sherlockbbc_fic | Prompting Part XXXVI

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Prompting Part XXXVI

THE MEME NEEDS ARCHIVISTS!

GUIDELINES

Anon posting is not required, but most definitely allowed. If you think you recognise an anon, keep it to yourself and don’t out them. IP tracking is off, and will remain that way.

Multiple fills are encouraged, and all kinds of fills are accepted! Fic, art, vids, cosplay, interpretive dance — whatever. Go wild! :D

Please do not re-post prompts unless the last time they were prompted was on an older part. Simply put: ONE posting of each prompt per part.

RPF (real person fic, i.e. fic involving the actors themselves) is not supported at this meme.

Concrit is welcome, but kinkshaming, hijacking, and flaming are not tolerated.

THE FILLED PROMPTS POST
When you fill a prompt, please use the appropriate Filled Prompts Post to archive your fill (there are instructions on the actual post).

If the part you wanted isn't up yet, just wait and one of the archivists will get to it, but please, once it is up, make sure you post your fills there according to the guidelines. DO NOT skip out on doing this because it seems like too much effort. If you want your fill to make it to the Delicious archive, that’s the way to do it.

Do not be afraid to ask questions about how it works if you are confused! The mods will be happy to explain.

WARNINGS/OFFENSIVE WORDING IN PROMPTS
Please consider warning for prompts that may trigger people (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.

That being said, this is a kink meme. As such, there will be prompts that could offend you in a number of different ways. Not every prompt will have a trigger warning, and not every prompt will rub you the right way. If you have an issue with a specific prompt, feel free to bring it up in a discussion that takes place off the meme. However, flaming will not be tolerated regardless of origin.

You are highly encouraged to scroll past any prompt that you dislike.

Remember: be civil, be friendly, but don’t be shy!

THINGS THAT MAKE BROWSING THE MEME EASIER FOR EVERYONE
Please nest your fills. Doing so will make it easier for archivists to save your fills to the Delicious archive. Using subject lines will also help people reading the meme in flatview keep track of what’s happening. Finally, titling your fills (even if it’s something silly) will be helpful to those tracking a lot of prompts or scrolling through the meme.

PROMPT FREEZES
Depending on the rate of activity, there may or may not be a prompt freeze when a part reaches 2000 and 4500 comments. However, there will be one when it reaches 7000. After the 7000 comments freeze, a new part will be posted, and all prompting should happen on the new part.

CONTACTING MODS
Your mods for this meme are

ellie_hell,

anonspock and

anonbach. If you have any questions, concerns, comments about anything at all on the meme feel free to send a PM or contact us via the Page-A-Mod post.

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

Varnish Error 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.

Update to prompting guidelines.

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

If John was having a bad day at the surgery, well that was no one's business but his own. And if, during the day he dealt with a man who had had a wank accident with a pineapple, a sick child whose shrieking sounded almost exactly like a Wilhelm Scream and a woman with goopy purple nipples, well that was no one's business but the NHS's.

And if, without John to reign him in, Sherlock was even more insufferable than usual, well that was no one's business but Lestrade's, Donovan's and Anderson's. And if Sally, in a fit of pique, told Sherlock to "go suck on a tampon", well, that was no one's business but hers. And if the next day, to "make amends", Sherlock brought in ice creams for everyone, well, that was no one's business but the team's. And if the ice creams tasted kind of funny, well that was no one's business but Sherlock's. And if Anderson in consternation wondered if there was a "special ingredient" in the ice cream, well that was nobody's business but their own. And if Sally pointed out that they were wrapped ice creams, and Anderson suggested that that "wouldn't stop Sherlock", well that was their (horrified) business.

And if Greg was going through a secret midlife crisis, well, that was nobody's business but his own. And if in his spare time, Greg donned leather pants and walked his newly-acquired dog in the dog park, well, that was nobody's business but his. And if his dog repeatedly ran up to random women and sniffed their crotches, well that was nobody's businesses but theirs. And if Greg wondered if maybe they were on their periods and he had a vampire dog, well, that was nobody's business but his and Fenton's. And if Fenton went missing one day at the dog park, well, that was no one's business but his, his entire team and in fact most of the Met Police working on double time. And if a colleague suggested that the investigation was "excessive and a waste of police resources", well that was nobody's business but theirs and Lestrade's fist.

And if Moriarty's actions could be seen as petty and vengeful, well that was no one's business but his. And if his newly-decapitated dog's head was now full of spiders, well, that was nobody's business. And if some of the spiders got into his Marks & Spencer's couscous, well that was nobody's business but everyone in the world's.

---

Sorry that it wasn't exactly what you asked for. Best I could do.

When John and Sherlock go to another crime scene, there's a murder and the only witness is a baby. Sherlock believes he can learn something from him/her if he's given a chance to watch him/her for some time and learn more about babies (which is something he absolutely has no knowledge about). Greg is sceptical, but, in the end, he allows it, even though it's not easy and can get him into a serious trouble (but then, everything Sherlock does can and sometimes does get Greg in trouble).

So, John and Sherlock take the baby with them for a few days. The baby is very fussy and Sherlock is frustrated, not to mention that learning anything from a baby that can not talk yet is practically impossible, as he finds out.

John manages to soothe the fussy baby, which takes plenty of time and efforts every time. Sherlock often watches John taking care of the baby and becomes very worried and insecure. John is good at it and the baby likes him. What if John decides to have his own family and will leave?

Whatever happens is up to you.

