#may prompt challenge 2024

[thalialunacy]

[for @calaisreno's May prompt challenge, which is thusfar h*ckin fun]

(1) 2: box (3) (4) (5) (6) (7) (8) (9) (10) (11) (12) (13) (14) (15) (16) (17) (18) (19) (20) (21) (22) (23) (24) (25) (26) (27) (28) (29) (30) (31)

Where are you? John texts, paused in the main doorway of the-- empty-- flat.

He's not worried… yet. Sherlock is a cock, yes, but he's been good with Rosie, really good. Surprisingly good. So good John's stopped waiting for the other shoe to drop. Mostly.

Hi John, this is Molly on Sherlock's phone

'Oh, fantastic,' John mutters as he hangs up his coat.

Who's injured? he shoots back as soon as his fingers allow.

Or, oh God--

Don't tell me he's in jail.

He's not in jail.

Somehow, this is not reassuring. He dispenses with clumsy fingers and hits the Call button instead.

The sounds of A & E snap into his ear and he stills. Then he reaches right back out for his coat. 'Where?'

Molly hesitates. 'I don't think-- I mean, it's all right, I'll have them home in a jiff. It's just a small fracture--'

'Molly,' he grinds out, pounding down the stairs. 'She's my daughter, tell me where she is.'

'Oh!' she says quickly. 'No, Rosie's fine! Completely fine! He'd never let anything-- John, don't be silly-- He'd rather break his own wrist than--' She falters. 'Well. I should probably let him tell you himself, but Rosie is fine. Sherlock is fine, in fact, or very nearly. They were just having a bit of fun.'

John suddenly looks around where he's landed, at the bottom of the stairs with one hand on the front door. There is a suspicious lack of hallway furniture-- Mrs Hudson's table and vase are nowhere to be seen, her umbrella stand empty and shoved back by the door to 221C-- and there is the strange addition of a very large, slightly rumpled cardboard box.

'What the actual f--'

There's fumbling noises on the other end, then Sherlock's voice, sounding only the slightest bit defensive. 'It only took a few iterations to find that the newest boxes work the best.'

'The newest boxes,' John repeats, knowing he heard what he thinks he just heard but wanting like hell to believe otherwise.

'Worked best, yes, do keep up. It was hardly a rigorous study, circumstances being--'

'Sherlock.' John pinches the bridge of his nose, counting to ten in Very Loud Internal Numbers. 'Please don't tell me you and my very young only child were using cardboard boxes as sledges in order to toboggan down the stairs.' 

'Alright, then, I won't tell y--' 

There's more rustling, and a muffled, 'Oh for goodness' sake, Sherlock.'

'John,' Molly's back with a moment later, using her steeliest voice, which-- to be fair-- has become quite steely in the years he's known her. 'Do not leave Baker Street, please. They'll be home before you know it. And will be needing some food and a nap.'

'Which one?' John says dryly, feeling himself unclench. Rosie is fine. He trusts Molly one hundred percent on this subject. Rosie is fine. 

… he finds he keeps repeating that in his head, though, until he actually hears Sherlock's feet on the stairs an hour later.

He pushes through the kitchen door onto the landing, heedless of the half-cooked supper left behind, and doesn't breathe out until he's met Sherlock halfway up and lifted Rosie into his arms. 'Baby girl,' he mutters into her hair, holding her close. 'Are you alright?'

She wriggles with a grunt, and he reluctantly pulls back so she can answer. 'Daddy!' she starts enthusiastically, then babbles out a stream of words John only partially understands and, to be honest, partially tunes out when he clocks the delicate-looking cast peeking out from under Sherlock's cuffs.

They're stood face to face on the stairs, talkative child between them, and John feels strung up tight, balancing on some sharp edge as he searches Sherlock's expression and works out what has happened.

Sherlock has, once again, saved a Watson.

He'd also been the one to get her into the trouble, and he will get a stern lecture in a minute, but John knows in his bones, finally, that his heart is very much in the right place. And Rosie is in his arms, whole and fine and still chattering at them, her fingers playing with his collar.

