Filling Fest!

[sherlockbbc_fic]

The Filling Fest Is Over. Thanks for everyone who participated!

Thanks to everyone who voted and shared their input. It really helped us figure out how things will go.

The fest will focus on prompts from Parts VI-VII (for those who want to fill prompts from the earlier days of the meme), and Parts XXIV-XXV (for those who want to revisit prompts from right after series two was aired. If you want to use the Filled Prompt Posts to browse through prompts, Part VI starts here, and Part XXIV starts here.

1. For the next three days, you can browse through those four parts and nominate prompts you’d like to see filled. Please include the full prompt and the link to the original prompt in your nomination. Those three days are for nominations only; don’t start posting your fills until this period is over.

2. After those three days, the nomination period will end and the filling period will begin. If you’re inspired by a nominated prompt, that’s great. If you prefer to look through those four parts and fill something that catches your eye, that’s great too. The filling period will last for two weeks.

3. All kinds of fills are welcome, as are multiple fills.

4. Anon posting is allowed, but not required.

5. Nominations without the link to the original prompt will be deleted. Same for nominations from parts other than VI, VII, XXIV and XXV.

6. Only post new fills that you haven’t posted anywhere before. If you have a WIP from one of those parts that’s gathering dust on your hard drive, it’s fine to post it, but only if you never started posting it.

7. Post your fill in this thread, but link to your fill in the original post (or in the Overflow post if the original post is full).

8. Please consider warning for triggery prompts (and also for fills, because some people read in flat view) and phrasing prompts in a manner that strives to be respectful. Things which you might want to consider warning for include: Rape/Non-Con, Death, Suicidal Thoughts, Self-Harm, Underage Relationships, among others.

9. If you have questions, please ask in the appropriate thread in this post.

One last thing: have fun!

The filling period will end on Saturday May 19th around 20:00 GMT.
Post your fill as a direct reply to THIS THREAD and please include the original prompt (or a summary of the prompt).

Comments

QUESTIONS

[sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com]

Do you have questions? Post them here!

Re: QUESTIONS

[song-of-ages.livejournal.com]

So say we see one we'd like to fill, do we say so? Or wait?

Re: QUESTIONS

[(Anonymous)]

Is there a way to see all the nominations without expanding each one separately?

Request: Warnings and labels on fills, please

[(Anonymous)]

Not so much a question as a polite request: Could the mods please put a reminder for fillers to put warnings in their posts? It's great that there are fills, but some of us don't want to accidentally read a fill that delves into topics we're not comfortable with.

Also a suggestion for fillers to put up (a summery of) the original prompt or something besides just a link to the original posts? For mobile devices it's harder to go to links posted by anonymous comments.

Please and thank you very much.

Re: QUESTIONS

[song-of-ages.livejournal.com]

We can fill or claim now?

Re: QUESTIONS

[song-of-ages.livejournal.com]

Sorry, can we start filling now?

Re: QUESTIONS

[(Anonymous)]

Is it OK to post here after 05/19? My week has sadly not been conducive to finishing yet and I might not be done til Sunday (I'm in same time zone as NYC if that matters). Or is that not good?

(frozen comment) NOMINATIONS

[sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com]

Reply to his comment to nominate the prompts you'd like to see filled.

(frozen comment) Re: NOMINATIONS

[(Anonymous)]

Hooray! I'll start!

Will someone please fill this amazing prompt? I love bromance!!

Prompt:
You know that part in The Red-Headed League where Holmes and Watson actually laugh at the client when he gets to the mysterious twist in his tale? (I am attempting to not spoil it because it is one of my favorites and everyone should read that one, for SO. MANY. REASONS.) And how John and Sherlock try very hard to not giggle at crime scenes? I want more of that. I want John and Sherlock just having a fucking fantastic time together while solving crimes and knowing something everyone else doesn't.

John and Sherlock are ridiculous semi-goofy BFFs at horribly inappropriate places. EXAMPLE: they go to a wake of some poor man who everyone thinks died tragically (and mysteriously, hence their presence) but really died of a heart attack while masturbating in his office, and they can't stop laughing.

Link:
http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/4777.html?thread=13112233#t13112233

(frozen comment)

[(Anonymous)]

Like the original prompter says IDK how this would happen, but it's an intriguing idea.

Prompt: VICTOR/VICTORIA AU.

IDK IDK, MAKE IT HAPPEN.

Link: http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/4777.html?thread=12838313#t12838313

RE: NOMINATIONS

[(Anonymous)]

http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/15638.html?thread=86551830#t86551830

Mycroft coming in his pants, absentmindedly thinking about Lestrade

Re: NOMINATIONS

[(Anonymous)]

Ooops. Sorry, mods. Pressed the wrong "reply".

[(Anonymous)]

Sherlock replaces director commentaries on dvds.

Sherlock hacks into all sorts of movie recordings and ruins the director commentary by replacing it with his own. Just totally ruining the films and deducing all sorts of things about the plot and the actors ("he's clearly not sober; that rehab clinic he went to was just for PR, you can see by how his left thumb is moving...")

BONUS if he also adds deduction voiceovers to porn movies, and John finds out when's alone, getting ready to watch a dirty flick.

http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/4777.html?thread=13064105#t13064105

[(Anonymous)]

http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/4777.html?thread=12906409#t12906409

John/Fem!Sherlock. Anus massage.

[(Anonymous)]

Irene doms both John and Sherlock to play with each other for her amusement. (And everyone else's, honestly here) Threesomeish?

http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/15638.html?thread=86299926#t86299926

Mini-Fill for Prompt from XXV.

[(Anonymous)]

First time posting any fill to a kink meme. Forgive and correct if I've made any errors?

