[for the @calaisreno May Prompts-all-the-Time; just a wee silly interlude today]

(1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6) (7) (8) (9) (10) (11) (12) (13) 14: eavesdropping

Greg Lestrade has tried only three times, in the several aggravating years of their acquaintance, to surprise his friend Sherlock Holmes. It has yet to work, even when Sherlock was off his tit. The bastard.

But Greg has a new plan. Time has passed; he'd like to think he's learned a thing or two. And he has a new ally: Rosie Watson. 

Sherlock giving Greg the two-fingered salute while snogging John is now canon. Let it be known!

Family

For #mayprompts2024.

Rating: T Prompt: Family

John reflects on found family.

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I remember thinking once that friends are what God sends you to make up for your family. Families are accidents more often than not – a couple of people who don’t know what they’re doing have a kid (before or after getting married, if they ever do), and then another one, and everyone rubs along for better or worse. Mostly worse. My Da was quick with his fists, something I’ve had to unlearn; quicker when he’d been in the drink. Harry picked up on that last before she was out of Secondary; even early on, he’d slide her a little tot when Mum wasn’t looking, like it was all right for him to have a skinful if his daughter joined him. All in the family.

Her Majesty’s service was a blessed relief. There were rules, instead of the whims of a mad adult who could praise you one minute and cuff you the next; the food was stodge, but it was always there, and you burned it off even if it hit your gullet like a lump of clay. Dress according to regulation, no scrounging in the wardrobe for something that fits because no one’s been bothered to take you to the Oxfam since you shot up three inches, or to go to the launderette in two weeks. You don’t pick your CO, but even the hard ones are mostly fair and you find your people. I remember when Sholto looked at me as if he were reading a map, and said “There’s something in you that wants to save the world, John Watson. Don’t let it get out ahead of you.” And I remember sitting off-duty with Murray behind the barracks at Shorabak, passing a fag back and forth – I never got the habit, and a good thing, but it was something to share. “Not that bad a show, is it?” he'd say, “long’s you’ve got mates that have your back.” Didn’t know then how much he’d have mine.

All changed when I got demobbed. All of it gone – the friends, the structure, knowing what you’d do with your day. I found a bedsit in London that cost the earth, and H.M.’s government graciously paid for a therapist to get me over my PTSD. I’ve got a secret for you: you don’t get over being shot and nearly dying. Twice, ta very much, thanks to a hospital visit from Staphylococcus aureus. Part of you always exists in that moment when you’re in mortal combat, not with a person you can see and grapple but with pain or haemorrhage, or fever that draws a minute out into an hour and makes everything outside your body vague and unreal. You think back on your family, and they’re strangers; the most they ever did was train you up, the moments when your Da made your ears ring or the screaming downstairs wouldn’t stop -- like little rehearsals for the real thing, the bombardment that seemed endless and the pain that was unbearable except that you bore it, until the next dose of morphine.

So there you are, in a peace that makes no sense, because aren’t the guns firing somewhere and aren’t there lives to save? And you’re eking out your budget to half-price tea sachets and jumbo bags of peas that are the cheapest veg in the Tesco freezer, I learned to make all kinds of things with peas, and when Ella said I should write a blog I almost asked if it should be John Watson’s Kitchen. Twenty ways to eat Nutella. How to stretch leftover curry. You sit alone in the flat, chewing over what you’ll do, where you’ll go, when you can’t squeeze a pound any harder. Back to the family you came from? No fear. They never knew you then. They damn well won’t know you now.

And then – well, you know what happened then. It’s all there online. John Watson’s world, turned inside out in a few hours that live rent free in my brain now, that I’ll never stop reliving – but in a good way, not the way I kept reliving the moment I knew I was shot, or the night in hospital when I knew I was dying. Sherlock saw me, the way Sholto had, and he wanted me in his life -- more than that, he just assumed there and then that I belonged in his life. And I wanted to be in his, like nothing I’d ever wanted before or since. Right, he was a daft bastard, and bloody right it could be dangerous, but I’d done that, hadn’t I? And I learned before that night was out that he was cursed with a family too, or at least a brother that seemed to think he was a problem to be solved, and I thought maybe, just maybe, he could use someone in his life who saw him, too.

