#sherlock fic prompts

[whispersfrom221b]

Rosie: Daddy, I brought Maya with me. Is that okay? She's new in my class and I told her you wouldn't mind.

John: *chuckles* You're lucky Mrs H made enough food to feed an army, Honey. Hello Maya, nice to me you.

Maya: Nice to meet you, Mr Watson. Rosie told me a lot about you.

John: I hope only good things and not how annoying or embarrassing I am. Stop rolling your eyes, Rosamund. And Maya, you can call me John if you like. *shouts* Sherlock, lunch is ready. And wear some clothes, Rosie brought a visitor.

Maya: I can't wait to meet your famous Papa, Rosie.

John: Papa?

Rosie: Oh, I forgot. Maya, you can't call him my Papa here. Daddy and Sherlock are still pretending they're just "good friends".

John: Preten—?

Maya: Didn't you say they were dating for three years?

Rosie: Nearly four, but they're still trying to figure out how to tell me. It's quite funny to watch them pretending. So please, don't let them know I know.

John: You know I can hear you? I'm literally next to you.

Rosie: I know.

John: Since how long did you know?

Rosie: About from the beginning. But Uncle Myc said I should wait until you tell me and enjoy the show in the meantime. He said it'd be fun and you can always trust Uncle Myc to know the fun thing. You'll like him, Maya. Uncle Myc is the best.

Sherlock: Hello Bumblebee. Hello friend of Bumblebee, I'm Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, Rosie's godfather and John's good friend.

John: Sherlock, we can stop pretending. She knows.

Sherlock: She… oh.

[raina-at]

Fire

Fire exposes your priorities.

The explosion shakes the very foundations of 221 Baker Street. Sherlock looks up from his microscope and sees a vast billow of smoke rise out of the windows of Speedy’s cafe.

Sherlock is out of his seat and down the stairs in two seconds flat. Mrs Hudson meets him at the door.

“What happened?” she asks, looking terrified.

“Gas explosion, if I had to guess,” Sherlock answers, taking her by the elbow. “We need to get out now.”

“Sherlock—”

“Now, Mrs. Hudson.”

He opens the door and forces her out of the building, taking his phone out of his pocket to dial 999.

“Sherlock!” Mrs Hudson grabs him by the shoulder and turns him around, forcing him to look at her. “Look!”

Sherlock follows her outstretched hand with his eyes and his entire world whites out on the edges. Rosie’s pram is parked in front of Speedy’s. 

Sherlock checks his watch. 4:10 pm. John normally comes home with Rosie at four…

They often pick up baked goods from Speedy’s before coming upstairs…

Sherlock feels bile rise in his throat, but he ruthlessly suppresses his fear as he presses his phone in Mrs Hudson’s hand. “Phone 999. They’re probably already on their way, but do it anyway. I’m…” he trails off and gestures to the entrance to Speedy’s.

He doesn’t even hear Mrs Hudson’s response. He runs towards the shattered door and carefully steps inside the wrecked cafe.

The air is thick with smoke, and he can see flames licking out of the kitchen. Glass litters the ground. 

He hears her crying immediately. “Daddy,” she sobs. “Wake up.”

Sherlock assesses the situation with one glance. Rosie seems relatively unharmed, but John’s unconscious, and trapped beneath a heavy-looking shelf. Mr Chatterjee is lying behind the counter. He’s alive, but that’s all Sherlock has time to determine before instinct kicks in.  He’s at Rosie’s side and is picking her up before he’s aware that he’s moving.

“We need to get you out of here, Watson,” he says as he lifts her away from John’s supine body. He hesitates briefly, registering that John is breathing normally, but knowing he can’t lift that shelf alone, and knowing he has to get Rosie out of here. Now. The gas valve is still open. There could be a second explosion any moment.

It’s one of the hardest things he’s ever done in his life, but he clutches his wailing daughter close to his body and runs out of there as fast as his feet carry him.

“Daddy!” she wails into his ear, tearing at his heart with every forlorn cry. “Daddy! We can’t leave Daddy!”

Outside, he’s greeted by a pair of burly firemen, who pull him behind a safety barrier and hand him over to a paramedic, who forces him to sit in the back of an ambulance. They try to pry Rosie out of his arms, but she’s holding as tightly to him as he’s holding on to her.

“Daddy! What’s happening to Daddy!” she wails, sobbing into his shirt.

“Don’t worry, Watson, the firemen will save Daddy. They’ll get him out,” he soothes her mechanically, even as every muscle in his body screams that he needs to go in there and dig John out with his bare hands if he has to, because this can’t be happening, it just can’t. After all they’ve been through, a fucking gas leak—

But he doesn’t move even one inch, because he knows, he knows, he has to be there for Rosie, even if—

Especially if—

He feels bile rise again, but he swallows down the panic and the fear and the desperate need to run back in there, and holds on to Rosie, whispering soothing nothings into her blonde hair, even as she screams for her father, again, and again, and again. Sherlock wishes he could scream as well, but if he even utters John’s name now he’ll break clean in two from the force of the fight raging within him.

He could give her to someone else, run in, get John out.

But what if they both die in there? Who will take care of her then? 

So he sits, and he waits, and he holds their distraught daughter, knowing he has to, there’s no choice here, it’s what they both promised each other, she always comes first, no matter what. 

He waits. And waits. It feels like hours, but it’s probably five minutes, ten at most, before the firemen bring John out on a stretcher. He looks so small, but he’s wearing an oxygen mask and he’s clearly alive.

“Daddy!” Rosie screams, and Sherlock has to stop her from throwing herself on the stretcher, but honestly, he’d like to do the exact same thing. He’s weak with relief and smoke inhalation, and he’s glad when the paramedics take charge and get them all three into an ambulance. As soon as they’re in the ambulance, Rosie takes John’s hand. After a brief moment, Sherlock encloses her hand holding John’s in both of his. 

Sherlock watches their entwined fingers, one small hand and two large ones, the entire way to the hospital.

*-*

Sherlock meets Molly and Mrs Hudson in the waiting room once the doctors have cleared Rosie to go home—smoke inhalation and a few cuts and bruises, they were so lucky—and Sherlock excuses himself to the hospital bathroom, because he’s filthy and he stinks of smoke. 

He washes up, still numb with shock, and that’s when he notices his hands are bloody from pressing his fingernails into his palms. His wedding ring has blood on it. He washes it off, then is violently ill over the washbasin, his body convulsing as the fear and the shock and the smoke inhalation catch up to him.

