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bs2sjh · 3 days

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An Extra May 20 Prompt - Do-Over

Okay, I couldn't let today pass without writing an actual do-over, so I chose this scene to rewrite. Enjoy!

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"Let me through, he's my friend."

John could only sit there on the pavement as he watched his friend be lifted onto the trolley and wheeled away. The blood ran in rivers along the cracks in the pavement, forming a spider's web of red. Soon, it would all be washed away, leaving nothing to mark the devastation of this moment.

"John?"

The voice was nearby, yet he couldn't bring himself to turn towards it, to tear his eyes away from where the person who made his life worth living had just ended theirs.

"Come on, John. Up you get. You can't stay here. You're wet through." Hands wrapped around his arm, pulling him upwards off the floor. Sluggishly, he stood, his legs feeling like jelly, a hollow emptiness filling his entire body. "Come on. Let's get you warmed up." He followed the hand on his arm, his eyes never leaving the now faintly pink paving stones.

John blindly followed. His feet moved automatically. Sometimes, he stumbled as his knees threatened to give out again; each time, an arm came around his waist to keep him upright.

"You're alright. We're nearly there now." The voice was vaguely familiar but distant like the voice was a recording playing through far away speakers.

You're in shock, John. You should have a blanket.

John shook his head. Hearing his best friend's voice already. Definitely a bit not good.

"Here we are, just through this door." John heard the door squeak slightly as it opened. The room was dark inside and seemed to be empty. "You'll be alright in here." The familiar stranger left the room and left John alone in the dark.

"Hello, John." John shook his head.

"You're not real. I just watched you die." Someone flicked the switch, flooding the room with fluorescent light.

"I assure you, I am very much real and alive. I have the bruises to prove it." Sherlock stood before him, a sad smile on his face.

Upon seeing his friend, John collapsed onto the floor, the stress of the last forty minutes leaching the last of his strength. Sherlock at once knelt before him. "You weren't meant to see. You weren't meant to be there. I am so sorry, John."

Sherlock folded John into his arms, holding him close, John gripping on just as tightly.

"Oh, God. You're really here. You're really here."

"I am. I really am. But we can't tarry for long. We have a mission, John, and I will need your help. I can't do this without you." John sat back, keeping hold but just far enough to see Sherlock's face. "It could be dangerous." John couldn't help but laugh, his body feeling a thousand times lighter for knowing Sherlock was alive.

"Only could be?" Sherlock smiled. "Were you actually going to leave me thinking you were dead?" The smile faded.

"That was one version of the plan. But I'd be totally, hopelessly lost without my blogger." As Sherlock's lips met John's, Mike Stamford decided his job was really done and walked away, a very big smile on his face.

An extra one-shot for @calaisreno's May Prompt Challenge.

#sherlock holmes #john watson #sherlock #221b baker street #johnlock #bbc sherlock #sherlock bbc #may prompt challenge 2024 #may prompts 2024 #221b ficlet #the reichenbach fall #do-over #mayprompts2024

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raina-at · 2 days

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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

#johnlock #bbc sherlock #my fic #may prompts 2024 #fire #parentlock

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helloliriels · 2 days

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Even if the earth loses its gravity,

And the sun is blocked out in totality;

There is always one truth,

When you're under this roof -

John Watson will always be family.

May is for Limericks by helloliriels on Ao3

@johnlocky @wizama @whatnext2020 @chinike @rhasima @spooksicl-e @4thelneyj0nes @topsyturvy-turtely @justanobsessedpan @totallysilvergirl @fluffbyday-smutbynight @chriscalledmesweetie @calaisreno @raina-at @khorazir @kettykika78 @masterofhounds @purplevatican @impalaparkedat221b @kittenmadnessandtea @kitten-kin @arwamachine @discordantwords @simplyclockwork @jobooksncoffee @gregorovitch-adler @lisbeth-kk @theofficialinternetloner @friday411 @barachiki @ghostofnuggetspast @dontfuckmylifewtf @sarahthecoat @7-percent @thegildedbee @weeesi @thetimemoves @janetm74 @sgam76 @iwlyanmw @loki-lock @strawberrywinter4 @peanitbear @peageetibbs @meetinginsamarra @keirgreeneyes @copperplatebeech @dapetty @bs2sjh @blogstandbygo

#(that's why he stays)#bbc sherlock #johnlock #may prompts 2024 #family #helloliriels #(ooops ... i meant mavity!)

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lisbeth-kk · 1 day

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May Prompts (22) Night

The Luckiest Girl in the World (chapter 22)

I'm so sorry. Go get those tissues. I've used all of mine.

Summary: Rosie gets devastated news, and all she can think of is how her Papa is coping.

Twenty-Two Years Old

When Dad called with the news, my first thought was quite irrational: oh no, we’re never going to celebrate our twentieth anniversary! The second thought hit me with force and made me breathless: how is Papa doing?

“I’ll hop on the next…”

“No need, sweetheart. A car will pick you up in approximately fifteen minutes,” Dad assured me, and that’s when I started to cry.

***

Uncle Myc stood and waited for me outside the car when I ran to the kerb. His arms opened and I collapsed against him, heartbroken and totally devastated. He didn’t try to comfort me with words of nonsense, like it’s going to be ok, because he knew it would be a long time before any of us would be fine after this sudden and tragic loss.