It’s been a hot five minutes since then. He died and came back. We lost trust and rebuilt it. I had a kid, without knowing -- in the worst way imaginable -- what I was bloody doing, and decided that no matter what, she would grow up with at least one person who cared who she was and what she needed.

And now she’s got – three? Four? So many. Sherlock, who I think loved her from the moment she was born. Mycroft, who I learned -- despite the stick permanently lodged up his arse -- will always be there when he’s needed, who brings her books and puzzles ridiculously past her age level (at least I think they are, until I find her devouring them). Mrs. Hudson, who practically kidnaps her at the least sign we could use a break. Aunt Molly, who minded her when everything was broken.

And we’ve all got each other. Adopted, kind of. Or in the case of Sherlock and me – well, I’m going to ask him, soon. I think he’ll say yes.

Friends are what God sends you to make up for your family. And sometimes you get both.

Comment On A03

😭😍😭😍🫂😭😍🥰💓

mayprompts2024 #16, experiment

Read parts 1-11 on AO3 here

Part 12 only on tumblr so far

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The Perfect Place - Part Thirteen

John put the skull back on its place on the mantelpiece and pointed at the dagger Sherlock had stuck into the wood to keep several letters in place. He frowned and gave Sherlock a disapproving look.

“You shouldn’t keep such a sharp dagger in the wood.” John chided.

Oh dear, here come the admonishments, Sherlock thought.

He braced himself against what John was likely about to say. “It’s dangerous to keep a sharp object here. People could get hurt.” Or “You’re destroying the wood, it’s difficult to repair damage like this.”

John continued. “It’s really bad for the blade, it’ll get dull, you know? Also, the tip might break and get stuck in the mantelpiece. It would be a shame to ruin such a fine dagger.”

“Erm, okay?” Sherlock stuttered, surprised, “Yes, will do.” Not what I expected.

When John peeked under the sofa, he pulled out the Turkish scimitar that Sherlock had already missed.

“Oh, great, you found it! I’ll be needing it tomorrow.” Sherlock called out happily.

“What for?” John brandished the scimitar and made some thrusts into Sherlock’s direction. “You going to waylay guileless travellers?”

“No, of course not.” Sherlock decided to test John’s sense of humour. “I’ll need it to chop the remains from the latest flatmate-candidate. He insulted Billy and therefore he had to die.”

John looked Sherlock straight into the face, utterly deadpan. “Good then that I didn’t. Also, you’d better use this letter-holding dagger for precision cuts through the corpse’s joints.”

They stared at each other for three long seconds before they exploded into raucous laughter.

For the next ten minutes, Sherlock watched John hopping excitedly around the sitting-room, ogling things, pawing bits and fondling bobs.

It was an amazing sight of utter joy.

Sherlock was reminded of a toddler experiencing their first Easter egg hunt in a magical wonderland. He suppressed the urge of handing a basket to John so that he could put the found treasures inside for later perusal.

(Others might have been reminded of a squirrel suffering from dementia, getting excited over and over again about finding the same nuts it had hidden juts several minutes ago, thinking they were new.)

(And yet others would have thought of a cuddly hedgehog searching for windfall like apples and pears to gain weight for the next winter.)

John commented on every mysterious, unusual, weird or quirky object that he picked up, showing it to Sherlock and silently asking for more information, data that Sherlock was more than happy to provide.

“Are you needing a cup of tea as bad as I?” John asked after a lot of talking, “I’m parched.”

(Also, his throat was terribly dry from all the dust he had inhaled while scrutinizing Sherlock’s things.)

“Let’s make some,” Sherlock offered, “and you could have a look at the kitchen.”

