Sherlock Shindig

By: abitofholmesandwatson (Team Speedy's)

Jingle for Speedy's Cafe

By: armydoctorpeterpotter

Bonus Prompt: Prompt 6 Genre Swap

By: prettybirdy979 (Team Speedy's)

By: no-literally (team blue)

Nowadays

“We’re out of milk,” Sherlock says.

Well. He sort-of says it. To be honest, John’s not exactly sure what’s going on.

“No.” John says. He can’t believe he’s replying aloud. “Sherlock. We’re not. I bought milk yesterday. I went to the store. I’ve had what, maybe two cups of tea since then? I never drink it straight.”

“I could have drunk it.” Sherlock doesn’t look at him. He just continues to read the paper from his spot on John’s new sofa. (The teal one he found at Oxfam, the only sofa there that didn’t somehow remind him of Sherlock.)

John snorts. “Yeah, maybe you could have done, Sherlock, if you weren’t already dead.”

“Oh,” Sherlock puts down the paper. “Did you want me to go?”

John glares at Sherlock. You know me better than that, he thinks. You know I’d do anything to keep you here, even if I am going mad. I’ve been through for too many days, and having you back feels like re-learning to breathe.

Sherlock smirks, just the tiniest bit, exactly the way…well. Call a spade a spade: Exactly the way he did when he was alive.

“I didn’t think so,” Sherlock says. “No, I think you’re right John. Well observed. I didn’t have any milk to drink.” He gestures to himself, smirk still firmly set in place. “Since, as you know, I’m dead and all.”

“Fuck off,” John mutters. He mutters to his subconscious manifestation of his flatmate that he’s been seeing for forty-eight hours now.

Christ, he’s insane. He’s actually insane.

He should call up Ella. She said that, actually, she told John to call if there were any new developments. But he sat there in her office yesterday and didn’t say a bloody word. For the first time all day Sherlock hadn’t been there, he had just showed up that morning and then when John went to see Ella Sherlock went missing again and good God John didn’t want to make Sherlock go away, even if he couldn’t possibly be real.

He told himself that if Sherlock was really gone now, then he was cured, he needn’t tell her.

He figured if it was only a temporary loss of Sherlock…Well. He didn’t know what to think about the possibility he might still be crazy. That would mean seeing more of Sherlock. John couldn’t deny the thrill that thought sent down his spine.

It’d been three years, for Christ’s sake. Why now, Sherlock? He had asked. Or he had wanted to ask. He hadn’t had the courage to say it aloud. I’ve wanted you back for three years. I’ve prayed to be haunted by my better days. Why now?

So he hadn’t said anything to Ella about his hallucination.

“No, I don’t think I ought to ‘fuck off,’” Sherlock tells John now. He speaks slowly. John looks up at Sherlock. “I think we’ve well established you don’t actually want me to do that.”

“You’re here for good, then?” John says. He means it to be sarcastic, disbelieving. He’s speaking to a bloody ghost, after all. It comes out less certain than he had hoped. He purses his lips.

Prompt #7: Bonus Prompt (Idioms, Method to my Madness)

By: no-literally (team blue)

Bonus Prompt (Prompt 1 If Walls Could Talk, 221B )

-by amottledrose (Team Blue)

This wallpaper truly is hideous.

I've seen some doozies in my day, but this one takes the cake, don't you agree? Well, I think it's simply dreadful and looks far better with the smiley face and the holes that young Master Sherlock put in it. Mind you, though, I don't much fancy being her all riddled with marks like that. Shocking!

Anyway, do you have any idea what I saw last night through the cracks and seams in the paper? You'll never guess. I saw young Master Sherlock kissing octor Watson!

Have you ever heard such fuss? Oh Lord, I never! Sherlock was pacing and John was hitting his head against our friend by the kitchen. He almost never loses his temper, but he did last night. Only, he lost it in such a funny way.

You see, dear, Sherlock was talking and would not stop and deducing and explaining in that way that he does, when John suddenly walks forward, seizes him by his jacket, yanks him down, and then kisses him back!!

Well I never!