'You sodding idiot,' John says finally, voice nearly uncooperative. 'You're lucky it was only a fracture.'

'We only used the bottom few stairs,' Sherlock replies, indignant. 'And I had it under control. I would never--'

Without thought, John kisses him, right on his slackened mouth. He's somehow unsurprised by how natural it feels. 'I know, I know. Trust me. You're still an idiot.'

'John?' Sherlock asks tightly, though he hasn't moved away.

'Just. Shut up.' John presses their lips together again, pressure letting Sherlock know he means it, that this isn't just a fluke. 'Let me have this.'

And Sherlock, utterly reliable in this one respect, lets him.

[❤️]

[a-victorian-girl]

Omg this is so sad :(((

May 11 - Secret

Thanks for all the wonderful comments, threats, tears and bills for counselling. For those just finding these for the first time, this is a May-long multi-part fic, so there are a whole 10 days of micro-fics to read as well as this! All the other parts can be found here!

Some of you might have noticed the pattern that we're alternating between John and Sherlock. Some of you might also have noticed that they're not travelling in the same direction time-wise. All will be revealed, I hope, at some point before May 31st.

Anyway, enjoy some more angst and unhappiness. And happy Saturday!

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

As the door banged shut, announcing Lestrade's departure, Sherlock considered the conversation they had started the evening with. Surely, his closest friend couldn't fail to spot what all the other people in his life knew full well to be the case. It wasn't as if he was keeping it a secret. 

He's lonely. 

For two years, he's lived in the house left to him by his oldest friend all by himself. There is no noise coming from downstairs anymore, no interruptions of tea and chatter. He goes to bed in the oppressive silence and wakes up to the same. And it's killing him. 

Then there are the memories—ghosts of a past self, of laughter and life and fun, of mysteries and excitement. It isn't like that now. John rarely helps with cases anymore. Celebratory takeaway and crap TV are long gone. It's good when John and Rose visit, but they always leave again. The silence swallowing him. 

Sherlock isn't a loner. Ever since his time away, working to single-handedly bring down Moriarty, he's needed company. He might not talk for days on end, but he needs life around him so that he can feel tethered to reality, to know that his sacrifice was worth it, that everyone was saved. 

To know he's home and safe. 

But home is no longer 221b. 

For @calaisreno's May Prompt Challenge.

[pastafossa]

"Don't Let Go" (Michael Kinsella x F!Reader, Fic)

Time for Day Six of the Tuna-Tober prompt challenge! I chose the angst prompt, "Shh, I've got you now. I'm here." with Michael Kinsella! I originally planned to use all three prompts (the above plus 'love bites' and 'spread your legs for me') but this one just sorta worked beautifully focusing on the angst prompt alone, despite my plan. May come back and do a sequel with the other two prompts eventually. You can see the rest of the prompts I've chosen here if you'd like to know what's coming this month from me. Also, if you'd like notifications when I post a new story, drabble, or chapter, you can follow my sideblog @pastaxandria and set it for notifications! And off we go!

Ship: Michael Kinsella x F!Reader

Wordcount: 1.1k

Warnings for this chapter: angst, blood, injury care, mention of reader briefly held hostage, language, mention of domestic violence, some shouting and breaking things (Michael is very angry here, just not at you).

His hands shaking, Michael cleaned you up in the bathroom.

You weren’t sure if that tremor was due to fear, or… or exhaustion, maybe. He probably hadn’t gotten much sleep the past two nights while you’d been missing, held captive in an abandoned building by a group of men who’d been looking to blackmail the Kinsella family. It hadn’t worked out well for them based on the dead bodies you’d seen when Michael had grimly carried you out past his brothers, his hands stained heavily with blood and smelling of fresh gunpowder. 

