Be sure to tag each post with #teamlavender and #prompt # (ex: #prompt 1)

Do NOT tag these posts with #shernanigans

Will someone submit this for me please? Will you tell me if you do? 

AN: I took the idea of ‘choosing between two loved ones’ very liberally.I hope it still counts…

It all starts when Harry sits down on a bench in New Cross Station. The bench is black and made of metal, and it’s been baking in the sun all day, so it burns her thighs when she sits down and causes her to regret wearing a skirt for the thousandth time in five minutes. (Stupid Harry, she thinks, you’re not suited to dress like this. Do you think Clara will be impressed when she sees your giant calves and fat ankles? You really know how to seduce a girl.) There’s something bizarre going on a few yards away from her; a young woman, fully bearded and covered in fur, rolls a suitcase along the platform, and it distracts her to the point that she misses the first call. She only notices when her phone buzzes a short warning message.

‘1 missed call from John’ the screen blinks at her. ‘No new messages.’

She considers calling him back only briefly before the strange furry women distracts her again. She wonders absently if Clara is thinking about her. She hopes that she is. After a four month “breathing period” Harry isn’t able to think of much else. She keeps day-dreaming about Clara’s collarbone, so crisp and clean against her freckled chest, she wonders if her reward for three months completely dry will be to kiss it. Man, could she use a drink now… She chews her gum nervously and misses another call from John.

‘2 missed calls from John’ Her phone informs her. She should really call back, but Clara will arrive any minute now. 5:30 she said, and she was always so punctual… ‘No new messages.’

When Clara called her, (the first time in four months, lord had it been that long? Well, honestly, at the time it had felt longer.), she had practically burst into tears. “They say that separation makes the heart grow stronger,” She had said, “I miss you.” They had talked for a bit and arranged the time and the meeting place. 5:30, New Cross Station. Lunch, Clara had said, just to talk again. Well Harry had a bit more than talking on her mind, but she kept that private.

‘3 missed calls from John.’ Oh, there’s another one. ‘1 new message’. And he’s left a message this time. She should listen to it. John never leaves messages unless it’s important. Also he’s called three times. She’s being dumb. She’ll call him back.

She flips her phone open and gets the first four digits in before she feels a hand on her shoulder.

“Hello.” A voice purrs in her ear.

Needless to say she forgets about John’s call.

Watching 221B 

Blaah I am so sleepy I cannot write anything good.  Or short, apparently.

I will nap, and then try for those bonus questions.  Oh god, where is my bed.  Where am I. What.

-

Prompt: Geek Interpreter

“We’ve lost eyes on 221B, Mr. Holmes.”

If Mycroft had been a man of lesser manners, he might have groaned.  Maybe thrown up his arms and thrown around a few tea trays.  But, being in fact Mycroft Holmes after all, he simply exhaled with just enough impatience to tell his secretary, Hestia (was her name for this month), that he was not in the mood for Sherlock-sitting today.

“He found the camera?”

“Yes, Mr. Holmes.”

“I shouldn’t have had it in the coffeemaker.  I knew eventually he’d run out of Bunsen burners.”

“Yes, Mr. Holmes.”

“How long?”

“Three hours fourteen minutes.  And counting.”

“…Excuse me?”

“James Cooper is new, Mr. Holmes, he didn’t know the protocol.  Spying on two men in their flat didn’t seem urgent to him.”

“No, of course it wouldn’t”

“I believe the word he used was, ‘disturbing.’”

“Yes, mustn’t offend Mr. Cooper’s delicate sensitivities.  Meanwhile, in the three hours fifteen minutes Sherlock Holmes has been let loose into the world, England may have fallen.  Has my brother been found?”

“…No.”

“Fire Cooper.”

“Mr. Holmes, James Cooper just became a father three months ago, and his wife doesn’t earn anywhere near enough as a schoolteacher to support the both of them, plus a newborn baby.  Everybody makes mistakes.”

“This is unusual.  Are you experience a sudden awakening of human compassion?  Or are you perhaps having some sort of medical emergency?”

“Neither, Mr. Holmes.  But when you sacked Phillips you told me to remind you about these things next time.  And I also sent Cooper out to locate Sherlock himself.  He should be reporting in any moment now.”

“Ah, yes.  Of course.  Tell me, Hestia, is Dr. Watson still at work?”

“No, he returned at noon, and our CCTV south of Baker Street shows them getting into a cab together and driving away two hours ago.  Wherever Sherlock is, John is probably with him.”

“Well that’s something at least.”

