“Promise me, Sherlock.” John sits up and leans over him. “Promise me you won’t do anything on your own. If he comes back with another game, you must tell me what you’re planning.”
“But it if would endanger you—”
“Tell me this. If you’d gone to the pool to meet him alone, as you planned — because you thought it would keep me safe — and he had showed up, what would have happened? He would have had me wrapped up in explosives, with a detonator in his hand. How would that have felt?”
Part 7 of More Words (You don't have to have read the other parts to read this one - the series is all drabble-inspired short stories) 💕
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Since I'm taking my time with my second Fandom Trumps Hate story, I've decided to give you all a small teaser. I won't give the title away yet, but the prompt from the brilliant @totallysilvergirl was that John can sing. Really sing. And he's managed to keep it a secret. Even from Sherlock! Yes, that's right.
As is my wont, I always rec fics (influenced long ago by my lovely recipient) and to my astonishment, I found that there are very few fics with this topic. Another reason to write one.
Excerpt:
John’s blog.
Anniversary Post
Congratulations to me on my tenth blog post! I know for a fact that the main character I’m writing about won’t even notice, but to me it is kind of a milestone. If you think that this is the tenth case I’ve been privy to, you’re wrong. Not every case is worth writing about. Some of them are actually classified if you can believe it. Shh…
If you are a regular reader, you know how this normally goes – clients and/or the police want Sherlock to help with their predicament. This time, though, things were slightly different.
I got an email from an acquaintance I hadn’t spoken to – nor thought of – in years. Claire Burnell nee Turnbull who I went to school with back in the day, has moved up in the world apparently. She is now the lady of Matfen Hall: Northumberland’s only five-star hotel. In fact, it is also a spa and a golf resort. Very posh going by the website, which is extensive. Or excessive, as Sherlock described it.
Anyway.
A little digression – you all know how heedful Sherlock is of his brain capacity, which is why I was utterly befuddled when he seemed to know Claire’s sister, Chloe. I only remember her as a clingy eight-year-old, but of course, she’s a grown woman now. And an acclaimed classical pianist. Hence Sherlock’s knowledge, I suppose.
Having read the email, I was quite certain I would have to disappoint Mrs Burnell – the case was a five at best – and Sherlock refuses to even leave the flat for less than a seven. If we were to help with this one, though, we’d have to leave London for the rural parts of Northumberland. My hopes weren’t high, but for the sake of my previous relations to Mrs Burnell, I decided to at least ask Sherlock when he got home from wherever he was at that particular moment. He sure wasn’t at Tesco to get milk, I can tell you that much!
I won’t bore you all with Sherlock’s deductions about my previous relationship with Claire Turnbull (now Burnell) – let’s just say they were just as substantial as Matfen Hall’s website.
To my utter befuddlement, Sherlock readily agreed to take the case.
“You do realise we need to travel to Northumberland, yes?” I asked, just to be sure he’d understood what it would entail to solve Mrs Burnell’s plight.
“Don’t be obtuse, John!”
And that was apparently that, because the next day we were on the 8.30 train from King’s Cross, which would reach Newcastle a little after 11 a.m.
it's that time of year again, and I need to keep up with bills, paying for an online course, and saving for a future baby, so:
1-5k fic 20$ CAD
5-10k fic 30$ CAD
10k+ fic 40$ CAD
included in commission:
review and approval of outline
review and approval of draft (optional, if you want to be surprised)
original fic poster designed on canva
will do:
ratings G through E (ao3 scale)
fluff, smut, pwp, angst, whump, character death
canon compliant, canon divergence, fix-its, AU
most kinks (if unsure, ask)
most fandoms (may need a little context or research)
won't do:
body horror
scat/coprophilia
watersports/omorashi
omegaverse (I'm just not good at it, sorry)
types of fics I'm pretty good at:
angst
domestic fluff
praise kink
priest kink/priest corruption
joseon era
heian era
fix-its
fandom writing experience & samples:
악마판사 | The Devil Judge (TV) (83)
Sherlock (BBC TV 2010) (72)
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감사합니다 | The Auditors (TV) (6)
손 : The Guest (TV) (6)
The Pitt (TV) (2)
Sherlock Holmes (Granada TV 1984) (2)
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Onmyouji | The Yin-Yang Master (Movies 2001 2003) (1)
Star Trek: The Original Series (TV) (1)
you can secure your commission here, or simply donate if I've ever written something you've loved and you want to support me that way.
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please reblog this post, don't just like it - I'm technically unemployed for the next two months and need people to see this post. thank you.