“She seemed fine yesterday,” I told uncle Myc on the way home.

“Yes, so I have been…informed,” he sighed.

“How is he?” I asked, terrified of the answer.

“As expected.”

“Rock bottom,” I mumbled, and felt my throat tighten painfully from withheld tears.

“Indeed,” uncle agreed gravely.

***

It was worse than I expected. Papa’s loud voice boomed like a signal horn from upstairs when I locked us in.

“How could you not have seen the signs? You’re a bloody doctor, John!”

The words were spit like venom. I couldn’t discern Dad’s reply, but his voice was calm. He knew Papa wasn’t angry at him, but he needed to vent his sorrow, shock and devastation at someone. Luckily for everyone involved, Papa had chosen the right person for such an onslaught.

Before I climbed the stairs, I looked over at Nana’s door.

Gone. Dead. You’ll never see her again. There’ll be no more Christmas baking. She’ll never scold Papa for being petulant anymore. England has fallen.

The seventeen steps had never been so steep, my body never so heavy, and at the same time it felt hollow.

“Nearly there, Rosamund,” uncle Myc murmured from behind me.

I woke from my daze and realised that the shouting had stopped. In its wake came a sound so heartbreaking, it made tears flow down my cheeks. Before I opened the door, a thought hit me like a battering ram, making me lose my balance for a moment.

If Papa mourned Nana like this, he would be utterly destroyed if Dad died before him. Not even his biological family’s demise could elicit such grief from him.

***

Inside the flat, Papa clung to Dad, and it struck me how small he seemed in that moment. So lost and bereft. This was not a puzzle he could solve, or a culprit he could catch to make everything right again.

“Rosie’s home,” Dad whispered to Papa and reached for me.

I didn’t think Papa would let go of Dad, give me room, or even detect the words, but he did. My name seemed to have a magical effect on him, because he straightened, turned his pained face at me and lifted his arm to indicate that I was welcomed into his and Dad’s cocoon. We held on to each other for what felt like hours. Dad asking if we were alright, Papa muttering something under his breath, and I just clung to my parents, wordless.

Dad, always reliable in a crisis, remembered that there was another person present, and carefully entangled himself after kissing us both, guiding our arms to embrace. Papa mumbled his name questioningly.

“Just give me a few minutes, Sherlock. Take care of Rosie, yeah?”

Papa nodded and pulled me closer, cradling the back of my head, whispering my precious girland I’m so sorry you have to go through this, and she loved you like a granddaughter.

***

The days leading up to the funeral alternated between the three of us sharing memories about the core of 221 Baker Street, what we would miss most about her, and lots and lots of crying.

Dad was our rock in all of this, despite that he grieved his former landlady too. Some nights, Papa was inconsolable, and I thought his heart would literally break. He curled up in bed and sobbed full of despair. Only Dad could hope to console him, coaxing him out of the dark place he had locked himself in.

Both me and Papa agreed that we would honour Martha Hudson on the day of the funeral. Nana’s niece, Deidre, was her only living relative, and uncle Myc assured her that we would arrange everything if she weren’t able. From what Dad told me, she was relieved, having just started her tattoo studio, and she was quite short of money after the investments.

***

Leaving uncle Myc and his minions in charge of the ceremony, proved to be ingenious, as we all expected. Even Nana would’ve been pleased with him, I think.

It all took place at Pembroke Lodge in Richmond Park. The Grade II listed Georgian Mansion is a beautiful and tranquil place, posh, but not over the top.

The pleasantly warm weather allowed us to go dressed without jackets and coats. To honour Nana, all of us wore something purple, her favourite colour. Even uncle Myc acquiesced to leave his black suit at home, and instead he wore a light grey three-piece-suit with a deep purple tie.

Deidre showed up with purple nail polish, her black hair in spikes, the dramatic makeup intact, purple leather trousers, and a matching jacket with a black shirt underneath. Her Doc Martens boots were bright red. She was over the moon about the venue and to what lengths we’d gone to ensure a proper farewell for her aunt.

***

We didn’t know all the mourners, but I think I spotted a few celebrities who wore gigantic sunglasses and hats to hide their identities, which obviously had the opposite effect.

Ginny, who conducted the ceremony was a calming presence throughout, and informed the congregation that there would be one speech apart from her own, and musical elements performed by a pianist and Papa on violin.

Papa held it together through his potpourri of Nana’s favourite classical pieces. He had his eyes closed and lost himself in the music. It was heartbreakingly beautiful. Beside me Dad clasped my hand firmly and never took his eyes off Papa. Admiration, love, sorrow and grief washed over his face in quick succession. He rose when Papa lowered his bow and looked over at the coffin that was decorated with purple lilacs. I saw the moment his knees gave way, but Dad was already at his side holding him close whispering something in his ear. I went over to them to pry the violin and bow out of Papa’s limp hands and let him lean into Dad’s arms.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” Dad murmured teary-eyed.

Papa’s sobbing was muffled by his face being buried in Dad’s neck. Dad’s hand cradled the back of Papa’s head like it was a delicate object made of china. Slowly, Dad led Papa back to his seat and he held him tight until it was my turn to honour my beloved Nana.

