sherlockbbc_fic (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sherlockbbc_fic) wrote2015-02-07 04:33 am
sherlockbbc_fic) wrote2015-02-07 04:33 am
Entry tags:
Prompting Part XXXVI
GUIDELINES
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- 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.
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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.
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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
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ellie_hell, charname, 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.![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif){kind=small}
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.
Fill: Part 3
(Anonymous) 2015-07-13 07:42 pm (UTC)(link)No guarantees of when I'll have the next part out, but I'll do the best I can. Thank you for reading and for all your delightful reviews; they make my day.
Almost instantaneously, Sherlock gave a distressed whine.
“I know sweetheart,” John murmured, stroking his thumb in a soothing caress along his temple, using the palm of his hand to subtly restrain Sherlock’s head against the pillow. “I know. Just hang in there. You’re doing so well. So, so well. The beginning is always the hardest; once we reach your throat it’ll get easier, I promise. Keep breathing love, there we go.” John kept up the placid litany as he advanced the tube one agonising centimetre at a time.
“’s too big. It’ll choke me John! ’s suffocating me!”
“It’s not,” John said calmingly, panging with sympathy but not allowing himself to hesitate. “I know it feels that way, but it’s not going to choke you, I swear. Take some deep breaths, you’re going to be fine.”
“Jn—”
“Shh, I’ve got you. I’ve got you.” Reaching the nasopharynx, John cautiously guided the tube forward, praying that he wouldn’t meet any resistance in the infamous curve; this was going to be traumatic enough for Sherlock as it was, and John desperately hoped to avoid adding to the toll. “You’re doing fantastic, just keep your eyes closed and focus on your breathing, just as you’ve been doing. You don’t need to think about anything else, all right? Try and relax, I’ve got you.”
When the tube began to curl around his soft palate, Sherlock gagged and attempted to pull away from the intrusion, giving an irrepressible whimper when he found himself unable to move, head held firmly in place. “Please,” he exhaled, scrabbling blindly at the front of John’s jumper, scratching at the wool as if it were the last sturdy precipice in a crumbling world. “Burns. Please John. Please.”
“I know,” John softly echoed, but nevertheless brought his legs up onto the bed, lightly pressing his shin across Sherlock’s waist and fixing him fully in place. He resolutely told himself, not for the first time, that if he gave Sherlock what he needed to be happy now, in the short term, it would have devastating consequences to his health in the long. But understanding that did nothing to make the entire procedure any less viciously abhorrent; no matter how well meant, he felt dirty, pinning Sherlock him down and with only dubious consent invading his body with a foreign object.
I feel like a rapist, he realized, repulsion flooding into his gut and making him want to be sick. At least there’s the kidney dish, he humourlessly jested to himself, though as soon as the thought came he internally cursed, dismissing it angrily. Stop it. Just stop it. You can’t think about this right now, not when Sherlock needs you. If you don’t do this he’s going to die you selfish bastard, he’s going to die a little more every day, right in front of you, and when you lose the only person in your entire ruddy life who ever truly mattered, you’ll have no one to blame but yourself. He’s not stable enough to decide what does or doesn’t go into his body anymore, and you’re the only one he trusts to do it for him; don’t fucking throw that away because it makes you feel guilty. Don’t you fucking dare stop.
“Please stop,” Sherlock frantically implored.
“I’m so sorry love,” John whispered, bracing himself and forging ahead, refusing to budge as Sherlock writhed beneath him, eyes clenched, feebly trying to get away from John’s restraining limbs. It was a lost cause; sedated, already panting from the exertion, muscles deteriorated and weak by months of starvation, he was no match against John, who faithfully maintained an army-ingrained circuit of push ups, bridges, and crunches every day before breakfast. When he realized that his struggling was a wholly vain effort, he fell still, exhausted and overwhelmed.
If the tiny mewl that escaped him didn’t utterly destroy John, the salty water that had unwillingly begun to swell from beneath his lids, clumping his lashes and leaving two twin streaks down his cheekbones, would have. “All right darling,” he hushed, wondering if a knife had been miraculously plunged into his gut unnoticed. “You’re all right.”
When he made it to the laryngopharynx without trouble he gave a silent sigh of relief, pausing to give Sherlock a quick, much deserved break. “That’s the hardest part over then,” he comforted, tugging the edge of his sleeve down and using it to gingerly dry Sherlock’s face.
“I don’t think I can do this,” he slurred, a cold sweat breaking out beneath John’s palm. “I can’t do this.”
“Yes you can,” John consoled, warily loosening his hold at Sherlock’s temple. When Sherlock didn’t try to move away, he slackened, sweeping at the younger man’s messy fringe. “You’ve done beautifully so far. We’re halfway there, and the worst part’s behind us,” he promised. “I’m going to be right here the entire time; you don’t need to do anything on your own.”