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Sherlock fandom has been a huge part of my life since I first joined (as a very, very quiet lurker) way back in 2011. As I became more comfortable- both in fandom and in my own skin- I started meeting all sorts of fantastic people. Of all the gifts this fandom has given me, the people in my life because of it is the biggest one of all. I am grateful for my fandom friends and for those who have become absolute rocks in real life.
One of those people was @splix71. I no longer remember when we first interacted online- it was years ago- but we clicked, hard, and when we first met in person four years ago, it was like stars aligning. I last saw her a year ago, when we spent a week together laughing, fangirling, eating, road-tripping, and making the most of what would be our last visit together.
I was so, so lucky to have her in my life and our friendship was a true joy. SHE was a true joy. I miss her more than I can say.
Today is @splix71/Alex’s birthday and in honor of my friend, I’ve got a whole bunch of posts queued up. For those of you who knew Alex, in fandom or outside of it, I hope you find some comfort today in remembering her and her vibrant, passionate personality.
Lots of GO fics on my MFL list, so here's another list of recent fics! Enjoy!
RECENT MFLs
Unnaturally Bright by PrincessOfHouseNightstar (G, 1,178 w., 1 Ch. || Post-S2/S3 Speculation, Supreme Archangel Aziraphale, Headaches/Migraines, Comfort, Fluff, Protective Crowley, Soft Crowley, Sick Fic, Soft Aziraphale) – The Supreme Archangel Aziraphale is dealing with a terrible headache and Crowley comes to his rescue. Part 10 of Good Omens Oneshots
Gleams On Volumes Of Old by Poet_to_None (M, 6,078 w., 3 Ch. || Idiots in Love, Through the Ages, Banter, Affection) – Vignettes over time featuring a touch starved demon and very dear angel who errs in too much restraint.
Crowley's Herbal by CopperBeech (G, 9,915 w., 10 Ch. || Post S1, Through the Ages, The Arrangement, 6000 Years of Pining, South Downs Cottage, First Kiss, Canon Scene Vignettes, Gunshot Wounds, Soft, Angst, Fluff, Idiots in Love, Protective Aziraphale, Language of Flowers, Gardener Crowley, Gardening, Oblivious Aziraphale, Hurt/Comfort) – I thought it would be fun to write a series of little vignettes about the floriographic symbolism of the plants Crowley chooses for his cottage garden, and then centuries of pining happened. I'll show myself out.
The Loophole, or, How to Convince a Demon God Exists in Three Easy Steps by fellshish (E, 24,371 w., 4 Ch. || Post S2 Divergence, POV Aziraphale, Humour, Loss of Virginity, Oral Sex, Anal Sex, Coming in Pants, First Time, Spanking, Gay Pride, Church Sex, Hand Jobs, Rimming, Masturbation, Facials, Object Insertion, Object Penetration, Ass to Mouth, Exhibitionism, Begging, Safe Words, Apology Dance, Long Haired Crowley, Begging, Crying Crowley, Emotional Sex, Hijinks/Shenanigans, Dom/Sub Undertones, Prophecies) – Ah, yes. Being an Archangel is going splendidly. Aziraphale accidentally erases God from the Book of Life.
and now all of my garden is grown in lavender by ilikeblue (E, 72,827 w., 14 Ch. || Human AU || Fake Marriage / Relationship, Eden-Crowley Elements, Author Aziraphale, Gardener Crowley, Soft Aziraphale, Slow Burn, Protective Aziraphale, Chubby Aziraphale, Nice Crowley, Demisexual Crowley, Angst, Fluff) – Popular queer romance author, A.Z. Fell, has been lying about having a husband and a happy marriage for years. Longing to escape a string of failed relationships and looking for a fresh start, Aziraphale moves into the cottage left to him by his Great Aunt Agnes. When a TV adaptation of one of his books leads to sudden popularity and throws him into the limelight, his fans (and the press) are eager to catch a glimpse of Aziraphale's own mysterious leading man. Unfortunately, he still has to cast someone for that role. Enter the handsome gardener…Under Crowley's meticulous care the cottage's neglected garden slowly comes back to life, and Aziraphale finds himself writing the most important love story he'll ever write: his own.
Sherlock regularly makes tea, but never makes coffee. This is partly because he lived with Mycroft during his teen years/early twenties, and there was usually no coffee at Mycroft’s house - he’s much more of a tea guy. (And Mycroft, who was extremely attentive to Sherlock’s health, considered his little brother to be too young for coffee until he was about 16. He didn’t think that a heavily caffeinated Sherlock would be a good idea.)