It was those hands—the very same hands that had so recently dealt out death and destruction—that now tended gently to your wounds. With barely a word save a soothing murmur whenever you winced, he washed away the crusted grime and dried blood from your body in the shower before settling you down on the side of the porcelain tub. Once you were comfortable, he set about cleaning out and bandaging the bloody cuts on your hands and face, the torn skin on your wrists left by the handcuffs, and the burns along your forearm from the cigarettes one man had decided to put out against your skin when you’d spat in his face.

With every injury Michael cared for, however, the more his hands shook, his breathing growing sharper, hissing out from between his clenched teeth. 

No. This wasn’t fear or exhaustion making his hands shake, you realized. This was… 

He rose from where he’d been kneeling in front of you. He stared down at you for a moment with those dark eyes of his, taking all of you in for the first time since bringing you back home—taking in every last swollen bruise and vicious cut, every bandage and mark of pain left behind by those who had wanted to harm his family by using you against him.

…This was rage.

He snatched up the first aid kit, turned, and hurled it with a furious scream. It shattered against the wall in the hall, its impact leaving a crumbling hole in the drywall. Gauze and ointment, bottles of pills and splinters of plastic scattered left and right.

“Michael,” you said weakly. “I’m ok now.”

It was as if he hadn’t even heard you. “I’m goin’ ta find the rest of ‘em and kill 'em for this!” he snarled savagely, his accent even thicker in his fury. Gone was the gentle lilt, the familiar softness he always seemed to gain in his voice when he spoke to you or about you. Now he was every inch the dangerous Kinsella that so many feared, though not you. Never you. Even now you weren’t afraid, despite the way he whirled and paced wildly in front of you, as if looking for the very same ones who’d so recently hurt you. This was rage in your defense, and that made all the difference. 

“Michael—”

“They think I can’t find ‘em?” he spat. “They really think I can’t? I’ll hunt down every last fuckin’ one’a them filthy little cunts fer puttin’ their hands on ya! By the time I’m done wit’ em, there won’t be enough’a their fuckin’ bodies left for their mams to bloody bury!”

This time it was the drinking glass on the counter that paid the price. It flew out into the hall to shatter violently against the wall just beside the mark left by the first aid kit. Glittering shards of glass, some pieces still damp, joined the rest of the debris on the floor.  

“Michael.” You heaved yourself upright on shaky legs, wobbly as a newborn fawn. And it hurt, it hurt to move, cuts tugging, body aching. You tried to blink the dampness away in your eyes, not now, come on. “It’s alright—” “Don’t tell me it’s alright when they hurt ya!” he roared. But the moment he swung back around to face you and saw you on your feet, he spat out a curse. He stormed across the bathroom before you could take more than a step. “Daft woman, sit your arse back down before ya fall over!”

One hand still braced against the wall, you lifted your other arm quickly towards him. He lurched to a stop before he could touch you, an expression of horror twisting across his face, all furrowed brow and parted lips. Only then did you realize what that must have looked like to him—your arm held up to fend him off, trying to stop him from coming towards you, tears in your eyes as if you were… as if you were terrified of him and what he had been doing. 

Gone in a breath was the rage, the fury, replaced by a gutted, heartbroken grief. If you hadn’t known any better, you’d have said he was about to cry, too. “Ya didn’t think I was goin’ to…” he whispered, swallowing hard and taking a cautious step back. “I… I swear, pet, I would never—” 

“God, no, Mikey. I know you weren’t going to hit me,” you croaked, trying to put your arm out again in a more welcoming way, and if your breath started to hitch, tears now beginning to roll down your cheeks despite your best efforts, well, surely you were entitled to that, because it had been a horrible few days and the longer you stood here, the more you began to shiver and hurt. It had only been a few minutes since you’d been in his arms, but your body clearly wasn’t ready yet for even that much separation. Emotion welled up inside you like a dark wave, endless, bottomless. You were terrified you’d drown beneath it without him to help you keep your head above water. “I was trying to… could you come over here and… and hold me? I just need…”

He caught you just as the first choked sob tore its way out of your throat, the strength of the sound so violent, so raw it almost frightened you. One of his arms quickly wound around your waist, pulling you in against the comforting, familiar warmth and strength of his chest. His other hand rose to gently cradle the back of your head, bringing your head down so you could bury it against his neck. He rumbled low, soothing notes into your ear, tender words of comfort as you desperately tried to breathe in the scent of whiskey and leather, gun oil and rain between your heaving breaths and broken sobs.