Fill for http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/15638.html?thread=86906134 "Mycroft didn't tell Moriarty a thing about his brother -- he told Rich Brook, his boyfriend".

**

("Lovely craftsmanship." Rich strokes his lapels without permission, daring, brush of his thumbs warm against Mycroft's chest. "You're a better man than Westwood, aren't you? Paul Smith, I think," he decides--

And Mycroft is charmed.)

He did not see what he did not wish to see. He knows that now.

But there were… warning signs… of a sort. Needling uncertainties. Niggling doubts. As he understands, it's much the same for all who find themselves thus used. Perhaps they find this solidarity comforting.

Mycroft does not.

(Charmed, and worse: flattered. Foolish, to blush at the pretty words of a pretty boy.)

Warnings, yes. Darkness in his laughter. Flares of temper, quickly snuffed, but obvious in one who was not--

(Richard Brook made his life's work comforting children with fairy tales; a nice change after a lifetime of Sherlock.)

Sherlock: another warning. Rich's curiosity about him, slightly too keen. The gleam of a magpie who's spotted gold on the battleground; what matter the means necessary to obtain it?

(Caring is not an advantage.)

He watches the CCTV footage alone as a reprimand to himself. Such disdain, game abandoned, damning words blown to him on zeroes and ones, and with a kiss.

It might have hurt a lesser man; it would have hurt him, had he not prepared for this eventuality, and been certain before the confirmation of his eyes.

(Dear me, Mr. Holmes.)

After all, isn't this how all those who choose that such a path betray? With a kiss?

Re: Mini-Fill for Prompt from XXV.

[bluebellanon]

I like this! It'd be interesting to see it as a longer fic. :)

Wrong Number - Original Prompt

[(Anonymous)]

Sherlock and John don't meet the way they do in canon.
Instead, they meet because Sherlock accidentally sends one of his deduction-texts, meant for Lestrade, to the the wrong number. John's number.
Original prompt is here (http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/15253.html?thread=85037717&#t85037717).

A/N: If you see any SPAG mistakes or if something needs to be brit-picked, feel free to let me know. If I made a time mistake, if I forgot a 'SH', or if I screwed up my formatting, please let me know. Also, I always enjoy concrit and I welcome your honest opinion. I tried to follow the canon timeline, even when it made no sense. If you recognise a case, it's most likely from John's blog, Sherlock's website, or ACD's stories.

This story is currently rated PG-13 for some bad language. It could go higher in the future; I'll let you know if it does.

***

Wrong Number - 1a

[(Anonymous)]

January 29th
(19:35)
If brother has green ladder
arrest brother.
SH

(19:48)
WHAT? WHO’S THIS?

(19:49)
Seriously Lestrade, if you think
this immature trick will work
more than once, you are greatly
mistaken. I don’t have time for
this.
SH

(19:53)
SERIOUSLY, WHO ARE YOU
AND WHY ARE YOU TEXTING
ME?

(19:53)
I despise you.
SH

(20:32)
UNSUBSCRIBE!!!


January 30th
(20:02)
Spoke to Jane. Keith still hasn’t
been arrested. Do you need Jaws
of Life to extract your head from
your arse?
SH

(20:52)
ARE YOU ACTUALLY A REAL
PERSON, OR ARE YOU JUST
SOME VERY RUDE KIND OF
SPAM?

(21:17)
Apparently I had the wrong
number. This would have
been much less tedious if
you had said so from the start.
SH

(21:20)
YOU’RE KIDDING RIGHT?
WHICH PART OF ‘WHO ARE YOU
AND WHY ARE YOU TEXTING
ME’ MADE YOU BELIEVE YOU
COULD POSSIBILY HAVE THE
RIGHT NUMBER?

(20:21)
A simple ‘you have the wrong
number’ would have sufficed.
SH

(20:24)
YOU KNOW WHAT? SCREW THIS!
YOU’RE OBVIOUSLY A POLICE
OFFICER AND I DON’T WANT TO
BE ARRESTED FOR LEADING
YOU ON OR SOMETHING LIKE THAT.
HAVE A NICE EVENING.

(20:26)
A police officer? Hardly. What
led you to that inaccurate
deduction?
SH

(20:36)
Not answering anymore?
SH

(20:28)
NO. YOU’RE ANNOYING.

(20:29)
Your reasoning process was wrong;
I need to know where you went
wrong.
SH

(20:30)
WHY?

(20:30)
So I can correct you.
SH

(20:33)
I DON’T BELIEVE THIS. WHO ARE
YOU?

(20:33)
Not a police officer.
SH

(20:38)
ALRIGHT, JUST BECAUSE IT WILL
SHUT YOU UP: YOU MENTIONED AN
ARREST, SO YOU’RE A POLICE
OFFICER. HAPPY?

(20:40)
Quite the opposite. You ignored
most of what I said in favour of the
obvious conclusion.
SH

(20:41)
If I were a police officer, would I
have insulted my colleagues in
such a way?
SH

(20:43)
I NEVER SAID YOU WERE A GOOD
POLICE OFFICER.

(20:44)
WHAT ARE YOU THEN?

(20:49)
In a hurry. I've finally been called.
Murder!
SH

(20:53)
I REALLY HOPE YOU MEAN YOU
NEED TO SOLVE A MURDER AND
NOT COMMIT ONE.

The Holmes Dilemna

[(Anonymous)]

Fill for this particular prompt (http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/4777.html?thread=13288617#t13288617).
If there are any mistakes or Americanisms that shouldn't be there do let me know.
****

Walking into 221B Baker Street, John didn’t think that his night could actually get much worse. His latest girlfriend had broken up with him for the same reasons that the others tended to. He wasn’t around enough, he was more devoted to Sherlock than them. All those little things he wished he didn’t understand because at least then he could feel a bit more blameless than he actually did.