If johnlock happens, I prefer them to have a mostly non-sexual relationship (with Asexual!Virgin!Sherlock).

I love it

(mentions of child abuse) Sherlock and John have been skating around the subject of starting a family for months , John always becoming distant as soon as it comes up, and now that Sherlock wants to talk to him about adoption, John is even more hesitant. Because while he knows in his heart that he would want to raise a child with Sherlock, he is deeply terrified of becoming like his father. His father was an angry, violent man that made John's childhood a living nightmare, and John knows that he has some of his father's temper in him and he just can't bear the thought of one day putting his own child through the same hell without even realizing it. Cue Sherlock helping him through these thoughts until John no longer doubts himself.

Mycroft Holmes needs to win over a diplomat, who is also a werewolf. Obviously, since information on the subject is scare, he turns to the one wolf he knows about. Lestrade doesn't even know why he is surprised that Mycroft knew all along.

Bonus points for mystrade and for Greg rather enjoying teaching a Holmes a thing or two.

(Mycroft says: wild animal. He gets it.)

I just rewatched Labyrinth the other day and I have to admit, the sight of David Bowie as Jareth got me a little bit (a lot) hot and bothered.

What I would love is either a Labyrinth AU where maybe Sherlock [or whoever] is the Goblin King and John [or whoever] is his captive. Or a Labyrinth crossover in which Jareth boinks the BBC Sherlock character of your choice.

Feel free to use any characters or pairings from BBC Sherlock you like. All I'm looking for is to see the Goblin King (or Queen) get some sweet smexing.

I'm cool with con, dub con, or non con.

Extreme underage, blood play, extreme gore, anything that would result in permanent physical damage are squicks for me.

Bonus points if the Goblin King or Queen has some strange genitalia.

Thank you in advance to any nonny who decides to fill this!

Thank you.

(couldn't really resist giving this a try- i love the prompt! i hope you like it and i'll hopefully be adding to it soon!)

It had all started, as most things in 221b do, with Sherlock having a sulk. A massive, stomp-over-furniture and curl-up-into-a-ball sulk. John had tried everything from begging Lestrade for a case to phoning up Molly for some dismembered fingers and even went so far as suggesting a game of Cluedo, all to no avail.

Finally, John had officially given up, ordered some Chinese and wedged himself between Sherlock and the sofa to watch some telly.

Now, John watched as Sherlock silently shuffled closer, plopped his head into his lap and grouchily squished his face up against John’s belly. Aside from his sour mood, Sherlock could actually be kind of adorable when he was sulking.

Of course, John knew what the problem at the center of this black mood was, and had reminded Sherlock numerous times, but still the detective refused to eat at regular intervals. He knew that if Sherlock improved his eating habits even just a little, his moods swings would be far less severe and he’d be able to think clearer.

At this point, John felt like he’d tried just about everything, and he wasn’t entirely sure what to do next aside from possibly suggesting Sherlock try therapy, but that would no doubt end up being a very long discussion, one John knew Sherlock was definitely not up for at the moment.

As John ate his food and tried to think up new ways to get Sherlock to eat his, he began to notice that something was off. It felt like Sherlock had…relaxed, like he was no longer a tight ball of tension on top of him. John looked down at him, expecting to see his face still scrunched up and was completely caught off guard to see Sherlock looking up at him with a soft, almost sad expression.

“Sherlock, love, what’s wrong?” John asked, turning the volume down on the telly for the moment.

“Nothing,” Sherlock breathed, staring at the plate of food in John’s hand.

Oh, oh.

“Did you want some?” he asked gently, hopefully letting Sherlock know that he wouldn’t be cross if he said no.

Sherlock continued to look at the food and bit his bottom lip, seeming suddenly bashful and unsure of himself.

“Hey, just a little bite, yeah? No big deal,” John reassured, cutting a small piece of chicken to put on his fork.

“A-alright,” he agreed quietly, and John smiled as he slowly put the food near Sherlock’s lips and waited for him to reach up and take the chicken into his mouth.

“Good?” John asked after Sherlock stopped chewing.

“Mm, s’good. Thank you.” His voice was much calmer now, the tired and faintly gravelly tone it always took when he would come down from a bad mood.

“You can have more, if you like; I’m not gonna finish all this.” John began cutting more little pieces just in case he wanted it.

“Well, I suppose that’d be alright,” Sherlock practically mumbled. John took that as a yes and held some more chicken out for him.

He picked up the remote and turned the volume back up, suddenly filled with the hope that if he acted like most of his focus was on the TV and he didn’t make a big deal about feeding Sherlock or the fact that he was finally eating, that Sherlock would simply continue to eat without complaint.

And so the evening went on with John making various comments about the programme they were watching and Sherlock voicing his opinions with vigor, all while happily accepting the food John put by his mouth. After that, it didn’t take long for John to notice Sherlock getting sleepy, and so he put their almost empty plate aside, tugged the afghan off the back of sofa and laid it over Sherlock, staying with him while he slept.

Awwww... I love this!

We're having widespread issues with CAPTCHA on LJ. I've turned it off, but it’s appearing automatically on all posts, even those with fewer than 5000 comments.

In the past, the mods have discussed the possibility of a move to Dreamwidth. Our plans were to wait until we needed to open a new post, then open that new prompting post on DW itself. The older posts would have been imported to DW for backup purposes, but frozen so that new comments could not be posted on them to DW. The old posts on LJ would have been left open so that people interested in filling prompts on them could continue to do so. New comments would have been periodically backed up to the DW posts. This would have left anyone searching the LJ meme for fic with as complete an archive as possible while permitting us the security of having a complete backup on DW.

