Don’t know if you are still doing prompts but would love one where someone objected at John and Mary’s wedding. Maybe Sherlock or Harry showing up drunk in the middle? Or David, Mary’s ex? Sholto? Or anything where John kisses Sherlock and neither of them was expecting it. Cue Sherlock shock and John worried he ruin everything.
The Interruption
The music had been timed perfectly. The procession had… proceeded. The guests looked appropriately misty-eyed. Mary was resplendent in vintage lace.
And John—
Sherlock swallowed, looked away.
He distanced himself. Not fully—he could not risk vanishing into his mind palace and losing track of time—but just enough that he could stop himself from flinching when Mary and John joined hands.
It was, the best possible outcome. Somehow knowing that did not stop him from occasionally imagining a different outcome entirely.
Foolish. He did not have time to waste on impossibilities.
Mary was clever. She made no effort to dissuade John from the work he did with Sherlock, she at times even seemed to relish joining in. He preferred her to all of the other women that John had wasted time with over the years.
So this was—fine. It was good.
The vicar was speaking. Sherlock filtered out the words, let his gaze wander around the crowded church. No one was looking at him strangely, which meant he’d not missed any important cues.
John was speaking. And Mary. Exchanging sentimental words, no doubt.
Sherlock shut his eyes, then forced them open. He kept his face blank, impassive. He stared at the back of John’s head and thought about sliding his fingers through the short coarse hairs there.
Someone gasped. A murmur ran through the crowd. It was not a happy sound, and Sherlock’s blood ran cold. He’d let his guard down. He’d let his mind wander, had let himself imagine impossible things, and now—
He snapped back to full awareness, fresh data flooding in.
No one was looking at him. Whatever the problem, he hadn’t caused it.
There was a man standing up near the back of the church.
Sherlock looked at him.
(sat near the back to facilitate hasty exit, ex-military, dress uniform, scarred face, all of which pointed to only one possibility: Major James Sholto)
He’d done extensive research, of course, after Mary’s comment. He knew a good deal about the man (It was only prudent, after all—as Best Man he should be familiar with John’s guests). But none of his research would explain why the man seemed dead set on making a scene.
No matter. The man was clearly deranged and would need to be escorted out of the church immediately before he dealt additional damage. He stepped forward to do just that, glancing towards John as he did so, and what he saw brought him up short.
John looked shocked. No, more than shocked. Worse than shocked. He looked anguished. All of the blood had left his face. He’d withdrawn his hand from Mary’s, had clenched it into a tight fist.
Sherlock hesitated, because he’d stood beside John on the brink of death more than once, and he could not recall ever seeing him make a face like that. The only thing that came close was—
He shied away from the memory.
The look on John’s face was not simply the expression of a man irritated at an interruption. It was the stricken look of a man suddenly faced with a ghost from the past, someone significant, possibly a lover.
But that was impossible. That would mean—
The world tilted sideways. Sherlock breathed in, shut his eyes, let the facts rearrange themselves in his mind.
Posh restaurant. Someone else’s bowtie around his neck, a fake moustache drawn crudely over his lip. Clean white shirt dragging stiff against the fresh dressings on his back. John, looking up from a table to finally meet his eyes. And his face—
His face.
He’d missed it. How had he missed it? He’d noted the effect his reappearance had had, of course, he wasn’t blind, and he’d gone ahead and classified that expression as hurt, but hurt was too simple, not nearly enough to cover the breadth of what John’s incredibly expressive face had conveyed with that look.
And now—
He snapped back to himself amidst the frantic muttering and humming of the crowd. John was gone from his side. Mary was gone too.
He was alone at the altar.
He scanned the crowd, but Sholto had disappeared. That told him nothing. Stupid. Stupid. He had no idea if Sholto had left or been escorted out or had disappeared somewhere with John. He’d wasted valuable time thinking about things he could not change and now—
He darted up the aisle towards the doors, tried to deduce the most likely path John would have taken.