What would I have done, he thinks. I almost let him die. I would have let him die. I would have watched as he burned to death, what’s wrong with me?

I should have saved him, should have gone in there and gotten him out, he’ll hate me, he’ll never forgive me, and he shouldn’t… I promised him I’d always be there for him, and I failed, failed, failed…

It’s Mrs Hudson who finds him. He’s still on the floor, holding his head in his arms, unaware when he started sobbing, only knowing he can’t stop.

She sits down next to him and wraps her arms around him, guides his head to her shoulders. “It’s fine,” she whispers, over and over and over, “he’s fine, they’re fine, it’s all going to be all right again.”

Slowly, he calms down. He becomes aware that he has a husband and a daughter to see to, and that this little episode is helping nobody at all.

So he helps Mrs Hudson to her feet and washes his face, then lets her direct him to John’s room.

John’s sitting up in bed, Rosie clinging to him, arms and legs wrapped tightly around him. He’s wearing a leg cast, an oxygen mask and a long-suffering expression as he tries to keep Rosie from tearing out his IV without letting go of her.

He stills when he sees Sherlock. Their eyes meet, and John smiles, and Sherlock swallows, near tears all over again, out of sheer relief that they’re all here, and they’re fine. Then John holds out his arm in an inviting gesture, and Sherlock collapses down on the bed and hugs his Watsons tightly to his chest. 

Later, when Rosie’s asleep and Sherlock is dozing in his chair, he feels John take his palm, soothe gentle fingertips over the cuts Sherlock’s fingernails have made into his skin. He pushes his oxygen mask aside and kisses the wounds on Sherlock’s hand, a silent gesture of gratitude and forgiveness, of perfect understanding. I would have done the same, the kiss says. And it would have killed me, too.

Sherlock meets John’s eyes and nods, just once. There are no words for how he feels, and he’s grateful that he doesn’t need any. He pulls John’s hand to his mouth and kisses his knuckles over the IV. Soon, they’ll be able to joke about it. Soon, perspective will return and Sherlock will know emotionally as well as intellectually that he made the right decision. The decision John would have wanted him to make.

Right now, though, he keeps his lips pressed to John’s skin and his hand trapped between both of his as if in prayer and only thinks, Thank you. Thank you fate, thank you luck. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

-----

Tags under the cut as usual, please let me know if you want to be tagged or untagged.

@calaisreno @totallysilvergirl @jrow @peanitbear @jolieblack @meetinginsamarra @helloliriels @keirgreeneyes @lisbeth-kk @friday411 @givemesherbet-blog-blog @weeesi @thalialunacy @thegildedbee @dapetty @salmonsown

[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

[strawberrywinter4]

May 9 | Prompt: Intimidation

Warning: Depictions of violence and drug use.

“You’re just too much sometimes, that’s all I’m saying,” his mother comments as she troubles herself with the dishes.

Mycroft rolls his eyes. He knew it would be a poor idea to come visit. He should have just settled for a call.

“You almost scared John away,” she says, scrubbing a class clean. “Your comments and glares at dinner are not helpful, you know. Sherlock almost had your head.”

“John is anything but frightened by me, Mummy. He made that perfectly clear when we first met.”

“Sherlock told me about that first meeting.” She sighs, turning toward him with a scolding expression. “Mycroft, why did you do that?”

Mycroft wills his cheeks not to flush crimson in embarrassment. “It was merely for precaution.”

“Sherlock is a grown man. He can take care of himself.”

Mycroft’s hands clench the kitchen counter. She doesn’t know. She hasn’t seen the extent of Sherlock’s pain like Mycroft has.

“All I’m saying is that I think you should be more considerate to the people who seem to actually want to be around him,” she says. “And John…well, he’s a very polite man. I think he’s good for Sherlock. Very good.”

Mycroft doesn’t answer her. Realizing she’s not going to get a response out of Mycroft, she leaves the kitchen with a tut under her breath.

Mycroft’s eyes are trained to the sink.

——

The front door opens and shuts loudly, Mycroft wondering if the force of it broke any vases. Ignoring his brother in the lounge, Sherlock runs up the steps, his little feet going as fast as they can. Mycroft hears his bedroom door shut.

Mycroft sighs, getting up and leaving his science project. Heading upstairs, he turns the corner and knocks on Sherlock’s door.

“Go away, Mycroft!”

Mycroft is silent for a moment, then tries for the door handle lightly. Locked, of course. He rests his head on the door.

“If you open the door, I’ll make Ginger Nuts.”

A few seconds pass and the lock clicks, the door creaking open. One of Sherlock’s blue eyes peak through the crack. “Do you promise?”

“Yes.”

Satisfied with the reply, the door fully opens. Mycroft holds his grimace successfully, but it isn’t a simple task.

Sherlock’s eye that wasn’t peaking through the door is a mixture of purple and black, a few bruises gracing his jaw. His lip is cracked and blood is oozing down his chin.

Mycroft attempts to keep his voice leveled. “Sit on the bed, I’ll grab the first aid kit.”

Returning with the kit, Mycroft is pleased to see Sherlock took his advice for once, sitting on the sheets, eyes focused on his legs as they swing back and forth over the edge.

Without comment, Mycroft sits beside him. “Up,” he instructs, tilting Sherlock’s face to the correct position. He applies alcohol to a cotton and begins dabbing the application to his brother’s lip.

They sit in silence, Sherlock hiding his winces and Mycroft cleaning the blood and bruises.

“When are they coming back?” asks Sherlock.

“I’m not sure. Probably not for another few days.” Mycroft is used to their parents being gone for business trips, but Sherlock is still wrapping his mind around it.

Silence falls again. Then Sherlock speaks up:

“Are you really making Ginger Nuts?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t believe you.”

It takes everything in Mycroft not to crack a smile. “Why is that?”

“You don’t like Ginger Nuts and you only do things that benefit yourself,” he says bluntly.

Mycroft hums. “You really think so little of me?”

“Yes.”

They both share a grin.

Mycroft’s face hardens as he wipes another trail of blood on Sherlock’s cheek. “Did you decide to make another quip?”

Something changes in Sherlock’s expression. Something akin to…embarrassment? Shame? Mycroft’s not sure, but he’s never seen his brother acquire such a look.

“I didn’t,” Sherlock replies.