You can imagine my surprise, and poor Sherlock didn't seem to know what to make of it.

What happened?

You know, I think I heard John say something to Sherlock about love and fidelity and 'if I'm another experiment, you best forget it,' but in the end, they held hands and kissed again.

Bonus Prompt (Prompt 5 Reichen-fEels Nowadays)

-by amottledrose (Team Blue)

It was a complete fluke that landed Sebastian Moran with box seats to Les Miserables that night. His client, in addition to needing a rival party quietly assassinated, was a theater aficionado and would not hear Seb's refusal. So, the sniper pulled out one if his musty, impeccable, expensive black suits, took a shower, and made himself a presentable member of society for the night.

His benefactor was very pleased, and Sebastian had the best seat in the house for the performance. He knew nothing of the show and was quite resigned to three hours of boredom and sleep...not that rest could take him away from the nightmares. The lights went down, the overture began, and suddenly Sebastian Moran was lost in the world of a show as he had never been before.

Street life hadn't changed much from the time of this show to when he'd been a street urchin, and certain details made his stomach clench in anger or his fingers tingle in apprehension. He was reminded of whores he'd known as a boy, fights he'd gotten into that had taught him how to defend himself, the first officer who, while booking him, told him he ought to enlist, make a life for himself. He could remember stealing to eat, thinking something's not right, forcing a child to live the way he was. Seb was reminded of just how much he'd hated his childhood, drunken father and dead mother, a runaway who knew how to disappear at the age of seven.

At the intermission, the client treated him to a glass of Scotch which Seb drank gratefully. One now would not impede his judgment after the show when it would be time to get to work, but the second act posed a far greater threat to his mental wellbeing than the alcohol did.

That was because, in the second act, one song reached into his chest and tore out his still beating heart.

God on high, hear my prayer...

Something about the timbre of the music, that's all it had to be, but Seb's eyes grew steadily more and more glassy until he had to hide his face in the shadows, tears leaking out in a steady stream

Bring him home, bring him home...

Choking back a sob, Seb squared his shoulders in the seat, fighting to regain composure because the man who haunted his every waking and sleeping hour, the man he wanted to come home never could. He was gone.

And I am old and will be gone...

Sebastian had been three years older than Jim Moriarty when the consulting criminal put a bullet in his brain on top of St. Bart's hospital; Seb tried to ignore the fact that just a week past would have been Jim's thirty-fifth birthday had he still been alive.

Bring him peace, bring him joy, he is young, he is only a boy...

He'd never know if Jim were at peace and happy, though, knowing him, he'd probably taken over the reins in hell and was ruling with an iron fist. The image almost made him smile as he pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket and surreptitiously cleaned his face. Worst case, he could claim allergies.

If I die, let me die, let him live...bring him home...

And then blast it all to the grave if the writer of the show didn't decide to just simply destroy him right there. A fresh wave of tears poured over him, and Seb very nearly lost control of himself. He'd never managed to tell Jim how he'd felt; twisted bastard had probably known anyway. Sebastian had been planning to that evening, take Jim out to celebrate their success and tell him his feelings, his sentiments, finally confess a secret that had weighed heavily on his heart. Instead, he'd confessed it to a corpse. He'd held the bloodied body of his Boss in his arms and confessed all before fleeing, too much of a coward to clean up the mess.

The pain he'd been through for too many days threatened to consume him, and he excused himself at the applause, making excuses about craving air. Stumbling to the loo, Seb closed one of the stalls and truly dissolved into broken sobs, crying as he hadn't since Jim's death, the thing he'd lost weighing on his heart.

In the dim lighting of the toilet, ex-soldier, tiger hunter, and right hand for James Moriarty, a blonde man named Sebastian Moran, cried from a broken heart wishing, not for the first time, that he'd taken the bullet and not the man he'd loved with all his body, mind, and soul.

By: armydoctorpeterpotter (Team Speedy's)

The shadow of the bars striped the lion’s back like a whip. The creature was magnificent, in perfect physical health. The rusting placard in front of the display stated that he had been rescued as a cub from sure starvation when his family had been massacred by another pride.