The back rooms, of course. Where John put on his suit jacket and donned his hat, where he’d stood staring at himself in the mirror and carefully avoiding meeting Sherlock’s eye.
And—oh—Sherlock had noticed, of course he’d noticed. But he’d thought: nerves, and he’d been preoccupied thinking about all of the ways his life would change and all of the ways that it wouldn’t.
Alone. Always, always alone. And that was how he preferred it.
Wasn’t it?
The door was shut. He opened it, perhaps a bit vigorously—it rebounded against the wall and swung back, almost striking him in the face.
John and Sholto—not Mary, Sholto—snapped their heads up to look at him. They were standing close, very close, clearly they’d been deep in the midst of some serious discussion.
John cleared his throat. His eyes were red-rimmed and a little wild.
"Is everything all right?“ Sherlock asked, his voice flat, level. He shot a pointed look in Sholto’s direction.
"Is everything—” John breathed, and then laughed. It was not a happy sound. “No. Everything is not bloody all right. Not by a mile.”
"I am sorry,“ Sholto said, and to his credit he did look convincingly contrite. "I don’t know what came over me. I never should have come.”
John laughed again, turned away from both of them. His hand clenched and unclenched rhythmically.
"I think it’s best if I go,“ Sholto said to John’s rigid back. He glanced at Sherlock, then away. Then he nodded, a sharp little jerk of his chin (and there was enough of John in that motion that it nearly brought Sherlock to his knees), and left the room.
Sherlock swallowed, waited for John to speak.
Silence fell between them.
"Shall I—tell the vicar you need a few moments?” he tried.
John whirled around, his face contorted. “A few moments. You want to tell the vicar—Sherlock, what the hell is wrong with you?”
That seemed to be a rhetorical question. Sherlock remained silent.
"Where is Mary?“ John asked, finally.
"I don’t know,” Sherlock admitted. He looked down at the ground, then rallied. “Would you like me to find her?”
"No,“ John said, and the anger had bled out of his voice. "Not yet. Just—oh, fuck.”
Sherlock watched him warily.
"This is the sort of thing that happens in films,“ John said. There was a weary humour in his voice now. "Last minute declarations, and all that. It’s not nearly as romantic as they’d have you believe.”
Romantic.
Sherlock swallowed, nodded, though he had absolutely no idea what John was talking about.
"Surely you’ve worked it out by now,“ John said. Bitterness had crept into his voice.
"Your ex commander,” Sherlock said, speaking slowly. “And your… ex.”
"Smartest man in the room, right here,“ John said. His mouth tightened.
"And he was—hoping you still felt the same?”
"He swears he didn’t meant to,“ John said. He looked up at the ceiling, shut his eyes. "That he’d fully intended to come and wish me well, but then he just—”
Sherlock swallowed again. His face was hot. He very much wanted to flee. “I’ll go get Mary.”
"Christ,“ John said. "No. Didn’t you hear me? I can't—not right now.”
"She’ll be wondering what’s going on.“
"It’s pretty obvious what’s going on.”
"No,“ Sherlock said, feeling slow and helpless and stupid. "It’s very much not.”
John looked at him. “What do you mean?”
"Well,“ Sherlock said. "It’s your wedding day. An—old flame—” he nearly choked on the words, “—interrupted the ceremony in order to attempt to win back your favour.”
John blinked, shook his head. He looked more amused than horrified, which seemed a step in the right direction.
"As he’s left—" Sherlock said, and he offered an exaggerated glance around the empty little room, “I can only assume that you don’t return his affections. That whatever there was between you has—um—cooled. Naturally what should follow is a reaffirmation of the affections you do feel, for—um—the person you feel them for. In this case, Mary.”
John smiled at him. It was a sad smile, which made very little sense.
"Yeah,“ John said, finally, after far too much time had passed. He held Sherlock’s gaze. "Mary.”
"Then I’ll just—" Sherlock turned towards the door, his heart in his throat.