“Then what happened?” Mycroft demands, though his voice is quiet.

Sherlock shrugs. “I don’t know.”

And it truly seems like he doesn’t know. “Then tell me what could have possible occurred.”

Sherlock looks down, his finger trailing the design of the solar system on his bed sheet. “I thought I made a friend.”

Mycroft blinks. “A friend?”

Sherlock nods. “He said he wanted to be my friend. At break, he offered me to join him at the back of the building to play, and I said yes because…well, I told you about the pond that’s back there.”

Sherlock enjoys observing the frogs that live around there.

“I thought I’d show him the pond,” Sherlock says, this time more quietly. “But then we got there and he pushed me in the mud. His apparent friends came around the corner and…”

“Did that,” Mycroft finishes, nodding to Sherlock’s face.

Sherlock nods in answer.

Mycroft will never understand it. Out of all things, he will never understand this. Yes, Sherlock is odd. He has required rudeness over the past year, but Mycroft fully believes that Sherlock has just been taking after him.

Then there are the admittedly good things about him. Sherlock enjoys rambling about scientific discoveries, he likes to play in ponds and rain, he likes to help Mummy bake, he likes to play Pirates (which is actually quite fun), and he is a swift and independent learner. Mycroft admires these qualities. And though he’s never been good at showing his affection (and possibly never will be), he and Sherlock know how to make their relationship work.

“I will take care of them,” Mycroft says as Sherlock wipes tears from his eyes.

“They’re big,” Sherlock says. “And scary.”

Mycroft snorts. “Bigger than you. Not me.”

Hesitantly, he puts a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. This seems to give a sign to Sherlock that he’s been waiting for, and he hugs Mycroft tightly. Stunned, Mycroft settles for patting his curls awkwardly, but this doesn’t will Sherlock away. Sherlock continues to hug him and cry, and Mycroft wants to make it all go away.

After a while, Sherlock releases him and sniffles stubbornly, wiping more tears. “Can I have Ginger Nuts now?”

Mycroft stands, nodding to signal Sherlock to come along. “You’re assisting me. I know you know how to make these in your sleep.”

——

In a random building, in a random place. That’s usually where he is.

Mycroft hears either miserable sounds or nothing at all. He sees stranger’s eyes rolling to the back of their head while taking sedatives or pills.

The curls are unmistakable. Sherlock is huddled up in a corner, a blue hoodie wrapped around him loosely. Mycroft nudges him. He then turns him and is not startled to see his pale skin, his unhealthily sharpened cheekbones or his dull eyes.

Mycroft sighs.

He helps Sherlock up and practically drags him to the vehicle parked thankfully close outside.

Carefully putting him in the passenger’s seat, Mycroft gets behind the steering wheel.

Mycroft glances at him, and is overcome with what his brother has turned into.

“Brother mine. Why do you hurt yourself so?”

He knows Sherlock doesn’t hear him, doesn’t understand his whispers.

Maybe that’s for the best.

——

“I worry about him…constantly.”

John stares at him. “That’s nice of you,” he murmurs.

“But I would prefer for various reasons that my concern go unmentioned. We have what you call a difficult relationship.” Mycroft keeps his voice impassive. His heart aches.

John’s phone pings. It’s obviously from Sherlock.

They continue with comments back and forth. Mycroft feigns an impression that he’s only wanting Sherlock’s whereabouts for personal gain. John seems to believe it wholeheartedly.

Mycroft can’t decide if John is worth Sherlock’s time.

Probably not.

Mycroft analyzes him to get a rise out of him.

“Are we done?” John asks, attempting to keep his frustration to a minimum.

Anger issues. Of course.

The rest of the meeting goes not so smoothly. John leaves obviously bothered and Mycroft doesn’t know, he doesn’t know if he can trust this man to even come close to deserving Sherlock’s friendship.

No one does. It’s the truth.

Mycroft has been called overprotective. He’s been called annoying. Unfair. Unethical.

Mostly by Sherlock.

But what are big brothers for?

——

You can read it here on ao3 as well.

I hope you all enjoyed! Love me some Sherlock and Mycroft lore.

Prompt by @calaisreno Thank you!

Tags: @a-victorian-girl @whatnext2020 @totallysilvergirl @ninasnakie @thegildedbee @whodwantmeasaflatmate @with-a-ghost-mr-holmes @sherlocknjohn221b @jawnn-watson @blogstandbygo @lisbeth-kk @holmesianlove @7-percent @itsonlytext @chinike @peanitbear @bakerstreetbe @curlyjohnlock @helloliriels @keirgreeneyes @ceceliajupe @ghostofnuggetspast @dw91165 @jolieblack @gwendelaneyisjohnlocked @cortinita @kettykika78

(Please let me know if you do or don’t wish to be tagged)

[jrow]

May Prompts (1)

Thank you for doing this @calaisreno! This year I am endeavoring to write a single story using some (most?) of the prompts. Consider it a creative writing exercise. Will I write everyday and use every prompt? Unlikely! Will this be a coherent story in the end? Possibly! Do I know where this story is going? Hells no! So ... enjoy, I hope?

Open

“Open your eyes.”

His brain may be foggy, but the words come through clear. The voice saying them sounds pained. Pleading. He knows that voice—it’s comforting—but he’s far too confused to place it. He’s far too confused to place much of anything.

Now someone is retching. And crying. Sounds he’s all too familiar with. He must be in Afghanistan; something must have gone wrong. Which means the chaos is coming. He should prepare.

He doesn’t want to prepare. He wants to sleep.

There’s arguing now, hushed but angry. Machines are beeping. Have they been beeping the whole time? Why is he so tired?

He hears the soft click of a door opening and closing. Is he alone now?

No, there’s another voice. Familiar. Not the slightest bit comforting.

“Do wake up, Dr. Watson. He won’t survive if you don’t.” A pause. “Forgive me the double negative.”

Another click. He knows he’s alone now.

He sleeps.

Day 2 here.

[bs2sjh]

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.

[jolieblack]

A big, enormous shoutout to all you lovely people who have risen to @calaisreno ’s May Prompts 2024 challenge and are providing us with a ton of great fic at the moment, some of you every single frigging day.

👑 I hereby crown you all Queens* of May! 👑

*Queens, Kings, Monarch or whatever gendered or non-gendered term you prefer.