Sherlock put the kettle on while John first commented on the lovely choice of green tiles on the kitchen wall and then asked about the array of chemistry equipment on the kitchen table.

“I’m doing a lot of experiments here,” Sherlock explained, “to gather data and evaluate clues in order to solve the crimes that I consult on.”

(This was true, of course. Also, it sounded much better than the whole truth. Namely, that Sherlock followed mostly some whims he had when he was bored and just experimented with whatever was available to him. He had produced mountains of laboratory journals with millions of spreadsheets of data that nobody would ever use. Like one of his latest obsessions when he had tested the durability of mummified Guinea pig embryos after being exposed to various kinds of acids and then thrown against a bed of nails.)

“What is it you’re currently experimenting on?”

“I’m measuring the coagulation of saliva after death.” Sherlock replied and poured the hot water over a teabag.

“Interesting.” John said. “I’ll get us some milk.” He reached for the handle of the fridge.

Sherlock suddenly remembered where the saliva had come from and an electric shock of terror struck him.

“No, don’t open…” he began to shout.

But it was already too late.

“… the fridge.” Sherlock whispered.

John’s shriek reverberated in the deadly silence that followed.

+++++

tagging some people @calaisreno @totallysilvergirl @lisbeth-kk @peanitbear  @raina-at

from 'Return,' microfiction by S.C. Fraser

soon to be published in the charity collection: When the Rose Speaks Its Name: A Sherlock Holmes Anthology

Bouzouki Music

For #mayprompts2024.

Prompt: Laugh

An odd couple dance at Sherlock and John's wedding.

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

I knew from the start that marrying Sherlock Holmes would be a mad affair, though I’d thought more in terms of another attempted murder at the reception, or perhaps of an eyeball turning up in the buffet.

I hadn’t been considering a boutique Greek hotel in Covent Garden, with platters of filo pastry and grape leaves making the rounds, Retsina and Molavi flowing like water before the dinner’s even brought in, and a bouzouki orchestra -- all laid on at cost by the hotelier, a past client and sometime “interpreter” for Mycroft’s department. Melas greeted us with the keycard to the honeymoon suite, and I can tell before we’re well into the reception that I’m going to be waking up in it the next morning with a big head.

Now the speeches are over (I wouldn’t have expected Lestrade to be so sentimental), ending with Melas himself -- who makes it sound as if we’d merely solved a thorny problem involving his business, rather than rescuing him at the last minute from a situation that cost at least one life and probably two more. Rosie’s going from table to table, climbing up in laps, and getting baklava drips all over her ring-bearer’s dress (“that’ll come out,” says Mrs. Hudson, dabbing at it with a napkin). Mrs. Turner's visibly flirting with Mike Stamford, and one of Melas’ waiters has taken up an unobtrusive post near Harry’s table to make sure her glass stays recharged with sparkling Zero. Mycroft’s sat close to the musicians, in a position where he’s got a view of the entire room, nursing a single flute and surveying the whole proceeding as if he expects it to blow up.

The orchestra strikes up before the last toast is drained. A slow waltz, intentionally programmed, sounding odd and fairylike in the plucked string tones; I can about manage a box step, and I let Sherlock lead. I offer my hand to Mrs. Holmes as soon as the applause fades, and before I can lose my nerve; Sherlock has Mrs.Hudson out on the floor a few minutes later (the hip doesn’t seem to be bothering her; the Molavi, probably).

Molly and Lestrade join us on the next dance, when the orchestra’s started to pick up the pace, and where did either of them learn to jitterbug? The floor fills up; Sherlock takes Harry for a turn, while Stamford gallantly bows to Mrs. Turner and pilots her around under the glancing lights. I‘m fending off a teary embrace from Donovan, of all people, and reflecting that the Detective Inspector and the morgue registrar, now talking off to one side, make a cute couple – at least there are two people who wouldn’t be squicked out by each other’s jobs – when yet another number comes to a close, and through the ragged applause I hear Rosie squealing “I dance with Uncle Mikey!”

