Prompting Part XXIV
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Prompts from this post can be filled on the Overflow Post
IMPORTANT! Spoilers for aired episodes are now being allowed on this area of the meme, without warning. If you do not want to encounter spoilers, please prompt at our Spoiler-Free Prompt Post.
( Read more... )
John dies and Sherlock begins to steadily lose himself in his own dream world because he wants to see John, while other people look on helplessly. Oh and of course, Sherlock's totem is his phone, and he knows he's in the dream world if John texts back.
ANGST OR WHATEVER ANON
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It’s a bit… disjointed. I could try and explain it as reflecting dream states but those are excuses. Frankly I was in weird and fluctuating moods while writing this. So it’s more like crazy writing than any attempt at creativity lol. Also I don’t know how phone services work in England but when we text an old number there’s no reply; it’s only when we call it that it tells us it’s not in service. So let’s just go with that.
Warning: Character death, mentions of drug use, extremely unhealthy behaviour (Hey, sounds like a regular old Sherlock episode - *sobs ( ... )
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Where are you?
SHHe puts his phone down and Mycroft heaves a heavy sigh from his fat form. He has gained at least ten pounds since he last saw him. Stress, Sherlock deduces absently ( ... )
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John?
SH
He waits.
Need you back here NOW.
SH
His leg jitters. He glares it into stilling.
Could be dangerous.
SH
There. That always got John running.
John where are you?
SH
Sherlock is pacing around the flat, chewing at his lip, an old childhood habit he’d always hated. Thought he got rid of it, deleted it.
I think you should quit work and never leave the flat. I’d entertain you.
SHHe’s wearing a hole into the rug, and he feels torn at the edges, unravelling like one of John’s ugly jumpers. How long has it been? Past the normal response time? He hasn’t been counting. Why hasn’t he been counting? His eyes flicker to the PASIV case, sleek silver and unobtrusive, shoved under the chair. He could go under right now, regardless of whether this is reality or dream ( ... )
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“Mrs Hudson, where is my phone?” He says loudly, and her voice carries from the kitchen.
“I haven’t seen it dear.” A lie. He swings his legs over and sits up.
“Mrs Hudson, where is the PASIV?” His voice is low.
Mrs Hudson is quiet, then, “Mycroft has them.”
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuckHe scrambles up and runs into the kitchen, and she’s standing there wringing her hands together, a guilty but defiant expression on her face, the usual look for a moron who thinks they’ve done the right thing ( ... )
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The fat fuck is sitting at a table, legs folded primly and his umbrella resting at his side. Two cups of tea with a fresh pot are steaming, and Sherlock sneers at Mycroft’s fetish with tradition and etiquette. He sits down and presses his fingertips together hard to hide their trembling.
“This is what it comes down to, is it? Force me to realise I can no longer tell dream from reality?” He says, venom curdling his words.
“Can you?” Mycroft asks quietly, and gives him that irritating head tilt, Sherlock hates that head tilt ( ... )
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(Warnings: Character death by suicide, too much angst and all the creys)Sherlock pulls the trigger ( ... )
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(Character resurrection, because I am the world’s biggest schmoop)
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Sherlock’s finger is slipping on the trigger.
“Sherlock.” Mycroft says. Sherlock waits for him to finish, because at the end, he owes his brother this much. “John is alive.”
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He lowers the gun and points it at the ground, because his hands are shaking so hard he doesn’t trust himself.
[Query]“What?” He says, and his voice sounds nothing like himself. His chest feels like a shipwreck. He feels like he would be screaming if he could breathe at all ( ... )
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“Christ Sherlock, you’re like a giraffe on skates.”
Sherlock laughs a little at that, because the John in his mind would never have said that. He wraps himself around John and breathes quiet and broken into John’s hair. His doctor has wrapped his arms around Sherlock firmly, and it is far better than anything Sherlock has ever imagined. Could ever have imagined. Sherlock struggles not to cry ( ... )
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(Schmoop woop de boop)Sherlock is lying on the couch as he looks over John’s blog and loudly scoffs at certain parts. “Moran killed man-eating tigers and that makes him intimidating? Please, this is ridiculous. Man-eating tigers are usually the ones who are too old to hunt anything else; they’d hardly present a challenge to even the most amateur of hunters ( ... )
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