sherlockbbc_fic | Prompting Part XXXV

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Prompting Part XXXV

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Magnussen makes good on the veiled threat he makes toward a drugged, helpless Sherlock in the deleted scene on the bonus disc of the box set. He continues to pay Sherlock unwanted visits over the next few weeks, stroking cold, clammy hands over his naked skin against his will while taunting him about his hopeless love for John. The touches become progressively more intimate, until, at last, Magnussen starts doing explictly sexual things to Sherlock. Touching his cock. Fingering him. And, finally, fucking him, taking his virginity in the process.

Bonus points if John is forced to watch the last one.

Interesting plot.

+100000000000000000000000

Maybe John was even forced to watch it. Maybe it was Magnussen.

Sherlock doesn't blame John but he doesn't exactly make that known either. He lets John blame himself.

When Sherlock said he was giving Magnussen his brother, Magnussen was hoping for the real seal. AU where he kidnaps Mycroft, and Sherlock comes to the rescue

"I'm am going to KILL Sherlock and dump his... HER body in the Thames!!!" Mycroft yelled, tearing through the living room. Mycroft may have seemed like a rational 'Ice Man' but, well, hormones.

Greg, going by Greta at the moment thanks to... her partners' bloody... sister. She tried to move from her position on the sofa. Nope, nope, not going to happen. Her back hurt too much. She groaned, "As soon as my back's better, I'll join you."

As Mycroft stormed off into the kitchen, muttering something about chocolate and diets, Greta took out her phone to text John... Joan. God, this was confusing.

---

John - going by Joan as she wasn't lucky enough to have some bloody obscure name like the Holmes siblings - was curled in the foetal position with a heat pack (borrowed from Mrs Hudson after she stopped laughing) placed on her abdomen. She was in agony.

Sherlock shuffled into the room, eyes red. It turned out that the hormones made Sherlock very weepy, so Joan had tried to be patient with her, but her temper was a little short.

"Sherlock, when are you going to fix this?" Joan moaned.

Sherlock made a distressed whine in the back of her throat and ran to the bathroom with the squeak of something resembling "I'm sorry."

Joan's phone dinged and she checked the text.

'From: Greg Lestrade.
Tell Sherlock to hurry; I think Mycroft's going to go on a
killing spree if we stay like this much longer...'

She typed out her reply and sent it.

'To: Greg Lestrade.
Sherlock's a little busy at the minute. She's crying in the
bathroom.'

'From: Greg Lestrade.
Jesus.'

---

The worst thing was when the four had met up at Scotland Yard. Sherlock was the most polite she'd ever been to Sally; who delighted in making her cry... repeatedly.
When Sally did that, Mycroft saw red and threatened to do all sorts of unspeakable things to her - Sally was actually really scared for a moment or two.
Greta was still having back trouble and Joan had to excuse herself more than once to take painkillers.

Then there was Phillip Anderson. He laughed until he fell off his chair. That was when Sherlock dosed him with the substance and he became Phillipa Anderson.

Then Mycroft had a meeting with a Mr Moriarty who made inappropriate comments. Sherlock wondered that even the British Government shouldn't have access to snipers...

lol! I love this! :)

This isn't as good as it could be, but RTYI?

http://archiveofourown.org/works/2290256/chapters/5035427

Glad you enjoyed it :)

YES PLEASE

Sherlock was all the way down the stairs after Lestrade left when his steps faltered. It wasn’t so much that he changed his mind as that his mind finally caught up to him. John. It wasn’t even a feeling of loss, or pain of separation; if it had been that, Sherlock very likely would have rebelled against his own inclinations and pressed on.

He didn’t feel bad about leaving John behind. But he still wanted his company. He suspected that might be true even if John hadn’t been his soulmate. John, who could be useful. John who didn’t act horrified to be in his presence. The truth of the matter was that he wanted to show off. Show off his own abilities to John. Show off John to others. To show everyone.

He went back up the stairs far more slowly than he had bounded down them. Then once he had John, he again rushed for the door. It occurred to him only as he was halfway out it that perhaps he might have gone a bit slower, because of John’s leg. That was the sort of thing soulmates were supposed to think of, wasn’t it? But no, John had followed almost as quickly. Interesting.

John seemed fascinated by Sherlock in return. The cab ride to the crime scene was filled with such words as ‘brilliant’, and ‘extraordinary’. As often happened with Sherlock, it was only after he had explained to John how he knew his brother was a drunk that he remembered how revealing unflattering secrets of a person’s family or friends was on Mycroft’s List of ‘How to Avoid Punches to the Face’. Number one on that list had been ‘Don’t speak’. And people wondered why Sherlock despised his brother.

