#sherlock ff

[willow-ashes]

Reading any Sherlock Holmes short story: feLLAS IS IT GAY —

[fandom-imagines]

Anderson's Theory

Fandom: Sherlock

Pairing: Sherlock X Reader

Warnings: Spoilers for S2 E3. 

It had been two years since Sherlocks suicide.

Had you told him before he had died that Anderson would be theorising how he had faked his death, he would never have believed you, but here we are.

“This phone call, it’s-it’s my note.” Sherlocks voice wavered as he said this, making sure to keep his eyes trained on John as to not arouse suspicion to the people behind him dragging away Moriarty’s body. “It’s what people do, don’t they? Leave a note.”

“Leave a note when?” John asked, voice shaking with nerves along with panic.

“Goodbye, John.” Sherlock said, a bittersweet smile gracing his lips.

“No, don’t.”

What John didn’t know was that, as the two friends spoke, a group of people were preparing to throw Moriarty’s body on the ground in place of Sherlocks, face covered with a mask.

John watched as Sherlock tossed the phone to the ground, landing with a quiet bang.

“Sherlock!” John yelled, desperate for his best friend to come down from the roof. Only he didn’t, instead he spread his arms and leapt off the roof all while John watched in horror before being knocked to the ground by a man on a bike so that he wouldn’t see the rope tied around Sherlock’s body to prevent him from actually hitting the ground.

All while this was happening, Y/N stood watching from the window of St. Barts hospital. Just as Sherlock was about to hit the ground, he bounced back up, crashing through the window to meet Y/N’s gaze. He quickly rid himself of the cable attached to him, ruffling his hair before placing his hands on the girl’s cheeks with a hard, yet gentle touch. His lips graced hers for a moment, giving her just enough time to copy his movement before he dashed off leaving Y/N in a state of shock. All while this was happening, Moriarty’s body, now disguised as Sherlock’s, was being placed at the bottom of where Sherlock has supposedly jumped from as the men that had disguised him placed fake blood on the ground, hoping that John was too in shock to notice it was fake, being a doctor and all.

Doctors and nurses ran towards the body just as John managed to climb back onto his feet.

“John, look at me and sleep.” A bald-headed man said, causing John to pass out for a moment giving the unnamed man just enough time to set back Johns watch, only by a few moments.

“And you will awaken in three, two, one…” He said, walking away before John could get a good look at his face.

Sherlock was now walking down the empty corridors of St Barts, leaving Y/N and life behind all while John was panicking over his best friends ‘dead’ body on the ground, now being lifted away onto a stretcher.

“Bollocks!” Greg spat, seemingly unconvinced by Andersons guilt-ridden theory.

“No! It all makes sense; that’s how he did it! It’s obvious!” Anderson grinned, impressed by his supposed knowledge on Sherlocks suicide.

However, that isn’t exactly how it went down.

John was there, yes. He was also knocked to the ground, that is true but Y/N? She was at 221B, desperately waiting for her two friends to return as she nervously bit her nails. So, Andersons theory may have been incorrect, however there was some truth behind it.

Sherlock had kissed Y/N, but it was before him and John left, Sherlock knowing how this would end and wished to give the girl one final memory of him, the man she had admired for years.

And so he did, meaning that Y/N was even more of a mess after his ‘suicide’ believing that kiss to be the start of a beautiful relationship, which it was. When he returned.

There was a loud, almost obnoxious, knock on the Y/H/C haired girls door.

She nervously answered, wondering who it would be.

The second she opened the door, she was met with the biggest shock in her life.

“Sherlock?” She asked, eyes wide.

“That is my name, yes.” The curly-haired man stated as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“You dick.” She chuckled bitterly, “You utter dick.”

“You know you love it.”

She shook her head before pulling him into a tight hug.

“I missed you.” She mumbled into his coat.

Sherlocks hand reached her hair, gently stroking it in a comforting manner.

“Me too, Y/N. Me too.”

[fandomtrashoe]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Published the Sherlock x OC fic I’ve been working on for 6 years on ao3 now and hope to finally pick it up again and finish it. Pray for me. Here’s also a trailer for the fic:

[ebdaydreamer]

Immortals - You pull the blackout curtains down

Fourth Fic for my Sixteen Fics challenge

Fandom: Sherlock

Pairing: Irene/Sherlock

Warnings: N/A

She showed up at his door, soaking wet, bruised and covered in glitter.