A defeated sob burst from his throat, muffled behind closed lips, before he rapidly cut it off. He went to turn his head away before John hastily caught him. “Easy love, easy. Let’s try and keep still a few more minutes, just until we can get the tube in all the way, yeah?”
Sherlock’s eyes scrunched tighter.
Easy, John had said, and it seemed like the word was mocking him where it hung in the air. None of this would ever be easy.
“Take it out,” he begged, shakily gripping John’s cable knit. “Get it out of me, please. Please John.”
“I’ve got some ice here,” John said distractingly, reaching for a teacup that was wet with condensation. The cubes (from the not-for-experiments, uncontaminated by frozen mystery liquids, thoroughly cleaned and sanitized before use anyway, moulded tray) that filled it were semi melted by this point, but would work all the same. “If you’re up to it, I’m going to give you some to suck on; that should help make things a little smoother going down.” He touched Sherlock’s gaunt cheek as if it were sculpted from millennia old porcelain. “Do you think you can try that?”
“Mnph.”
“Come on love,” John patiently coaxed. “The cold’ll feel good on your throat, hm? Just let it melt in your mouth and swallow as you’re able. Will you do that for me?”
It took a long moment of waiting, silence rigid like a bow string at risk of snapping, but John was finally rewarded with a minute, nearly imperceptible nod. “Good form,” he extolled in gratitude. Picking one of the larger chunks from the chilled puddle inside the cup, he brought it to Sherlock’s cracked lips, waiting patiently until they reluctantly parted, just enough for John to slip the ice onto his tongue. “That’s it,” he encouraged, pressing his hand back to Sherlock’s cool, damp forehead. “Just try to relax; we’re almost done.”
Gently, John began to nudge the tube forward once more, easing it down his oesophagus another fraction with each of Sherlock’s tiny, directing swallows. “You’re doing so well,” he urged, tone dulcet and pleasant, bringing another piece of ice to Sherlock’s mouth. “Absolutely brilliant. Not much longer and it’ll be over.” The familiar, repetitive words seemed to paint over the room, whitewashing the walls with John—aftershave and earl grey and small hands stitching his gashes in the loo while drunk on the victory of another solved case and disgustingly romanticized blog posts and the lovely, lovely, deafening sound of gunshots ringing in his ears—leaving him with the same tingling sensation as when his name was replaced with ‘sweetheart’ or ‘love’, when suddenly he became immortal to every danger in all the world, because to be cherished by John Watson was to be immortal, drowning out the terror and pain and substituting instead a warm palm at his brow and the mooring weight of a leg draped over his torso, enveloping him like an armour.
His lips abruptly cooled, more ice pushed through, startling him, and he gagged over it as the tube scraped down his throat another inch, flames left in its wake.
He wished that John would pet his hair again. He didn’t say that though.
“You’re all right sweetheart, just a little more to go.”
Sweetheart.
Sweetheart sweetheart sweetheart.
It was an odd feeling, being loved by someone else a thousand times more than he could ever hope to love himself.
“There you are,” John said, closing in on the dark line he had marked on the tube, not realizing that his shoulders had been drawn tight from the onset until they sloped in blessed reprieve. “Cracking. That’s you set then,” he stated softly, watching Sherlock blink, eyes bloodshot and unfocussed.
“’s over?”
“Tube’s all the way in, yeah. I only need to double check the placement, but I don’t think we’ll have any issues with that. I’m going to pull your shirt up for a second, okay?”
Sherlock hummed noncommittally, unbothered as John tugged the charcoal pyjama top to his chest in a few lithe movements. The professional façade that the doctor had been aiming for faltered dangerously at the sight of protruding ribs and concaved abdomen, skin taut across prominent hipbones and randomly dyed with angry splotches of dusky hazel and mossy green and gloomy yellow. It didn’t look real; it looked like a piece of new age art, grotesque and disturbing and disconcertingly ethereal, a haunting apparition skirting the edge of death.
It shouldn’t have been so shocking. Although Sherlock had blatantly refused to let his flatmate examine him, despite the numerous attempts of an increasingly anxious John trying to convince him that he needed to have a physician look him over, John had still caught brief glimpses of nudity that were unavoidable when living in close quarters with another person. But those fleeting, distanced flashes had done nothing to prepare him for this, the sight of Sherlock, his brilliant lunatic of a best friend Sherlock, laid out beneath him like a sacrifice spread across an altar, emaciated and battered and oh God how did I let this happen?
When John remained frozen in place, Sherlock shifted uneasily, unused to feeling self-conscious. “Problem?”
John was motionless another moment, but finally cleared his throat, hands trembling ever so slightly as he reached for the syringe, pulling back on the plunger and sucking air into it with far greater concentration than was strictly necessary. “I’m just going to have a listen,” he said shakily, dragging the stethoscope from his neck and warming the metal diaphragm, “and we’ll do a quick pH test while we’re at it.”