She’s already clambered half into his lap, and he looks about as uncomfortable as if he’s been not only stripped of his Savile Row kit but revealed in ignominious outlet-store undercrackers. “Uncle Mycroft doesn’t dance, young Rosamund.”

“Dance with Uncle Mikey!” She’s chock full of sugar at this point.

“If Uncle Mikey doesn’t dance,” comes Viola Holmes’ voice, cutting tartly through the background hum, “we wasted all the money we spent sending you to Mrs. Fordham’s Academy.”

Mycroft may be able to order an assassination in Sarajevo or an extraction in Dubai, but Mummy Holmes is not to be gainsaid. Rosie raises her plump little arms – there’s a smear of pistachio on one wrist – and the British Government bends awkwardly at the waist, since she can barely reach the level of its trouser pockets. Sherlock helpfully lifts my (our) daughter under the arms and positions Mycroft’s forearm beneath her bottom, and I see Melas bending to the ear of the orchestra leader, who mouths a cue to his ensemble and launches into a slow, stately measure.

I don’t think the British Government watches old films. When you’re a disabled surgeon on poverty pay, though, sometimes you’ll take home some third-hand DVDs from the thrift store free box, for some variation on cricket matches and crap daytime quiz shows. Zorba The Greek was honestly damn depressing, but it beat another programme about buying homes, which is even more depressing when you’re deciding between takeaway and putting more money on your Oyster card.

Anyway, everybody but Mycroft, apparently, knows what happens after those first few syrup-slow bars where you have to pause in mid-step to stay in sync with the music. He’s got an easy time of it at first, turning in stiff circles with Rosie clinging to his lapels; my regular locum from the surgery, with his plus-one, is already doing a grapevine step on the other side of the little dancefloor with its turning galaxy of reflections from the mirrored ball overhead.

It speeds up gradually; the musicians’ fingers fly on the necks of their instruments, and the seated guests start clapping while Rosie shrieks “Faster, Uncle Mikey!” Anderson, no less, slips in beside Mycroft and slides an arm around his shoulders, joining the line that’s started to form. On his other side, Lestrade steps in to lift Rosie from his arms, but blocks his escape, so that now the British Government and the New Scotland Yard inspector are linked by forty pounds of hyperactive toddler with her feet barely grazing the floor.

I feel Sherlock’s fingers sliding between mine. He’s opened his collar and loosened his tie; there’s a faint sheen of sweat sticking that gorgeous black hair in tendrils to his forehead (and what does that make me think of?). He drains off the flute of fizz that’s in his other hand, sets it down, and tugs me out to the end of the line, just as the dance becomes a chaotic series of skips and kicks punctuated by thumps from the drumset.

Some of the dancers are zigging and some are zagging. Anderson’s starting to look a little green, and I remember he’s never been able to hold his pint. Rosie’s squeals of delight have reached dogwhistle level, and even Siger Holmes has let his wife drag him onto the dance floor, where he stumps from side to side, resolutely refusing to perform the hopping steps that have erupted along the line.

Somebody thinks it’s a good idea to “crack the whip.” Somebody needs to get the memo. Anderson staggers; Molly teeters on the heels she’s not used to wearing; Rosie, whose dancing has been about as choreographed as a Hughlings Jackson seizure at best, puts both feet down in the same place at once, pulling Mycroft down with her as she tumbles whooping onto her bum. The line collapses in a slo-mo cascade -- just in time to collide with one of the waiters bearing another bottle of bubbly, which explodes from the neck in a geyser of creamy foam, arcing through the air to score a direct hit on the combed-over forelock that decorates the freckled, receding hairline of the British Government.

The music concludes with a startling, plucked chord.