@lisbeth-kk , @bs2sjh , @thalialurksalot, @keirgreeneyes, @deelaundry , @jrow , @weeesi , @raina-at , @a-victorian-girl, @calaisreno , @strawberrywinter4 , @totallysilvergirl , @meetinginsamarra , @starkraivennemad , @copperplatebeech , @friday411

Here’s a selection of my favourite ficlets for this first week - and I mean it when I say I had real trouble limiting it to seven. ALL the entries are worth reading, I've not been disappointed by a single one and I'm totally in awe of the amount of talent that is still being dedicated to the BBC Sherlock fandom.

Day 7 - Calm - by @weeesi

Day 7 - Calm - by @raina-at

Day 5 - Ecosystem - by @copperplatebeech

Day 5 - Awkward - by @thegildedbee

Day 2 - Box - by @thegildedbee

Day 1 - Open - by @raina-at

And I’m also absolutely captivated by @jrow 's serialised May Prompts Angst Fest that starts here.

Keep the good stuff coming, everyone! ✨

[iheardyou]

[Headcanon / prompt / just an idea to be used in a fic]

What if...

John and Sherlock are on a crime scene, a house in a busy side of town.

John is outside. He is having a panic attack while Sherlock is still inside.

Crowd is forming around John, who is now suffocating.

This is when Sherlock just get out of the house, sees the crowd.

He briefly stops when he sees John, then runs towards him.

"John, please look at me."

No answer, just two worried eyes searching his.

Sherlock places his hands on John's temples. Breathes with John and that, more that everything that have been tried by the crowd, helps.

Tagging some beautiful writers that can be interested

@discordantwords @weeesi @calaisreno

[gregorovitch-adler]

Messy

John turned off the microphone and sighed. He placed it on the side table beside his armchair and sat back in an almost dark room.

Sherlock, John and Mariana had been working on another case.

It was quite late, so Mariana had gone to bed in 221 A. John had been in the sitting room of 221 B, ruminating about his podcasting skills to himself.

John looked at Sherlock - who was sitting in his armchair across the room with his eyes closed - and inevitably began to think the differences between the two of them.

Must be different, being so perfect at almost everything, John thought, continuing to gaze at Sherlock.

Perfect analytical and observational skills needed to solve the cases, perfect timbre of the voice, perfect enunciations, and...

John had obviously noticed it a million times before but now he had to admit it.

... Perfect looks.

Not that John was jealous of all that (okay, maybe a little, but not too much), but now and then he would think that he made a wrong career choice as a podcaster after having served as an army doctor.

Oftentimes he would think that maybe he was better off as a general practitioner now that he was a civillian himself.

A comparatively ordinary job, without anyone else to work for or with.

Would that life suit him better?

John furrowed his brow at those thoughts.

"I won't be able to sleep if you keep your eyes on me the whole night," said Sherlock with his eyes still closed.

John parted his lips and got up from his chair, feeling heated around his face. "Oh, sorry. I'll, er, I'll just go upstairs. You should go to bed too, mate. Aren't you - aren't you uncomfortable here?"

John mentally kicked himself for stuttering yet again.

"No, stop. I could hear you thinking from across the room, just now." Sherlock finally opened his eyes and sat straight on his chair, looking at John intensely. "There is something on your mind, Watson. I need to know what."

John was taken aback by the kind of intensity he saw in Sherlock's eyes. He gave in. "Well, it's just that..." he trailed off.

A brief silence fell in the room as Sherlock and John locked their eyes together. Sherlock got up from his chair and walked over to John so he could be close to him.

"What is it?" Sherlock prompted.

"Am I doing this right?" John finally spoke, taking in irregular breaths.

"Doing what right?" Sherlock was looking at him with confusion.

"This whole podcast thing. I mean, I make it so awkward for our listeners sometimes. And half of the time my jokes don't even seem to land well." John gesticulated widely. "And, um, even after all that editing and cutting out the extra bits, the end result isn't flawless. It's so messy and imperfect."

Sherlock stared at John blankly for a moment. He then opened his arms wide looking at him with an awkward face. "Is it okay if we..."

John caught on. "Uh, yeah, sure," he said with his brow knitted.

They both wrapped their arms around each other. John's one arm was around his waist, and he ran his other arm over Sherlock's back. Sherlock's arms were around his shoulders.

John managed to place his chin on Sherlock's shoulder and sighed.

"The end result is not what we listen to," Sherlock began in a calm voice in John's ear. "The end result is the response of our listeners. How is it?"

John smiled. "Really good, so far, overall."

"There you go."

John felt Sherlock smile against his right shoulder.

They let each other go, but they were still holding hands, looking at each other deeply in the eye.

"Even if that weren't the case, I would not have cared."

"And why is that?" John asked, still looking at his friend with a smile.

"Because I like you as you are."

John chuckled, followed by Sherlock.

John turned around to make his way to his bedroom, already feeling loads better than before.

*

Prompt: Imperfect by @calaisreno

Tags: @helloliriels , @jamielovesjam , @topsyturvy-turtely , @keirgreeneyes , @totallysilvergirl , @lisbeth-kk , @peanitbear , @gaylilsherlock , @friday411 etc.

[whispersfrom221b]

Sherlock: Hrmpf…

John: What's wrong?

Sherlock: Nothing.

John: You sound like my mum. Spill.

Sherlock: You're dating Molly.

John: She just asked me—

Sherlock: She asked you and now you're dating her.

John: I'm not—

Sherlock: If I'd have known that all it needs is to ask you, I'd have done that.

John: Are you saying you'd want to date me?

Sherlock: Obviously.

John: How is it obvious?

Sherlock: I haven't destroyed any of your jumpers in months. And I ask before I use your laptop. Occasionally.

John: Ah, yes. The universal signs of attraction.

Sherlock: Indeed.

John: Listen, Sherlock. Molly asked me if I'd accompany her to her sister's wedding this weekend. That's all.

Sherlock: This means you wouldn't date me if I asked?

John: I didn't say that.

Sherlock: So you'd date me.

John: I would. If you ask me.

[raina-at]

Night

It’s so quiet, this late at night. Her shoes squeaking on the linoleum floor seem almost blasphemously loud as she approaches him. The neon lights wash all the colour out of the already drab hospital waiting room. 

He looks so small, all of a sudden. When she was little, he was always larger than life to her, with his big gestures and his sweeping coat, his music, his experiments. He was colour and whirlwind and adventure, ramrod straight and impossibly tall. She loved it when he picked her up and whirled her around, the way they both towered over Dad when she rode on his shoulders, the way he always swept into and out of rooms. Always make a good entrance, Watson, he used to say. 

