stood there watching you

“No you’re not, but you want to be.” He prowled closer. “You like danger don’t you y/n, you like the unknown your whole childhood planned out for you, and now you have the chance to expect the unexpected you attach yourself to it.” He smirked as he reached out, taking your hand. “I know this because you latch yourself onto dangerous things, it's so obvious in your writing and in the way you look at me, i know this.” He leaned into your lips leaving only enough space between them that paper could only just fit through, his nose brushing yours. “I know all this because i took your pulse.” He whispered with a smirk. You pushed yourself on him, lips crashing to his causing him to stumble, shutting him up. You kissed his annoying mouth hard, leaving your lips agape as his tongue slipped into your mouth. His touch felt desperate as he pushed you back towards your bed, pining you under him as you stumbled. He let out deep growls as you snaked your hands through his thick curl’s gripping them tightly as he nibbled the pressure points across your neck pulling your dress down to your waist. He practically ripped your bra from your chest exposing your hardened nipples to the air as he suckled on one and twisting the other through his fingers.

“Please Sherlock, touch me.” You beg as you felt his hardness rubbing across your thigh. He moved back to your neck allowing you to undo the buttons of his shirt so you would return the favour, sucking his beck leaving your mark. He pulled your dress off you, throwing it aside and rubbing your clothed cunt with his thumb.

“So wet for me already?” He smiled as he pulled down your laced panties and placed his head between your thighs. He worked his way up your leg taking care to kiss every part of you before stopping at your cunt.

“Please.” You begged feeling his breath inches away. His tongue made its way up to your clit, your skin burned at his touch beginning for more, his hand gripped your thigh while the other slid into your hole. Your body tensed, as you feel him slide a second finger into you. The pleasure builds, and tingles begin in your abdomen, working their way into your stomach as he worked on your sensitive bundle of nerves and fingers pushing deeper in you.

“You’re so close.” He smirks that dumb stupid look. “My favourite sight, look at you, drunk and I haven’t even fucked you, yet your walls are clenching on my fingers alone.”

“Oh god… Sherlock please” You cry out, as your orgasm takes you.

You whimpered softly as you felt his fingers run along your folds and then slowly entered into you. You moaned quietly as he continued to finger fuck you slowly and gently, his fingers rubbing against your gspot. You buck your hips onto his face more as you feel him increase his pace causing you to cry out in pleasure. He slid his fingers out easily and licked your juices clean before taking his tongue and exploring your folds. He was rewarded with another groan from your lips before he pushed his tongue deep into you flicking his tongue across your clit. you arched your hips as you exploded with his tongue in your cunt.

“Fuck yes Sherlock.” You exclaimed as the ecstasy rushed through your body. He leant back resting on his knees jerking his cock through his jeans watching come down from the high of your second orgasm.

“You’ve never cumed twice that closely before have you?” He smirked 

“N-no” you mumble through your breaths. “But you still haven’t cum yet.” You begin to crawl your way up the bed towards him snaking your arms around his neck, locking your lips once again, you paw at his cock trying to unbuckle his belt, trying not to make it too obvious that you’ve been longing for more all this time. You finally released the restraint and pulled his cock free watching as it bounced off his abdomen, he released a small sigh of relief. “I want you to fuck my throat.” You say situated below him looking up with puppy dog eyes.

“Are you sure?” He asks stroking your hair 

“Yeah, I like it. Most girls don’t, but I feel like you know what you’re doing.” Your hand jerked him as you pleaded

“Okay then, breathe through your nose and pinch my waist if you want me to stop.” He says as you open your mouth pushing your tongue over your teeth. He entered with a hiss before grinding his hips forward watching your eyes water below him. He continued this rhythm for a while making sure you were okay. He grew more confident as you choke him down, moaning and cursing as you swallowed the salty pre cum. He pulled away watching a string of saliva follow from your mouth.

“I’m so hard, i need to fuck you.” 

“I thought I was supposed to do the begging?” You laugh as he pushes you backwards.

“Shut up y/n. Or I'll make you.” He pinned you under him

How so- shit.” You wince as he thrusted in.

“Like that.” He smirked as he pulled out before thrusting in again the sound of skin on skin echoing through the small room. He pulled you in further so he filled you to the hilt. You clung to him for dear life as he pounded his way into you slowly but surely picking up the pace. He burried his face in the crook of your neck “Fuck, your so tight- feels so good.” Your legs wrapped around him and nails dug into his skin, his persistence began to build a third orgasm in you, this one feeling different. It was a slow release, your body taking its time to revel in the pleasure he brought you.