The night I decided how to do it, Dad and Papa asked if I was sure I would manage it on my own. I retorted that of course I would. I was not a child anymore. What I hadn't considered was that reading a poem out loud in my room was completely different than performing it in front of a crowd, not to mention the emotional impact this performance would have on me.

I got to my feet when Ginny gave the signal and walked over to stand beside the coffin and opened the book on the correct page. Dad and Papa noticed before I did. Something gave me away. Did the book tremble in my hands, did my legs quiver, or did my breathing start to go wild with panic? Whatever it was, they both stood, came over to me, embraced me with their backs to the onlookers to shield me.

“Are you sure you want to go through with this, Bee?” Papa asked with a thick voice filled to the brim with withheld tears.

“You don’t have to, you know. Nobody would…”

I cut Dad off abruptly feeling the soothing effect the closeness of my parents had on me.

“I’m sure. Stay, will you?” I said quietly.

“Of course,” they retorted in unison.

***

I took a deep breath, let go of my parents and we all turned to the other mourners and I started to read with one father on each side, radiating comfort and love.

Warning

When I am an old woman, I shall wear purple With a red hat which doesn’t go and doesn’t suit me. And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves And satin sandals, and say we’ve no money for butter. I shall sit down on the pavement when I’m tired And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells And run my stick along the public railings And make up for the sobriety of my youth. I shall go out in my slippers in the rain And pick flowers in other people’s gardens And learn to spit. You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat And eat three pounds of sausages at a go Or only bread and pickle for a week And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes. But now we must have clothes that keep us dry And pay our rent and not swear in the street And set a good example for the children. We must have friends to dinner and read the papers. But maybe I ought to practice a little now? So, people who know me are not too shocked and surprised When suddenly I am old and start to wear purple.

Today, I will nudge you in the direction of AO3 and the end notes to give you some context

@calaisreno @totallysilvergirl @keirgreeneyes @helloliriels @raina-at

More tags in the replies

#may prompts 2024 #may 22: night (metaphorical)#sherlock fandom #rosie watson #sherlock #john watson #mycroft holmes #johnlock #bbc sherlock #sherlock fanfic #ao3 fanfic

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friday411 · 24 hours

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May Prompts – Night 🌟 🌙

Most criminals come out at night So that they can stay out of sight But deep down in their bones They should fear Sherlock Holmes His deductions always prove right

----- See them all on AO3 ----

Thanks for reading, reposting & leaving the love!

Tags in the comments as well. Please LMK if you want on or off the list! @stellacartography @totallysilvergirl @calaisreno @keirgreeneyes @peanitbear

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jrow · 2 days

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May Prompts (20)

Day 19 here. Start at the beginning here.

Do Over

“Perhaps you need a …. I believe the colloquial term is do over.”

He pulls the mobile away from his ear. “Please don’t try to talk like a normal person ever again,” he says forcefully into the receiver. He returns the mobile to his ear and says, more quietly. “It’s off-putting.”

His brother sighs. “Yes that was unpleasant for me too. But the advice stands, brother mine. This isn’t some grand mystery for you to solve.”

“Mycroft, I assure you I have no idea what you are talking about.”

“Your guilt is getting tedious, Sherlock. And you are far more transparent than you think. You obviously omitted some information in your recounting about the night John fell. me. It’s surely trivial but it’s bothering you so just tell John.”

He says nothing, unsure of how to respond. He hates when Mycroft is right. He walks back down the hall to John’s room and looks in the window. John is sleeping. He looks so peaceful. “I don’t want John to be mad at me,” he says, unsure of why he feels the need to be honest with his brother of all people.

He can hear Mycroft’s eye roll. “That seems unlikely, under the circumstances. And even if it were a probable outcome, Sherlock, delay is hardly an effective tactic. John will remember whatever it is you aren’t telling him.” A pause. “Dr. Watson has always been much more … let’s say hurt … by subterfuge than anything else. A lie by omission is still a lie.”

“He might not remember.”

“We both know that is unlikely. And, in terms of his recovery, not what you want.”

Arg! Why does it brother have to be right?

… And why is the constable guarding John’s room intently watching Sherlock’s half of this conversation? The man’s recently acquired (and atrocious) bleach blonde hair certainly shows a clear lack of judgment.

“Don’t you have something better to do? Your job perhaps,” he snaps at the constable before turning his back on him. It’s not entirely fair because the man’s job is, basically, just to stand there as it seems the constant presence of police has been enough to deter any further intruders. That and the rather Orwellian number of highly visible CCTV cameras that Mycroft had installed.

He hears Mycroft sigh on the other end of the line. “Go talk to John, Sherlock, and put us all out of our misery.” A pause. “But first, put him on. I need to speak with him.”

“John’s sleeping,” he snaps, “and I won’t be waking him to speak to the likes of you. He’s already having enough trouble keeping food down.”

“I don’t have time for this,” Mycroft mutters. “Sod it. I have a message … give him my condolences. I heard his old friend Robert Larkin died. Fentanyl. Terrible thing. I know old Robbie had been planning on visiting but … well he got tied up, I suppose.”

“I’ll pass on the message,” he says, fingers itching to start looking up everything on this Robert Larkin. Mycroft is not all that great at subtlety.