But no sooner did he walk into the kitchen, determined to make his night a bit better with a cup of tea did he hear a strange short of thump. Something smacking against the wall followed by an almost pained moan. Tensing, John tried to get a feel for the situation.

It was Sherlock’s room, which meant it could be nothing more than another foolish experiment or he could be in danger. Putting down the kettle, he slowly made his way toward the man’s door.

There were more soft thuds, someone else’s moan, which meant that the man wasn’t alone. And then the words that made John’s blood go cold.

“Fuck, Mycroft.”

Frowning, John couldn’t actually wrap his mind around the two men fighting it out. They were both too old and too mature for such childish antics. Certainly, Mycroft alone was a bit too lazy. But the sounds kept coming and if their little feud had actually boiled over into some sort of violence then John was going to put a stop to it straight away. Opening the door, John rushed in, fully intending on letting them both know what idiot’s they were being before he caught sight of them.

There was no way they were fighting. Not with the way Sherlock laid there, head thrown back as a litany of whimpers poured forth. Mycroft on top of him, being more active than John would’ve given the man credit for as he all but bent Sherlock in half as he fucked him because they were fucking. Headboard slamming against the wall fucking.

Sherlock with his nails clawing the sheets, moaning his brother’s name. Mycroft keeping a steady yet punishing rhythm as he sucked at Sherlock’s neck, certain to leave some kind of bruise.

“Oh God,” John said, unable to look away. But the moment the words were out of his mouth, their eyes were on him.

To his credit, Sherlock managed to look ashamed. Eyes wide, mouth struggling to form words instead of the garbled sounds Mycroft seemed to be tearing out of him.

“Evening doctor,” Mycroft said, never once losing tempo.

Gripping his brother’s shoulders, Sherlock pressed his face against Mycroft’s neck, obviously trying to hide the look of shame on it. Digging his nails into his brother’s shoulder’s he moaned out rather loudly, “John leave!”

And he certainly didn’t need to be told twice. Rushing out of the room, he slammed the door shut before pressing his back against the wall. Closing his eyes, he shook his head and tried to convince himself that that wasn’t right. There was no way that he could’ve seen Sherlock and Mycroft having sex. They were brothers for Christ sake. Covering his mouth, he shook his head again before moving away from the wall.

He couldn’t even think straight. The idea of Sherlock’s legs wrapped around Mycroft’s waist, getting that kind of pleasure from anyone was haunting his mind. After all, he knew Sherlock was strange and that neither of them seemed to care overly much for societal norms, but to have sex with each other?

When they finally came out, John was sitting on the sofa, sipping a cup of tea. He couldn’t bring himself to just leave. No, after what he saw he felt he was rather owed some kind of explanation because whatever their rationalization he knew it would be interesting to say the least. Not that it would make any sort of difference on how he felt. He swore to himself that there was no way the two brothers would alter his views on what they were doing.

The Holmes Dilemna (2/3)

[(Anonymous)]

Still, seeing Sherlock look so nervous because of him was rather new in an unpleasant way. He kept his head lowered, dark curls obscuring any view of his eyes. Every time he brushed against his brother, he seemed to jump as though he was scared. Nothing like Mycroft, who kept giving him the most sympathetic of looks. Little glances that were meant to comfort or apologize. John never could tell when it came to the two of them. Didn't want to now.

“You were fucking your brother,” John blurted out, having no other way of starting the conversation.

Nodding rather numbly, Sherlock looked at him with guarded eyes. “It happens from time to time.”

“He’s your brother.”

“Trust me, John, such facts have always been apparent,” Mycroft said, ever casual even in the face of this. No wonder the man ran the government. He not only had the mind of a machine, but he had all the moral conflicts of one as well.

“It wasn’t always like this,” Sherlock tried to explain. Stealing a quick glance at his brother, one that was all but pleading, he frowned. For once, even the great Sherlock Holmes was at a loss for words and John, sitting there with his arms crossed over his chest to purposefully looking defensive and judgmental, wasn’t going to help him sort it out. “It’s just… He understands me. He knows what it gets like and he’s all I ever had. It isn’t as though I was a popular boy.”

Which wasn’t hard to believe given the fact that he’d met Sebastian, the only person from Sherlock’s past that seemed to acknowledge him. The only thing more frightening than the thought that Sherlock may have always been the obnoxious git before him was the idea that he may have somehow improved to that point.

But looking at Mycroft, who remained ever calm and completely undisturbed by the situation, John knew that he couldn’t possibly have had an excuse for taking advantage of his little brother. He fit in. He socialized like a normal person and managed to maintain a normal life, even if it was running the entire government. There was no reason for him to actually need to take solace in his brother.

“I want him,” Mycroft said as casually as one would tell someone the time. “I knew back when Sherlock was a boy that we were playing at a dangerous game. He’d run to me instead of our parents, he’d stay in my room. He’d get jealous when he didn’t have my attention. Then there were the experiments and—“ Stopping himself, Mycroft merely smiled in the way that meant he had said more than he was allowed to.

Rising from his seat, he looked at Sherlock with his usual caring brother stare, something that now made John’s stomach churn in disgust now that he knew the extent of the man’s caring. Running his hand through Sherlock’s hair, Mycroft bent down to kiss him. When Sherlock turned his head, that blush of shame colouring his cheeks yet again, Mycroft paused before kissing his cheek and standing once again.

Moving to stand in front of John, his lips curled into a friendly smile while all emotion seemed to drain away from his eyes. “John, I’m certain we can keep this matter quiet, yes?”