"Wait,“ John said.
Sherlock stopped. He was trembling. He did not know why. He wished it would stop.
"Did you know?”
"Probably,“ Sherlock said, and then relented. "Did I know what?”
"About him.“
Sherlock’s mouth went dry. "No,” he admitted.
"We were very close,“ John said. "For a while. And it was—yeah—it was wartime, you know? So everything was a bit—erm—”
"Good,“ Sherlock said. He clapped his hands together. "Excellent. There’s no need for additional detail.”
"But it’s over,“ John said. "Has been for—Christ, I haven’t even spoken to him in years. I don’t know why I invited him, seems a bit cruel now in retrospect, but I guess I just wanted to—I just wanted—”
Sherlock waited.
"Look, after things ended—um—I’m not good at this, yeah? You know that. I don't—I don’t talk about this stuff.“
"With good reason.”
John huffed a laugh, shook his head. “After—him. There’s only one person in my life that I’ve ever felt that strongly about,” John said. “And that’s not even—there’s no comparison, really.”
"Mary Morstan,“ Sherlock said, and wasn’t this all getting a bit tedious? John was all set to marry the woman, obviously his feelings for her were stronger than whatever he’d shared with Sholto.
"No,” John said, his voice so soft that it might have been a whisper. “Not exactly.”
Sherlock’s hands shook. He folded them behind him, bounced on the balls of his feet. Frowned. “You’re not making sense. Have you been drugged?”
"What? No,“ John said. He took a step forward, his face terribly earnest.
Sherlock could smell him; cologne and flowers and nervous sweat.
"Look,” John said. He licked his lips, looked away. “I’m not—if I'm—if this is. Um. Not something you want to hear, then I swear I’ll never mention it again. But this wedding is fucked anyway, and I just—”
Sherlock tilted his head, watched him curiously.
"Just—" John said. He clenched his fists, breathed out through his nose. “You,” he said.
"Sorry?“
”You. It’s bloody you, all right? It’s always been you. From the first moment I saw you in that lab, and you just—you were just so—" John made a frustrated sound, looked away. “You were the most amazing thing I’d ever seen. Still are.”
"John,“ Sherlock said, his voice emerging much too thin and shaky. "What, exactly, are you trying to say?”
“Can’t you deduce it?“ John asked. "Do you really have to make me say it?”
"I—"
"Oh for—" John took another deep breath. “Look, I just have to know. Before I—before I do anything else. Do you think—did you ever think—that something might—that we might—”
Sherlock blinked. Blinked again.
John couldn’t be saying what it sounded like he was saying. He couldn’t be—
The look on his face, that night at the Landmark.
Sherlock shut his eyes, sucked in a shuddering breath. “I find the thought occupies a terrifying amount of my mind.”
"Yeah?“ John’s voice had gone soft again. He sounded very close.
Sherlock nodded. He did not open his eyes. "Yes.”
"Okay,“ John said. His breath ghosted over Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock shivered. "Okay. Um. What are we—what, exactly, do you want to do about that?”
Sherlock opened his eyes and froze. John’s face was only a few inches away.
He had no idea what to do. What to say.
“I—” he said. He swallowed, tried again. “I—”
"I’m going to call off the wedding,“ John said. He lifted his hand, pressed his palm against Sherlock’s cheek, just for a moment. His fingers were cool against Sherlock’s heated skin. "All right? And then we’ll talk.”
"Are you sure?“
"Yeah,” John said. There was a smile curving at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, I'm—I’m sure.”
"Oh,“ Sherlock said. He felt a bit breathless. "All right.”
"All right,“ John echoed. He dropped his hand from Sherlock’s cheek, smiled. It was a bright smile, unfettered, joyful. It lifted years from his face. "All right, good.”
"Should I—um—" Sherlock hesitated, looked around the room. His brain had not come back online and he felt sluggish, helpless.