“There ya go. Shh, I’ve got ya now, pet,” he whispered, laying his cheek against your hair. He shifted the two of you carefully across the floor until he could ease himself down on top of the toilet seat, pulling you slowly into his lap. You went without a fight, clinging to him, the fabric of his shirt held tight between your fists as if it were your lifeline. “I’ve got ya now. Let it all out. I’m here, darlin’. Yer safe with me.” 

“Don’t let go,” you choked out, “Please.” “Never. I promise.”

[cywscross]

Title: Take What's Broken (Make It Whole) Fandom: Bleach Character/Pairing: Coyote Starrk/Kyouraku Shunsui, Coyote Starrk, Kyouraku Shunsui, Katen Kyoukotsu, Hirako Shinji Rating: T Word Count: 6,039 (Chapter 1) Summary: Occasionally, Shinigami are like this. Occasionally, they meet a soul that so resounds with their own that it only takes an instant to recognize them, even if only intuitively, a connection long forged by the silent threads of fate. Tags: Canon Divergence AU, Canon Divergence - Thousand Year Blood War Arc, Soulmates, Enemies to Friends to Lovers

Submitted For:

@julybreakbingo

- July Break Bingo 2024 - Forced into a leadership position under stressful conditions

100prompts Challenge on DW

- 100prompts Challenge - 043. Punctual

@badthingshappenbingo

- Bad Things Happen Bingo [Card 2] - Rescue Mission

Gen Prompt Bingo on DW

- Gen Prompt Bingo [Round 25] - Isolation / Loneliness

@anyfandomfluffbingo

- Any Fandom Fluff Bingo - Damsel in Distress

@sweetspicybingo

- Sweet & Spicy Bingo: Lyrical Edition [Card 2] - Behind every dark cloud there is a bright blue sky | TWRP

@seasonaldelightsbingo

- Seasonal Delights Bingo: Language of Flowers [Card 1] - asphodel

@fandom-free-bingo

- Fandom-Free Bingo: Flight Edition - Ambushed - Fandom-Free Bingo: Valentine Edition - "I Thought You Were Dead."

@multifandom-flash

- Multifandom Flash Bingo: May 2024 - Backup from Otherworld

[tlmtwelve]

Wrecker hugging his favorite weightlifting buddy 🩶

Week 10 Prompt: @summer-of-bad-batch

[topsyturvy-turtely]

Love at First Pride 💜

Johnlock fic for the may prompts hosted by @calaisreno <3 (31st may)

summary:

John just recently discovered he is bi. So this is his first Pride Parade. And then this tall, attractive man catches his eye and he promptly falls in love.

[based on a true experience by the author]

Teen And Up Audience, 892 Words, Fluff. Alternative First Meeting, Pride Parades, Bisexual John Watson, Mike Stamford the proudest straight ally, Gay Sherlock Holmes, Genderqueer Sherlock Holmes, Love at First Sight, POV John Watson, POV Third Person, Meet-Cute, they are in their 20s, Brief Mention of Alcohol and Weed

tags under the cut!

tag list! (tell me if you wanna be added or removed please 💚) @justanobsessedpan @helloliriels @catlock-holmes @fluffbyday-smutbynight @inevitably-johnlocked @hisfavouritejumper @rhasima @forfucksakejohn @ohlooktheresabee @turbulenttrouble @so-youre-unattached-like-me @totallysilvergirl @peanitbear @train-mossman @loki-lock @smulderscobie @timberva @grace-in-the-wilderness @chinike @jawnn-watson @whatnext2020 @escapingthereality @missdeliadili @kettykika78 @musingsofmyown @7-percent @speedymoviesbyscience @astudyin221b @francj15 @ladylindaaa @we-r-loonies @mxster-jocale @sherlockcorner @noahspector @our-stars-graveside @jobooksncoffee @baker-street-blog @macgyvershe @myladylyssa @battledress @a-victorian-girl @dreamerofthemeadow @oetkb12 @ohnoesnotagain @mutedsilence @jawnscoffee @raenchaosandcozyadashofmurder @lisbeth-kk @quickslvxrr @compact-and-beautiful @kabubsmagga

[lisbeth-kk]

May Prompts (28) Empty

The Luckiest Girl in the World (chapter 28)

Summary: Will Rosie be able to keep her secret from her parents until the big day?