There is silence for a moment before his brother speaks again. “Sherlock, John is safe. Rosie is safe. Let yourself enjoy it.”

@keirgreeneyes @raina-at @totallysilvergirl @meetinginsamarra @jolieblack @phoenix27884 @friday411 @calaisreno @quimerasyutopias @lisbeth-kk @safedistancefrombeingsmart @momma2boys @helloliriels @dapetty

#johnlock #wip #may prompts 2024

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gregorovitch-adler · 2 days

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Fire

Here I was with a dozen of Baker Street Irregulars, right outside the apartment building of Irene Adler, just as Holmes had asked me to.

The windows of Ms Adler's flat obscured the view in a way that I could only see Holmes sitting on one of the chairs, conversing with whom I presumed to be the lady.

Holmes had instructed me to yell the word 'Fire' along with the men I had gathered with.

For what, I had no idea. I had asked Holmes about it, but he had the usual flair of drama and suspense that he had to maintain. I had not pressed the issue further, however, because I knew that Holmes would keep me informed once he was done having a proper conversation with Ms Adler.

I had been checking the time on my pocketwatch, for Holmes had asked me to start shouting exactly six minutes after he would begin conversing. He had told me that he would raise a hand at that exact moment.

Three minutes had passed. Maintaining decorum and silence with the Irregulars was a task.

I decided to spend the remaining three minutes admiring Holmes' disguise.

Holmes was dressed as a vicar before going to Ms Adler's flat. He had no trouble pulling off that disguise effortlessly.

His broad black hat, baggy trousers, fresh black shirt hanging loose over his lean frame—especially around his long, thin arms—and his white tie completed the look.

He was wearing a sympathetic smile too, selling the character of a vicar perfectly.

If I had not known my friend intimately, I would have completely fallen for the disguise and assumed that a real vicar was sitting in Irene Adler's living room, having an important conversation with her.

Not only my friend's detective skills were excellent and on point, but his powers of disguise were also outstanding. The world of theatre truly lost a phenomenal actor to the world of crime-solving.

I checked my watch again. Forty-five seconds more, and then it would be my action time. A chance to help Holmes effectively solve this case.

I rubbed my hands together, as I was unable to wait for that exact moment.

Prompt: Fire by @calaisreno

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

#john watson #sherlock holmes #holmes/watson #acd canon #canon compliant #a scandal in bohemia #prompt: fire #may prompts 2024 #a snippet of canon #holmes x watson

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thegildedbee · 21 hours

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Blanket/Weather: May 17 & 18 Prompts by @calaisreno

Lhasa remains steeped in darkness, even though the stars at the roof of the world are beginning to fade as night closes its eyes. Sherlock carefully weaves in-and-out between the long-haul lorries in the crowded service area, moving towards the one that will clandestinely carry him to its destination in Shigatse, which will place him in the vicinity of a rogue copper mine. This improvised transport strategy allows him to slip surreptitiously from town, thwarting the restriction on international visitors that they be accompanied by guides anywhere they travel within the captive region. Careful to remain undetected, he slips through the back door of the attached freight container; once safely inside, he casts light from a pen-sized torch across the boxes, gauging how to arrange a space to conceal his presence.

The blend of noises outside the truck crowd in on his awareness, amplifying his sensation of confinement – snatches of conversation, mostly in Mandarin, random laughter and occasional shouts, the peremptory staccato of a horn, the groaning metallic scraping of engines downshifting, the crunching of gravel under moving vehicles. He sits down, pressing his back against the side wall, knees bent, his hands and fingers idly flipping and spinning the pen torch. After a few moments he stops, puzzled at feeling pulled off-kilter, unsure as to why. This moment, now, is just one more to get through, as are the moments to come over the next five hours, and then in however many days lie ahead. The waiting, the dark, the placelessness – these are all familiar companions; he’s practiced at tamping down his resentment, and meeting each of them with resignation. He allows his mind to drift, seeking to surface useful data . . . and when it comes, the result suggests an odd source -- the similarity of his physical position to that last day before he disappeared, sitting preoccupied on the floor at Bart’s laboratory, bouncing a small rubber ball, waiting for events to unfold. He rubs at his forehead, and exhales with an irritated huff, frowning, displeased that he’s let the memory intrude.

He disciplines himself to shift focus, to stay in the present, by mentally rehearsing the two major tasks he needs to complete today, barring any unfortunate developments that would require starting over. He’s here to neutralize two confederates of Moriarty's syndicate who work for a multinational energy corporation – the first is an enterprising engineer overseeing the digging of an illegal mining pit, the second an executive at the corporate headquarters in Lhasa, who is diverting impressive amounts of monies to the both of them. (Sherlock has no desire to know the whys of their circumstances – whether, in addition to greed, their actions are due to incentives, or blackmail, or outright threats; all he needs to know is that they’re beholden to the dictates of his enemy's network and any bounties they dangle, and are therefore a potential threat to himself if he returns, and to his friends.)

He arrived in the Tibetan Himalayas three days previous, but he’s had to wait impatiently to implement his objectives, betrayed by his body, waiting to gradually shed the debilitating effects of altitude sickness, in his muscles, his stomach, his lungs. He grudgingly admits to himself that the downtime, however, was probably necessary, allowing him to catch his breath in more ways than just the one that's so currently urgent.