Wild applause mixed with a commotion of concerned solicitude – Anderson meanwhile making a bolt for the Gents’, Rosie piping “Dance again, Uncle Mikey!”  –

Right, he isn’t really hurt, is he? I’ve never seen an expression like that on him. It looks as if he might be in pain. I start to elbow my way over, but Melas is there first, with one of the hotel’s expensive bamboo towels, saying something about complimentary service at the hotel’s cleaners. Mycroft snatches the towel to scrub over his face and head, that tuft that all he's got left on top standing up in a hapless wisp, and finally a sound manages to emerge, a strangling noise that has me rehearsing the Heimlich maneuver, and finally a full-on bellow –

Oh. He’s laughing.

It goes on for a while.

Finally he rises, all sticks and angles, Sherlock’s spareness without his fluid grace, and bows as deeply as the broomstick he’s got for a spine will allow. He takes my daughter’s pudgy little hand – the one with the pistachio smear – and raises it to his lips.

“Thank you for the dance, my lovely Rose.”

The orchestra starts up again. There’s a warm whisper of Sherlock’s breath close to my ear.

“Let’s sit this one out,” he says.

Comment On AO3

😂😂😂😂

Just adore this!!!

I like how the one dude had to sit down twice he was so overwhelmed

The Responder is in full swing.

We have our own thoughts on ep.1 and ep2 and if you have started the show see our S1 takes all in one post.

A Tiny Bit Not Good

1559 Words / Prompt: Experiment

“I made you coffee.” 

Frowning, John turns and regards his flatmate. Sherlock never makes him coffee, tea, or anything else. And he’s smiling, which in itself is alarming—not that genuine smile that occasionally creeps through. It’s that creepy, sociopath smile.

“You never make coffee.”

“I just did. Don’t you like it?”

John takes a sip, only to be polite. “Ugh. I don’t take sugar.”

Disappointment pulls at the corners of Sherlock’s mouth. 

Well, no sense in letting a good deed go unrewarded. If encouraged, Sherlock might develop a habit of doing nice things. 

“It’s fine, Sherlock. I needed a pick-me-up.” John takes another sip. There’s a strange under-taste to the coffee. Probably decaf. “I appreciate the gesture.”

His mad flatmate studies him with a strange expression. He’s watching John’s mouth. Or maybe his throat. John takes another sip. Swallows.

He frowns. “You don’t usually make coffee.” His voice is unusually squeaky. “Ta for that.” When he says this, his voice breaks. 

“Scratchy throat,” suggests Sherlock. “Drink up.”

He drains the mug, and looks up at Sherlock. Bloody hell, he’s tall…  Reaching to set the empty mug on the counter, he finds it’s now above his head. Why is he on the floor? Everything is tall. 

He also notices that his dressing gown has fallen off and he’s standing in the middle of the kitchen, naked. 

As Sherlock takes the mug from his hand, John notices how small his own hand seems by comparison. He looks down at himself. Other things are small as well. 

“What did you do?” He looks up at his flatmate and understands that the coffee was not a nice gesture, the strange taste not a mistake, and the fact that he’s only three feet tall is— 

“An experiment.” Sherlock smiles in the way he does when he’s found something particularly interesting under the lens of his microscope. 

“You shrank me!”

“No, John. What purpose would that serve? I did not shrink you; I de-aged you.”

There are a number of questions that occur to John, but only one word makes it out of his mouth: “Fuck!”

If things can get worse, John thinks, they generally do. Especially when Sherlock is experimenting. The downstairs door bangs and Lestrade is taking the steps two at a time. The game is clearly afoot.

“Sherlock, I’ve—“ The DI stares at John. “Who’s this?”

“This is John’s nephew, Hamish.”

“Where’s John?” 

Sherlock picks his (naked!) flatmate up, jostles him on his hip. (Picks him up?!?) “He’s working today. I’m babysitting.” He plants a kiss on John’s forehead. “Isn’t that right, my little man?” 

“I’m not a baby.” His voice sounds high, petulant. “I’m not your little man.”