She worshipped him as a child. He was always the more interesting parent to show off, with his deductions and his experiments, with his bespoke suits and sharp wit. It was never quite safe, of course, he offended people as easily as he charmed them, but she knew he’d always put his best foot forward for her. He was reliable in his glamour, always interesting, always there for her. For them. 

For a long time, he didn’t change in her eyes. Dad wore glasses and had greying hair and used a cane, but Paps was still dark-haired and sharp-eyed. Age didn’t seem to affect him the way it did others. 

But now, as she sees him sitting there, clutching a styrofoam cup containing bad hospital tea, she realises that there’s more white than black in his hair, and his ramrod straight posture has started to stoop a bit. Age and gravity have caught up with Sherlock Holmes. He looks frail and old and scared, like nothing so much but the grandfather he is.

His eyes haven’t changed, though. He looks up when she approaches, his eyes still as sharp and as all-seeing as ever. “It’s bad,” he deduces, probably from her face, her gait, from the stethoscope she grabbed from a nurse.

She sits down heavily next to him. “Well. it’s not good. Doctor Layton will be in in a minute to talk us through the options, but it looks like they’re going to have to go in and do a coronary bypass.”

“Is he stable enough for that?”

She shrugs. “It’s a risk, but they wouldn’t suggest it if they didn’t think it was absolutely necessary.”

 He swallows, asks the next obvious question. “Did they let you see him? Is he awake?”

“He’s in and out, the nurse said. I got in for five minutes, but only because I’m on staff.” She looks at her hands. “He wasn’t conscious when I was in.” 

She doesn’t say how much that scared her, seeing her father, her bulwark against all evil, just lie there, unresponsive when she reached out to him. He was always there for her. Always. It’s unimaginable that this might change. 

Paps reaches over, takes her hand. His fingers are cold and clammy, and she rubs them to get a bit of warmth back into them.

“Is he going to die?” His voice is clinical. Detached, almost. The trembling she feels from him tells a different story.

Rosie bites down on the inside of her cheek to hold on to her composure. As much as she would like to just break down and cry, this isn't the time. She needs to be the strong one now. For both of them. “I don’t know,” she says, always the hardest thing for a doctor to say to a family member. Always the hardest thing to hear as well. “I don’t think so. He’s strong, and he has the best care in the world. He should be fine.”

Paps nods, just once, to denote that he heard her. Whether he believes her is another matter.

“Mark’s taken Joanna home,” she adds, reverting to practicalities. “I’ll swing by the house tomorrow to pick up the rest of her stuff.”

Is this her fault? Did the stress of a five-year old for a whole week prove too much for Dad? 

“Don’t be stupid, Watson,” Paps admonishes her, as ever answering unasked questions with his uncanny ability to know what people are thinking. Especially her. Especially Dad. “You know it doesn’t work like that.”

Rosie smiles a bit at the old nickname. He used to call her that all the time when she was little, but it got rarer over the years, especially after he and Dad got married and they all changed their names. “I know,” she says quietly.

Silence falls as they sit there. The clock over their heads ticks away the minutes.

The doctor comes. Talks to them in respectful, clinical terms, to Rosie’s infinite gratitude.  Surgery will likely take several hours. The doctor recommends going home. They both ignore her.

She’s bone tired but sleep is unthinkable. In a bit, she’ll get them some tea from the nurses’ station, maybe she can scrounge up some muffins as well. Her colleagues in paediatrics almost always have a stash. 

The minutes tick by. This night already feels like several lifetimes, and every bone in Rosie’s body hurts.

“I’m not ready,” Paps says, after what feels like hours of silence.

Rosie nods, takes his hand, noting the age spots, the wrinkles on his slender musician hands. Still strong, but fragile in a way he never seemed to her before. “Neither am I,” she says softly. She isn’t ready in the slightest. Sometimes she still feels like a little girl, turning around when people call her Dr Watson-Holmes, convinced they must be talking to her dad. But she knows she’ll never be ready to lose him. To lose either of them.

She squeezes his fingers. “It’ll be all right.”

“And what if it isn’t?” he asks, and there’s the old sharpness in his voice, the razor intellect unwilling to be anything but brutally honest.

“It is what it is,” she says softly, watching as he deflates. 

He puts a hand over his eyes and she can hear him try to control his emotions as he says, quietly, barely audibly, “I don’t do so well alone.”

“You’re not alone, Paps,” she says quietly, putting an arm around his shoulders. “I’m here, Mark’s here, Molly and Greg are here. Jo’s here. She needs her grandpaps.”

“I don’t—” he takes a deep breath, swallows. “I’m not. A nice person. A whole person. Without him.”

Rosie takes a deep breath and lets it out again. She knows what he means. She knows the stories about the Sherlock Holmes she never met, the young cocky genius arsehole. The man he was before he met Dad. But she also knows, from experience and because Dad told her, that meeting Dad didn’t change him. Not truly. Not fundamentally.  “That’s not true. Dad just showed you the value of your heart. He didn’t give you one.”

Paps smiles, even though his eyes are sad. “He told you that.” 

It’s not a question, but Rosie nods anyway. “You know how sentimental he really is. Even if he hides it well.”

“He doesn’t hide it well at all, actually.”

They both laugh, quiet but real. Then Paps looks at her, serious again, and says, “He lied. He did so much more than that. He made me a person, Ro. Before I met him, I thought love was for the weak. And he made me realise that to love someone, you have to be strong. Loving someone means constantly being afraid of losing them. And only the strong can handle that.”

“I know,” Rosie says gently. “You both taught me that.” She takes his hand into hers once more. “We’ll get through this, Paps. The three of us, together. Like we’ve done so many times before.”

He nods, and she can see that he’s trying to put up a brave face for her, but in truth, he’s as terrified as ever, and she can’t blame him. 

They lapse into silence again, and she can feel more than see Paps slowly drift off to sleep. She puts her head on his shoulder and dozes a bit as well. 

As dawn approaches, a hand touches her shoulder. She looks into the surgeon’s eyes, sees her smile, and breathes a sigh of relief.

He’ll take a while to recover, she knows this. And he’ll be an absolute pain to manage during his convalescence, she thinks, as she wipes the tears of relief off her face. 