John didn’t punch Sherlock in the face. Nor did he tell him to piss off, as often happened when he shared his observations. Perhaps this ‘Harry’ was John’s version of a Mycroft?

Ah. Harriet. Well, there was always something. And there they were at the crime scene. Back to the real world.

“Hello, Freak.”

Sally Donovan was not a bad person. She wasn’t even a horrendous detective. She was a beta woman, which was a rarity in a field which naturally attracts alpha males in the same way primary schools were full of female omega teachers. The fact that she had managed to rise to her position anyway was a credit to her. If she ever did meet her soulmate, something which was becoming increasingly unlikely, Scotland Yard might gain itself a new alpha…but then it might discover an omega high in its ranks. Technically, it was illegal to discriminate. In actuality, the entirety of their culture rebelled against placing an omega in such a dangerous position. Lestrade, for instance, came rather as an unwanted surprise.

“It’s rubbish,” Lestrade had said once, when he heard someone protesting yet again an omega in close contact with murderers. “Omegas can be downright vicious in protecting their own. There’s nothing soft or gentle about a nursing mother when danger is about.” And most investigators, many who had seen many examples of capable omega murderers, agreed with him. The public at large, and quite often the people in charge, did not.

So perhaps Sally Donovan resented, somewhat, her commanding officer’s brother-in-law being allowed to take over her job while insulting her, her colleagues, and his own brother-in-law who had graciously allowed entry in the first place. He probably deserved her resentment. Actually, he found sparring with her rather fun. She’d call him a freak, he’d call her something in return, and then use his deductions to prove he was the one who was right.

For the first time in a long time, being called a freak made him pause. It was different. John was there to hear. John, who definitely was not a freak and yet who would now be viewed as another part of Sherlock, just as Sherlock would now be seen as a reflection of John.

Sherlock had been planning on announcing him, like a sudden secret weapon to win the war. Look! He, Sherlock Holmes, had a soulmate. How was that for ‘freak’? Or he had been planning on not mentioning it at all, just to see how long it took Scotland Yard’s finest to figure it out on their own. Ages, probably. He hadn’t quite decided what he was going to do.

He wasn’t excepting John to growl, low and deep, so low one would have to be standing very close to him to hear it at all. Sally didn’t hear it but she seemed to sense it, her expression slightly concerned.

Sally Donovan was many things, but she probably didn’t deserve to be attacked by a newly transitioning, hormonal man, recently back from a war who felt his mate was under threat.

Plus, it would probably end with both of them in lockup until Mycroft could get them out and Sherlock would never get to examine the crime scene or solve the case. Not to mention, he didn’t need John to fight his battles.

Let the verbal dance commence.

Sherlock introduced Donovan to John, his own tone seeming to appease the man that Sherlock wasn’t wounded by her words. Then he introduced Anderson, the young alpha who was proof positive that it was possible for a bonded person to be attracted to someone outside that bond. How they got away with it, Sherlock couldn’t fathom. The stench of that deodorant was so strong it almost made him gag.

John went from growling to giggling as they made for the stairs.
Lestrade seemed confused by John. He knew that Sherlock had been looking for a flatmate. He knew that Sherlock had found John Watson. By this point, Mycroft probably had an entire file on the man. What he didn’t seem to know, though how he could miss it, Sherlock had no idea, was that they were soulmates. Sometimes Sherlock despaired of people’s idiocy. Though to be fair, it was too soon for their scents to have actually changed yet.

“So, you’re the new flatmate,” Lestrade said to John, just as though they were getting to know each other over some pints. Something that would probably actually happen in the near future, knowing Lestrade.

“I suppose I am,” John answered.

“He didn’t…I mean, how did you two meet?”

“A friend. Mike Stamford. He knew we were both looking for flatmates and introduced us to each other.”

There was still no mention from John that they were soulmates. Well, the longer Lestrade didn’t know, the longer it might take Mycroft to figure it out. That could be fun.

And speaking of fun. The body was that of an omega woman. Statistically speaking, seventy percent of women who transitioned became omega. There was some debate as to whether women were naturally more submissive than men or whether a woman transitioning into an omega was simply the easiest way for nature to go, with less chance of something going wrong that might render the omega infertile. Whatever the reason, she was hardly a rarity. It did explain, though, why half the force seemed so on edge. Omega murders bothered alphas on a primal level.