—-

It was an hour before Hestia came knocking on Mycroft’s office door again.  She was holding a sheaf of papers in her perfectly manicured hands.

“Surveillance footage?” Mycroft picked up the top sheet.  His eyebrows climbed up his forehead to burrow in his scalp.

The grainy photograph seemed to have been taken on a cell phone.  There was a crowd of spectators in what looked to be Shaftesbury Ave by the architecture.  All gaping openly at a blue man with a sword fighting two black-clad ninjas.  On second glance it was clear from their posture and the wrinkles on their costumes who hid under those masks.

“What in heaven’s name are they doing now?”

“Mr. Cooper said it was something about comic books.  He also determined that it was not dangerous or illegal.”

Mycroft frowned at a photograph of Sherlock wrestling a teenager wearing a leotard and a plastic set of horns on his head.  He absently waved at Hestia to leave.

A picture of John halfheartedly punching a man whose beard extended, it seemed, down into his collar.  He was wearing a sequined mask.  The bearded man, not John.  John was wearing an expression of intense shame and embarrassment.  And also a ninja outfit that was suspiciously authentic.

Mycroft made a mental note to check up with the British Museum of Natural History. 

Few people know this, but the real reason Jim became a consulting criminal is because he used to be a struggling artist.  When he read about the Geek Interpreter case on John’s blog, he made sure he’d get hired to work on the Baker Street Boys graphic novel series.

-

UM?  I honestly sat down to write a sad, dramatic fic and then this came out instead. whatiswrongwithme- So part 3 of the prompt (character must choose between two loved ones to kill) is really tricky for this one since I’ve decided to take the dumbass route and do something silly.  Also Jim has no loved ones.

I THINK I’ll try to just add in the description that Jim had to choose which of his characters to kill first.  Then decided to just kill everyone and leave one alive.  Or something.  I’m so sleepy augh-

Also: I just reused the Generic-Female-Superhero-Contortionist-Pose for John, so his superpower is being able to twist really far around.

The Taste of Ash 

Turned my fic in at exactly the deadline! However, it means that the ending was rushed and sucky. /sobs. I was going to write a couple, but suddenly this one got so long. I tidied up a little bit, so it’s a few words different than my actual submission, but here it is if anyone wants to read it? (Also, crappy 30 second title bah.)

Sherlock wakes up with the grime of violence smeared across his mouth and all through his hair. His chest is throbbing (two broken ribs, possible punctured lung… No, not a punctured lung, just feels like one.), the sound in his left ear is muffled (not new, but troubling all the same.), and his head is banging out Chopin’s Revolutionary Etude at a force and volume that’s going to make him sick if it doesn’t shut up quickly. That’s not what’s concerning him though, what’s concerning him is that there is a roof over his head that most certainly doesn’t belong to him. 

Keeping his movement to a minimum, he assesses his surroundings. It’s actually held together quite well when compared to most of New London’s flats nowadays; there’s still glass in the windows and the yellow bruise of water stains creep sullenly only in the corners. The place looks lived in enough that he thinks that there might be some water for him to steal before he makes his escape. (if an escape is necessary, which it probably will be.) Actually, it’s strangely nice- nicer than his own flat, and he’s been foraging for years. He’s able to scrape together some information (tilt of items means owner is left-handed coat on couch belongs to a man of average to below average stature there are candles which means he’s practical but there are also lamps which are useless and so therefore he’s sentimental the blinds haven’t been drawn in seven to eight weeks so he’s either cautious or just dumb enough not to care too much about it the number of locks on the door points to the former useless items show sentimentality placing of furniture shows thought out escape routes possible military training more information needed.) about the owner of the room with a cursory glance, and it’s enough for him to assume that at the very least he hasn’t been abducted by a Firefly. (they never live alone, and the man here certainly does. Also, their logo isn’t spray-painted all over the damn place, and God knows Firefly’s can’t seem to go five minutes without marking their territory. Oh, how I despise gangs.) This could be a very bad sign or a very good one in the long run, but since Sherlock’s not as simpleminded as the rest of the godforsaken planet he chooses not to wait around and find out. He rolls onto his side and- 

“Please don’t move too quickly, your head will start to bleed again.” Says a voice from directly behind him. 

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guys, I think I did a bad thing

I pulled an Of Mice and Men at the end (and then made it even worse)

but, despite that, I hope it turned out okay, even though it was a bit rushed

so, very dark and angsty. Also (major and minor) character deaths abound.