She’ll wake Paps, and then she’ll take him to see Dad. She’ll probably have to force Paps to go home, have a meal, get some sleep, before he’s back here. He’ll hound the nurses and she’ll have to make apology tours through every department of her hospital until her fathers are free to go home.

And she will enjoy every goddamned bloody second of it, because it means she doesn’t have to face the inevitable just yet. 

What do we say to death? she thinks, as she smiles and remembers when he taught her CPR, barely ten years old and already knowing in her bones that she wanted to be a doctor. That she wanted to be like him.

Not today, Death. Not today.

-----

Tags under the cut, please let me know if you want to be tagged or untagged.

@calaisreno @totallysilvergirl @jrow @peanitbear @jolieblack @meetinginsamarra @helloliriels @keirgreeneyes @lisbeth-kk @friday411 @givemesherbet-blog-blog @weeesi @thalialunacy @thegildedbee @dapetty @salmonsown

[ellethespaceunicorn]

Hi, can I ask for some Sherlock Holmes with a side of spanking and cuddles?

Title: The Paganini Problem

Rating: Mature, 18+, Minors - DNI

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x Wife!Reader

Fandom: Enola Holmes series

Word Count: 1.3K

Summary: Being Sherlock’s wife proves to be difficult when a case stumps him. For @princessphilly, I hope this works!!

Warnings: female!masturbation, spanking, softDom!Sherlock

A/N: I listened to “24 Caprices for Solo Violin, Op. 1, MS 25: No. 24 in A Minor” while writing this, you do not have to. But it is quite good if you like violin and suspenseful music. Also, Enola correctly guesses that Paganini is Sherlock’s favorite composer in the first Enola Holmes film, so like, research! Unbeta’d, we die like people who tried their best. 

Dividers by: @firefly-graphics

Support/Reblog banner by me

Cover Art by me

My Masterlist 

The sounds of violin wafted through 221B Baker Street. You loved to hear Sherlock play most days. But, today was different. This was day three of a Paganini marathon, which could only mean one thing.

He was stumped on a case. 

A case he refused to talk to you about. No, he could only converse with his beloved violin about it. However, that’s not how you see it. No. 

Your perception? He decided to play instead of paying attention to you. Being the brat that you are, you are determined to make him regard your presence.

You don your tightest bodice and skirt, the deep sapphire one that Sherlock purchased for you as a gift when he asked you to move into Baker Street. He specifically had it tailored to your measurements, showing off your ample bosom and child-bearing hips. 

You make your way from your shared bedroom into the drawing room where Sherlock is playing. His violin is tucked between his chin and shoulder. His left hand bows at a speed that makes the messy curls on his head dance along to the music. His right hand holds the violin at the neck so delicately, it’s almost loving.

You step around several stacks of papers, narrowly missing a tower of books. You remind yourself to have that talk again with Sherlock about the difference between organization and chaos. 

You finally make it to the chair next to his music stand, his eyes never leaving the sheet music. You make sure to sit down in a way that makes a squeak that Sherlock has commented on many a time. He’s actually shown you how to sit so that said squeak does not occur. You remarked that he could just get rid of the chair, to which he replied that you can sit elsewhere if you’re going to complain.

No reaction. 

You seethe, watching as he continues with 24 Caprices. You kick over the music stand and the sheets dance gracefully to the floor.

Nothing.

He simply closes his eyes and plays from memory. He plays it perfectly, of course. Paganini is his favorite composer, after all. He would know it forward and backward.

You were growing impatient, running out of options for how to get this man’s attention. Until it hit you. The idea was just ridiculous enough to work. It would be depravity in polite society, sure. But clever enough to get him to at least acknowledge your presence. And that would be enough.

You get up from the chair and make your way over to the chaise lounge. Arranging a few pillows to rest your head upon, you then lie down and pull your skirt up enough to get to your drawers. You pull them down and toss them out of the way, Sherlock being none the wiser as he continues playing.

You let your hand wander down to your folds, already slick with the frustration of being untouched for days. You allow yourself time to tease, playing with your swollen bud before dipping lower to enter a single finger within yourself. A sigh escapes your lips as you explore your inner walls. As another finger joins the first, Sherlock’s name falls from your lips.

Sherlock’s sense of smell is what pulls him out of his hyperfocus. He smells your arousal as he hears his name in the air. In an instant, his fixation becomes all about you.

He places down his violin and bow next to the fallen music stand, not putting it right-side up. Not bothering to be quiet, as your moans now fill the room louder than his playing did, he stalks over to you and clears his throat loudly.

Your hand stills and you open one eye looking up at your husband. The look on his face of disappointment is enough to cause heat to flare behind your cheeks. Then, his face changes to that of…impatience?

“Well? Are you going to finish then? Or must I intervene?” Sherlock’s words have a bite to them, and you can’t say you’re surprised. Well, you are stunned he is offering to help.

At least you were under the impression that he is offering to help. And that is why he is the expert detective and you are...well, not.

Before you can ask for assistance, Sherlock is lifting you off the chaise and throws you over his shoulder. He takes you into the bedroom and set you down on your feet before sitting on the edge of the bed. 

He points to you and beckons you with a curved finger in a ‘come hither’ motion. You begin to sit next to him, but he blocks your path.

“I don’t believe bad girls get to sit down next to Sir. Over my knee with yourself, girl. You’re going to practice your counting. And don’t make me repeat myself.” Sherlock’s voice is stern and you involuntarily gulp before settling your middle across his lap.

Sherlock pulls up your skirt so it rests along your back and the cool air of the room produces gooseflesh along your bare bottom and legs. No sooner do you register that feeling does the first blow land. You grunt as Sherlock’s hand grazes the skin of your left cheek.

“One, Sir!” You cry out, surprised at the white-hot heat of the smack.

“Good girl,” he praises.

He raises his hand again. He waits until your ass relaxes and brings down his hand upon your right cheek. This time harder than the first.

“Two, Sir!” You shout, the sting radiating through you.

“Good girl, I think you deserve one more though,” Sherlock informs you and you nod, “Use your words, girl. Do you deserve another?”

“Yes, Sir, I deserve another,” you whimper, clenching your thighs to try and gain some sort of friction.

“I wholeheartedly agree, my dear,” he laughs, punctuating his sentiment with one last swat to your left cheek.

“Three, Sir!” You gasp, clutching onto Sherlock’s pant leg as his hand finds its way between your legs to find you soaked.