"Go home,“ John said. "This is going to take a while, I think, and, um. I’m going to want—” he paused, shook his head. He was still smiling. “I’ll see you there. At Baker Street.”
A. 221b-consolation is a quick-and-dirty cheer-up fest for people who cannot make it to @221bcon the weekend of April 3-6, 2020. (We are not officially affiliated with them in any way.) It’s a way for writers, artists and other content-makers to keep ourselves busy by offering little gifts to make other sad stay-at-Holmes happy. Because 221B Con was cancelled due to the COVID-19 crisis, this year that means EVERYBODY
Q. How does it work?
A. The days leading up to 221bcon (from RIGHT NOW until 5 PM EDT Friday, April 3th, 2019) will be prompting and creating fills. There are a couple of different ways for a writer/artist/vidder/ etc to participate in prompting:
1. Post on your own blog offering whatever it is you want to offer, @ this blog, use the #221B-consolation2020 tag, and we will reblog your offerings post. You’ll be asking for prompts from as many people as you feel comfortable accepting. (If you do not want your post reblogged, let us know!)
2. Any general prompts sent via ask this blog will be published and up for adoption by as many people as want them!
3. Or, you can simply commit to making whatever you want to make, and posting during the posting period.
How to prompt creators:
1. Find people who are accepting prompts, either here or in the #221b-consolation tag, and prompt them directly.
2. Send an ask to this blog, anon or named, and it will be published as a prompt to be claimed by anyone who likes!
At 5 PM EDT, just as the first panels would have been getting underway in Atlanta, the AO3 collection will open, and posting will also be open on tumblr. Post your works to the collection and/or here tagged #221b-consolation. DO NOT POST your works until the weekend of the con (April 3-6) - the idea is that people who can’t go to the con (which, again, is everyone) will have something to look forward to on that weekend. (Anything posted to the AO3 collection before the weekend will only be revealed when the collection opens!)
Q. Are all ships/characters/kinks etc. welcome?
A. Yes, this is a non-judgmental ship-war-free zone open to all. It’s up to the individual creators what they are/are not willing to make, of course. NSFW and sensitive content should be tagged/warned for as per usual fandom etiquette.
HERE’S WHAT IS NEW THIS YEAR.
1. It is open to all fandoms now, not just Sherlock-related.
2. We have a FUNDRAISING OPTION.
It is optional and opt-in. If you, as a creator, would like to ask for a small donation to a charity helping people in need due to the crisis. you may do so as a “tip jar” addendum to your offerings post. Understand this is OPTIONAL, for both you and your requester. Many of the people participating in this fest are themselves under great financial stress due to the crisis and we do not want to pressure or guilt-trip anyone. The fest is for all, whether they can afford to donate or not.
IF you choose to do this, and your requester is able to make a donation, this should be done by a direct donation to the charity, and if the donor wants it to count to the fest total, they should send us, the mods, a screenshot of the receipt (with personal information blotted out if they prefer.) We will not make public who donated and who did not, but we will announce how much overall money was raised.
Prompted by @ttime42. 221b ficlet written for @221b-consolation
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Ridiculous. Simply ridiculous. He had been raising bees for over half a decade, and had never been stung.
Until now.
In his defense, since he had never been stung before, he had no way of knowing that he was allergic. How could John possibly blame him for not having an EpiPen on hand? Shouldn’t have that been something that *John*, as a doctor, thought of back when Sherlock had first mentioned his obsession with bees?
He was never going to hear the end of it when John came to take him home from hospital.
+++
“I can’t believe this is the first bee sting you’ve ever had. How is that possible? Are you sure you’re not fibbing so that you won’t get in trouble?”
John truly had turned into the quintessential ‘grumpy old man’.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I’m not a child, John. And you’re not my parent.”
“Feels like it sometimes,” John muttered, hands clenched tight on the steering wheel.
“Maybe you shouldn’t have married me, then,” Sherlock replied. He turned his head to stare out at the passing countryside.