John didn’t seem too bothered, though. He was quite able to examine the body at Sherlock’s request. Of course, omegas were never quite as bothered as betas or alphas with what happened to other omegas, but as Sherlock and John were still mostly beta, it was somewhat pleasing for Sherlock to find his new mate didn’t have the same queasy expression as Anderson. Of course, he had been an army doctor. He probably had to learn to overcome his primal urges.

Which didn’t mean John was quite on the same level as Sherlock; his observations were far from genius level even if they did show a competent level of intelligence. Strangely, Sherlock didn’t feel disappointed. What if John had been a genius? What if he had been able to do exactly what Sherlock could do? What if he had been able to do it better?

If John had been a genius, would he still be saying words like ‘Amazing’ when Sherlock revealed what he knew?

Not even Anderson’s stupidity could ruin this case. The woman was German, the woman was lured here, the woman couldn’t possibly be an adulteress, she was an omega! Omegas just don’t do that! Even Lestrade couldn’t restrain his look of disgust at that bit of hypocrisy. Anderson’s affair, thanks to Sherlock, was pretty much an open secret.

And then Lestrade said the words that made the entire case come alive inside Sherlock’s brain.

“There was no case!”

Sherlock quite honestly didn’t mean to leave John behind, but he had only had a soulmate for a few hours. How was he supposed to change the habits of a lifetime in a few hours? It wasn’t his fault that John was slow.

It occurred to him, after he had the case and had brought it back to Baker Street, that he could have gone back for John as soon as he had noticed that John hadn’t followed. If John was going to be his omega, that meant Sherlock was supposed to look after him, right? But John was also a grown man. A grown man who had fought a war. A grown man who’s limp seemed to vanish when the chance came to investigate a murder.

Sherlock considered what he knew of John. John wouldn’t want to be coddled and protected. Anyone who was the perfect person for Sherlock wouldn’t be the sort who was completely helpless. John wanted, no, needed the very opposite of safety. So why had he failed to come home?

Sherlock didn’t need John to finish the case. But he wanted him. He wanted him, and he hardly understood himself why. Well, at the very least, he could use his phone to text the killer.

Sherlock sent John a text. After a bit of thought he sent another. He ended it with ‘Could be dangerous’. If his understanding of John wasn’t completely off, that should bring him home.

Author's Note: Another chapter up!

It's a lie. A trick. A game.

Favorite clothing. Favorite chair. Body slumped to side.

Blood, supplied by Molly. So convincing then. So convincing now.

Livor mortis.

Far easier to fake than Rigor Mortis, assured absence from flat for six hours

Clean shot to head, perfect kill, face unmarred. Simple. Easy.

It's a lie. A trick. A game.

He knew that I knew that he knew that I knew he knew. Perfectly played. Protect and save. Role of a lifetime.

It's a lie. A trick. A game.

Threat diminished. Two-no three-players this time. Villian, victim, Victor.

Return. Rewind. He'll be back, so smug at being clever. Awaiting another punch.

Buy the tea. Buy the milk. Buy the biscuits.

He'll Complain about contents of the refrigerator. Not enough space for his things.

Anger. Forgive. Forget? Never forget. Won't forget. Can't forget.

Quid pro quo.

Talk. Explain. His lie. My lie.

It's a lie. A trick. A game.

Forced to see. Too far to stop.

Death for death. Life for life.

Grief, anger, blame. Hidden. Covered.

Games end at revelation.

Wait. Time. Weeks? Months? Years? Not years. Weeks. Wait and grieve.

Parody in pain

Coffin of sand. Headstone of drama.

It's a lie. A trick. A game.

Alive. He is alive. Awaiting. Apologize for apology.

He knew, he knew, he knew. It was a lie. It was a trick. It was a game.

I'm sorry.

Ok, I recently got into Steampunk and my little brain has been turning this over ever since.

Mycroft is a huge Steampunk fan; he wears the clothes, goes to events, etc. He characterises himself as a slightly mad inventor with aristocratic blood he'd rather ignore.

Anyway, one day he's interrupted during a day off (wearing full Steampunk gear) and has to be in Parliament IMMEDIATELY. So he changes in the back of the car as it drives through London (tinted windows to avoid random people seeing him undress) where he always keeps a spare suit for such emergencies.

It goes fine, he's on time and relatively composed, he walks into the meeting ready to stun and... Everyone' stunned and staring at him. He's said nothing. He's deeply confused and tries to carry on, but everyone's still staring at him. Then someone points out the gold goggles around his neck.

Take it from there, dear authors. Does Mycroft have to explain what Steampunk is? Does he get laughed out of the room (only to be brought back a week later with sincere apologies as they can't function without him)? Do any other characters find out? Does Sherlock know? Is Sherlock a bit of a Steampunk fan himself?