“Somebody’s cranky,” says Lestrade, grinning. “Maybe he needs a little N-A-P.”

“I can spell,” he tells the DI. “And I’m not taking a nap.” He turns his wrath on Sherlock, kicking his tiny feet against his hip. “Put me down, you fucking tit— now! I have to go pee-pee.”

Once potty-time is sorted, John is dressed in a tiny pair of corduroy trousers and a little beige jumper. The fact that Sherlock has these on hand shows more premeditation than John cares to think about. Once Sherlock has tied his shoes (John seems to have forgotten whether the bunny goes around the tree or into the hole), they head off to the crime scene. 

😂😂😂 This is wild and wonderful!!

🌞 Self-care vs. self-indulgence vs. avoidance

Sometimes it may be a hard to swallow pill, but there's a difference between self-care and self-indulgence:

🍭 self-indulgence: spending too much money on stuff you want, but don't really need, like clothes you'll wear twice and then leave in your closet, where all they do is take up space, books you'll never read, subscriptions you'll forget about

✨ self-care: saving money; planning your budget; buying less, but better quality; thinking twice, before buying something you want, but don't need: "Will I really use it? Do I have enough money to buy it, without worrying, that I won't have enough to buy something more important? I want it now, but will I still want it tomorrow?" (note: I didn't write "don't buy anything except necessities" anywhere. Buy the stuff you want, but do it consciously, plan it and think before buying.)

🍭 self-indulgence: eating fast food and unhealthy snacks; drinking soda pop, energy drinks, tea with a lot of sugar, or too much coffee; adding sugar to everything; drinking too much alcohol

✨ self-care: eating as healthy as possible; learning to cook; avoiding fast food, sweets, potato chips and other unhealthy snacks; reducing your sugar intake; drinking water, fruit juices, tea without added sugar; planning your meals; buying natural food (note: It doesn't mean "never eat anything unhealthy again, never add sugar to anything, never drink alcohol". You can treat yourself with some pizza, or sweets, or beer sometimes, but it should be a treat, not part of your everyday meals.)

🍭 self-indulgence: staying up until 3 AM to watch films/series, play computer games, browse social media, chat with someone, or even to do something, that doesn't involve technology, for example draw or read books; sleeping until 11 AM, because you went to bed too late; sleeping 12 hours at the weekend, because you slept 4 hours a day during the week; hitting the snooze button; laying in the bed for too long after waking up

✨ self-care: fixing your sleep schedule; waking up earlier; going to bed earlier; sleeping 7 to 9 hours every day; avoiding all-nighters; having a fixed wake up time and a fixed bedtime, the same every day, including weekends; getting out of bed immediately when your alarm clock rings (note: I know there are circumstances, that can mąkę having a fixed sleep schedule is impossible, or next to impossible, I also know in some situations it's totally normal to stay up late, like you don't have to leave a party at 9 PM just because you want to stick to your sleep schedule, that would be unreasonable. Do it the best you can under your current life circumstances, and remember, this is about everyday life, not some rare exceptions.)

There's also a difference between self-care and avoidance:

😨 avoidance: staying home all the time; not going to any events, because meeting new people is stressful; always declinig your friends' invitations

✨ self-care: not going to that big, loud party, because it's too overwhelming, but going to a pub with a few friends instead; inviting your friends to your home, when going out feels too stressful; declinig some invitations, when you don't have time and/or energy, but accepting others, when you feel better and have more time; gradually increasing the number of social interactions you have, to be able to meet new people with less stress

😨 avoidance: having no plans for the future; thinking, that there's no point in having any goals in life; telling yourself, that ambitions are generally pointless and hence you don't have to do anything and be good at anything

✨ self-care: having specific, short-term goals and an overall vision od your long-term future; knowing, what you really want to do and what you're good at, and sticking to these things; consciously choosing, what to learn and what to give up on, based on if it's important to you, not to other people; not distracting yourself with too many side plans, when you have one main goal; knowing, what is your passion and what is your ambition; knowing, that you are ambitious mainly for yourself, and only secondly for the society; believing, that you are capable of achieving your goals