The last fortnight had seen him – as Gabriel Vernet, a director at a French biopharmaceuticals start-up – in an unrelentingly tense journey in which he’d conducted business, fake as well as real, in Singapore, Hanoi, Hong Kong, Macau, and then through Sichuan to Chengdu for the flight to Lhasa. He’s been traveling on papers and an operative legend courtesy of the British government for this leg of his odyssey; while he prefers to chart his own course, unencumbered by the high-handed and condescending auditing of his brother, he had conceded to his better wisdom of seeking aid from London while being shadowed by ever-present governmental representatives of the People’s Republic of China -- as well as floating in and out of view of particularly vicious groups of gangsters operating in Southeast Asia.

His knowledge of Mandarin has been essential in keeping his forward movement going; it helped Vernet to facilitate cooperation from the sources he sought out, high and low. It also allowed him to expand his reconnaissance, especially when those on whom he was eavesdropping assumed that the sharply-dressed businessman within earshot was unable to understand their conversation. As a result, he’s obtained a wide-angle view of activities that he might not have been aware of otherwise, beyond his immediate remit. He’s learned, for example, from ancillary figures, of Chinese mobsters from Fujian, who have been tearing through various states in the U.S., muscling their way into the astonishingly lucrative illicit cannabis market that has accompanied legalization.

He’d crossed cyber-paths again with the Mexican cartel he’d come across digging through the dark internet in Tallinn – the one funding Nigerian fentanyl laboratories to supply Asian buyers. Here, it’s reversed: Fujian gangsters are using the cartel to smuggle thousands of Chinese workers into the United States to produce illicit drugs – trafficked in to do agricultural labor at burgeoning marijuana grow sites. Trapped by fences, surveillance cameras, and guards with guns and machetes, the captive immigrants create tens of billions of dollars alone in states such as Oklahoma – a location that's an attractive target due to the abundance of cheap land, the lack of regulations on the size of cannabis farms, and a scarcity of police personnel with the language capabilities needed to translate communications and infiltrate networks. For what it might be worth, Sherlock had passed along what he’d learned to the CIA’s Crime and Narcotics Center.

He’ll be on a tight schedule in Shigatse today, needing to collect photographic evidence of the illegal mine, and still leave time enough to make it to the railroad station platform, and mingle inconspicuously amongst the groups boarding the local train bound for Lhasa. Once he's settled aboard, he’ll add the pictures to the files of documentary evidence he’s carrying on his mobile, and, as they near the city, he’ll press send and deliver the folder to one of the corporation’s higher-ups who is eager to rise even higher. Once the recipient verifies the information contained in the anonymous gift, he’ll be thrilled to gain credit as the conduit for the revelations it contains to his superiors in Beijing.

They’ve made good time on the road, and Sherlock stands up and stretches, releasing the kinks in his back, and jogging in place to get his adrenaline running. In his worn camping gear, he’s dressed completely different from Vernet, in his bespoke suits, with his expensive leather briefcase, and the expected Rolex watch.

The fact that copper mines require supplies of water will lend him the needed cover afforded by yet another identity – there are wetlands in the area, and it is unsurprising that a Canadian wildlife biologist on an international team will be there on foot, surveying the habitat of the black-necked crane. If anyone questions him, he’ll indicate that each of the members of the team have temporarily spread out to cover a greater area. There has been a great deal of anger, within Tibet and worldwide, at the damage done to the plateau’s environment due to China’s resource extraction agenda and its urbanization policies– the protections that the PRC is extending to the vulnerable black-necked crane population have been a public relations plus for them. The birds are currently in the vicinity, completing their breeding cycle, and as long as he can get in and out quickly, Dr. William Scott’s presence is likely to pass with little scrutiny, as long as his papers are in order.

Several hours later, Sherlock is relieved that his tracking efforts have paid off with actionable evidence – meaning that there will be no need to scramble for a new plan. After verifying that his file has been successfully delivered, he slumps in his seat, stubbornly indifferent to releasing himself from being on high alert. He knows that letting down his guard is when sloppiness can creep in and mistakes made, but having been awake for more than 24 hours and in action all day long at an altitude that still leaves him easily winded, relentlessly reminding him that breathing is problematic, is taking its toll. One last detail – dropping his mobile so that it lands on the train tracks when he exits – and then, in less than an hour, he can be seated in the hotel's oxygen lounge and restore his body and mind.

As they near the station, he shoulders his rucksack, ready to act out the fiction that he’s attached to one of the groups he’s sat nearby, and pulls out his mobile in order to remove the sim card. But when the screen lights up after he turns it over in his hand, he’s startled to find a text message notification -- receiving messages is not supposed to happen, ever, on this unit. No one has the number, save one person. This is not good. This is very much not good.

He takes in and releases several breaths to try and lower his pulse rate, hoping that when he clicks on the icon that he’ll find nothing more dramatic than someone misdirecting their text. At first glance, the message does appear to be irrelevant; at second glance, however, it is evident that the innocuous platitude it contains is negated by the fact that it is written in code.

His anxiety spikes at deciphering the communique: emergency action needed, abandon the hotel -- which means he'll not be returning to the inviting bed, the soft pillows, the warm blanket. There is no indication of why, or of what comes next, other than that he’ll be met at the station by a man who will identify himself as a tour leader from the Council for the Preservation of Sacred Alpine Cranes, and that he is to reply in Mandarin that he was honored to have seen four pairs of the noble birds nesting safely when he inspected the field site.