The silence was tense for about ten seconds, then Sherlock heard soft chuckling. He whipped his head around to glare at his husband.
John gave him a sheepish smile. “I swear, Sherlock; it’s been thirty years, and I’m still never bored.”
for @discordantwords, who wanted Bone-Fiddle-verse Johnlock caught in a rainstorm. Rated T
The mountainside shook with a roar. Over the ridge came the familiar sound of rocks and dirt crashing, rolling down the slope.
“Mine blasting...on a Sunday?” John asked, startled.
“Evidence destruction, you mean,” Sherlock snarled and started to run towards the noise.
This is nuts, John thought. It’s two of us against a gang of heavily armed men with dynamite. If he stayed close, though, he might have a chance of stopping Sherlock.
“Sherlock - wait -” John panted, fighting through the underbrush and trying to keep sight of Sherlock in the rhododendron caves.
Neither John nor the most observant man in West Virginia had taken notice of the fact that the sky had darkened prematurely, and the deep rumbling was not all explosives. Just as Sherlock emerged onto the grassy bald, lightning splintered a stunted hickory just a few hundred yards away. “Get down, you idiot,” John yelled, grabbing Sherlock by the coat and pulling him back into the woods. Rain surged in sheets, mixed with hail. John maneuvered Sherlock into a too-small space beneath a mossy outcropping of boulders.
“Well, they’re not keeping their powder dry,” Sherlock said wryly as rain melted his curls and dragged his hair to his shoulders.
The drowned-rat sea-god look was irresistible, and John tasted the rain from his mouth, huddling in their stony bower.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Sherlock (TV)
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson
Additional Tags: Food, Sherlock forgets to eat, Comfort, (I mean I don't think it's actually hurt/comfort I didn't actually hurt him), Domesticity, I feel there should be a category of fic, where, John comes back from Somewhere and finds Sherlock in a Situation
Summary:
“When did you last eat?”
“What day is it?”
“Oh, for god’s sake - you can’t keep skipping meals like this, Sherlock.”
“It’s Lent.”
“And since when do you care about Lent?”
“Since you get chocolate eggs at Easter.”
Note: For @khorazir, who sent the prompt “Skip” for @221b-consolation, which is also this month’s Sherlock Challenge. As with most things, my mind runs to food. (It also ran, briefly, to Cabin Pressure, because, Skip, how could it not, but that’s an idea for another day.) I hope you like it!
I’m also taking prompts for the 221B virtual con, and I’m already working on one fill this weekend! I’m new to tumblr and the fandom, but I’ve posted a few Sherlock things on ao3, if anyone wants to see what I’m like before asking. Happy virtual convention, everyone!
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Sherlock (TV)
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Mary Morstan/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Characters: Mary Morstan, Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Charles Augustus Magnussen
Additional Tags: One Night Stands, Threesome, Sexual Content, POV Mary Morstan, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Breakable universe, Non-Canonical, Banter, whoops John has both nipples pierced now
Series: Part 6 of Breakable Not Broken, Part 10 of Consolation Prizes
Summary:
Sometimes you just have to try something new.
She followed them into the bedroom, waiting for her common sense to kick in and make her stop. Maybe her common sense was distracted by the way John's bare arms looked as he pushed himself down the hallway, or the lure of Sherlock's cologne, which she'd never known him to wear before today. Clearly, they had planned this together ahead of time, and assumed she would say yes. And they'd been right, apparently. But then, she didn't have much to lose, did she? Her boyfriend and the father of her child had been dead for over a year, she hadn't been with anyone else in that time, and, in fact, her libido hadn't been particularly active until tonight, when she'd re-awoken it with the thrill of the Magnussen job well done. John and Sherlock, on the other hand.... "Are you two sure about this?" she asked. "I mean, I'm willing, but you two are married. Aren't you afraid you'll regret this in the morning?"
Writtten for the best and most complex prompt I've ever gotten as part of 221B-Consolation Fest.