😨 avoidance: not studying at all, because it takes time and energy; procrastinating until the last moment before the exam/test/project deadline; always talking the easiest way possible with no ambition beyond barely passing the exam/test; having no plan, no study schedule; never asking for help, even if you're failing, because you think asking for help is a shame, or you're simply too shy; dropping out of school/college because it's stressful

✨ self-care: knowing that you're studying for yourself, your grades don't define you and that real knowledge and skills are more important, than grades; focusing on these topics, that are important to you for your future studies/career, and being the best you can in these areas; being good enough to pass at everything, that isn't important for your future plans; planning your studying and starting early; taking regular breaks to avoid burnout; asking for help if necessary, but trying to do as much as possible and reasonable on your own; acknowledging that, despite the education system being flawed in so many ways, it also gives you many opportunities;

Of course, self-care includes bubble baths, eating cake, listening to your favourite music and slowly drinking tea, while watching the rain outside through the window and letting your thoughts wander, but these aren't only forms od self-care and definetely not the most important ones. Of course, sometimes it includes staying home with your cat instead of going to the party, sleeping in, instead of studying for an exam, because you're exhausted, or giving up on something, instead of trying again and again, but this should happen in some, specific situations, not be your default response. Real self-care should focus on improving your life, not escaping it or avoiding it.

This post doesn't mean, I'm perfect at all of these things. Actually I struggle a lot with many of them. This is a piece of advice for me, too.

Sherlock & Co brainrot has taken over once again. And yes this is a reference to that one vine

May prompts, 15 and 16: Nightmare, Experiment

I’m no angel, I never claimed to be. I’m a dominatrix. I like to be in charge; I know how to get there, and I don’t mind what I have to do along the way.

That said. I’m no devil, either. Being a dominatrix doesn’t mean hurting someone for my own pleasure; if anything, it’s hurting someone for their own. Though actually there’s no more pain or chastisement or humiliation involved, or even domination, than the client explicitly chooses.

A good dominatrix has distance on her client, and moderate benevolence; she keeps their secrets, or she doesn’t succeed in this line of work. Her own emotions don’t come into it.

And mostly, mine don’t. Sherlock Holmes was—an exception. I don’t meet that many geniuses, and absolutely none who come packaged in that magnetic combination of beauty, class, and indifference.

Well. It stings to admit it, but the indifference was specific to me. It took 12.5 seconds to recognise that he was far from indifferent to his partner, John Watson. Who himself seemed far from indifferent to women, and bizarrely possessive of Sherlock.

I thought that unfair. I thought Sherlock deserved better. And I thought it would be amusing to become John Watson’s worst nightmare: a body he would desire (of course) but could not have, and a brain worthy of Sherlock’s own, one capable of seducing him.

They didn’t know, yet, that I’d been placed in their path as bait by a man so mad he made me shudder, and comply. My only task was to distract Sherlock and his less luminous partner, by pretending to blackmail a client so illustrious as to bring down the monarchy altogether. It wanted but a little, after all.

Not even for the madman’s astronomical payout would I have ever accepted even to feign such a thing: it certainly meant the end of a career I quite enjoyed, after all. But the madman’s offers were always accompanied by threats that everyone knew were deadly serious. It was a pity, but Sherlock Holmes had to be made to dance.

Since my own assignment was rather light in all this, I had time to take on another role: reluctant admirer of John Watson’s partner. And it wasn’t a pity to make John Watson dance. Watching him was quite entertaining.

His clumsy attempts to interrupt the patent chemistry between myself and his bemused friend.

His uncomprehending suffering, so like a little animal, at the intensity of the current running between us and excluding him. Oh, it wasn’t a sexual current, but Watson isn’t the most luminous of people, and I don’t think he could parse what exactly it was—not in Sherlock, and not in me.