How will a migration affect the current prompting and overflow posts?
We have had a Dreamwidth backup of the meme for some time. In the past, we have had issues updating comments on posts, and have lost some comments posted directly on DW (by ourselves; no fic was lost, only some testing comments that we made) when updating those posts with comments from LJ. The issues related to that have been solved, but because of concerns like that, I would feel most comfortable opening a new part entirely when we migrate. We could call the first new prompting post Part XXXVI version II and the new overflow post Overflow Post III. People who would prefer to fill on LJ (assuming anonymous commenting is ever fixed there) can feel free to continue to do so on LJ’s Overflow Post II and older prompting posts. Those who prefer using DW alone can use Overflow Post III and the new prompting posts.

How will a migration affect the fic archives? (Pinboard, Delicious)
The plan is to continue archiving fic with links directing to where they were posted on LJ. Fic on future overflow and prompting parts posted directly to DW will be archived with links to DW.

Our extended plans for the archive are to have a second version that contains only links to the DW entries of fics. This is a secondary concern for us because commenting would be frozen on the posts the older fics would be archived on, so new readers could not leave comments on the fics they’d read. Our plans for this archive were to look at the FPP page-by-page entries listing the fics on LJ, look at the appropriate spot on the page on DW, use the link to the fic on LJ to find it in the LJ delicious archive, and then manually copy the entry over onto the DW delicious archive with a DW link. At the moment we do not have enough archivists to work on this, but those are our ideal long-term plans.

I’ve opened this post on Dreamwidth with anonymous commenting enabled in order to hear your opinions and suggestions on this.

Apparently freezing old posts on DW won't work because they don't have a mass-freeze option, but that bit of the plan wasn't all that important.

OP here. This is perfect! Thank you. I hope to read more of this soon. :)

Maybe after a rehab centre, or maybe after something else (something that has caused PTSD, for example), Sherlock needs a psychotherapist. Not that it's his idea (maybe it's Greg's, and Sherlock is not allowed to do the Work otherwise).

Unfortunately for him, his psychotherapist is Charles Augustus Magnussen. It was the villain’s way to get to Sherlock and maybe to Mycroft, too, through Sherlock. Neither Sherlock, nor Mycroft knows who Magnussen really is. Sherlock is just grateful that, if he has to endure this stupid therapy, at least the man has more than two brain cells to rub together. At first Magnussen plays his role brilliantly, but then things are getting darker and darker. In the end, he fucks up Sherlock’s mind, continuously abuses him in more than one way (if you include sexual abuse, I don’t mind!). Sherlock is a mess.

Anything with Billy as Sherlock's son, and he's a result of past non-con, since Sherlock wouldn't have had a relationship, let alone decided to have a child of his own free will. After giving birth, Sherlock rejected him and Billy was adopted by other people (for some reason, the boy was named after Sherlock, who couldn't care less back then. Maybe it was Mycroft who chose the name and made sure to find good adoptive parents for his nephew. Maybe he's even kept in touch with the boy somehow).
Years later Sherlock meets Billy, who's so much like Sherlock himself, and it clicks. Please, a lot of angst and insecure Sherlock.

If it's an A/B/O verse, please Omega!Sherlock and Alpha!John, even though they don't have to be a couple (they can be in love nonetheless). Supportive John, please.

Unfortunately, anonymous commenting issues are ongoing. In light of this, our best option is to migrate the meme to Dreamwidth.

The new active prompting post is here. Please continue prompting there.

Any issues arising from this sudden move may be discussed on the Page-A-Mod! post or on the LJ issues/Migration post.

Omg I think I'm going to try and fill this if that's ok! I may make it slightly sexual mqkfdmqdfj. My Tumblr & AO3 are 'miladyholmes' if you want to check if I managed to write it!

*Moving fill over here from LJ*

Disclaimer: I'm not a doctor, and have thankfully never needed to use a feeding tube before, so apologies for any inaccuracies. And though I have an EDNOS (I protest and therefore refuse to use "OSFED"), every ED is different, and I don't at all mean to offend anyone by my portrayal of it here.

Can be read as Johnlock or just really epic bromance with added pet names.

Sherlock watched tensely as John laid out a selection of medical equipment on the nightstand, fists clenched tightly around the sheets beneath him, muscles taut with a mixture of nerves and dread. Stethoscope, lubricant, syringe, pump—each contributed to the maelstrom of anxiety that churned in the pit of his stomach. But it wasn’t until John tore open the packaging for the NG tube that he flinched away, barely suppressing his desire to flee the room entirely.

Graciously, John didn’t say anything about his involuntary slip up, instead moving to perch at the side of the bed. Slowly, he brought a hand up to rest on Sherlock’s bony knee, thumb rubbing against the pyjama bottoms in soothing circles. “Look at me please,” he ordered kindly, waiting until the younger man met his gaze before leaning in, face set with a solemn expression. “I know this is scary for you, maybe even terrifying. And I know it won’t be easy, I’m not going to lie and try to convince you otherwise. But we need to do this, because as hard as it will be, your body needs help right now. And this is going to give it that help, whether it feels like that or not.” His thumb slowed to a stop, pressing heavily against Sherlock’s knee, anchoring him. “I promise, I would never, ever do anything that would hurt you. Can you trust me on that much?”