Sherlock could not bear to look at him; neither could he bear to look away.

Despite the bright fur glistening in the sun, despite the well-groomed mane and the clean claws and the substantial belly, the abundance of lionesses for the taking, Sherlock saw in the way this creature moved that he was in agony.

“No one trusted you to take care of yourself,” Sherlock muttered under his breath. “They assumed you needed saving.” He stared at the wall at the back of the cage, the painted pastel savannah peeling, revealing the concrete beneath it. “Is this saved?”

“What’s that? Did you say something?” John was peering interestedly at the placard, hands behind his back. “From West Africa. Hmm. I’ve always wondered why they’ve got manes, y’know, coming from somewhere so hot.”

“To protect themselves,” Sherlock murmured. “To make themselves intimidating to forestall battle, to soften the blows to their face and neck when fighting then inevitably occurs. It’s worth the discomfort of heat.”

John glanced at him. Sherlock stared straight forward. His brows were furrowing.

This lion was like all other lions in captivity. There was nothing particularly remarkable about him.

But could there have been?

If he hadn’t been tamed, if he hadn’t been rescued from growing up in the wild on his own, learning to forge for himself…

He might’ve been hyena fodder, yes.

Or he might have grown to the greatest, most powerful leader. He might begin his own pride.

Or even better, he may have done the improbable. He may have defied nature itself and forgone the pattern of the pride. Raised by himself, he might thrive by himself, above the pettiness of the natural order. He would need no foolish lionesses, he would fend for himself, hunt for himself, defend himself, alone.

Others would scorn him, but it would be borne out of respect, and he would go down in legend, in history, as the lion who lived alone.

“Sherlock?” John’s hand was on his shoulder. “You’re shaking.”

“Yes, brilliant deduction,” Sherlock snapped. His head had began to hurt.

No lion survives on his own.

Captivity is freedom now. Captivity is the reward for survival. Why even bother?

John was studying him, eyes flicking from the caged majesty of the creature to Sherlock’s furrowed brow and his fingers, clenching and unclenching. After a long pause that Sherlock filled with frustrated thoughts and yearnings that he refused to address as sentiment, John spoke.

“You never did stop wanting to be a pirate, did you? Not really.”

Sherlock started.

“Mycroft,” he snarled, as he understood. “How is that relevant?” He refused to look at John. The lion was sleeping now, the halo of his mane dragging on the dingy cage floor.

“I’ve been trying to figure it out since he told me,” John confessed quietly. “And I think I’m starting to.” He sighed. “All you wanted was to be free. All you’ve ever wanted. Everyone has always told you that you need other people, that humans need other people, that you can’t function on your own. Yet you feel trapped, among the minds that drag you down, among the societal rules that distract you from elevating yourself, from your experiments and your brilliance and just being you. You don’t want to need anyone else; that’s not being free. You seek freedom in your own mind, and you seek it in your job, because murder is outside the realm of societal norms. You seek relief in it, in the horror, the transcendence, the absurdity, the sense, the sense it makes that someone is driven to murder in a world in which we are being told that freedom is captivity.” John swallowed hard. “Captain Holmes, on a ship of his own. Getting off on the spoils of war, making your living on bloodshed and abnormalcy.”

Sherlock did not speak.

A lioness pawed gently over to the lion and curled up next to him. As she drifted to sleep, they might’ve been kittens, rather than fierce predators. Oddly, Sherlock did not scorn the sight. It was almost endearing.

“Oh goody, Doctor Watson. Thank you for analyzing my breakdown,” he sneered, but it came out half-hearted and John knew it.

“I haven’t said anything you haven’t thought of, Sherlock. But you should know what it is you’re feeling, what you refuse to address.” John stood on tiptoe to whisper in his ear. “You’re scared that that lion is happy. You’re scared that there might be peace to find in normalcy, in a quiet life after years of being a predator, being a pillager.” The lioness licked her nose in her sleep. The lion was snoring gently. “You’re scared that caring can be an advantage, and you have simply never learned how.”