In a brilliant stroke of sheer cruelty I programmed an orgasmic sigh into Sherlock’s text message alerts from me. Impossible to remove, too. I’m quite clever that way.

Experimenting on John Watson wasn’t an exercise in sadism, though. I didn’t make him suffer for the fun of it. I grew fond of Sherlock: his openness (though he was apprehensive about sex); his hidden devotion; his secret kindness. John Watson did care about him—I always know what people like—but something was blocking him.

So far as I was concerned, John had two choices: either get unblocked quickly and treat Sherlock better, or lose him to me. Until I tired of him, at least.

Ah, well. The best-laid plans, and all that. Soon enough I had to retreat, leave them to themselves, to keep myself alive.

But I knew I’d be back, sooner or later, to finish my experiment.

Thanks for reblogging!

@calaisreno, thank you for the May prompt series. 🤍 Writers, I'd love to be tagged on ALL your May prompt fics 🙏

(I'm tagging in the comments as tumblr has become truculent. Let me know if you'd like to be tagged or if you hate to be tagged.)

@calaisreno @keirgreeneyes @peanitbear @lisbeth-kk @jolieblack

May Prompts (15)

Day 14 here.

Nightmare

He knows he’s in a nightmare.

It doesn’t make it any less terrifying.

They are chasing the suspect along a rooftop, struggling to keep up. This thief is fast, but soon they’ll reach the end of the building and there will be nowhere left to go.

There’s a pub downstairs. Modern. The laughter from the smokers out front screams middle class. He looks over his shoulder and sees John, a few steps behind.

“Let’s pick it up, John!”

He expects a grimace—John didn’t want to chase the suspect after—but he swears he sees John smile. That’s why he kept looking back a touch longer than necessary. He loves that smile.

But it was a mistake. Because by the time he looks forward again, the thief is gone.

He quickly scans the periphery. The stairs! The stairs are the only path off this roof. They need to hurry!

The stairs lead to a second floor unit—storage, most likely. Not a short jump down, but certainly manageable. He stops for a moment to make sure John sees what he’s doing and then launches off the roof. He stumbles a bit when he hits the landing and takes a moment to regain his balance.

Suddenly know somethings wrong—this is a nightmare after all—and he turns around to tell John to stop.

But it’s too late.

He doesn’t see John trip, not exactly. What he sees is John already falling. Arms flailing. Fear in his eyes.

He wakes up before John hits the ground.

His heart is pounding and he wants to throw up. The room is too quiet and he can’t help but imagine the crunch of when John hit the ground.

He forces himself to focus on the shape of John sleeping peacefully in the dreary hospital bed. Hurt, but alive.

He pulls his legs to his chest and stares at the rise and fall of John’s chest. He won’t be sleeping more tonight. He doesn’t want to.

He pulls his legs closer.

“I’m sorry,” he says, quietly, into the darkness.

It’s not enough.

😭😭😭😭

painting of joan of arc but she's got a lil carabiner. is this anything.

she's got the key to heaven or something

Made myself laugh drawing that first panel...this is part two of THE SIGN OF THE FOUR, part one here!

(this is part of the Watson's sketchbook series)

Pure gold!! 💯😍

May Prompts - Experiment

Holmes the detective is arrogant. Empathy’s just an experiment. He’s cruel, cutting and crass, A big pain in the ass. “Manners are just an impediment.”

-----See Them All on O3 -----

Tags in the comments as well.

Please LMK if you want on or off the list!

@stellacartography @totallysilvergirl @calaisreno @keirgreeneyes @peanitbear

So. This is part of two things.

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

AND

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

Warnings: PTSD and Violence

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

•*•*•*•

It’s constant. Redundant. Persistent. Ceaseless.

Never-ending.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

——

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*•*•*•*

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

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

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

Poor John! Gorgeous writing. Looks wonderful!! Thank you for the preview @strawberrywinter4