“That’s my good girl, look how soaked you are for me. I bet you’re right on the edge. All you need is one…last…push,” Sherlock plunges two fingers into your sodden cunt and expertly finds your inner bundle of nerves. He massages it while praising you for taking your punishment so well. “You’ve been so good for me, my love. You take all the attention you need, girl.”

Before long, you are clenching around Sherlock’s fingers and he is working you through your orgasm with his skilled fingers. You send thanks to the heavens for marrying a man who understands the female anatomy. 

As you come down, Sherlock pulls down your skirt. He pulls a pillow from the bed for you to sit on as he turns you around in his lap. He kisses your forehead and presses your head down to lean on his shoulder, resting his head upon yours. 

“Now, my dear little one. Care to explain what that little show was for?” His voice is calm as his arms wrap around you, holding you flush to him as he rocks a bit back and forth.

“I hate it when you’re stuck on a case, you don’t pay any attention to your wife, my love,” You don’t attempt to hide the sorrow in your voice.

“You’re so right. I’ve neglected my dearest. She even had to turn to her own ministrations in the wake of my absence,” he pulls back and looks down at you, holding your chin between his thumb and forefinger, “As frustrating as a case may be, it is no excuse to ignore you. I promise you, my love, it will not happen again. You have my word.”

“Thank you, Sherlock,” you twirl your finger around a curl of his hair and watch it spring back, “I love you.”

“And I love you, dear one. Now, shall we solve this case, Mrs. Holmes?”

“That we shall, Mr. Holmes.”

**Tag List**

@brattymum96 @ambinxe @avengersfan25 @kebabgirl67

@astheskycries @enchantedbytomandhenry

Let me know if you wanna be added and for what plz  😁 Also, if you want to be removed from tags, lemme know!

[topsyturvy-turtely]

turtely's OTP challenge!

now on AO3! (tumblr link)

read the (slightly improved) 7th part here:

summary: When Mrs. Hudson passes away, the unusual family of three is devastated. Sherlock shuts off, Rosie cries every day and John is desperately trying to keep it together for their sake.

Until one day, Rosie asks for "Lock", and the great detective shows a talent John wasn't aware of yet.

General Audience, 2112 Words. Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Slash, Parent!lock, Minor Character Death, it's sad i am sorry, but it is REEEEAAALLLLY sweet, i promise you won't regret reading this. (i mean you never know but i tried my best to make this rude prompt into something wholesome still)

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 @sunshineinyourmind

[thalialunacy]

[for the @calaisreno May Prompts-all-the-Time; just a wee silly interlude today]

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

Greg Lestrade has tried only three times, in the several aggravating years of their acquaintance, to surprise his friend Sherlock Holmes. It has yet to work, even when Sherlock was off his tit. The bastard.

But Greg has a new plan. Time has passed; he'd like to think he's learned a thing or two. And he has a new ally: Rosie Watson. 

Sure, she's too small to be a super spy--yet--but she is a very excellent excuse to come round the flat. 

She's undoubtedly getting spoiled, this one, as if everyone involved is trying to miraculously compensate for a lost mum, even though they know it's futile. 

But also? Kids are fun when they're little. And Greg has no issue admitting he misses those days. Especially when he can hand the kid back when the nappy needs changing. It's brilliant.

And it's nearly John's birthday, so he figures he can kill two birds with one stone. Surprising Sherlock is just a bonus, a personal challenge he lays out for himself every once in a while. To keep his mind sharp. Like sudoku, but one where the sudoku insults you afterwards.

Today, he's prepared: He's bribed Mrs Hudson with some (completely legal, thanks) CBD sweeties. He's noted which stairs squeak. He's planned it for a time he reckons Rosie will be home and awake. He knows Sherlock isn't on any case for the Yard.

Yes, there's a chance John will be at his day job, or Sherlock will be on a private case, but those are chances he just has to take.

He holds the carefully wrapped package under his arm and starts up the stairs. He can hear music, immediately recognisable as Frozen II, but not much else.

One he gets to the landing, he considers the two doors in front of him. He listens again, harder, and thinks he can hear Sherlock and John conversing under the soundtrack, and thinks they're in the sitting room.

So he just goes for it. Opens the kitchen door slow as treacle, then peeks round.

He blinks, then pulls back. Has he just seen-- 

He peeks around again.

Yep. Yep, he has definitely seen Sherlock and John standing in front of the fireplace, in between their well-loved chairs, and kissing like the world is theirs to command: That feeling of a new relationship, which is a bit of luck considering how long those two blokes have known each other, but…

He rubs his eyes, then goes back for one more look.

Same picture, only this time-- Sherlock, eyes closed and expression intense as he holds John's face in one hand and explores his mouth without shame, uses the other hand to make two fingers in Greg's direction behind John's back.

Greg almost laughs out loud. Instead, he leaves the gift on the landing and heads back out. There's only so much a man wants to know about his mates.

He grins to himself. New new plan: Never try to surprise Sherlock Holmes again.

[ <3 ]

[strawberrywinter4]

May 8 | Prompt: Hobby

“You look horrendous.”

Sherlock’s words thrash Greg’s daze, and he turns to the detective to make sure he heard correctly. “What?”

“I said you look horrendous,” Sherlock repeats, eyes not leaving his device.

Greg holds a scowl, his eyes flickering down to the floor. “Yeah, thanks for that.”

It’s odd that Sherlock would even mention anything other than the case they are currently glued to. They are about to question the suspect that is being brought by other enforcers. In the mean time, Sherlock and Greg have slipped into a peaceful silence in two uncomfortable chairs just outside in the hall. Only now it’s not so peaceful and Sherlock has brought that upon them through insults.

“What I’m trying to make you understand is that you obviously haven’t slept properly in the past week,” Sherlock observes. “When you and your wife were together, that was never an issue.”

Greg has to refrain from rolling his eyes. “Mm.”

“Sherlock,” John hisses as he comes toward them with two coffee cups. “You can’t just say that out of nowhere.”

“Oh, please, John. You were informing me of that viewpoint just last night,” Sherlock says.

Greg’s jaw drops open as he looks between the two men, Sherlock impassive and John embarrassed. “Oh, I see how it is, then!” he says, crossing his arms. “You two just want to have a laugh so you decide to think of ways to gossip.”