Pentanedione, Damascenone, Furanone, Vanillin (NC-17) - Prompt

[(Anonymous)]

Original Prompt Here: http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/4777.html?thread=14769833#t14769833

Take Sherlock and his insane dedication to his work, and make it your work instead. How would his craziness manifest itself if he worked as [insert your profession here]?

Or if you're a student, what would he have been like studying your chosen subject?

I'm a barista at a small UK coffee shop. I have read many coffee shop AU's and none of them rang true for me, so this is just my silly little attempt at a different take on the genre. I think it could be called serious crack? With gratuitous porn?

Also i'm not actually a roaster myself, and this is unbetad so if anyone sees any glaring errors then please let me know! And of course, concrit is very welcome and much appreciated.

Sorry to the anon up there for stealing your posting format, it seemed like a very good idea! All my thanks to the anons of the rant post (you know who you are) for cheerleading, enabling and generally being awesome. This was also very slightly influenced by Perfume: The Story of a Murderer.

Pentanedione, Damascenone, Furanone, Vanillin 1/3

[(Anonymous)]

Sherlock rolls espresso round his mouth, much the same way Mycroft might with a good whisky. He filters it through his teeth, lets it slide over his tongue and down his throat, and jots a few things down on a notepad.

Kenyan peaberry: Strawb notes. Poss blend – strawb/acid + bitter/sweet.

He taps the pen to his lower lip, takes another sip, allowing himself a little sigh of pleasure. If this is just the sampler, the final roast is going to be exquisite. He strokes the roaster fondly, strolls out into the main shop where the new barista is getting to grips with the machine. Sherlock doesn’t know much about him, just that he’s a PhD student at Bart’s. Maybe he has access to the lab equipment; that’s something to ask about later.

For the inexperienced the machine is a bit of a puzzle, but John clearly knows what he’s doing. He expertly grinds and tamps, tapping out the seconds on his wrist as the espresso pours, and testing it for acidity with a quick slip of pink tongue before adjusting the grind. Sherlock approves. He moves a little closer, scents the air like a well-bred cat. Sherlock’s Jansoon blend. Aftershave (Paul Smith. A gift; doesn’t entirely suit him). Salt. He senses he’s got a little too close when John starts at their sudden proximity and jumps aside, flushing.

“Oh, morning Sherlock. Something smells good.”

“I know. New blend. I’ll be working on it today. You’re on your own?”

“No, Greg’s in. I’m just early.”

Sherlock checks his watch. Only seven thirty. He’s been here since five, woke up with a formula for the perfect roast in his head and had to come to the shop.

“Fancy a coffee?” John’s finally got the pour of his espresso right, the crema is thick and golden and it hits the balance between acidity and bitterness perfectly.

“Mm,” Sherlock closes his eyes, “This is just the Jansoon?”

John gives him a dazzling smile, “Yeah. Is it alright?”

“Excellent.” Sherlock drains it, watching as John cleans out the baskets with a practiced flick of his wrist. The scent of him clings to the back of Sherlock’s throat all morning.

-

Mid-afternoon, and he’s finished the first roast of the peaberry. He’s sweltering hot from hanging around the roaster taking notes, and he’s stripped to his shirtsleeves, hair stuck in stripes to his forehead. The shop has a few customers; some on laptops, some sipping coffee, others browsing the bags of beans, all of which have ‘Roasted by Sherlock’ scrawled messily on the label. About six months ago, they were ‘Roasted by Maggie’ and they were selling about half as much as they do now.

As a final year chemistry student, Sherlock had been loathe to find employment. With Mycroft withholding his funds like the fat spider he was though, he’d had to resort to part time work to keep up the rent on his Montague Street flat. Within half an hour at his new job, he’d exposed an affair, revealed a nascent masochistic kink in a slick looking businessman and made the roaster cry by pointing out the (many) flaws in her most recent blend. Instead of kicking him straight out of the door, Lestrade had shoved him through the back amongst the beans and told him to get on with it. It had taken him the rest of the afternoon to get to grips with the roaster, and suddenly he had a job.

Sherlock dreams in beans. His flat is wallpapered with roasting graphs (annotated until they’re practically unreadable in spidery handwriting), making it look like the office of some sort of Coffee PI. His kitchen is mostly taken over by an enormous homemade cold drip machine, which he uses for a control in his experiments into aromatic extraction. Wafts of vanilla, bergamot and delicate jasmine make his head spin, and he coaxes them from the beans with a patience that even he hadn’t known he’d possessed.

He’d had no idea how perfect this job was for him when he’d started it; it’s science: chemistry, volatiles and reactions, but it’s also an art. His palate is honed to the tiniest hints of lilac, sweet pea, and once roasted: caramel, chocolate, dark bitter nuts. He can see them like colours; just a touch more bitterness here, a little more sweetness there, the aromas harmonising flawlessly. He could take days extracting the perfect sweet note of lemon from a Yellow Bourbon and not be bored.

Doctor Holmes 1/?

[song-of-ages.livejournal.com]

Based on this prompt. http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/15253.html?thread=85524373#t85524373. Warning: Language.



It was all Sherlock's fault really. If he hadn't dragged John out to a crime-scene, in the coldest weather imaginable, AND in the pouring rain, this might never have happened. But it had. John Watson, M.D had the flu. He had woken up that very morning with the symptoms and by the afternoon he felt, well, like shit. He supposed he should be grateful that Sherlock was nowhere in sight. The soldier part of John disliked being seen in such a vulnerable state.

