sherlockbbc_fic | Prompting Part XXXIV

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Prompting Part XXXIV

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MEME LINKS
Pinboard Archive - Delicious Archive - Guide to the Archive
Filled Prompts Posts: Parts 1-23 - Parts 24+ - Spoiler Free
The Glorious FAQ - Page-A-Mod

Flat View of This Page - Newest Page in Flatview - Newest Page of the Meme

Love Post - Chatter Post - Searching Post
Concrit Post - Story Announcement Post - Orphan Post
Spoiler Free Prompt Post - Overflow Post

Links to previous prompting parts

OTHER LINKS AND AFFILIATES

sherlock_rant: A place to rant about or discuss anything with few to no restrictions.

sherlock_rpf: This is a kinkmeme for RPF about the show.

sherlockcrit: A multi-fandom betaing/concrit community, with a focus on BBC Sherlock.

sherlockbbc: A community dedicated to the BBC adaptation of Sherlock Holmes.
Useful resources for Sherlock and LiveJournal.
Sherlock screencaps.

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I know Sherlock has said it a few times in the show now, but I'd like to see a fic where John or someone (Preferably John, but I wouldn't say no to Mrs Hudson, Mary, Lestrade or Molly, let's him know that they know he's really not, and that his secret's safe with them.

Whether it's because he cares so much that emotional blows are too much for him to handle, or he prefers it to saying he's autistic, or he's just not good with people and their emotions because of the way he grew up, that's completely up to the author.

I just need to see some acknowledgement that just cos Sherlock says he is, it doesn't mean everyone really believes it and treats it as fact.

Gen Friendship. Or John/Sherlock/

On it. I hope you don't mind if he has a mood disorder.

Also, fun fact, Gatiss said in an interview that Sherlock isn't really a sociopath.

OP I really don't mind at all! That sounds like a good explanation as any :)

And yes! I'm glad he said that, but I still keep coming across fics where it's taken as fact, either by author or character, and some just rub be up the wrong way. But anyway! Thank you. Good luck writing! :)

There was nothing to do, nothing of any importance, and John gone, to the hateful grocery store to fetch more of his perpetual Jaffa Cakes. There was no case. So, instead, the silence in the flat became the hunter and the hunted. Sherlock had been laying curled on the sofa so long -- ages they stretched on endlessly -- he could give his life for a case, for an empire to overthrow. He could say no to a natural death. For that matter he would rather give his life that instant, then have to cue at the bank again. Instead he flailed his arm out from it’s place nestled in his dressing gown and adjusted his teacup, which was cold and developing a film around the edges, a fraction of an inch to the left. The familiar ring of dust wasn’t there. Mrs. Hudson had been cleaning again.

How could people live such dull lives with their empty heads when in his mind thoughts flew too fast to grasp and rattled around inside his skull? It made his skin crawl like it was trying to separate itself from his body. He felt at once felt like pacing and like he was tied down from the inside by some enormous weight. A distraction, he needed a distraction. How did normal people distract themselves? He sat up suddenly. What did John do? Oh, yes. John watched hours of brain-rotting telly. Maybe he would try it, lobotomize himself with senseless drivel. It seemed fitting. He let his arm dart out again and land on the remote. It was just within arm’s reach, if he believed in a loving God he would thank them.

The television flickered to life. What the deuce was this? Four alien-like beings on a featureless green landscape; their colors were vibrant, corrosive to his senses. A show for children? He didn’t care. He stared at it and tried to make his mind quiet.

Footfalls on the stairs, John was home. Sherlock snuggled into his bathrobe. The door opened and John paused. His eyes flicked to the telly, then to Sherlock, then back at the telly again. He heaved a great sigh. Yes, Sherlock knew, he was just that annoying. John planted himself in front of the television, blocking his view. He wasn’t presenting him any food. Probably he was about to say something. Sherlock reached fitfully for the remote and turned the volume up. John, in retaliation, walked over and turned the telly off then stood for a pregnant moment, probably expecting a response.

Sherlock stared at him silently in the hopes that he could communicate the utter futility of conveying complex ideas with something as pathetically clumsy as spoken language. Apparently he couldn’t because, despite his best effort, John began his lecture:

“You haven’t moved from the sofa all day. The state of you I’d think you hadn’t moved from there all week. Do something. At least go shower, Sherlock. You’ll feel better.”

‘Go shower, Sherlock.’ Please. If only he knew. He might as well say, ‘Go eat a shoe, Sherlock.’ or ‘Go jump in a cactus, Sherlock.’ If he rolled his eyes any harder he would give himself brain damage then John would have that on his hands, the death of the world’s greatest detective.

He could get up and shower. He could go upstairs and get John’s gun and put it in his mouth and pull the trigger. ‘Do it,’ a voice right at the base of his skull whispered. He thought it might have been Moriarty. He wasn’t sure. He could see his brains, and hair, and blood splattered across the wall paper. He could feel the trigger digging into his index finger and a tickle at the back of his throat. Of course it would be rude to Mrs. Hudson and John to leave the flat in that state, one last temper tantrum, as they so kindly termed it. He would spare them that, rent a hotel room. He would have to get the angle just right. If he missed his brain stem by a hair he’d simply be stuck in his body, a vegetable.

No. This was unreasonable. Pedestrian. Absurdly melodramatic. Abjectly banal.

This is painfully unbeta'd. Sorry for my sad difficulty with it's/its. Hope it's still readable.

please more!

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