And Mycroft was right but Sherlock doesn't like to talk about that. There was, ofc, "the incident" that led to him and Mike Stamford being friends, and though it ended up good it still isn't a very fun thing to think about
Whether it was the sugar rush or the caffeine rush that caused Mycroft to pick him up later, covered in feathers and eyeballs (stuck to his person, somehow) is anyone's guess. He spent the whole way to the hospital changing his position and talking about who's eyes they were.
Happy Friday everyone! Enjoy this week's selection of fics!
RECENT MFLs
"...and then the rains came..." by notjustmom (NR, 563 w., 1 Ch. || TRF Divergence / Sherlock Returns, Established Relationship, Angst & Fluff) – He was beginning to forget him.
The Song of the Whale Road by fresne (T, 1,409 w., 2 Ch. || Viking Omegaverse || Beta John, Omega Sherlock, Viking Sherlock, Byzantine Greek John, Female John) – Jinis Blackheart had been born to be a Berserker. Sherlokr Quickwit of Holdalanda had been born under a wandering star. He'd have sailed his ship over the edge of the world if he were able to find it. It was to his good fortune that Ioanna of Byzantium was of the same mind. Part 24 of Variations on an Equation; Part 33 of Phrygian Choices
Overdue by Rachelea3 (G, 4,503 w., 1 Ch. || TEH, Missing Scene, Sherlock's PTSD, POV Sally, Apologies) – Not much of an apology, perhaps, but long overdue.
The Fifth Pip by Calais_Reno (T, 14,993 w., 5 Ch. || TGG Fic, Missing John, Abduction, Oblivious Sherlock, John is So Done, Angst with Happy Ending) – “He hasn’t noticed you’re missing. What does that tell you?” John says nothing. “You keep waiting, wondering when he will ask too much of you. You fear it because then you’ll have to choose between your self-respect and your compulsion to follow him. That’s it, isn’t it? You shot the cabbie, and it gave a whole new meaning to your life.” Moriarty smiles, his eyes empty. There’s no answer to this. John has been waiting, thinking he’ll reach the limit, but Sherlock only pushes, and asks, and John keeps giving. “I have an idea,” Moriarty says. “Let’s find his limit.” Part 7 of More Words
Reaching Out by Accident, holmesian_love (E, 55,023 w., 23 Ch. || Whump, PTSD, Hallucinations, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assaults, Torture, Alcoholism, Surgery, Hurt/Comfort, Angst with Happy Ending, Haphephobia, Sex, Healing) – Sherlock is broken, bleeding, and won't let anyone touch him. Will he let John save him before it's too late? John is swimming in alcohol and delusions, reaching out to Sherlock who's not really there. Will he find Sherlock again before the hallucination takes hold permanently? Mycroft is full of secrets and they're all coming out. Will he be able to tell the truth before he loses Greg forever? Greg is tired of being a secret and he thinks Mycroft is keeping something from him. Will he get the truth before he can't take Mycroft back?
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i just can't convey the frustration and sorrow that it's been to grow up at first without the internet and then watching it bloom into this useful, fun, connecting force you sometimes spent time on, only for it to degrade into this constant oppressive waste of time and energy where people are constantly pumping out algorithmically designed content for max algorithmic appeal and even the most simple search generates either no results or an infinite abyss of ai generated slop none of which is usable or correct. we briefly had a library of alexandria and then fed it into a paper shredder so advertisers could sell a random mash of pulp back to us at a premium.
Sherlock fandom. TW: canonical suicide, blood, depression.
It Was My Fault
Somehow, I can’t shake the feeling that I was to blame for Sherlock’s suicide. I should have observed more carefully. When I think about our last encounter – before the roof incident – God, I was so angry with him! But now, I’m able to peel away his obnoxious behaviour and to see how anxious he was. He already knew what he was about to do next - once he got me to leave - and it must have terrified him. Even the great Sherlock Holmes couldn’t have been indifferent to jumping from a building to his inevitable death.
“You have blood on your hands, Watson. His blood.”
This is a mantra I tend to torment myself with when I wake from a nightmare; a horrible dream where I see him fall in slow motion to prolong my agony. When I finally reach him - no one stops me this time - I place my palms on his beautiful face, wipes away the blood, closes his eyes, and pecks his lips.
“Sleep tight, Sherlock. I love you. I’m sorry.” I whisper in his ear.
The dream always ends with people appearing to take him away. I fight them like a tiger, but to no avail.
I wake with his name on my lips, tears streaming down my cheeks, and my heart shatters once more.
***
He looked like twelve that day – his last day on Earth. Just like he did the first time I met him. Seen in hindsight, something was different, though.
There was a bone deep sadness in his features when he played with the stress ball as if he’d realised how I and his other friends would react once they realised that he was dead. And yes, he did have more than one friend; I was just one of many.