John dragged himself up and wobbled down the short staircase and into the kitchen. He felt light-headed and could tell a fever was starting it's burn. He filled a glass and stumbled back to his room, spilling drops of water that pooled onto the carpet like little blobs of liquid crystal. John paused at his bedroom door before closing it and placing the glass on his bedside table, collapsing onto his bed.

John started to shiver and pulled the bed covers over his body and curled into a ball. He could feel beads of sweat begin to form on his brow and knew it wouldn't be long before he started to get warm and then hot. He could get up again and fetch his medical supplies, but his body strongly disagreed with that suggestion.

He almost wished his annoying flatmate was here after all.

------

Sherlock returned home late that afternoon after a long and tedious case. Since John had felt the need to constantly complain the night before, Sherlock hadn't bothered to ask him. Better to let him calm down and then drag him to another crime scene. As the detective ventured into the living room of 221b Baker Street, his flatmate was oddly absent. Usually John was in his armchair, sipping a cup of tea or on his laptop typing up a slowly, but well written storm.

But he was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he's on a date? No, here was his jacket. And he wasn't in the kitchen either. Sherlock considered calling out but would rather his flatmate not hear the slight concern in his voice. Sherlock had many enemies and he was sure John would let him know if he was going out.

Having no real sense of privacy and personal space, unless it had to do with himself, Sherlock wasted no time in tip-toing up the short staircase leading up to John's bedroom and gently pushing the door open. John lay on his bed, the sheets tangled around his shivering body. He seemed to be also sweating a great deal. That along with his pale skin and flushed cheeks pointed to only one thing.

John was sick. And it was probably Sherlock's fault.

Re: Doctor Holmes 2/?

[song-of-ages.livejournal.com]

How does one approach a sick flatmate? Mused the detective. John could possibly take offence if he tried to wake him and swing a punch. On the other hand, he looked like shit. It couldn't be doing him much good, curling into a shivering ball and sweating all over his sheets. Oh God! What if he'd been poisoned?! What if he was lying there on his bed, dying? No, no, that was ridiculous. But plausible. Fine, Sherlock decided. He'd wake up the doctor.

“John?”

“John? Can you hear me? Are you awake John?” Don't make me shake you. Or poke you.

“I bloody wish I wasn't.”

“John! Are..are you alright? You look ill.”

“No I'm just lying here in a pool of my own sweat because it sounded like such a good idea!” Ok, you're in a bad mood. Understandable. Please lower your sarcasm levels John.

“Do you need anything?” See? I am making an effort.

Wait, did he just hear correctly or did Sherlock Holmes just offer to help him? Maybe he was hallucinating. Yeah that was probably it.

“John?”

“I need you to piss off. I can deal with this myself.” I'm a bloody doctor, I can do this.

“Somehow I doubt that. Wait here, I will bring you something for your throat. It sounds hoarse.”

How had John missed that? It was his bloody throat. And Sherlock was right, as always, it was starting to become sore. But he felt hesitant in drinking anything Sherlock brewed, it probably wasn't safe. Especially when you find a severed finger next to the tea or an ear in the fridge sitting on the butter.
In fact most of their kitchen could be declared as health hazard and yet Sherlock never got so much as a sniffle, the bastard.

------

Said bastard returned several minutes later with a warm mug of something. It smelt nice. It smelt safe. John attempted to sit up, failing miserably as his head began to spin. Strong, thin arms lifted him into a better position and held his head up and let him sip the contents of the mug. It tasted like honey and lemon and soothed his throat. Who'd have thought Sherlock knew such remedies?

Sherlock rested John's head back on the pillows and placed the mug next to the full glass of water. John gave him a confused look and Sherlock found himself raising his eyebrows in response.

“What?”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Isn't that what people do? Take care of sick flatmates?”

“You can't use that excuse for everything.” John rasped, a yawning taking hold of his words.

“I can and will. Besides, I suppose it is partly my...um..my...”

“Your what? Cat got your tongue?”

“What? No. Alright, it's my fault? Ok? Happy now?” I feel guilty. Me. Sherlock Holmes. What have you done to me?

“Ecstatic. Now piss off.”

Sherlock felt himself pouting. That was very rude. After all, he had tried his best to look after John and now he was pushing Sherlock away. Maybe he thought he could take better care of himself? Doctors were always rumoured to be the worst of patients and it seemed like John was proving the rumour to be true.

“No.”

“I'm sorry?”

“No. I'm not moving. You obviously think you can take care of yourself, but look at you? You couldn't even sit up without my help and no doubt your fever will take hold of you mind and render you unable to do the most menial of tasks. No I will stay here.”

"Suit yourself. Just don't do anything or say anything." John kicked the covers off his bed again.

"You're in fine insulting form this afternoon."

"Didn't I just tell you to be quiet? Course I'm in a bad mood. I'm bloody sick!" And whose fault was that?

Sherlock simply gave him a confused but curious look. John turned away and closed his eyes. Inhaling suddenly when he felt a cold, wet cloth plop onto his forehead. Oh that felt nice. Really great. Ok, Sherlock was actually trying to do the right thing and he wasn't half bad at it. That doesn't mean John was going to be nice to him when it was his fault in the first place.

If Sherlock wanted forgiveness, he was going to have to work for it.

WARNING: Rape. Also creepiness. And corpses.

[(Anonymous)]

WARNING: Rape/Non-Con. Creepy. Corpses.

Fill for http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/15638.html?thread=86382870#t86382870

"After Sherlock and Irene leave the plane, Moriarty shows up and has Mycroft right there, among all the corpses."

-----

It was quiet there, among the dead.

The younger generation had gone, taking with them all their self-satisfied cleverness, their proud sarcasm and caustic deductions. Sherlock and Irene, both of them so determined to be the best, to show off how well they can manipulate and deduce at each other. Tiresome. And there were things yet to be sorted out, between the two of them, but Mycroft would see to that later. There was time.