[AO3]

She showed up at his door, soaking wet, bruised, and covered in glitter.

“Bad day?” Sherlock joked as he took in the sight, retrieving her coat from where she’d dumped it on the floor as she’d stormed in. The coat itself was glitter free and not even that wet, meaning she’d gotten soaked before it had started raining.

“Just...don’t, Sherlock,” Irene snapped, running her finger through her knotted hair and slumping onto John’s seat. At least she wasn’t covering his chair in glitter.

Motionless, she gazed into the fire. Sherlock pretended to ignore her presence completely, resuming work on a case. He could try and pry information out of her, but he suspected she was on the verge on the rant as it was, so it would prove more time-efficient if he simply waited for her to talk.

After a few silent minutes, she got up and headed towards the bathroom. He soon heard running water and a faint half sigh half groan. Smirking, he put his work aside and grabbed his violin and began to play absentmindedly. It took him far too long to notice that he’d thoughtlessly been playing the song he composed fo- whilst he believed her dead. The song that he loathingly admits reminds him of her.

Irene came back into the room, hair tied on top of her head, draped in his blue dressing gown. The playing ceased, and he sat down opposite her, violin still in hand.

Plucking at the strings, he began the questions; “It wasn’t raining outside.”

“A car splashed me. I got cold so I put the coat on.”

“Your bruises?”

“Let’s say I got into more physically dangerous trouble than usual and needed the comfort of London again.”

Raising his eyes from the instrument, he retorted, “I’d hardly call London comforting.”

“It’s the closest I ever got to home.”

Her eyes grew dark and solemn, so he let a few moments pass before asking his last question.

“The glitter?”

She snapped into focus, eyes meeting his and for a second, he truly believed that the eyes were the window to the soul, as he observed several intense emotions pass through her. Then it was over, and the gaze of steel returned.

“I sat next to a child on the plane.”

His fingers on the violin strings froze. His spine stiffened. Yes, that would make sense.

It had been three years since The Unspoken Incident.

[bbcsassdeadass]

Mycroft appreciation post because he fucking deserves it.

[silverliningjohn]

Ok, peeps I need your knowledge! To be precise, your knowledge in fanfiction! I’ve read a couple Sherlock fics but the last time I did was years ago and I want to dive back into it! SO tell me what your favourite fics are! I’ve got quite a few left in my bookmarks, things I’ve saved from time to time when I read something good about it but tbh I’d love to read what y’all are loving atm, so fill me in!

[ebdaydreamer]

‘Who loves you?’

The Tales of the Posh Boy and the Dominatrix: Part 6

Summary: Sherlock contemplates his relationship with The Woman

Spoilers for TFP

Thanks again to @fanfic-phoenix for proofreading!

Other parts

[AO3] [FFN]

“I imagine it isn’t a very long list.”

At the time, Sherlock had barely registered what Mycroft’s question; far too busy hearing all the pieces click into place as he realised who the coffin was for.

In all honesty, he expected Mycroft to be right - he wouldn’t think the list to be very long, and six years ago it wasn’t. Six years ago, he’d barely put his parents on the list. Six years ago, even those who tried to care for him wouldn’t make the list. Six years ago, he barely remembered what love was.

Now, he let himself contemplate his brother’s words. Over the course of six years, ever since John came into his life and he moved under Mrs Hudson’s roof, he’d learned to care and even how to love others, meanwhile realising just how deeply he could love. Now, he could happily list his overbearing parents along with Lestrade, whom he no longer viewed as merely a means to his next high. He could list Mrs Hudson who brought him tea every day - not because she was his housekeeper, but because she cared. He could list the Watson’s: the man who taught him the care, the woman that trusted him, and his darling goddaughter. He once could’ve listed Victor Trevor, the friend that made him who he was today. He could list Molly, whose friendship he valued deeply and had carefully worked to restore. He could even list his siblings, who both cared in their own, unique way.

Then there was John’s suggestion.

John believed him to be in love with the Woman, or at least have some romantic attachment towards her that would ‘complete him as a human being’. Despite learning how to love, he didn’t know if he was capable of romance, and the overwhelming amount of intimacy and openness that it required. She too seemed hardly eager to jump into declarations of love, though she definitely understood it better than him. Did he care for Irene Adler? Absolutely, there was no arguing the incredibly dangerous rescue mission he took for her. And yes, he felt they’d reached a level of open and vulnerable intimacy during their time in Karachi, and that time in Paris...and New York, Rio de Janeiro, Montenegro, Sorrento, Finland, Turkey, Prague, Amsterdam, New Jersey and, most recently, High Wycombe. But to be in love? No, most definitely not. That wasn’t for either of them.