Other than this terse instruction, he has no idea what he’ll find once he leaves the train, and whether or not he is walking into a trap. And as he gazes out the window at the dark clouds beginning to gather in the east, he sees that the weather may be turning against him as well.

........................................................

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bs2sjh · 2 days

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May 21 - Fire

The fire crackled in the hearth. It had been a strange May—full of rain and cold weather, with odd days of heat and sunshine. It was a cold evening, the rain pattering against the windows as the two men sat in their chairs, facing each other.

"I bet you're glad to be home." John gestured to the familiar living room. Sherlock took a sip of the decaff tea and grimaced slightly at the taste. "So, I was wondering if you'd signed the contract yet. On the sale. If not, I was thinking..."

"John..."

"that me and Rose could possibly move here..."

"John!" The older man stopped and sat, waiting for the words he dreaded. "It's done."

"But why? You love this place." Sherlock laughed bitterly.

"I really don't."

"You don't? Why?" John's defensive posture sparked annoyance in Sherlock. He took a deep breath to calm himself.

"I'm alone here. You visit, and it's good. But then you leave, and all I have is silence." John looked at his friend, seeing the sadness clearly for the first time.

"So, you're actually going to leave us then. You're really going away." John stood to angrily pace across the floor.

"You honestly think I'd leave you after everything we've been through?" Sherlock picked up the laptop, opened a browser and clicked on a bookmark.

This is part of a multi-part fic for @calaisreno's May Prompt Challenge. All can be found here at a03!

#sherlock holmes #john watson #sherlock #221b baker street #johnlock #bbc sherlock #sherlock bbc #may prompt challenge 2024 #may prompts 2024 #221b ficlet #ao3 #ao3 writer #ao3 fanfic #angst

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raina-at · 21 hours

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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.

#johnlock #bbc sherlock #rosie watson #my fic #may prompts 2024 #night

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ohwhataniight · 1 day

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WIP - Andante, andante ("Calm" from @calaisreno's May prompts) Part 2

Part 1

They spend the morning playing checkers on the little table under the umbrella that protects Sherlock's sensitive skin from the burning sun.

"You came across to me as more of a chess kind of guy," John grins under his sunglasses. He's tanned and Sherlock wants to count the new freckles that form constellations on his nose with his lips, even if that means he'll have to taste sunscreen.

"Have some appreciation for the oldest game in the world, John," he says instead rolling the dice on the wooden board.

John reckons that, even though he wouldn't be caught dead admitting to it, Sherlock enjoys leaving all the drama and the strategy of The Game behind for a while, and opting instead for the occasional delights supplied by chance.

He has noticed this change in his demeanor during their small holiday, he has noted that relaxation is good, if rare, look on Sherlock. He's managed to breathe a sigh of relief at the sight of his - boyfriend? Is that what they are now? letting his guard down and gracefully leaning into their honeymoon-like bliss (not that that prevented him from deducing the extramarital affairs and the issues with the in-laws of the other couples at breakfast, thankfully silently, whispering his deductions in John's ear over their eggs and Rosie's yoghurt).

To be continued...

So I've had these images in my head for weeks now but I'm struggling so much to come up with a concrete plot or dialogue to write them, so if there's anything you'd like to see in this beach fic please tell me your ideas! Thank you so much for reading!

#sherlock holmes #johnlock #bbc sherlock #john watson #sherlock #queer #johnlock fic #fanfiction #johnlock fanfiction #beach fic #summer fic #calaisreno #may prompts 2024 #may prompt challenge #rosie watson

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lisbeth-kk · 8 hours

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May Prompts (23) Apology

The Luckiest Girl in the World (chapter23)

Summary: Rosie shares a surprise with her parents and uncle. All of them have different thoughts about this unexpected development, and silent negotiations are carried out.

Twenty-Three Years Old

I knew that Papa not fully understood my reason for studying international politics and data, but to his credit he didn’t for one second try to convince me to give it another thought and opt for something science related instead. Dad was just relieved that I’d finally had found a path to walk, after several failed attempts. Uncle Myc, well he tried to hide how utterly pleased he was with my choice, but by now I knew him well enough to read the signs. Truth be told, said signs weren’t that subtle.

“Bien choisi ma chérie,” he beamed at me, while Papa scowled at him.

“Merci oncle,” I retorted. “I can’t wait to start this and go to Paris.”

The three-year BA degree was taught by The University of London Institute in Paris. We would be taught in English, but if we had an A level in French, we could also take French courses. I’d learned French in school for years, and uncle Myc and I often conversed in French when uncle Greg wasn’t around.

I think it’s needless to say that my security and comfort in France was well taken care of. Papa and uncle Myc had a conversation using their eyes only when I spilled the beans. Dad knew exactly what was going on and went to make tea while negotiations were carried out. Once the brothers were satisfied, uncle Myc took out his phone and sent several texts or emails. By now, I knew it’ll be futile to pester any of them of what was going on. I was just relieved that no one had tried to talk me out of it, making me feel uncertain or guilty for leaving the country; actually, moving out of my childhood home.