He wanted a moment in the dark, here on the flight of the dead that would never happen, the last bid of Coventry that was now in shambles.

The dead were such pleasant company. They asked nothing of you, they gave nothing in return, and they would take your secrets to their grave. Reassuring, when you thought of it like that.

“Dear me, Mr. Holmes,” he whispered, from out of the dark.

Re: WARNING: Rape. Also creepiness. And corpses.

[(Anonymous)]

Mycroft turned, but there was nothing. Only the dead. Rows upon rows of the dead. Except that now one of them was smiling, when he hadn’t been before.

“Dear me,” he said, rising from the chair at the back of the plane, one slim suited form that sauntered down the lonely aisle. “I was always rather fond of Coventry. Embarrassing, isn’t it, those times when the people find out that the British Government isn’t omnipotent, and sometimes you just have to let Coventry burn. But you tried to cheat, my dear Mycroft. Your clever little solution, and the flight of the dead.”

Moriarty smiled down upon the corpses, gliding his finger along a cold jawline, and leaning down to press a kiss upon dead lips. “You would have burned for me,” he promised the corpse. “But the game is up, and now it’s the cold wet ground of England for you.”

“Moriarty,” Mycroft said, the name vile upon his tongue.

“In the flesh, sweetheart,” Moriarty chirped. “We were having such a nice game, Mycroft. But then you cheated, and you know what happens when you cheat?”

“I suspect that you are going to tell me.”

“You suffer.”

“Do I.” Mycroft gave him a sneering smile, filled with challenge and disdain.

“Feeling cold, Mycroft?”

Cold? It was cool in here, the flight of the dead had to be kept on ice. But there was something else. A chill in his veins, a slight tremor in a muscle. Mycroft tipped his head as if to say ‘cold? no. whatever could you mean?’ but he said nothing.

“Just a little custom blend of mine. Slipped it into your drink--that lovely glass of scotch you had while waiting for your dear brother? You should be starting to feel it now.”

Mycroft braced his hand against the back of one of the seats, leaning some weight against it. Yes. There was something in that tremor, a chill that didn’t belong. Some drug. He didn’t recognize the symptoms.

“Terribly gauche of me, I know.” Moriarty said, strolling forward with a smile. “But I did say that you had to be punished. I’m so disappointed with you, Mycroft. We were having so much fun.”

Moriarty reached for him, and Mycroft pulled back, but his knees felt so weak, and his movements felt so slow. His world stumbled, and he found himself bent over the nearest row of seats, sprawled in the lap of a young, dead businesswoman.

“So I’m going to teach you a lesson. And this time, my dear, the lesson isn’t going to be clever. It’s going to be so terribly pedestrian, so shameful and mundane, that your great machine of a brain won’t know what to do with it. I think that will suit you.”

The words slurred through Mycroft’s brain, their meaning hazy, but they still caught there. He would remember them.

With ever so much delicate care, Moriarty reached beneath him, unbuckling his belt and sliding down his expensive trousers. Mycroft flailed limply, but his muscles wouldn’t coordinate, and it took only a gentle push of Moriarty’s hand to drop him back down into the dead woman’s lap.

“Shh, now, pet. Take your medicine.” Moriarty laughed, soft and sweet, and then there was a searing pain as he forced his cock into Mycroft’s ass. It was so hot, so excruciatingly real, in this surreal frigid plane of the dead.

Words failed him, only allowing a choked sound from his lips, as all that genius and all his clever stratagems had somehow failed to see this, where Moriarty bent him over the lap of some corpses and raped him.

Time stretched and condensed, muddled inside Mycroft’s head to an endless blur of pain and the sharp slap of hips against his buttocks.

“Be seeing you,” Moriarty promised, leaving behind a pat on Mycroft’s cheek and a trail of seed leaking down his thigh. He cleaned himself off with a disposable wipe, and tossed it down on top of Mycroft, the sharp lemon smell of antiseptic standing out sweetly against the cloying stench of the sex and the creeping undertones of death.

And then he was gone, leaving Mycroft to recover as the drug wore its way back out of his system.

Story and art fill!!

[kinneybaby83.livejournal.com]

Victor Trevor was Sherlock's first love and also a struggling artist.

Now, Victor is famous, filling galleries with nude and semi-nude photos of a mysterious and handsome dark tall stranger.

Your choice how Sherlock (and other people) feel about this.

Link to the prompt: http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/5013.html?thread=17757845#t17757845


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They were shocking. Not because they were drawings of nude men, but because it was one nude man... one that John knew very well...

Curled up around a pillow with the blankets kicked off the bed.
Stretched out across the floor.
Pose after pose, sketched out and shadowed with loving detail.

"Sherlock... are they all... Well, you?"
John turned to Sherlock.

Sherlock was smiling. Not the impish grin he wore when trying to annoy John, and not the smug satisfied smile when proving him wrong.

This was a different smile. More like he was just... content.

"Victor and I dated a year. He was struggling with his art then, trying to get attention from galleries and such."

He moved closer to the drawing that had prompted John to clarify in the first place; Sherlock from behind, naked, bow in one hand and violin in the other.

"He told me I was his muse. We broke it off so he could study abroad. We still keep in touch."

He stared for a while, perhaps reliving in his mind the day he had posed for it. John continued to stare at the man rather than the drawing.

"They make me feel... attractive, John. I have been told all my life I'm a freak; that I act as strange as I look."

He chuckled a bit, not quite bitterly, but a hint of pain.