Sherlock pulled his legs closer to his chest as he allowed John’s words to cover him like a particularly warm and downy duvet. Trying to bring back some sense of normality, he forced his lips to quirk. “Says the man who once punched me in the face and then proceeded to throttle me in a back alley.”

John gave a soft chuckle. “You punched first you git. Not to mention, quite literally asked for it.” His eyes regained their serious glimmer. “This isn’t going to hurt you; it’s going to help you, even if it doesn’t feel like it right now.” He tilted forward, bringing his forehead to rest lightly against Sherlock’s. “I would never, ever hurt you,” he whispered, holding their contact for a long moment before moving back. “You ready love?”

Whatever peace Sherlock had gotten from John’s encouragement seemed to disintegrate immediately. His breathing, which he had managed to control up to this point, began to quicken rapidly, and in the space of a few seconds he had reached a near hyperventilation. “I don’t think I can do this,” he said through sudden nausea. “John, I can’t do this. Please, I can’t—I can’t—”

“All right,” John broke in quickly, grasping both of Sherlock’s sinewy, fragile, fucking breakable (oh Jesus fuck Sherlock, I’m so sorry I ever let it get this far love) wrists in a careful embrace. “It’s all right,” he murmured, bringing the palm of each slender hand up to his lips and pressing a gentle kiss into both. “I swear to you, it’s going to be all right. I’m right here, I’m not going anywhere. We’re going to do this together, you and me. You’re going to let me take over now, let me make the hard choices, and trust me when I say that I’m going to take care of you. Can you do that for me?”

“John,” he gasped desperately, heels digging hard into the bed, “I don’t—”

“Lie back sweetheart,” John interrupted once more before Sherlock could work himself into a more hysterical state. He released Sherlock’s wrists in favour of propping whatever pillows he could grab up against the headboard, gently but firmly maneuvering his friend into a recline. He kept his left hand pressed against Sherlock’s chest in light restraint, the knobs of his sternum all too evident, buoying with each rapid inhale and exhale. The fingers of his right went up to brush through the raven curls.

“Close your eyes,” John requested quietly. When he wasn’t obeyed, he ran a comforting finger along the ridge of Sherlock’s brow. “Come on love, close your eyes.”

Lungs still frantically panting air, Sherlock willed himself to listen to John’s commands, forcing his eyes to fall shut despite the petrifying vulnerability that came with the sudden blindness.

“That’s it,” John encouraged. “You’re doing so well love. We’re going to take a deep breath in now, okay? There you are. Let’s try again. Nice and deep, let your lungs expand all the way. Good, bit better that time. Let’s do it again now, I want you to hold it for three seconds this time. Two, one. There we go. In again. You’re perfectly safe here; I’m right with you, not going anywhere. Inhale and hold it, you’re doing an fantastic job. The room’s warm—and out, good—and it still smells of the tea we had in here this morning. I bet the bed and pillows are pretty soft too, aren’t they? Why don’t you try and loosen your muscles, and then you can relax back against them a bit more, yeah? In again, there’s a lad.”

Sherlock’s breathing began to slow into some semblance of normal as John continued his placid coaching, but the newfound calm was quickly overtaken by embarrassment, blood pooling into his cheeks as he realized just how pitiably little control he had over his own body. Even now, his breathing remained slightly erratic, despite the searing concentration to tame it. The great detective, brought to his knees because of a panic attack over the idea of nourishment. Humiliating.

Noticing the blush, John stroked a wide, placating arc across his ribcage. “It’s all fine, absolutely nothing to be embarrassed about. Sometimes our bodies react in ways we’d really rather they didn’t. That doesn’t make you weak, and it certainly doesn’t change my opinion of you.”

Sherlock had already opened his eyes and was shaking his head before John had finished talking. “We shouldn’t have to be here in the first place,” he argued, spitting the words with venom. “If I was normal, if I wasn’t such a freak—”

“Sherlock Holmes, I don’t want to ever hear you call yourself that again!” John’s voice was a near shout, and he forced himself to calm down, taking his own deep breath before continuing in a more subdued, if no less fervent, tone. “There’s no more reason to be ashamed of this than if we were here because you had ALS or gastroparesis.” He brought both his hands up to cup Sherlock’s face, staring intently into the gray orbs. “You didn’t choose to have an eating disorder. This is not your fault, this doesn’t make you a freak, and I hope we’re very clear on both those points because I don’t ever want to have to repeat myself.”

“It’s not the same,” Sherlock insisted bitterly. “My mind is my most important asset John, and yet it’s also my biggest flaw; it’s pathetic in every way you look at it.”

John allowed his hands to drift up towards Sherlock’s hair, cradling his head as if it were the most precious treasure in the world. “It’s not a lack of flaws that make you great Sherlock, it’s the fact that you’re able to do so much in spite of those flaws that make your mind what it is. If you believe nothing else that I say to you, please believe me on that.”

Sherlock pursed his lips together in a thin line, but didn’t try to argue the point any further; it would have fallen on deaf ears, and it seemed a wiser choice to save that energy for more promising battles. Instead, he gave one short, lackluster nod, moving his gaze away before John could go on declaring any other unreasonable promises.

“All right then,” John stated with finality, releasing his hold on Sherlock and sitting back. After a long moment of silence, both men gathering their wits, he once more began to pet Sherlock’s hair as soothingly as possible. “I think,” he said gently, “that maybe it’s time we try this again.”