My reasons for choosing this subject were multifaceted. I’d always enjoyed learning facts, obscure and otherwise, about different countries and cultures. Having had a relatively unorthodox upbringing, containing all sorts of people, played a big part too. The cherry on top was that the school was abroad. Nana’s tales of her experiences overseas and how educating it is to have lived some time in another country and society, had always seemed enticing to me.

***

The university was situated close to the Invalides and the Seine, while my lodgings were in the Charonne area in the 11th arrondissement on a cosy cobble street, with a nearby metro station. My landlady, Marguerite Vachon was one of uncle Myc’s acquaintances, from where, I still have no idea.

Marguerite preferred that I used her given name instead of the formal, Madame Vachon.

“Je ne suis pas ancient,” was her favourite line and reminded me quite a lot of Nana.

“I am not ancient, dear,” was a statement Nana had used every so often.

Marguerite was a petite and elegant woman. Her hair was cut in a bob, coloured black with a few red stripes. I never saw her without lipstick or makeup. She always wore bespoke dresses and high heeled shoes. I deduced that she was far more than a landlady. When I left for school in the morning, I could hear her sing or talk on the phone, and when I returned, she always opened her door and inquired about my day.

“She’s clearly spying for Mycroft,” Papa’s voice told me.

And there was something about her, which I couldn’t put my finger on. Something mysterious, secret, perhaps even dangerous.

***

It seemed like Marguerite had my schedule memorised. Not that I’d given her the information, but when she slipped, I got my suspicions confirmed. To be fair, it wasn’t slipping per se. She couldn’t have known that class was dismissed early that day.

Luckily, I spotted her and was able to hide behind a wall before she saw me. I’d almost missed her, because she wasn’t wearing her normal dress and high heels, but red trousers, a white and blue-striped jumper, and white trainers. Instead of one of her posh handbags, she had a dark blue canvas bag diagonally draped over her chest.

Papa had taught me a few tricks when it came to the fine art of following people without being discovered. I’ve never had much use of them obviously, but now I saw an opportunity. How I would explain this and apologise if I was caught, never crossed my mind.

I was sceptical when Marguerite walked to the metro station, but I was able to get into the same carriage as her, and it seemed that she had no idea she was being followed. She got off three stops later and walked in the direction of the big Père-Lachaise cemetery.

A fitting location for obscure and shady affairs.

Marguerite knew where she was going, walking briskly but not hurried. I had walked the premises several times before and knew where she was headed when I saw the grand tomb of Sir Richard Wallace, the British baronet who contributed millions to the Parisian poor during the Siege of Paris in the early 1870s.

This reeked of another posh Brit I knew.

When Marguerite had placed a folder by the tomb and another woman picked it up five minutes later, I had a hard time keeping myself composed. The woman picking up the folder was the French equivalent of Anthea.

I sent uncle Myc a text when both women were out of sight.

Thanks for keeping track on me, but this thing is like being part of a French noir film. You can tell Papa I think you’re both growing sentimental, and I demand an apology!

Also available on AO3

@calaisreno @totallysilvergirl @keirgreeneyes @raina-at @helloliriels

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friday411 · 2 days

Text

May Prompts – Fire! 🔥

Sherlock on a case is on fire And no drug on earth gets him higher Then throw John in the mix (That's how he gets his fix) Lestrade is their main drug supplier

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jrow · 9 hours

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May Prompt (22)

Day 21 here. Start from the beginning here.

Night

The night has always been his saviour.

No matter how bad things are, he’s always known he’ll survive if he makes it to the night.

As a child, the night provided refuge from the people he didn’t understand and expectations he could never meet.

By university he knew the language of the masses, but also knew they would never understand his. The nights alone—away from the judgment and ridicule of his peers—were the main reason he survived.

As an adult, nights are where he’s done his best thinking, the dark and quiet acting as a catalyst for creative thinking and snowballing of ideas. Most people lose their grasp of reality at night, with anxiety and self doubt taking over. It’s the opposite for him—the answers, the truth, often become clear when the rest of the world is asleep.

When he was on the run, the nights kept him sane. It was only under dark skies that he allowed himself to think of home. To think of John. To imagine fairytales of what might await his return. He always knew they were just fantasies, but they kept him going.

These past few days, night has served as his North Star, his goal. God, he loves Rosie, but …. well, after dealing with the chaos that is a toddler, it’s nice to love her when she’s quieting and sleeping like an angel.

This evening has been … a challenge. There is a ten step process for bedtime. Each step is absolutely essential—as he learned the hard way that time he tried to skip step six, walking the dirty clothes the hamper. Tonight, Rosie fought every step of the routine and it took nearly an hour and a half.

He understands why. It was a day of “big feelings” for the both of them. The three of them, actually. Because John is home.

John was discharged in the late afternoon and Rosie had been a ball of excited nervous energy since then. Lots of jumping. Lots of falling. Lots of smiles. Lots of tears. Lots of everything.

Lots.

He had insisted on doing bedtime. It was better for him everyone. Rosie has gotten used to him over the past few days and John is still … well … fragile in a way. John had put up a cursory argument but was tired himself and quickly acquiesced.

And now, Rosie is asleep and she is safe. When she wakes, she will be precocious and funny and perfect. That he has had some hand in that may be his greatest achievement.