Sherlock looked vaguely peeved. “Tedious.”
That got an amused huff from John. “Yeah, a bit, but you’ll only have to bear with me another minute. You’ll make it.”
Sherlock glowered, but it lacked his usual bravado, and John was an old hand at recalcitrant consulting detectives. “Glad you’re being so mature about it,” he joshed, putting his stethoscope on and connecting the syringe to the NG’s port. Reluctantly, he looked back to the skeletal form, flesh sunken like that of a corpse on an autopsy table.
Don’t even think that, he furiously berated himself. Don’t ever fucking think that again.
Not letting himself cringe (He’s just another patient. Not the entire bloody reason that you get up each morning and didn’t eat a bullet years ago. Just another patient, that’s it.), he put the chestpiece over the wan epigastrium, entrapping it in a rib-shaped crevice. “Right then,” he apprised, compressing the plunger and listening intently for a whoosh of air into the stomach. Hearing it, he smiled faintly, taking a moment longer than was needed to absorb the sound of Sherlock’s organs gurgling away beneath him, blood pumping evenly, the distant echo of his heart drumming evenly, oxygen swishing into expanding lungs, committing the evidence of a living body to his mind and tattooing it there for future reassurance. “Good,” he confirmed, feeling his face heat when he met Sherlock’s gaze, the other man raising a sardonic brow.
“You said I only had to endure this intolerable procedure another minute. Best keep moving, Doctor.” It wasn’t fair in the least that, after being sedated and having a tube strung through him, Sherlock still managed to be more articulately composed than John.
“It was an estimate,” he replied, trying not to let his embarrassment show any more than it already had. A tall order, under the inspection of the most observant man this side of the hemisphere. Both sides, possibly, though his ego was large enough without adding any extra fuel.
Graciously, Sherlock didn’t say anything in response, instead choosing to act extremely put upon in silence while John aspirated a few millilitres of stomach contents. “Colour’s good,” he approved, giving Sherlock time to sulk as he tested the pH, giving another short, pleased grin when the strip stained to the correct category. “Brilliant. Going to flush the tube and then we’ll be done. We can even take a rest for you to have a proper strop, if you think it’ll make you nicer to be around in the long run.”
Sherlock scowled. “I do not strop.”
“Yeah,” John countered easily, glancing up from where he was drawing sterile water into a fresh syringe. “You do.”
Sherlock’s scowl deepened. “Your middle name is Hamish.”
John ducked his head to hide his suppressed laughter, fiddling again with the tube’s port and attaching the syringe, feeling light hearted, if only fleetingly, for the first time in what seemed like weeks. “No need to be rude Will.” He had missed this, the petty banter and welcomed teasing; there seemed to be less and less of it these days, exchanged instead with worried glances and hours spent reading nutrition labels of the food in the cupboards before putting it back untouched and pleas to eat something, anything, I’ll run out and get you whatever you want, just name it and rare nights outside a locked bathroom door—kitchen ransacked, empty containers for crisps and biscuits and sweets all littering the floor, shower and sink both running but still not loud enough, John left crying in front of the flimsy barrier, stroking the wood as if Sherlock would be able to feel it on his skin, helplessly begging to be let in—and journals that Sherlock thought John didn’t know about, meticulously recording calorie input and energy expenditure and volume of bodily secretions and morning weight to the second decimal and BMI and evening weight in both kilograms and pounds.
“John?”
He blinked owlishly at the empty, detached syringe in his hands, and set it on the table with precise movements. Compelled his lips to arc as he looked back to Sherlock. “Sorry love,” he apologized dimly, carefully replacing Sherlock’s shirt, covering first ribs, then hollowed belly, then hipbones. In an almost maternal gesture, he folded the lapels of the royal blue dressing gown in, very deliberately smoothing the silky fabric down where it shrouded the thin form; Sherlock was always cold these days.
Sherlock watched him dazedly.
“Lost in my thoughts, I suppose.”
Re: Fill: Part 3
(Anonymous) 2015-07-13 11:34 pm (UTC)(link)Re: Fill: Part 3
(Anonymous) 2015-07-14 06:29 pm (UTC)(link)This is totally brilliant! And I love their banter.
Hopefully, the feeding part is not going to be as much of an ordeal for the two of them as the tube insertion, but with Sherlock's disorder...
Re: Fill: Part 3
(Anonymous) 2015-07-14 06:33 pm (UTC)(link)I loved the banter, but I also loved the angst very much, especially john's thoughts on Sherlock's disorder and how the both of them have been struggling with it.
Re: Fill: Part 3
(Anonymous) 2015-07-15 12:49 am (UTC)(link)Re: Fill: Part 3
(Anonymous) 2015-07-26 08:08 pm (UTC)(link)Good to see John doing what needs to be done, he doesn't give up on Sherlock even though he's tempted because Sherlock is scared of what's going on.
Re: Fill: Part 3