"Jolie laide, French for ugly-handsome... But Victor... He's the only person that saw me as beautiful."

John was about to argue; to explain that no, someone found him extremely attractive.

But he decided against it.
Not here, not now.
Let him revel in the drawings, enjoying the fact that everyone here was enthralled by his body his unique beauty.

John had time to explain his thoughts and feelings. Someday he would show Sherlock just how beautiful he was to him.

400 pounds for a drawing?

That seemed reasonable to John.


(art)
http://kinneybaby83.tumblr.com/post/23100150702/for-a-story-on-the-sherlock-kink-meme-on-live

Re: Story and art fill!!

[(Anonymous)]

That was very lovely, thank you for sharing!

Dimmock/Mycroft - Suits (mini-fill)

[generalbutton.livejournal.com]

Hope I did this right...
Prompt: http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/4777.html?thread=13533097#t13533097

---
Mycroft had a thing for men in suits.

The first night they met, he made sure Dimmock was in a suit.

It was... unconventional, to say the least.

"So what's this?"

DI Dimmock crossed his arms defensively, shoes tapping on the floor with impatience. He'd been kidnapped - abducted, by some woman and a man on a payphone, only to be brought to an abandoned warehouse. His gun rested under his jacket, fingertips pressing into the cold metal barrel. He may have come along, but he wasn't an idiot.

Mycroft Holmes slowly walked towards the DI, umbrella tapping along beside him. "Mycroft Holmes. A pleasure, I'm sure."

Oh, so it was this man. The one Greg told him about when he was drunk one night. The brat's older brother who'd kidnapped him, proposing payment for information on Sherlock. He fidgeted and breathed random half-sighs at intervals, uncomfortable as the man simply watched him.

"Do you want me to spy? Be your little 'toy?'" he blurted with more venom than he intended. Okay, so he was a little nervous.

Mycroft approached, feet stopping mere inches from Dimmock's. He pressed in close, the difference in their height painfully obvious when he craned to appear defiant in front of the tall man. Mycroft's smirk was visible. He did like a man who could stand up for himself. Dimmock muscles clenched, tense.

"Hardly." His hand pressed to the DI's chest, fingers slowly trailing up his finely tailored suit. "I just could never resist a man in a good suit." The elder Holmes licked his lips and leaned in, closing the distance between the two.

---

When Dimmock had finally accepted his position as Mycroft's partner - instead of screaming and going red-faced - he'd found the man's suit-kink near adorable.

Mycroft always had a certain weakness to them. Whenever he visited the man he made to wear a suit, and the look of shock and pure want on the man's face never stopped being pleasing. It was one of the few things he held over Mycroft.

Even now, with the utterly posh man leaning over him and essentially trapping him to the wall of his office (after working hours), he had some semblance of control. Mycroft's hand wandered and brushed the edges of his suit, deep, guttural groans teased with each delightful stroke of Dimmock's tongue into his mouth.

Their lips rubbed and moved together, his tongue darting to tease and torture before he suddenly plunged it inside, corkscrewing around MYcroft's. He was a sensational kisser; Mycroft was putty under his hands.

Fingers curling into the politician's ginger hair and nibbling on Mycroft's lower lip, Dimmock smirked.

"Shall I take it off? Or would you like it on as I take you?" He whispered soothingly, and Mycroft shuddered, fingers dancing under the fabric.

"The suit would be utterly ruined; I just purchased this one for you," he purred, arguing for propriety's sake. He nipped and sucked harshly on Dimmock's lips, working them until they were swollen and puffy; supple. He soothed the reddened flesh with his tongue and smiled into his lips, the suit jacket falling to the floor.

"Such a pity," Dimmock said with little feeling as the suit slowly fell to pieces.

---
Somewhat what OP wanted...Mini-fill, I suppose. This pairing is too rare. I like the idea of snarky!Dimmock and smitten!Mycroft. Sort of, anyway.

Re: Dimmock/Mycroft - Suits (mini-fill)

[(Anonymous)]

OP

I love you. You've just reignited my love for Mycroft/Dimmock. Such a lovely image to have! Hot too! Thank you!

Filled prompt

[(Anonymous)]

A fill for this prompt:
Mycroft stops calling, stops coming around, stops smoothing the way for Sherlock. Sherlock doesn't notice of course. Not until things start becoming... difficult.

Link: http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/15638.html?thread=91598358#t91598358

'Makes the World Go Round', by achray
Short, pre-slash for Sherlock/John, relatively fluffy, though with character injury:
http://archiveofourown.org/works/407532

Chiarascuro - 1a/1

[caersidydd.livejournal.com]

I know I that I already posted a prompt today, but I was inspired by a fic that I'm reading right now - I just gotta!

To keep from being bored, one of Sherlock's hobbies is drawing crime scenes he's been at to test how much he remembers. He always draws himself in the scene too.

One day, feeling bored AND lonely, Sherlock draws draws a friend next to him. He likes the drawing and finds himself putting the friend in the scene again and again. After a while he names the partner 'John Watson'.

Like it's the magic word - John becomes real.

http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/4777.html?thread=13906601#t13906601

--

Sherlock looked at his latest drawing with a slightly sour expression. He drew to alleviate his boredom when he had nothing better to do, but lately it hadn’t been as effective. He wasn’t certain why exactly. There was nothing different about the style he had cultivated. The charcoal drawing in front of him was up to his usual standards: spatially and technically correct down to the last detail he could recall. He was in this drawing as well, he put himself in all his drawings, but there was still something completely unsatisfying about it.

Annoyed, he stuffed the drawing into his portfolio without applying any fixative. He didn’t feel at all partial to this one and didn’t care if it smudged. He stood and picked up his violin from its case. He would just have to distract himself through other means today.