Thanks :)

Second!

Every time you update makes me so happy! More!

Sherlock: Of course.

Greg: What?

Sherlock: I always knew it.

John: Knew what?

Sherlock: I knew it was going to happen and I never stopped it...

Anderson: Huh?

Sherlock: I KNEW IDIOCY WAS CONTAGIOUS AND I LET ANDERSON INFECT YOU ALL!

Unusual and interesting. O___O

please update soon

"How could he?" Lestrade yells.

"He belives that-"

"He knew? How the bloody fuck was he to know? What the fuck wa-"

"Sir, please lower your voice." An orderly stares at Lestrade.

"It was rather convincing"

"'Rather convincing?? One of the best men...no the best man I have ever known is dead. Killed himself because he bloody blamed himself for all of it!"

"He thinks that John is alive. That he knew the "rape" wasn't real." Mycroft shifts, glancing briefly at Sherlock.

"Thinks? Is this.." Lestrade gestures at Sherlock, mumbling to himself. Pacing the length of the small, private room "a lie? He's faking this "breakdown" because he can't take responsibility for destroying John."

"He is not 'faking' this. Of that I can assure you

"Pardon me if I don't give a fuck."

"Inspector" Mycroft sighs.

"Don't. Don't you dare try and lecture me. Your brother faked being raped, made John watch. He continued lying. Taking all the sympathy and care and damn apologies from John. He stood by as John crumbled. I tried. I tried to get John help. But John refused it! Refused it because he thought he needed to protect your brother. To keep him from the drugs, from starving himself...because he was "raped."

"Sherlock did it to protect the lives of others." Mycroft whispered.

Lestrade laughed. "Just as before? Hm? Was he waiting to reveal he faked his rape in some fancy dress? Telling us all one by one, smirking the whole way?"

Mycroft covered his eyes.

"Sally was right. She said that one day we'd be standing around a body, murder, and it would be your brother that did it."

"Yes." Mycroft glanced at Sherlock again "yes."

"I hope he rots in there." Lestrade turned and walked away. He didn't look back.

Mycroft began to follow.

"Sir? Mr. Holmes?"

Mycroft stopped. A nurse walked in front of him.

"We need a list of approved visitors."

Mycroft smoothed his tie "There will be no one visiting him"

"Mr. Holmes visiting is encouraged, it can help your brother."

"Surely you are aware of what he has done?" Mycroft nodded when the nurse did not reply "then you are aware of why I won't visit him. Ever. Why no one cares." Mycroft tilted his head "he always said others didn't care about him. He claimed to hate the fact that I did. That I worried about him. That John..." Mycroft cleared his throat "now no one does care. His lie became truth. My parents are devastated."

"It's understandable. To see their son in this condition." The nurse sighed

"No, not my brother. They are devastated by John's death. Goodbye."

The nurse watched as Mycroft Holmes left.

Sherlock lived to the age of 102. No one ever visited him.

I feel as if I've been suddenly thrown into freezing water. Ohmygod this is perfect! This is absolutely perfect, beyond impressive! Bravo!

The sirens were blaring and the streets moved past far too quickly.

John didn't seem that bothered, really. Considering they must have been going twice the speed limit, at least. Anderson looked as if he was going to throw up, and the Holmes brothers didn't blame him.

Mycroft and Sherlock were clutching onto each other in the back seat; Jaws clenched, hands and nails digging in painfully into each other's flesh and they were both even paler than usual.

"Mycroft..." Sherlock muttered, "Make. Him. Stop!"

"What makes you think I can?!" Mycroft questioned.

"You're the British Government!" Sherlock snapped.

"I occupy a minor position!!!" Mycroft yelled.

"Watch out guys; corner," Lestrade smirked as the car flung around said corner at high speed.

Sherlock and Mycroft screamed.

"Stop! Stop!" Mycroft begged, "I'll tell you anything you want! Missile codes! How to assassinate the Royal Family! Just STOP THE CAR!!!"

John and Lestrade cackled like hyenas as Mycroft skidded to a stop on the hard shoulder. It was like someone had fired a starting gun; Sherlock and Mycroft were actually KISSING the ground and Anderson was being sick over by a bush. It was one of the funniest things they'd ever seen.

"I... I've lasted through all forms of..." Mycroft swallowed, "Psychological and physical torture. And do you know what finally broke me? GREG LESTRADE'S BLOODY DRIVING!!!"

A good night just got better.

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