Twenty-Eight Years Old

Seen in hindsight, the trip to Greece was a catalyst of what came later. On our last evening, Timothy and I had dinner at an almost empty restaurant on the cliffs of Fira. The sun was about to set, and the sea was bathed in colours of gold. When Timothy took my hands in his and asked me to marry him, it really was the perfect ending. Cliché, perhaps, but who cares? Luckily, he hadn’t bought the rings at one of the ridiculous jewellers on the island but brought them with him from London. (I said yes, by the way.)

***

As if faith wanted me to keep my secret from my parents, they were away on a three-week trip to New Zealand when we arrived back in London. I called Dee before I went to Baker Street to collect mail and check the fridge for outdated milk and decayed body parts. She had closed for the day, but when I called with my inquiry, she was instantly intrigued and asked me to pop into 221A before I left.

It was strange to see someone else living at Nana’s. Her old furniture had been donated to second-hand shops, new wallpaper, art, and futuristically designed chairs, tables and shelves made 221A look like something taken out of Star Trek or whatever. The kitchen and bathroom were recognisable with bits and bobs I remembered. Nana’s oven mittens, the kitchen utensils and the wallpaper. Over the kitchen table was a big photo of Nana.

“I’ve made some sketches for you,” Dee said after she’d inquired about the trip. “One on each shoulder, yes?”

She showed me her drawings and after some discussion, she made the adjustments I wanted. 

“See you tomorrow at six,” Dee said when I left. 

“Can’t wait!” I retorted excitedly.

***

Dee’s Den was everything you don’t expect a tattoo-studio to be. (At least if you’ve never set foot in one.) Airy, spacious and clean in the extreme. The first time I entered, I felt I needed to take my shoes off.

“No customer of mine will suffer from an infection. I’ve seen enough of that shit,” Dee said gravely.

Her improved sketches had been coloured when I arrived the next day, and they looked even better than I’d dreamt of. The tattoos would adorn each shoulder. One red poppy on the left, and a bee on the right. A t-shirt would cover them, and by the time Dad and Papa were back, they would’ve healed properly so I didn’t need to wrap them in plastic, and the soreness would be gone. I hoped to keep them a secret until the wedding day. My dress would be sleeveless and make sure to show off the tribute to my beloved parents.

***

We decided on a May wedding, and it was Dee’s idea to check if the venue from Nana’s funeral was available.

“She would’ve been so pleased that you all had some good memories from that place. Dancing and laughing, celebrating love.”

Both me and Timothy loved the idea, and we were in luck. Normally, the place needed to be booked at least a year and a half in advance, when it came to weddings, but they’d had a cancellation due to a broken engagement. Nine months to prepare.

***

I chose Liwia as my maid of honour. We had stayed in touch over the years, and she adored my parents, after they’d given her shelter when she needed it in the middle of her teens. Bella had been switched for Iris. They’d been together almost eight years, and Iris was six months pregnant with their first child. An unknown donor was the father.

“I’ve been meaning to ask if you were traumatised when you stayed with us,” I said on the final fitting of our dresses.

“What do you mean?” Liwia asked, clearly puzzled.

“Board games,” I explained dryly.

She laughed wholeheartedly and admitted that she’d never played Scrabble, Cluedo, orMonopoly, but stuck to chess and card games.

“Wise choice,” I retorted with a grin. “Though I have experienced knights, queens and bishops being thrown across 221B.”

