a short response to a prompt: Sherlock eats, he just doesn’t eat where anyone can see him. This is because he’s noticed …peculiar reactions from people who watch him eating. Or hear him eating.
He truly doesn’t understand why. Is it his fault he enjoys food that much, or is everyone except him a slave to rampant hormonal impulse?
(And then there was the night John made the risotto.)
Look, I love asexual Sherlock and gay Sherlock as much as the next fan, but, ya know, sometimes I would like to imagine myself in there. So put yourself in Sarah’s knickers shoes and enjoy this fic. (Vetted by me, with my very high standards, never thought an OT3 would work with them.) It’s a series in progress, but the author is cranking them out and they are in character, plotty and SMOKING HOT.
Surveilled is the first installment. Follow the links to the others!
“That’s all she has time to notice before Sherlock has her in a steely grip, spinning her round against one of those shelves, her arm twisted at the small of her back. His other hand seeks between her legs, up under her skirt, and she gasps in shock and suddenly blazing arousal.”
submitted by themajorkey
Sherlock/Molly: “With Molly’s assistance, Sherlock applies the scientific method to sex. He fails spectacularly at objective observation.” A pairing I never thought I’d read or enjoy but this is delicious.
Have you ever wanted to read the Sherlock Holmes stories, but never got around to it because they’re all intelligent and shit? Well, thank your lucky stars for John motherfucking Watson, who has written a new novel detailing his badass adventures with Sherlock Holmes, kicking ass and taking names.
Chapter 1: I am John motherfucking Watson, Bitches!
IN THE YEAR 1878 I got my degree of Doctor of Motherfucking Medicine from the University of London, and proceeded to Netley to go through the course prescribed for Motherfucking Army Doctors. After completing my studies there, I was then attached to the Fifth Northumberland Motherfucking Fusiliers as assistant surgeon. The regiment was stationed in India at the time, and before I could join it, the second goddamn Afghan war had broken out, so naturally I had to get in on that shit. On landing at Bombay, I learned that my corps had abandoned the hell out of me, and was already deep in enemy territory. I followed with many other officers who were in the same motherfucking situation, and succeeded in badassly reaching Candahar, where I found my regiment, and started doing my duties as a MFAD.
Because this is what the Cumberbitches needed.
There is the beep that signals that somebody has pushed a button on the phone, and then he hears the muffled voice of his sister. “Just smoke my cigarette and hush, Honey B.”
It’s like she’s pressing her hand against the receiver, as if that really blocks out all of her voice. Then there’s rustling again, and he can hear her normally.
“Now you aren’t,” she says, and her friend turns up the music a bit.
“I’ve missed you, John,” Gaga whispers. “It’s been so long.”
“You wanted to leave, Sis’,” John presses two fingers against the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes. “Father asked you, back then. ‘Do you want love,’ he asked, ‘or do you want fame?’ And what did you choose?”
She doesn’t answer. She doesn’t need to, they both know what she chose.
“You know that I love you.” Then there’s a click, and the beep-beep-beeping that tells him the call has been ended.
Yeah. Relevant to our interests?
submitted by Anonymous
He hears the click of the lock on the door before Lestrade moves toward him again.
“We need to straighten a few things out, you and I,” he tells Sherlock and it’s threatening. Sherlock slides out of his coat, tosses it onto the desk before turning to face him.
“Are you sure that’s the verb you want to use? Because I’m not sure-”
Lestrade’s mouth is on his, biting and tugging and hot. Then there are words, spoken into Sherlock’s mouth.
“I hate that I want you.” His hands are on Sherlock’s hips and Sherlock wishes his nails were digging into his skin, scraping as he thrusts.
More than that, though, he wants it to ache.
“Why?” Make it hurt, he wants to add. Make it sting.
submitted by Anonymouse
Blame Sherlock’s eyes and John’s height for this.
Sherlock is, way back in his ancestry, part Elf. John is similarly part Hobbit. Moriarty is the reincarnation of Sauron, only, y’know, not a giant flaming eyeball yet. He’s got to moult or something.
i’m not even sure i want to read this one, but the prompt itself is fucking hilarious. does the Sherlock-fandom-on-crack message need repeating?
“Alright. One hundred pounds says you can’t get a date by next week.” John offered his hand, before withdrawing it. “Actually, one hundred pounds says you can’t go on a date next week. You have to spend the entire evening with her. At least.” John raised his eyebrows.
“You can be very vulgar at times.” Sherlock informed him curtly, shaking his hand.
personally not a Sherlock/Molly shipper, but this is sort of sweet. not stupidly fluffy, no sex. not bad, really.
Mrs. Holmes (Mummy) is M. The one from the Bond movies. Retired.
certainly would explain Sherlock and Mycroft. i’d write this if i’d seen any of the Bond movies (clearly i need a Sherlock-style Bond night)…
a very sweet fic, trust me. audible n’awwws can be heard all over the world. it’s linked within the previous metafic, but i thought it needed a post of its own.
John’s list grew longer and more detailed:
* acts especially sullen and morose on Fridays
* found traces of icing on his scarf once
* sent me to buy vast amounts of eggs and sugar
* also bought a dozen baking dishes in as many days
* when arrived home last Thursday he smelled of melted chocolate
* found him brooding in chair last night; after a few hours, he suddenly exclaimed, “They should never have started to measure in cups – it was the beginning of the end.” then he went to bed
* Mrs. Hudson in on secret – why not me???
* WHAT DOES IT ALL MEAN???