--

Chiarascuro - 1b/1

[caersidydd.livejournal.com]

--

A week later and another case closed, Sherlock sat on the floor with his back against the sofa. His knees were drawn up slightly and his heavy drawing pad was lying against his thighs. He stared at the stark white paper as his mind raced through the details of the crime scene he had initially been called to.

He touched the tips of his fingers to the paper and drew them down its length. The texture was rough under his skin, but familiar and encouraging. Sherlock looked up and reached forward, his fingers ghosting over the assortment of charcoal, carbon, and graphite pencils on the coffee table before him. He plucked up the graphite pencil and began his preliminary sketch. Nothing too complicated, just lines of gesture and contour to set the scene down on paper before he began the task of detailing it in carbon and charcoal. The body was the focal point of the sketch of course, and he was there knelt next to it, examining the evidence.

Sherlock sat back to regard his sketch. A displeased frown tugged at the corners of his lips. This sketch felt just as incomplete as all of his sketches had been lately. Speaking from his recollection, there was nothing wrong with the scene. He had drawn it out just as he remembered it.

There was a bit of negative space on the left side of the page (to the right of the Sherlock in the picture). It made the composition feel unbalanced. Perhaps he ought to add something, but what? He did not add things as a general rule. He stuck to the true details as actually as he could recall them.

He tapped the butt of his pencil against the paper and sighed. This entire exercise was becoming tedious. He began doodling in the negative space, not really caring anymore about the picture. Maybe he would give up the whole ‘drawing to stave off boredom’ idea and return to more tried and true methods.

With a sigh he tossed the pencil onto the coffee table. It clattered against the charcoal pencils and rolled away to settle against his teacup with a clink. He took one last look down at his drawing before pushing himself up, but paused mid motion. He settled down again and tilted his head a bit to one side.

He had been doodling in Lestrade, just for the hell of it, but Lestrade wasn’t the person looking down at the body with his sketch drawing counterpart. The face was too round, and the proportions were all wrong. Sherlock settled back down and grabbed a carbon pencil from the table to begin detailing the picture.

Some time later the picture was finished and Sherlock was smiling. It was rare that he added anyone else to his pictures. Sometimes he would add Lestrade, but never any of the other members of the New Scotland Yard. They were all hostile toward him and weren’t worth the effort. Even Lestrade was generally reluctant and only accepted Sherlock’s aid, and by proxy Sherlock himself, as a final alternative. It was nice then, the idea that this picture now presented him with, of having a colleague at a crime scene instead bunch of resentful, ignorant, halfwits.

He signed his name at the bottom of the image and stood up. One long arm reached out and snatched up the can of fixative from the far edge of the coffee table. He uncapped the can and propped the pad up against the sofa before beginning to spray. This was a drawing he was definitely keeping.

--

Fill: Sherlock is a god 1/?

[(Anonymous)]

Prompt: http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/15638.html?thread=86016022#t86016022

This is ... well, not exactly what was asked for. But I have been thinking about this prompt since I read it and just couldn't stop myself from writing it. It's the first time I do anything like this, so I hope I did it right. And yeah, it's short and dialogue-heavy. And not finished. The rest is coming later tonight. And English is not my first language, so some things might not make any sense. Sorry about that.

---

"Sherlock, why is there a rainbow in our living room?" John was used to quite a lot from living with Sherlock, but this was just ridiculous.

"Tell her to go away!"

Er, okay. That really didn't make any sense at all. John opened the door to Sherlock's bedroom - what was Sherlock doing in his bedroom, anyway? It wasn't as if he slept much. "And how, exactly, am I supposed to ask a rainbow to go away?"

"Very politely," came a voice from behind him. "She doesn't like being bossed around by mortals."

John spun around, and was faced with a beautiful woman. Or rainbow. Or quite possibly an angel. She did have wings. But were angels supposed to look like rainbows? "What?"

"Iris," said Sherlock with his most charming, and fake, smile. "Why are you here?"

"Your father is not very pleased with you, Ares," the rainbow answered.

"My father has never been pleased with me," Sherlock answered nonchalantly. "He said so in the Iliad. It's hardly news."

The rainbow smiled. John had never seen a rainbow smile before, and he thought it looked scary. But then, he had never seen a rainbow that looked like a woman before either - or was that a woman who looked like a rainbow? "Zeus gave me a message for you, and you alone."

"I'll just be off, then," John said, and made himself a cup of tea in the kitchen. He rather thought he needed it.

Re: Fill: Sherlock is a god 2/?

[(Anonymous)]

A cup of tea was not enough.

Something really strange had just happened, John gathered as much. He was, however, not sure about what. But Sherlock had mentioned the Iliad. And the rainbow - Iris? - had called Sherlock Ares. And talked about Zeus.

John reluctantly opened his laptop. Some research seemed to be necessary.

When John's phone rang five minutes later, he was even more confused than before.

"Learning about greek mythology, Doctor Watson? What a fascinating subject."

John couldn't really bring himself to be surprised by the fact that Mycroft apparently knew all about his internet activity. "Good afternoon to you too, Mycroft."

"I suppose you have learned about my brother's... identity," said Mycroft. "I do hope you won't leave him because of it. It's hardly his fault, you know."

"Can't choose your parents," John agreed, deciding that this was not the time to obsess over the fact that he and Sherlock were just friends and flatmates, thank you very much. "Wait - if he's Ares, and you are his brother - who exactly are you?"

"I did warn you, you know," said Mycroft, completely ignoring John's question. "When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield. Hard not to, when you have the god of war for a companion."

"Right," said John before he realised that Mycroft was no longer on the phone. "Right."