“No, Greg. That’s not what this is,” John argues calmly, sending a glare to Sherlock which he ignores. He hands the coffee to Greg, and Greg’s about to deny it in stubbornness before he gets a whiff of the warm goodness. Instead of turning his nose up at it, he takes it, mumbling a ‘thank you’ in the process. “I was only saying that you seemed off, mate,” continues John. “You’ve been digging yourself in cases and that isn’t like you. We’re just worried, is all.”

Greg sighs, his tenseness dissipating. “I know. I’m sorry for snapping, it’s just—”

“It’s fine,” says John, taking a seat next to him. “But…you know, my suggestion is that you find an activity you enjoy or something. Get your mind off work for a while.”

“I second that,” Donovan pipes up when walking towards them. “You look awful, Greg.”

“Yes, thank you,” Greg grits out.

“When you feel up to it, get home, look on the internet,” Donovan instructs. “Trust me, I’m sure you can find a hobby, no matter how weird.”

And Greg does just that. After the case, he heads to his flat and takes a long nap, it nearing 5AM. Once he’s woken up and somewhat refreshed, he scrolls on his laptop.

The first suggestion that pops up is gardening. He could do that.

He sets up a little string of seeds in a row of dirt just outside his balcony. He had asked the man at the shop which seeds he recommended, and the kind man sent him off with various different seeds.

“I’ll name you Toby,” Greg says as he plants a seed he doesn’t know the name of. This should be simple enough.

The plants are short lived when Greg buys a hose and puts it at the wrong setting when watering the plants. It’s at the highest setting and when he turns it on, the weight of the water knocks the wooden bucket of plants off, sending them flying down his balcony. He winces when he hears them crash on a car below, the vehicle honking. Greg rushes inside, trying to ignore the loud cursing that the owner of the vehicle provides.

“How about knitting?” Molly suggests a few days later. “Always calms me.”

“Okay,” Greg considers. “I’ll knit something for you.”

Molly smiles shyly. “I’d love that.”

That activity is short lived as well. Greg can’t hold his frustration for one moment as he constantly pokes himself, gets lost with the tutorial on YouTube, and all in all, the supposed sweater turns out to be a bundle of false direction.

Greg puts the attempted knitting project on the counter in front of Molly.

Molly smiles in pity. “It’s a start.”

“No, it’s shit.” Greg sighs, wishing he could glare at himself. “Sorry.”

“It’s alright,” says Molly. “How about you find something a little more simple? Something that doesn’t require a set of rules.”

Donovan suggests a hiking trail outside of London. Greg can do that. He can absolutely do that.

“Fuck!” Greg curses when tripping on another long set of weeds. A family passes him, sending him horrified expressions. Greg huffs, sweat dripping down his back. “Yeah, why don’t you take a picture while you’re at it.”

He doesn’t know how Donovan recommended this with such ease, as if it’s the simplest activity in the world. So far, Greg has received numerous scars on his ankles due to sharp ends of rocks and vines, he’s cursed every minute he’s walked (he’s sure he will get kicked out of the park soon), and dizziness from the heat has taken over.

Once back home, he flops on his bed, rolling himself up in blankets. He’s not good at anything. Nothing is for him. Greg shouldn’t be surprised, but he is. Either he’s shit at all hobbies or he’s meant to suffer as a workaholic.

A week later, his neighbor, Mrs. Sue, knocks on his door. When Greg opens it, she’s holding a grey kitten with bright yellow eyes in her hands. Mrs. Sue sneezes several times, putting on a smile.

“Hi, Greg,” she says a bit timidly, her nose noticeably stuffed. “Uh—well, my sister left me with this and I was wondering if you could sit her for a day, only a day. I need to find some place where they will accept cats because I’m quite allergic.”

“Oh,” Greg says. “I mean—yes, of course. I suppose I could sit for a day. What’s her name?”

“Luna,” Mrs. Sue informs, already handing him the cat. “I’ll be back in the afternoon.”

When she leaves, Greg shuts the door and puts the loudly purring cat down. She rubs against his leg, looking up at him with innocent eyes.

“Well, aren’t you just a cutie,” Greg comments. “C’mon. I’m sure I have some milk. Cats like milk, right?”

The whole day, Luna is nothing but attached to him. When Greg sits, she settles herself on his lap. When Greg does his light workout routine on the floor, she’s under him when he does push ups and on top of him when doing sit-ups. Greg can’t help but laugh. Even after he’s taken a shower, she’s waiting patiently outside the door, looking up at him expectantly.

Afternoon hits and the doorbell rings. Disappointment admittedly looms through Greg, especially when he looks down to see Luna sleeping soundly against his leg.

He opens the door and Mrs. She is holding a box. “Thank you so much, Greg,” she says. “I can take her now. I found a place.”

Greg blinks, and he’s considering giving her back to Mrs. Sue. Maybe it’s for the best.

But when Luna looks up at him with her big yellow eyes, Greg can’t resist.

“Erm…actually,” he starts. “I wouldn’t—y’know, mind keepin’ her.”

Mrs. Sue’s eyes widen in surprise. “Really?”

“Yeah, I mean,” Greg shrugs, “she’s a sweetheart. I would be happy to, actually.”

Mrs. Sue signs in relief. “Thank god. I didn’t even know if the place I visited would have accepted her.” She smiles. “This works out perfectly, Greg, thank you.”

Once she’s gone, Greg sits on his chair and pats his leg. Luna hops up and begins to purr against his chest. “Guess this worked out just fine, hm?” he says as he scratches behind her ear.

Though it isn’t classified as a hobby, Greg finally finds something that keeps him busy and content. Though Luna’s constant mewing and purring can be annoying at times, Greg is delighted to have another pair of soft footsteps on the floorboard. He’s happy to have some noise other than himself in the once quiet space. He’s glad to have something to come home to, something to look forward to.

——

Thanks for reading! I know I haven’t been following with the prompts, but I’m sick at home and actually have some time to write so I thought I’d do this prompt today lol.

Greg is one of my absolute favorite characters and I love, love, love writing him. I stand by that he’s both an impatient and patient man, but that’s okay! He finally found something that makes him happy.

Prompt by @calaisreno Thank you for making this a tradition of sorts. I loved writing this!

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[helloliriels]

Thinking of that jail scene with Rorschach, and imagining Sherlock if he was arrested and locked in with the criminals he was secretly after (much less violently) saying, "I'm not trapped in here with you ... you're in here with ME" and then making it everyone else's problem.