When he considered it, he knew that his relationship with Irene was the closest he was capable to a ‘romantic relationship’. He regarded her as an admirable intellectual sparring partner, a talented work associate, and most definitely a thrilling sexual partner.

Partners, he liked that.

The Woman and he would never be in love, or have a typical romantic relationship, but he held some kind of love for her, and they shared an intimacy he never had, and never would again share with anyone else. Their guards were at their lowest and their highest around each other, depending on the situation. They communicated in many ways unique to them: words and body. John might tell him this is what a romantic relationship entailed, but again: that wasn’t for either of them.

He brought this up with her in High Wycombe, after discussing the Black Pearl, having dinner, having dinner and debating the stupidity of her relocation to the UK...not necessarily in that order.

She gave a lazy chuckle when he questioned if she thought they’d ever have that kind of relationship, replying, “Oh dear God, no. Not a chance, darling. Far too ordinary for us, don’t you agree?”

“Obviously,” he freed his arm from underneath her and rolled onto his back, letting out a deep sigh as he did.

She shifted so she could see him, read his expression and seek his inner thoughts - of which she has proven to be particularly good at finding.

“Then why do you ask? You didn’t seriously worry that I thought that, did you? If so, Mr Holmes, you flatter yourself far too much,” she grinned.

“Don’t worry, Miss Adler, I assure you I wasn’t.” He didn’t meet her gaze, focusing on the ceiling. “It was just something...when we were at Sherrinford.”

“Ah,” she realised. She knew that his first encounter with his sister was a particularly emotional topic for him. “What was it?”

“You remember the coffin for Molly Hooper?” He heard her hum in recognition. “Well, when Mycroft asked who it was, he stated it wasn’t a very long list, and the John recommended you.”

She rolled over onto his chest, forcing him to face her. “Hmm,” she ‘thoughtfully’ traced her fingers around his chest. “And is it? Who loves you, Mr Holmes?”

“More than I thought.” He began to retaliate by steadily drawing circles up from her lower waist to her shoulder blade, revelling in the goosebumps that formed underneath his touch. “It’s a shame that when playing the Game, loved ones tend to be weaknesses.”

“Indeed,” she breathed, inching her face closer to his. Her delicate fingers strolled carefully across his collarbone, inching their way up his neck as he choked, feeling constricted in the lack of oxygen between him and Irene.

He knew she understood the dangers of loved ones all too well, a solid reason to keep herself distanced from...well, everyone. “And did you want to know,” she whispered, as their noses grew a hair width apart, “if you should add me to the list?”

He stopped his fingers in the middle of her back, dragging them down to meet her ribcage. He tapped a nonsensical rhythm teasingly light against them, resisting the urge to grin at her heightened breathing rate and quicker pulse. He leaned forwards off the bed, lips brushing momentarily against her ear before challenging, “You tell me, Miss Adler.”

He leant back and saw that her pupils had doubled in size, and this time he couldn’t hold back the smirk.

She pressed a kiss to his chest, “I love working with you.” She slid her hand down his chest, landing where her lips had just been, “Tracking down the dangerous and kicking some arse.”

She kissed his shoulder, “I love playing our game; the rush, the anticipation of waiting for you to find me. Seeing if you’ll come.”

She kissed his jaw, her voice dropping drastically, “I love the song you wrote about me.”

She kissed his forehead and he tightened his grip on her, “I love that big, sexy brain of yours.”

She kissed his cheek before muttering in his ear, and he could feel her smirk, “And I love the sex.”

Before he could move again, she had pushed herself back, allowing him to see her face properly. She spoke again, her voice back to its normal volume, a taunting smirk on her lips, “And I guess your company isn’t so bad.”

Not allowing her to make another move, he pulled her down, crashing her lips to his. After a Lord he didn’t believe in knows how many minutes they broke apart in a sigh of relief, and it registered to him that, though her words were genuine, their bodies had been playing a familiar game - one he’d just lost.

She beamed in victory, cheeks flushed with something else entirely. “I suppose,” she pondered, “I do love you, Mr Holmes - just as you love me. But not at all in the way Doctor Watson assumes.” She kissed him briefly on the lips, before finally confirming his theory, “That’s just not for us.”