Mrs Hudson, for starters. In fact, she was more like a mother to him. She grieves as if she were, for sure.
Then there’s Greg, Molly, Angelo, Wiggins, Mike; his entire homeless network, for goodness’ sake! Not to mention everyone who owed him a favour; there must be dozens, if not hundreds.
And still, he was dead (pardon the pun) serious when he declared that I was his only friend after we’d solved the Baskerville case. I could tell that he wasn’t shamming; trying to get into my good grazes again. It was pure honesty. By then, I had learned to discern the difference.
I can’t spend too much time thinking about that, or I’ll break down.
Why did he feel the need to take his own life when…
***
I’ve stopped bringing Mrs Hudson when I visit his grave. She’s so fragile. It’s as if her sassy personality died that day too.
In the beginning, I always stood in front of his elegant gravestone like a soldier keeping watch, but now – if the weather allows it – I sit cross-legged on the grass instead. It’s oddly comforting to talk to the black stone as if it is actually him.
“Hi, Sherlock. I miss you. The flat is so quiet. Even when you were lying supine on the sofa, lost in your head, you filled the room with life. You were the most animated person I’ve ever known, even when you barely moved a muscle. I’m considering moving out, finding my own place. Too many memories and ghosts in 221B nowadays.
“There’s a new nurse at work. Mary. She tries to flirt with me. It doesn’t work, but she’s quite persistent, I’ll give her that. Soon enough, she’ll realise that it’s a futile endeavour. I’ve even said so, but she just shrugged and winked at me. It was unsettling. Nobody has winked at me since you did it before you walked out of the lab that January day in 2010. I guess I should be flattered. Once, I would have been. Not after meeting you, though.”
***
My nightmares are always worse after I’ve visited his grave. In this particular dream, I have blood smeared on my palms. I realise this too late.
Like I usually do, I place my hands on his cheeks, but instead of wiping bloody off his face, I add more. In desperation, I try do clean my hands by rubbing them on my jeans, but it keeps pouring out of my palms like small fountains. We both drown in it.
When I finally wake, the bed is damp. My t-shirt and pants are soaked. For one horrible moment, I thought I’d peed myself, but it is only malodorous sweat.
***
“It was my fault,” I tell Mrs Hudson when we have tea together the day after I thought I’d drowned in my own and Sherlock’s blood.
“Nonsense, dear. You know there was no stopping him when he had made up his mind. Silly boy.”
She cries a little and I hold her gently until she manages to gather herself.
We watch the last Bond film, which she takes great delight in. Strangely enough, this makes me miss Sherlock even more.
Despite that I chided him for ridiculing the plot and the insane stunts, I secretly loved it. I guess he knew that, because he never stopped commenting, and he had this smug expression on his face while doing it.
If I concentrate, I can hear his voiceover.
“That stunt is impossible to survive, John. He doesn’t even have a scratch, for God’s sake! This inanity kills your brain cells, you know.”
I smile when Daniel Craig – against all odds - survives yet again, regardless of Sherlock predictions.
***
To my surprise, I sleep well that night, and I wake more rested than I have in a long time. Perhaps this is a sign that things are about to change for the better.
I call him Pinchy! This was my first time using reactive glass, so fun! I can't wait to do more with it. Here, the reactions are the dark borders around the blue pieces and the coral frit as they are fired with each other and with the French vanilla base. There was a lot of cutting and shaping, and my guy is a bit wonky, but I love him.
A huge thank you to @helloliriels for the stunning cover art created for #FTH2026
Thank you to all my lovely supporters and to everyone who has been reading along!
Chapter 14: Together
When I awoke, I was in my bed in Baker Street and Holmes was seated by my bed in a chair, watching me sleep.
“You’re here. You’re always here.” I smiled gently.
“I needed to make sure you were alright.” He looked extremely relieved to see me waking up.
“When I was shot… I thought I saw you on the battlefield,” I mumbled to him.
“You did see me on the battlefield,” Holmes said with a cheeky grin. He stroked my face gently. "I was the soldier that brought you to the hospital."
I gasped in shock. "You were a soldier too?"
"Well no. But I had to dress like one, to be allowed on the field... and so I..." He lowered his eyes, suddenly shy.
He had saved my life.
“I thought I was going mad… And at the pub before I left for battle? And following me in the streets when I came home?”
He nodded.
“How can you be in so many places?”
“Because… I am a vampire, Watson. I think you know that now. I can travel long distances at fast speeds. And I needed to know you were safe.”