John lifted himself higher on his toes and placed a brief kiss on Sherlock’s cheek. 

He walked away, over to the small mammals exhibit. There was pancake batter on the hem of his jumper from where he’d made Sherlock breakfast that morning, dirt on his shoe from the dust experiment Sherlock was conducting in the sitting room that he hadn’t complained about, and his hair was mussed from where Sherlock had buried his nose in it on the way over, breathing in the comforting familiar scent.

Bonus Prompt: Prompt #5 (Reichen-fEels - Nowadays) 

Bonus Prompt: Prompt #5 (Reichen-fEels - Nowadays) 

Bonus Prompt: Prompt #4

By armydoctorpeterpotter (Team Speedy's)

PORN WARNING. POOOOORN WAAAARNING. WARN THE PORN. PORN BE WARNED.

John asked him to go hard and Seb took it seriously.

John knew he was asking a trained assassin, a trained sniper, a trainer murderer to hurt him.

It is what kept him from hurting himself.

He liked best when he was tied tight. Seb didn’t mind this, he even seemed to like it, though John couldn’t be sure, really. They didn’t talk much.

John liked it on all fours. With his hands tied to the bedpost in front of him, his legs spread and his ankles tied to the bedposts behind him, the bondage ropes pulled taut, he felt, finally, that someone was in control and it didn’t have to be him. Someone was in control of his pain, someone was handling it, he didn’t have to face it himself.

Seb always used a whip.

John’d thought briefly of the riding crop but it carried too many of the memories he was trying to shut out, and neither of them even considered Seb using his hand. That was skin-on-skin contact that wasn’t fucking, and they minimized that as much as possible.

Seb was expert at the whip, trained by the best, obviously. John didn’t quite know if the precise cutting strokes on his ass were fueled simply by sexual desire or if the man was using him to hit as hard as he could, like punching a wall to relieve stress except with a human.

John was pretty sure he could guess, though.

Seb blindfolded him, sometimes, which John liked, but he didn’t like being gagged. He liked hearing his own grunts of agony and arousal when Seb fucked him raw, he liked hearing his breathing quicken and stop when orgasm took over. It reminded him of where he was and who he was. This is also why he’d let Seb fasten the cockring onto him on more than one occasion. John desperately loved being told when to cum. He craved the struggle, the encompassing frustrating torment of his orgasm being delayed and denied, making him focus on his body and what it wanted at that very moment, nothing else in the world mattering at all. He loved when Seb would finish first and pretend to leave him fastened to the bed, spread out and dripping and desperate, so that right at that moment all that John wanted was to be hurt more, to be paid attention to, to be granted release at last. He loved to beg. He had never wanted any of this before, but he especially had never wanted to beg for release, but he loved to beg now because Seb always, always gave him what he asked for. Eventually, when it became the most important thing in his life.

Sometimes, he could tell, Seb hesitated. The man knew exactly what they were doing. He knew that it wasn’t healthy. John knew that when Seb hurt him, every stroke of the whip, every rough thrust, every scratch of nails dug into helpless flesh was revenge for being left alone, revenge he couldn’t exact on the man who’d gone. So Seb hesitated, sometimes, because he knew that tying up John wasn’t going to bring his boss back.

But nothing was. Nothing would bring either of them back, and John would provoke Seb when he saw these hesitations, pretending to storm out or starting a fight, punching the sniper in the jaw. Seb would grab him or grab his fist and fling him onto the bed, and John would breath heavy relief as the whip cracked through the air.

He needed the pain and Seb needed to give it to him.

Bonus Prompt: Prompt #5 (Reichen-fEels - Nowadays) 

Bonus Prompt: Idioms (Method to my Madness)

By: Rusesymbiotic (Team New Scotland Yard)

                All his life, John Watson has had an uncanny talent at going with the flow and figuring things out later. Row between Harry and his parents? He was great at diffusing the fight and figuring out what they were yelling about at the same time. Given orders in the Army? With those, he could follow directions and not even care what the motivations were as long as he was helping his men. It was definitely a skill that came in handy when living with Sherlock Holmes.