No, he thought, it’s not.

But ordinary people are boring.

[ebdaydreamer]

‘Play you’

The Tales of the Posh Boy and the Dominatrix: Part 3

Summary: Sherlock decides to take John’s advice.

Spoilers for TFP

(So this isn’t heavily adlock but I have Holmes siblings feelings)

Thanks again to @fanfic-phoenix for proofreading!

Other parts

[AO3] [FFN]

“Play you,” she instructed.

“Me?”

“You.”

The first notes are in his head before the bow touches the strings, before he can even think what would be ‘playing him’. He didn't know what possessed him to play The Woman's tune, yet the second the first note sang off the strings and his body went on autopilot, he knew he that this was ‘him’ - the deepest parts of him. It represented the core of his emotions; physically, romantically, and of course…

“Oh! Have you had sex?”

The concentrated scrunch of his brows unfolded, and he felt his pulse elevated. How the hell had she known from those so few notes? When he wrote this he and Irene hadn't even-

Oh.

Did his blindingly obviously sentiments date to all the way back then?

No wonder John insisted he had feelings for The Woman.

“Why do you ask?” he kept his tone steady, not letting himself reveal anything: Mycroft was watching after all.

“The music. I've had sex,” she announced. Sherlock felt himself get a tad uncomfortable, and finally felt himself understand the dislike for discussing one’s family members sex life.

“How?” Well he had to know, didn't he? Bleach was always available to his brain later.

She appeared thoughtful, wandering inside her memory. “One of the nurses got careless. I liked it. Messy, though, people are so breakable.”

He choked down the small amount of bile that rose in his throat and focused on the melody, continuing his questions, “I take it he didn't consent.”

“He?” she asked, seeming surprised, offended, even a little bit scolding.

Sherlock fought the urge to point out that he didn't exactly have a way of knowing, considering he'd forgotten her. What could possibly have been so tragic that he erased his own sister completely? He tried again, “She?”

She shrugged, “Afraid I didn't notice in the heat of the moment and afterwards,” she paused, and Sherlock could see his hand begin to waver as dread filled him. “Well, you couldn't really tell.”

He kept his stare on her. Never had he had to put so much effort in keeping his face emotionless, and still he felt like he was failing spectacularly, and Eurus could see the fear and disgust all too plainly. It felt almost sick, playing the song he wrote in honour of Irene whilst she described revolting acts he assumed were only minor to her. Irene may be a manipulative sex worker but he recalled one meeting where they watched crappy old films and he somehow received a lecture on the importance of consent - especially in her field of work.

“Is that vibrato or is your hand shaking?”

And with that he ceased playing, removing his thoughts away from Irene Adler to his psychotic sister.

*

It was ironic, how warm stepping inside the building was when you considered the people in there were enough to make even the bravest warrior’s blood turn cold. But nevertheless, no matter the season, the air was glacial every step it took to get from the helicopter to the prison, and Sherlock’s fingers were numb as they gripped his violin case. He was almost used to the feeling, he visits had become regular enough.

He was led to Eurus’ cell with ease now, the non-enslaved guards recognising him instantly. Besides, it wasn't like this place got a lot of visitors.

Once in Eurus’ room, he shed his coat and retrieved the violin. “Hello Eurus,” he greeted. Wordlessly, she took one glance at him before rushing to her violin, getting ready to play. He smiled affectionately at her childlike actions: she still hadn't spoken, and apparently these visits were the only real response anyone ever got from her.

Resting the violin under his chin, he spoke to her before raising his bow. “We're going to do something a little different today, sis,” he told her, grinning as he addressed her. Over the past few months he'd grown attached and near-protective of his little sister, and he'd started to look forward to instead of dread their time together. He no longer worried about saying the wrong thing or triggering her in any type of way - not until today.

“I know last time Mummy and Daddy and Mycroft were all here, and they thought you were wonderful, by the way,” he added, knowing that her eyes would light up at the mention of her parents and siblings thinking she had done something good. “But this time we're going to play something a little different, is that ok?”

When he got no clear negative response, he carried on, “When I first came here, you told me to ‘play me’ and I,” he chuckled to himself, “I admit subconsciously the song probably was ‘me’ but I wrote it about someone else- for someone else, really.” He finally raised his bow. “So Eurus, I'm going to teach you a song, in honour of a truly spectacular woman: The Woman.”

And like clockwork, he began to play.