Immediately, Sherlock’s entire body tensed into a rigid plank, teeth grinding together and resonating inside his skull, the air once again seemingly knocked from his body as if someone had punched him in the gut. In a desperate bid to avoid hyperventilating a second time, he held his breath, wishing, not for the first time, that he was in fact the machine that so many claimed he was, with an off switch or emergency shutdown that could be programmed for such times as these. Then again, if he were a machine, such times as these wouldn’t even be a factor.

“I’d like to give you a sedative,” John said without apology, gingerly twisting a stray curl. “Just something to help you relax a bit. Will you let me do that?”

An abrupt wave of anger came over Sherlock—anger at the situation they were in, the inevitabilities that were crashing down on him—and he shoved John, the only target available at the moment, away. “I’m not your patient, Dr. Watson,” he spat, edging towards the far side of the mattress. “Nor am I some naive cretin who’s going to be lulled into a false sense of security based on how much you talk down to me, as if I…as if…” The flare of rage that had come in an instant drained out of him just as quickly, leaving him limp and feeling as though he had been wrung out.

“No,” John agreed steadily. “You’re not my patient. But you are the most important person in my life, and I’ll be damned to hell and fucked over like a march hare if I sit here and let you suffer without trying to do something to help make it all a bit easier.” He sighed, rubbing tiredly at his eyes. “This is what we do, remember? I carry the gun, you run ten steps ahead knowing that I’ve got your back. This isn’t any different. Please, just let me help. If not for yourself, then for me.”

Sherlock dug his nails into the sheets, drooping in defeat. “Okay,” he said hoarsely, turning his head away. The room went silent as John hesitated, the worrying lack of Sherlock’s normally capricious and contradictory attitude giving him pause. But slowly, he began to shuffle towards the end of the bed, where his doctor’s bag had been innocuously placed on the floor, pulling it up beside him.

“I’m going to give you an injection of diazepam,” he stated softly, rooting through the medical paraphernalia. Sherlock clenched his eyes shut at the sound of latex gloves whinging against skin, a faint tearing—no doubt the paper sheath of a needle and syringe—soon following. He started slightly at the sudden warm touch at his wrist, but slackened as John began to roll up the sleeve of his dressing gown. “Bit cold now,” he murmured, swiping a path of disinfectant across Sherlock’s inner elbow. A tourniquet was next, cinching resolutely around his bicep.

John’s gloved hand wrapped around his own, forming it into a loose fist; he gave a reassuring squeeze before letting go.

Sherlock listened to the delicate chinks as needle hit vial, drawing up the drug. A few seconds later, a series of muted taps flicked out an uneven pattern against his arm, trailing up and down until John seemed to settle on a prominent enough vein. “I’m no nurse, but I think my needlework’s decent enough not to jab you too badly here,” he teased in warning. “Small pinch. There we are.”

Sherlock looked back at John as a cool trickle entered his bloodstream, the sensation dissolving as the drug heated rapidly to body temperature. He stared blankly as John released the tourniquet and pulled away, swiftly covering the tiny puncture wound with a cotton ball. “I don’t know whether I should be disturbed by the fact that we have a sharps box in our flat, or just happy that I don’t have to take this into work with me,” he joked cheerfully, one handedly capping the needle and tossing it onto the nightstand for later disposal. The room went still as John held the cotton, a long minute passing until he decided that the pressure had been applied for long enough. “You might feel a bit shaky, and you might experience some nausea or drowsiness,” he informed Sherlock as he unwrapped a band aid, taping it over the fresh drop of blood with as much concentration as he might have performing open heart surgery. “Perfectly normal, but I want you to tell me right away if you do, okay?”

Sherlock gloomily muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like ‘I’ll have something to look forward to then,’ and the words ‘mother hen,’ ‘cluck,’ and ‘mollycoddling,’ may or may not have been thrown in there as well.

“What was that?”

He gave an irritated huff. “Fine.”

John’s amusement at his friend’s put upon manner faded as he glanced back towards the nightstand, stripping of his gloves. The feeding tube lay innocently beside the discarded syringe, a strange paradox of deliverance and foreboding, and without thinking he went to rub a pacifying line up Sherlock’s thigh.

“I don’t mean to push you,” John started, keeping his voice as nonthreatening as possible, “but the sooner we start, the sooner we’re going to get this over with.” Sherlock stiffened. “Dragging it out will only make it worse,” he reasoned sympathetically.

Sherlock wavered, unspeaking and unmoving, and John was about to press further when he gave a single, reluctant nod of consent. “Just do it then,” he whispered, forcing his mouth to form the words, a slight slur to them as the drug began to take effect. And a moment later, repeating John’s words to himself in a despondent attempt at self-comfort that made John’s heart ache, “Just get it over with.”

A/N: It's about two in the morning here, so I'm sorry for any glaring mistakes, as well as any poor writing caused by sleep deprivation. And apologies again for any medical inaccuracies; my main research sources were the top few links in Google searches. Pray suspend your disbelief and chalk it up to artistic license. As always, thanks for reading.

Feeling like the villain in this scenario, John compelled his lips to quirk into some semblance of a smile. “Let’s get you lying down all the way,” he said, curling a supporting arm around his friend’s back as he readjusted the pillows behind him. Lethargically, Sherlock allowed John to manipulate his body until he was slouched horizontally across the bed, long limbs haphazardly sprawled, head resting heavily on the mattress.