He closes the door to her room and makes his way to John’s. Now that Rosie is sleeping—now that it is night—he has time to work on the case.

It’s funny in a way how things change. If something like this had happened when he first met John, he would have left him alone in the hospital and been off working on the case immediately. Wouldn’t even have heard about the assassination attempt. If this had happened after knowing John for a year, he would have kidnapped John from the hospital so they could work on the case together, health consequences be damned. If this had happened around the time John got married, he would have spent every second focused on finding the man who attempted to murder John. Then he would have killed him. Then he would have solved the case. Then he would have visited John.

But now … well, solving the case is important but it’s hardly the priority. At least not during the day when the world is awake. But now it’s night.

John should be going to sleep—the man is clearly exhausted. But the fool wants to help. So they struck a deal. They would work together in John’s room, with John lying in bed. He is sure John will fall asleep in no time.

“I thought I’d start going through the pile of new surveillance footage,” John says through a yawn.

Yes, John will be asleep in within 5 minutes.

“Good idea, I’ll go through the case files. Something connects these stores, I just need to find out what,” he says, plopping down in the chair at the foot of the bed.

He had thought the thefts were random—crimes of opportunity—but now he sees everything was planned to a t. Which means the stores, and the order they were targeted, were picked for a reason.

Ten minutes later, John drops the tablet he’s been watching before startling awake.

“Go to bed, John,” he says quietly, picking up the tablet and gently moving it to the side table.

“Mmmkay,” says John, laying his head on his pillow before mumbling, “big plans tomorrow.”

“What’s that?” he asks quietly, not expecting an answer.

But he gets one, mumbled as it is. “We should go for cake. Three of us. Is the weekend. Cake then gift.”

He freezes. The gift. He’d almost forgotten. It seems like so long ago. It seems like it just happened.

“We don’t need to…” he starts, but stops as he sees John is asleep.

God damn it, Mycroft is right. He hates when Mycroft is right. He needs to tell John the truth about the chase. About John’s fall. He needs a do over or whatever the hell the term is. If he tells John, then maybe he can open that damn gift without his guilt eating him alive.

He picks up the tablet to move it to the sitting room. The screen wakes up, revealing the final image John was looking at. A young couple at the counter in New Cavendish, looking at rings, presumably. A uniformed constable is leaving.

His eyes go wide and he drops the tablet, diving to get the case notes he was just reading. Yes, there it is. The owner of Cox and Power explaining the store had been visited by a friendly unnamed constable the day the store was robbed.

He drops to the floor and crosses his legs, arranging all the notes so they are laid out in front of him. The sound of John snoring softly acting as his soundtrack.

It’s time to work.

#johnlock #wip #may prompts 2024

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thegildedbee · 22 days

Text

Open: May 1 Prompt from @calaisreno

The cloud-covered gloom that neutralized the moon's incandescence doubled the chill of the early morning air, and the indifferent glow from the streetlamp did little to illuminate the surrounding area of damaged roadway and pavement. John pressed his back with care against the crumbling wall of the building furthest away from where it stood, holding his body completely still as he strained to pick up any sounds to factor into his calculations. Discerning nothing, he slid down the night vision glasses atop his black knit cap to rest on the bridge of his nose, and almost imperceptibly turned his head from side to side, scanning the street in measured increments, until he caught a glimpse of a body crossing a threshold a block away on the other side of the street.

He drew in a sharp breath at the sight of Sherlock, whose body language would appear to be nonchalant to a casual observer, which John was not; he could read the tension in the way the forefinger of Sherlock's right hand pressed against his thumb. Sherlock turned to step away opposite from the direction where John was placed, pausing briefly to shake out his hand, and then smooth it over the worn surplus jacket that covered his torso. After his first footfall there was a slight hitch in his next step when the forward movement placed him in a spot from where the shadows had fled, when the clouds suddenly abandoned the moon.

John's focus crystallized, knowing there were only seconds left to take cover and maneuver for an open shot. Moving swiftly, he crouched next to the rear wheel of a battered sedan, one knee on the ground, and the other bent, allowing him to set his elbow on it and aim his rifle. There was no need for a silencer; he would have one shot, and one shot only, and if the trajectory was true, then in the immediate aftermath of the surprise of the hit, he would melt away backwards, unnoticed, slipping around the corner of the building to the alley just beyond. He tamped down the fury that threatened to rise up as he spied a movement from inside a parked car a block ahead of Sherlock, where an assassin behind the wheel was placed at an angle beyond Sherlock's immediate line of sight. John breathed in, and on a count of three, pulled the trigger, sending the bullet flying through the windscreen, shattering the glass into crystal fragments, and exploding the head of Sherlock's adversary into a halo of blood.

John knew that Sherlock would have stopped and instinctively leaned toward the scene of the hit, and then immediately have pivoted in reverse, to deduce from where the shot had been fired. But there would be nothing to see, as John would have vanished, leaving no trace of his presence.

One more city; one more mission; one more night which Sherlock would survive, as the long, tedious, and painful untangling of Moriarty's web continued to unspool.

@calaisreno @totallysilvergirl

#mayprompts2024 #calaisreno #sherlock bits and bobs #may prompts 2024 #johnlock #not sure if I did this right (?)#sigh

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