“Fuck, right there, please yes!” You cried, his cock rubbed against the right spot along with his pelvis pressing on the bundle of nerves now slick with his work. He gripped your sheets harder as he came closer to his climax. He managed to push himself up kissing you again.

“I wan-t to look at you, so cock drunk all for me. You have no idea how long ive wanted this “, knowing i couldn’t have you- fuck.” His hips stuttered as his thick white ropes painted your insides. He collapsed onto you, remaining inside you as he came down from his high.

“What if we kept this secret?” You finally break the silence. He pushes himself off of you and lays beside you.

“Well I wouldn’t want anyone to watch.” He says sarcastically. “But would you be able to? You’re very loud.”

“I’m being serious.” You sighed “but we have to make sure the safety of everyone else comes first. Especially now that Mary is eating for two.” Sherlock looks at you blankly.

“I told you I miscounted.”

“You’re seriously going to lie to me, how dumb do you think everyone else is?” You laugh. He paused for a moment before opening his mouth. “Don’t answer that.” You sigh

“Fine yes, I suppose she is. We can find some kind of an arrangement.” He begins to get up until he is stopped by you grabbing his hand.

“Wait-“ you pleaded as he turned his head. “Stay, please.” He watches you for a moment before getting back into the bed and laying beside you. You lay your head against his chest and close your eyes, he moves his arm away from you as he stares at the ceiling waiting for you to fall asleep, which didn’t take long. An arrangement?  He thought looking down at you, he shifted his arm towards you and hesitates for a moment , until finally making the decision to hold you close watching as a smile lands on your face. Maybe he could find a way to get used to this after all.

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A/N: okay so the story is well on the way now, i got two words to describe this chapter: Nexus event.

hopefully you'll stick around to find out why, thanks for reading. As always, stay tuned :) X

[inevitably-johnlocked]

Hi Steph.

I was wondering, do you have any fics with accidental love confessions, maybe when being drunk, sick, or drugged. Or even better, really accidental in their day to day life.

If you dont have a list like that, you may always hit me up with a favourite list of yours.

X Seven

Hi Lovely!!I actually have a new list coming for drugs, and recently posted a drinking list, and I have LOTS of sick fics... SO I'll just give you this fantastic list of fic lists to check out!

Cute-Drunk Sherlock

Drunk and Drinking Johnlock

Drunk and Drinking Johnlock Pt 2

Drunk and Drinking Johnlock Pt 3

Drinking Games / Hanging Out (Oct 2023)

Self Harm, Danger Nights, and Drugs

Drugs and Drugging Pt 2

Whump With Vengeful / Worried / Panicking Partner

John Whump / Sherlock Takes Care of John

John Whump / Sherlock Takes Care of John Pt. 2

John Whump / Sherlock Takes Care of John Pt. 3

John Whump / Sherlock Takes Care of John Pt. 4

John Whump with Guilty Sherlock

Doctor / Caretaker John

Doctor / Caretaker John Pt. 2

Doctor / Caretaker John Pt. 3

Doctor / Caretaker John Pt. 4

Doctor / Caretaker John Pt. 5

Sherlock is Sick/Hurt (Sherlock Whump)

Sherlock Whump Pt. 2

Sherlock In An Accident

And I have more health-related fics on Page Three of my Permapost!

I hope these please you, and are exactly what you're looking for!!

Enjoy!!

[natus-vincer]

does natus have a crafter and gatherer glam? or is he no make, tank only?

You get me started haha! Natus is actually very good with all the DOL/H jobs, on the other hand I imagine Themis not so much, because he's so used to creation magic.

I don't /really/ have a set glam for Natus' crafter/gatherers except fishing, but I spent a lot of time designing them.

I quickly took some screenshots for all my glams, there are pretty obvious since they're all the AF gears except the ALC one! (He's dressed up as a cuban drug lord in that one)

His CRP glam is his somewhat casual outfit, things he wears at home, or when he takes off the jacket.

BLM glam is his regular tribe/clan outfit, though he doesn't associate himself with his family anymore.

GSM is my favourite Sherlock Holmes glam, I wanted Themis to wear it too!

WVR is his wedding suit, FISHER is another canon glam because he loves fishing!