________________________________________
It took me 2 weeks but I finally finished the prompt @theemptyquarto gave me for @221b-consolation Fest! Definitely not a ficlet, also it never really happened! :) :) :)
@thetimemoves prompted: Sherlock and John get stuck on the side of the road with a flat tire (tyre?) that neither of them knows how to fix. For @221b-consolation
They were eight miles out of Dartmoor when the Land Rover gave a great shuddering heave and fishtailed.
"Christ," John said, as they came to a rather violent stop at the side of the road. His heart was pounding. He looked at Sherlock, noted his white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel.
Sherlock said nothing. His breathing was faster than normal.
John unfastened his seat belt, climbed out of the car. He did not have to search far to find the source of their trouble.
"Yeah," he said, as he heard the slam of Sherlock's door and the crunch of his shoes against the gravel. "It's a flat tyre."
Sherlock frowned at him, looking serious and a little bit unsettled (which, John thought, was itself a bit unsettling).
"You must have run something over," John said. He crouched down, prodded at the shredded rubber.
"I didn't see anything," Sherlock sounded almost offended.
"Could have been a nail, or glass, or—" John shrugged. "Open the boot, let's see what we've got."
Sherlock hesitated for a moment—he'd been terribly quiet all morning, likely still a bit out of sorts from the amount of hallucinogen he'd inhaled the night before—and then went back towards the car. John listened to him rummaging around for a moment.
The rummaging sounds stopped.
"All right?" John called.
Sherlock did not answer.
John sighed, struggled to his feet. He went around the back of the car to where Sherlock stood, staring into the boot with a blank expression on his face.
"Is there a jack?" John asked.
Sherlock glanced at him, his brow furrowed. He took his phone out of his pocket.
It had been a lovely spring day when they'd left Dartmoor. But now John could see clouds gathering on the horizon. The wind had picked up.
"Sherlock?"
A breeze rustled through the tall grass to his left, and he thought, briefly and half-hysterically: more dangerous than a rabbit.
Sherlock had turned to look at the grass too.
"Let's just—"
Thunder rumbled. A few fat drops of rain pattered against the car.
Sherlock had turned away from the grass, had hunched his shoulders up near his ears. He stared intently down at his phone.
"What are you doing? Put that down."
"I'm Googling."
"Stop that," John said. He swatted at the phone. "Stop it."
"Why?"
"Because I'm a soldier," John said. "I don't need a tutorial to figure out how to change a tyre."
Sherlock blinked at him. Rainwater dripped down his nose. He slowly slipped his phone back into his coat pocket.
John nudged him aside, took the jack out of the boot. Went back around to the offending tyre. Sherlock followed behind him, too close.
"You've never changed a tyre before."
"You can't possibly know that," John said, and then relented. "All right, no, I've never changed a tyre. But how hard could it be? You just take the jack, and—um—"
He cut himself off, crouched down. His shoes squelched in the mud. He stared at the tyre, waiting for it to reveal its secrets.
No secrets were forthcoming.
"You have no idea what you're doing, do you?" Sherlock asked.
"Not a bloody clue," John said. He sighed, set the jack aside. "Shit."
"I'll call for assistance," Sherlock said.
John sighed again, turned around. The rain had flattened Sherlock's hair against his skull. The effect was oddly charming.
They got back in the car. John sat and listened to the rain against the roof, breathed in the scent of wet wool and Sherlock's hair. He thought about all of the things he ought to be angry about—like being drugged and terrorised and tricked.
He did not feel particularly angry. He mostly felt fond.
That, he thought, was a bit of a problem.
Right now, though, it didn't feel like a problem. Right now, it felt just fine.
"Might be a while," Sherlock said. He frowned down at his phone, then lifted his gaze to peer through the windscreen.
John looked at him, at the way his hair had begun to dry in wild tangles, at the crinkles in his brow and the endearing curve of his downturned mouth.
"That's all right," John said. He smiled to himself, a private thing. "I don't mind."