***

My uncles picked me up at the salon where I’d been styled and dressed. Uncle Myc cocked an eyebrow when he saw my tattoos, but he was unable to hide how moved he was by this permanent gesture. Uncle Greg…well, he wasn’t that subtle, and needed a stern talking to from his husband to avoid ruining my dress and hair when he teared up and embraced me.

“You’re going to destroy them with this, love,” uncle Greg murmured.

I hadn’t been nervous before, but when the familiar place came into sight, my palms started to sweat, and my heart pounded in my chest. Inside, Timothy and my parents waited. The most important people in the world, apart from the men helping me out of the car. I kissed them and let them go in first to find their seats. One of the staff stood waiting for me to open the door once I’d decided to enter.

For a while I just stood there, my head blessfully empty. And then out of nowhere a wave of emotions washed over me. The memories of all the preparations and anxiety of the last week, regarding the flowers, the last seat arrangements we had to change the day prior, one of my shoes that disappeared without a trace… 

“Come on, Watson. You can do this,” I interrupted myself, using Papa’s former name on me to get me out of the unending loop of trifles and keep me focused.

I nodded to the man by the door who opened it for me, and I slowly made my way down the corridor to where Dad and Papa waited. They stood hand in hand outside the door to the ceremony room and turned abruptly when they heard my heels on the wooden floor.

“You look…”

“Oh, Bee…”

They were both teary-eyed, which didn’t bode well. I hoped they’d piled up with tissues, because this well would not be emptied any time soon.

With my heels on, I was the height of Dad. I seldom wore high-heeled shoes, so it was an alien feeling to stand face to face with him, literally speaking.

“You look gorgeous, sweetheart,” he whispered in my ear when he hugged me.

“Thank you,” I said and turned to Papa.

He’d frozen and he blinked profusely. Dad looked worried at him. He still hadn’t seen the tattoos. Papa’s eyes darted between them, clearly shocked to the core. I took his hand and squeezed it.

“Do you like them?” I asked quietly.

“Like what?” Dad inquired; his eyes hadn’t left Papa’s face during all of this.

“Look at me, Dad,” I said and finally he saw what Papa had seen minutes ago.

“Oh, my god,” he said and covered his mouth with his hand. “Rosie.”

“They are…” Papa clearly knew but was too shaken to believe what he’d deduced.

“Yes, Papa. They are. My tribute, homage, or whatever you want to call it. To you and Dad. To show you and everyone how much you mean to me. Dee made them while you were away. You have no idea how proud I am that I’ve managed to keep it a secret until now.”

Finally, out of his daze, Papa cupped my face and kissed my forehead and cheeks, careful not to disturb my hair or makeup.

“My precious girl,” he murmured. “I love you.”

“Stop! You’re making me cry,” I protested and tried my best to stay composed.

Dad sniffled and batted his eyes with a handkerchief.

“I’m never going to survive this day,” he muttered.

“John!” Papa exclaimed. “Don’t you dare.”

I knew I had to take the lead, or we would be stranded outside that door forever.

“Come on. The game is afoot,” I teased.

Also available on AO3

YES, there will be a continuation tomorrow.

This is also my entry for this month's Sherlock Challenge and the prompt ink.

@calaisreno @sherlockchallenge @totallysilvergirl @keirgreeneyes @raina-at

More tags in the replies

[kairukitsuneo]

What is dead may never die

⚠️⚠️Slight Robot gore & Blood⚠️⚠️FIR

[arachnestwilight]

Cringetober - Day 1: Screenshot Redraw!

[slythindor100]

25 Days of Draco and Harry - Traditional Prompt 25

Thank you for participating in the 17th Annual 25 Days of Draco and Harry Challenge—Traditional Edition for 2024.

An overview of the challenge, information and posting guidelines are available on LiveJournal or Tumblr.

Well Done! We made it, this is the last ordinary traditional prompt for the 2024 holiday challenge.

We won't promise anything, but there are still rumours of a sneaky cheeky bonus prompt or two, so keep your eyes on the feeds if you're keen for a little something extra.