John settled back into his spot at his friend’s side. “I’m going to spray your throat with a bit of lidocaine, which will help numb it in addition to the gel I gave you earlier. That should make placing the tube a more comfortable for you,” he informed Sherlock, who was staring at the ceiling with a blank expression, not looking interested in the least with any part of the procedure.

Taking it as consent, John unsealed a tongue depressor and popped the cap off the anaesthetic’s waiting bottle. “Can you open your mouth for me?” he asked lowly, placing his thumb to Sherlock’s bottom lip in voiceless urge. Sherlock ignored him for a drawn out pause, but ultimately submitted to John’s demands, unenthusiastically letting the doctor gently press his jaw apart and hold his tongue down with the wooden blade. “Couple quick puffs now,” he cautioned, following through without unnecessary delay and thoroughly coating the back of the detective’s throat.

As he pulled away, Sherlock broke into a series of gravelly coughs.

Giving him time to adjust, John unhurriedly reached for a fresh pair of gloves from the box that he had stolen from the loo’s first aid kit—one of an alarming many they had on hand in the flat. While putting them on, he began to notice Sherlock’s eyes drifting shut, only to snap back open with fervour several times, and he lightly called Sherlock’s name. “Is the Valium working then?” he asked when he had Sherlock’s attention. “Starting to feel a bit groggy maybe?”

“Mm.”

“Try not to fight it sweetheart,” he suggested calmly as Sherlock’s eyes again started gradually, unwillingly droop. “Just let the medicine do its job.”

“Yes,” he blearily acquiesced, feeling as though his brain had been dowsed in a tranquil haze, finally letting his eyes fully close. John was there, after all, and John didn’t look worried, and if John didn’t look worried then why should he be? John would take care of all the annoying, boring details, just as he always did, and Sherlock could concentrate on the more important things, like…like… His mind drew a lovely, careless blank.

Didn’t matter. John would take care of everything.

Distantly, in what felt like an infinity of time and space away, he noted the weightless touch of two fingers to his carotid.

John would take care of him.

Having reassured himself that Sherlock’s pulse was pumping at a relatively strong, steady rhythm, John grabbed a Sharpie and the nasogastric tube from the small table. He held the tube up to Sherlock’s peaceful face and carefully measured out the proper length, scoring it off diligently and setting the marker to the side.

“You still with me mate?” he asked as he tapped Sherlock’s cheek faintly. It took a minute, but eventually his not-patient managed to drag his eyes open and gaze unfocusedly up at him. “Hello there,” John smiled, reaching for the packet of Xylocaine jelly. “I know you probably want to go to sleep right now, one of those pesky common side effects of diazepam I had mentioned before, but I need you to stay awake,” he requested, absentmindedly slicking the first few inches of the tube with lubricant. “Just for a few minutes, and then you can sleep as long as you like.”

Sherlock blinked, looking disoriented. “John?”

“Right here love.”

Sherlock frowned at the tube. “That’s going inside me?” he mumbled questioningly, sounding slightly concerned at the idea but not altogether overly bothered.

“Do you remember our talk about this earlier?” John inquired, pausing in his preparations to make sure that Sherlock was processing what he was saying. “We went through what was going to happen, and I explained everything that I’d need to do.” He gave another quick tap to Sherlock’s cheek when his apathetic stare began to wander, drawing his interest back to John. “Sherlock, you listening to me?”

“Mm,” he agreed absently.

“Sherlock, sweetheart, this is important. Do you understand what I’m going to be doing?”

“Obviously,” he said, none of his usual haughtiness imprinted in the word. “’m not so ignorant as to not understand basic medical procedures.” The words would have been more impressive if they hadn’t been drearily slurring over one another.

John sighed in mild exasperation, though at his core he could admit to being slightly relieved to hear the self-important, condescending words. A Sherlock without them was a very worrying Sherlock indeed.

“Humour me here.”

Sherlock glared with impatience, the Valium taking most of the heat out of it. “About half an hour ago you made me snort and swallow that horrible, horrible lidocaine gel, and now in addition have sprayed my throat. ’s awful John, I can’t feel a thing. Not to mention you’ve made me too high to function. How’m I supposed to think like this? And to top it all off you’re going to shove a tube down my oesophagus and force feed me. ’s repulsive.”

John resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the dramatic, drugged display. “Believe it or not, not being able to feel anything was kind of what we were aiming for; it’s certainly better than the alternative. And you’re not supposed to be thinking, you’re supposed to be trying to relax. You know, for when I shove a tube down your throat and all, as you like to put it. Though I plan to do it with a tad more finesse than that. Speaking of which, now that you’re numbed up, it seems as good a time as any to get started, what do you say?”

It was an odd sensation, Sherlock thought, wanting to feel trepidation, fright, but being forced into such a state of peaceful indifference that wouldn’t allow such things to fully form. That didn’t mean they were entirely absent though; there was still a flaming ember of them, alight in the back of his mind, burning painfully into his skull beneath the overwhelming and unrelenting serenity.

It took him a moment to realize that the rasping, low pitched wail was coming from him.

“Oh Sherlock,” John said brokenly, hand going to rest on his far hip, arm hovering protectively over his body like some magnificent, consecrated guardian come to shield him. “What are we going to do with you?”

“Don’t put it in me,” he begged, muddled, the drug’s calming grip preventing him from going into another full blown panic attack, but the fears so ingrained in him that it wasn’t able to block them entirely. “John please. The food…I can’t—don’t put the food in me, please. Please. It’ll kill me.”