"Why me?" I looked at him, confused by all of it. I understood that he had drawn me in. How could he not? He was magnificent. And mysterious. And captivating. And now he had enticed me into a world of adventure I wanted to be a part of. But what was I to him? What could I possibly be to someone like him?
"You're captivating too, you know?" he said, with a little smile, as if he had heard my thoughts and I felt my face flush, knowing he had understood. "You caught my eye in that tavern and I could hear all of your thoughts. The rhythm of your heartbeat was... just the right one... I... it won't make sense to you." He shook his head, frowning into his lap.
The realisation hit that he had come to rescue me, when he had been in bed unconscious not that long ago. How had he managed to be out on the street saving me? When he had been so unwell when I last saw him? “Your fever…” I tried to sit up, more urgently now to check on him.
“I take on disease. When you saw me, I had... I must have fed from someone who was unwell and I can get sick from bad blood." Again he had read my thoughts. "I'm not proud of what I am, Watson. I don't want you to be what I am. We can't… Why would you want this?”
“I can't live without you,” I rushed to say. “And if you won't do it, I will find someone who will. I won't live without you, Sherlock Holmes. And it seems you can't live without me, if you're mad enough to follow me through a war zone and…”
“To protect you. To save you, not to... drag you to hell.” He blushed.
I distinctly saw a blush cross his pale cheeks and it was the prettiest thing I’d ever seen. I reached a hand out tentatively to touch his as it rested on the edge of the bed beside me, unable to look at him at first, as I spoke.
“This is no hell. Not when we're together. You can't call this hell. Please. Please. Put your hands on me again. Please, lay your eyes on me again. And don't take them off me. For I can't... bear another day without them. Holmes... Sherlock, my life is… insanity without you in it. I don’t care what it is that I must go through to be with you, so long as we're together. Just be with me. That's all I ask. I refuse to die alone if I can be with you and make that choice. That's what I choose. Whatever that looks like. Whatever horrors you think it is to be with you. I choose those... forever.” When I finally looked up at him, his eyes were filled with tears from my words.
“I cannot do it, John.”
I smiled. He finally said my name. “Of course you can. Of course you can. I'm asking. I'm begging you to do it.”
“Please don’t.”
I struggled up slowly onto my knees in the bed, surprising Holmes out of his chair. He stood, unsure what I was doing and I reached out, lifting his hands, forcing them up to hold my head. Then I tilted my own neck, allowing my pale skin into the candlelight. “Please.”
“John, I cannot do it,” his voice choked out again. “Not to you. Please don't ask me.”
“Of course you can.” I held his hands in place for a moment longer until I knew he wouldn’t let go.
“John,” he whispered in warning.
“Listen to the sound of my blood pumping through my veins. I know you can hear it.”
“Stop it. What are you doing?” He asked, quietly panicking, his eyes wide.
“It's warm. Inviting. It's calling to you. It's been waiting. It's been... It's been cooking in my body, thinking of you… burning for you. Waiting... for your lips, Sherlock.”
Holmes let out a choked sound and then a whimper. “Please stop. Please. John, you don't know what you're doing,” he gasped desperately.
“Oh, I think I do. I'm fairly certain I do.” I wrapped my arm around his waist to pull him close against me. “Can you hear it?”
“Yes,” he whispered.
“Then take it. Take it. Take what you need. Take what you want. It's all yours. I'm all yours. I've always been yours. You own me. From that first moment you looked at me across the room in that tavern, I was yours. You knew it. I knew it. I've always known it. Every moment you have waited. You've been toying with me, Sherlock Holmes. Playing with your food. Just take me.”
Deep, from within his chest I heard a growl. For the briefest of moments, I felt fear. But I knew. I knew he would never hurt me. The slightest smile passed over my lips as I knew I’d won. And I felt elated.
He finally bent down and his lips kissed the delicate skin on my throat. Just like they had in my dream.
I let out a sigh. And a satisfied groan.
For the briefest of moments it felt lovely and goosebumps ran down my spine as everything in me tingled with pleasure from the feeling of his lips on my throat.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
Then I felt them. The sharpest pin pricks.
And I closed my eyes.
As I sank against Sherlock Holmes and finally let it happen.
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Fluffbruary Extended Version Infinifluff. July 14. (Sherlock fandom) Prompts: twig - annual - plant + the image below.
Chapter 5: Blue Seeds
Summary: Sherlock is nowhere to be seen when John ventures downstairs, but he hears some sounds from the scullery. Outside, the landscape is covered in snow, which startles him. He had no idea he would encounter that in this place. He walks into the scullery and when Sherlock realises that John is awake, he seems utterly relieved. John doesn't understand why. He's only been asleep for approximately seven hours, hasn't he?