As always, your mods @timothysboxers and @sassy-cissa thank you all so much for your participation and enthusiasm for this fest, and more broadly for being an awesome community of supportive creators. It's lovely to see you interacting with each other's works, and we are both looking forward to the most glorious binge-fests of your creations into the new year and beyond!

Thank you again for another wonderful year!

Here is the twenty-fifth prompt!

Day Twenty-Five—Festive Cushions on a Sofa

A collection of festive cushions, fairy lights, and a throw, are arranged on a light tan coloured sofa with a chaise extension. A string of warm white fairy lights is running along the back of the sofa. The throw rug is plain red woven cloth with fine fringing on one end, and the cushions are coloured dark green, bright red, and tan. One large dark green cushion reads 'Merry Christmas' in cursive font with an embroidered floral motif, while the tan cushion features a mistletoe motif and the phrase 'Mistletoe Kisses & Holiday Wishes'. A wooden tray fashioned from rough-cut wood is sitting on the chaise portion of the sofa. The tray has two dark-coloured hot beverages in white ceramic mugs featuring deer motifs, some snowflake shaped cookies, two walnuts, and a red and white striped tea cloth.

[forestofdragons]

Day 1: from a book

Who’s ready for Smaugust!?!!?! I am! Finally

Staring off with the Best Girl, Whiteout. Couldn’t wait to do a fullbody off her. Especially her wings. I somehow managed to get them exactly how I pictured!

I’m also deciding on my headcanons for how hybrids colorings/patterns work. So maybe i’ll ramble about that on my fr/wof blog

Also i’ll put the prompt list here to show where I got them from and where i’m at.

[a-victorian-girl]

Ohhhhh 😩

May 9 - Intimidation

"How are you?" Greg chose the sofa, neither acknowledging the red chair in front of the fireplace. 

Once upon a time, Sherlock would have rolled his eyes and scoffed at the inane question, dismissing it as frivolous small talk. Now, he knows better. Greg is a friend who is genuinely concerned.

"I've been better." Sherlock placed the tea mugs on the coffee table and sat beside Lestrade. 

"I saw him a few days ago." Sherlock studied his hands, worrying the skin around a fingernail.

"So did Mycroft. His own special brand of friendly intimidation, I suppose." Greg chuckled and picked up his tea, taking a sip. 

"Molly rang."

"Ah. The reason for your visit." Sherlock leaned back, resting his head on the cushion, eyes closed to hide the hurt Lestrade could not fail to notice. 

"Well, one of them. He's being a stubborn bastard." Sherlock couldn't help but smile sadly. 

"He always was."

"Rose adores you. He's punishing her as much as you. And I still don't know what you've supposedly done this time." Sherlock took a deep breath. 

"I dared to dream of a future." He didn't see Lestrade's incredulous look. 

"Surely he knows! You'd have to be blind to not see that something needs to change."

Sherlock didn't respond but silently agreed that, yes, this time, John was blind.

Thanks for all the comments. This is all for @calaisreno's May prompt challenge. All the other chapters, along with today's, can be found here!

[coconut530]

Bump in the Night & Sleeptober & Nevertober Day 1: Too Many Eyes & Angels & Trapped

Vessel reference bc my drawing doesn’t capture the awe (tm):

@whitejawz for Sleeptober

[consult-sherlockholmes]

Would you consider yourself a hero?

I am a consulting detective, not a hero. Heroes don't exist, and if they did I would not be one of them. The concept of heroes is quite ridiculous anyway, as it probably means someone who 'just does good' but no one does just good, even the best people do things that are not so good sometimes, thus heroes don't exist. And the concepts of good and bad are individual, quite changeable and inherently subjective, thus who is considered a hero is also subjective and changeable and not definitive.

[artpromptcal]

May 2024 art prompts

[arabiidhound]

Meant to post this yesterday but this is my prompt list for MerMay! Wanted to make my own since the OG never interested me. Feel free to draw along if you'd like! Can't say I'll be posting everyday but my goal is to just have fun and make weird fish people lol