Each word was another blow to John’s psyche, making him wonder if it wasn’t impossible to permanently bruise one’s soul. “Sherlock, I swear to you, the food isn’t going to hurt you. You know that love. Logically, you know that. And logically, you know that if we don’t get some kind of sustenance into you, soon, there’s only one possible outcome, and there’s no way in seven hells that I’m ever going to let that happen.” He took a steadying breath, internally reminding himself that he was, indeed, doing this for Sherlock’s own good, however brutal it was to know that he was simultaneously the cause of Sherlock’s heart wrenching distress. It was an excruciating situation all around, and he determinedly tried to push aside the faltering best friend in him, cornering instead the unyielding army captain.

He took another fortifying breath. “If I brought you some food right now, would you eat it?”

Sherlock’s pitiful silence was answer enough.

More gently, “Could you eat it?”

“It’ll kill me,” he insisted feebly. “John, please.”

I’m sorry. God, I’m so sorry I have to do this. He straightened his spine resolutely. “I’m sorry Sherlock, I know this is the very last thing you want to do, but your physical health has to come before your mental. That’s non-negotiable; I’m not going to sit idly by and watch you waste away. You need help, you know you do, and I’m going to see that you get it.” He slumped slightly, tightly grasping at the sharp curve of Sherlock’s hip. “It’s going to be okay Sherlock. I promise. We’re going to be fine.”

Sherlock anxiously clawed at the bedding, though the diazepam refused to let him contract his muscles in any considerable amount. “I don’t want it in me,” he entreated.

John slowly traced his fingers along the jutting edge of his pelvic bone. “I know love. I know that. But we have to at the very least start making some progress if you want to keep this between the two of us.”

“Don’t section me,” Sherlock said immediately, the plea having been made so many times in the past that it had become an instinctive, knee jerk response.

“We’ve talked about this before,” John placated, “I’m not going to bring anyone else in unless you either change your mind and want outside help, or we run out of every, every other available option. But that means that we need to take some steps in the right direction.”

“Don’t section me,” Sherlock repeated wearily.

“Let’s not worry about that just yet, okay? For now let’s just focus on getting the tube in place.” John patted his hip, leaning back. “We’re going to do this together, one step at a time, and it’ll be over before you know it. We can cross the other bridges as they come.”

“I don’t know what to do,” Sherlock confessed, nearly inaudible, offering the secret as if it were the most valuable possession he owned, meant to be heard by John and John alone.

The doctor smiled encouragingly. “You don’t need to. All you need to do right now is trust me to take over for a while. Just like you’ve been doing. I have—” he paused, unsure, unexpectedly finding the English language ridiculously inadequate for the depth of what he wanted to express. “I have you,” he settled on finally.

Sherlock inhaled deeply, letting his chest expand to full capacity, concentrating on quieting his mind, still lurching ahead at punishing speeds despite the diazepam’s best efforts to subdue it. ‘I have you,’ John had said. If he had nothing else, there would always be that. John Watson, you keep me right. “I trust you,” he divulged, as much a divulgence as was ever going to be heard from him.

He frowned.

The drugs must have been making him sentimental.

John’s expression warmed. “Good lad,” he said fondly, once again hauling his black bag onto his lap. “We’ll start out easy,” he appeased. Finding what he was looking for, he dropped the bag back to the floor, adjusting the otoscope in his hands and switching on its tiny, bright light. “I’m just going to take a quick peek at your nostrils so we can decide which side will be best.”

Sherlock hummed in resignation.

“Tilt your head back?” John directed, cupping a guiding hand around Sherlock’s neck, the latex of his gloves smooth against the pale skin. Sherlock conceded to the examination with undisguised annoyance, barely tolerating it as John assessed first his right, then left nostrils. His niche was as the observer, the one who scrutinized corpses and studied slides beneath the lenses of a microscope; he wasn’t made for playing the role of specimen as well.

“I think we’ll go with the right,” John eventually declared, pulling back but not releasing his secure hold of Sherlock’s neck. Instead, he used his position to slant the detective forward, purposefully meeting his gaze. “I won’t pretend that this is going to be comfortable; it might even be a little painful at certain points, though I’m going to do my absolute best to prevent that. But I want you to try and stay as relaxed as possible. You’ve been doing marvellously so far; if you can keep it up a while longer, I promise that it’s going to make things easier for you.”

John waited until Sherlock gave a grudging nod before freeing his neck. “We’re going to take this nice and slow,” he assuaged, moving an emesis basin into easy reach, though he hoped that it would prove useless, and draping his stethoscope around his broad shoulders. Picking up the prepared tube, he gave a final glance over the bedside table, making sure he had everything that he’d need, and shuffled a bit closer to Sherlock. “Ready?”

Sherlock didn’t answer, but began to take very deliberate, timed breaths, consciously going limp. John lay a hand across his forehead, as if he were gauging his temperature, and brought the lubricated end of the tube up to his face. “Going to start putting it in now,” he alerted when he was a few short millimetres away.

“Vatican cameos!” Sherlock exclaimed out of nowhere, causing John to stop short, freezing where he was. Taking advantage of his surprise, Sherlock hastily escaped from under the doctor’s palm where it had rested on his temple, scuffling back, getting as far away from the outwardly harmless piece of hollow rubber as the bed would allow. Only when he was a safe distance away did he seem to become aware of his actions. “’m sorry,” he moaned suddenly, clutching his hair and yanking so hard that there seemed a very plausible chance he might take out a few decent sized clumps.

Alarmed, John reached out and attempted to make him let go. “Sherlock, stop that! It’s fine, I swear it’s fine. We can work it out, but first I need you to tell me what’s wrong.” When Sherlock didn’t answer, John briskly rubbed his upper arm. “Come on mate, what happened there?”

“Panicked,” he said succinctly, chest heaving. “Just give me a minute. Just a minute.”

“Of course,” John agreed instantly, prying at the death grip. “If you let go of your hair, I’ll give you two.”

His fingers slackened upon hearing the appeal. “’m sorry,” he mumbled again.

“You don’t need to apologize,” John assured, tube still hanging midair, wilting lifelessly. “Not to me. If you need a minute to calm down, then we’ll take it. There’s no one here you have to impress.” He touched Sherlock’s thigh tentatively. “Why do you come back over here, hm?” Ashamedly avoiding his gaze this time, Sherlock shifted closer, reluctantly letting go of his curls and replacing his hands at his sides. “There we are,” John said tenderly. “Let’s try and relax again; let the Valium help you, that’s what it’s for.”

“’m sorry,” he garbled one last time. “’m calm now. Just do it.”

John pursed his lips. “Sherlock—”

“Please. I just need for this to be over.”

He wavered, but in the end gave a decisive nod. “All right,” he assented, moving his hand back to Sherlock’s brow and brushing down across the strikingly coloured eyes, giving him no choice but to close them. “You don’t need to see what I’m doing,” he explained. “The only thing you need to do is concentrate on relaxing. I’ve gotten everything else taken care of.”

Making sure that Sherlock was going to keep his eyes shut—John had a sneaking suspicion that half of his anxiety was due to the visualization of the cold, sterile equipment alone, a daunting spectacle when one knew it was set out with the purpose of being used on them—he resumed where they had left off. “This is going to feel a little strange,” he forewarned, giving Sherlock a few seconds to process his words before beginning to carefully thread the tube into his nasal passage.

<3... Perfect. Patient and caring John. ))

Thank you! Don't we all wish for a John in our lives? <3

Ok I know you said to suspend disbelief for glaring inaccuracies, but right off the bat you have Sherlock lying down and that is a big "if this was real life, it would be lethal" mistake that I can't just let go without comment.

Lying down would misalign the tube and increase pressure and gravity on to the tube, making it for a difficult passage into the oesophagus. The patient would choke on it and the coughing/gagging would cause damage to the sinuses and could cause reactive swelling enough to asphyxiate the patient, and with the NG tube in the way, the only option would then be to trach if they needed help breathing.

Sorry, I know it ruins things, but... I couldn't let it go D:

Oh, wow, you couldn't let it go, really? Not the author here, but I'm pretty sure that, if there's something, anything, you dislike about a prompt or a fill, you scroll past it. Don't like? Don't read. Pretty simple, especially considering that you've been warned from the start about possible inaccuracies. So what else do you want? The author doesn't owe you anything.
I hope the author won't feel discouraged to continue writing this story, for those of us who don't cavil at everything and don't demand accuracy, remembering that fiction is fiction and it doesn't have to be perfectly accurate. There are much, much, worse things in fiction, such as films, for example, where people get injected with adrenaline in their hearts, which would be the biggest medical fail in real life, or everything "medical" that has ever happened in S3 of Sherlock, even though they could've easily afforded a consultant.
I'm a medical worker, btw, and I have no problem enjoying this fanfic very much. And if I did have such a problem, it would've been my problem that shouldn't become everyone else's just because I suddenly imagined that people in this community owe me something. This isn't a place for critics, in case you didn't know.

OP here.

This is so beautiful! Thank you so much for writing this story.
John and Sherlock are so close in this. It's like they live in their own world where they share everything, good and bad, and plenty of things no one else can know. I just love the way John is carrying that world on his strong shoulders at the moment, as a doctor and an army captain he is, not to mention a caring friend. Am I being overly poetic? :)

Can't wait to read more of this story!

Author here. I'm sorry if you don't think my fill's accurate, but again, I'm only as good as the research I can find, and some of the pages I used as references (I posted a couple below, if you're interested) stated that a lying down insertion was certainly a viable one. If the authors of those seemingly reliable, scientific, medical tutorial articles are wrong, there's not much hope for one lone anon writing for a kinkmeme, of all things.

Considering that it's a fanfic for Sherlock, a show that consistently has fairly obvious medical inaccuracies (the one that comes first to mind being the belt stabbings in TSOT, but there were plenty of others as well), I wasn't too worried about being spot on about everything. Not to mention that, in BBC's canon, the idea of Sherlock having anorexia is pretty ridiculous; my portrayal of him alone is already going to be off because of that, so I'd assumed that if you could look past any OOCness? (I'm just going to say that's a real word, because I don't know how else to put it), you'd also be able to look past the smaller mistakes that really don't affect the story much.

I appreciate your opinion, but short of going to consult a doctor, there's not much else I can do. Sorry you've not enjoyed it. :/

http://www.healthline.com/health/nasogastric-intubation-and-feeding#Overview1
http://www.survivinggrays.com/how-to-insert-a-nasogastric-tube/

The anon from above (the one who's a medical worker). Please don't worry. You haven't written anything wrong. While my speciality has nothing to do with anything like this, in my med school I've seen nurses taught to perform different procedures in many different circumstances and in less than ideal positions of a patient. There are simple methods to make sure the NG tube is where it should be.
John knows what he does.

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