—

“Sherlock, they’re getting passed the barricade!” John threw his weight on the flimsy wooden door, hoping it would be enough to impede the coming invasion. Sweat beaded his brow, dripping a hot trail down his left temple. He tried to swipe the moisture away with his shoulder, but it was no use.He had to focus on keeping that door closed at all cost. “Now would be a fantastic time for one of those brilliant ideas of yours!” Sherlock blinked over and over, pacing the small confines of the closed in space.

Yes, he needed to think, think of something, anything, to get them out of this situation ended in their certain deaths. He racked his brain, moving quickly through his mind palace, unaware of the crazy gestures he was making. Think, think, think he had to think.

Sherlock could not afford to get distracted by the wailing coming from just outside or the bloodcurdling screams of their comrades falling one by one, their defenses falling with every sickening thud, signaling the death of yet another. Who would it be this time, Lestrade, Dimmock perhaps? He couldn’t be sure, he just knew that concentration was key and somewhere in that great mind of his held a solution to their seemingly imminent downfall.  If only he had more time, but that was a luxury they no longer possessed.

“Time!” Sherlock demanded.

 “Around five minutes if they don’t get through”- The sound of shattering glass accompanied with more shouts and groans filled the room. Sherlock opened his eyes wide, not even making an attempt to hide his panic. “Make that about two and a half minutes,” John breathlessly exclaimed, dread making his voice shake. The doctor did not fear death, he worked alongside it far too long, he only wished their time together wouldn’t have been cut so incredibly short.

If things were different, they could have kept chasing cases, maybe even retired after a good number of years, living in complete companionship, filled with each other’s presence and admiration, but that wasn’t the case. There would be no happy retirements or pleasant days spent on the porch, reading a book in the golden sunshine, there was just here and now. John would much rather think about the days that never were as opposed to the painful death he was about to encounter besides his best friend. John looked back over at Sherlock who had returned to his mind palace.

There was a sense of calm about him, even when he was gesticulating so wildly. His brows were only slightly furrowed, pale skin hardly marred by wrinkles. Right now, his face was an impenetrable mask of stoicism. After that brief flash of panic he shot at him, his face reverted back to that marble, untouchable quality that only Sherlock could maintain.

John allowed himself one selfish moment to drink in the otherworldly beauty his friend held in such disregard: the sharp angles of his face, those bloody impossible cheekbones, the ever-changing eyes, the dark mop of curls that shined even in the dim light of the cramped room, his long, lean frame. Everything associated with Sherlock became forever ingrained in his memory. No matter what happened next, he wanted his closest friend, the person he truly loved, to be in his mind’s eye. When John blinked it was Sherlock and he would not have it any other way.

The sudden thumping against the door brought him back to reality. They were here and they would stop at nothing until the pair became one of them. John braced himself, blinking through the oncoming tears. He heaved several heavy breaths before looking at his partner.

“Sherlock, they’re here.” Sherlock gulped, knowing full well that he could not stop what was about to happen. They were dead; the severity of the harsh reality came crashing down on him.

“I…I can’t—I don’t know what to do, I’ve got nothing, John, how could I have nothing? We’re going to die and it’s my fault. Why couldn’t I be cleverer?” Sherlock all but shrieked, pulling at his ruffled curls. He looked to be on the point of a breakdown and John’s heart broke for him. The unthinkable had happened: his own mind had failed them both. John wanted to hold him, but to leave the door meant to have a swarm fill the room and that was the last thing he wanted.

“No, Sherlock, you were brilliant, you’re always brilliant. Now come here and help with this door.” Sherlock rushed to John’s side, pushing back on the pounding door.

“I know it’s not enough, but it will just have to do,” Sherlock smirked, any mirth absent from his voice. John looked over at his profile, smiling slightly.

“Well, at least it will give us a chance to…you know…” John did not want to say the words. Sighing heavily, Sherlock banged his head back against the door. The only sound came from behind the door, the pounding filling their ears. Both men shook beside each other.

“John?” Sherlock asked, breaking the silence.

“Yes?”

“I…I’m scared. I don’t want to die. Not now, at least, and certainly not like this,” Sherlock’s voice trembled, his pretentious, self-satisfied demeanor crumbling in front of John. Horror roiled off his thin body in waves. This was not going to be pleasant, no matter how they looked at it. Sherlock was clever alright, more than clever enough to know how messy and agonizing the process will be. John took hold of his hand, gripping it tight in his strong grip. Tears flowed as he stared at his friend.

“I’m not going to say it’s going to be okay, because we both know it’s not, but I will say that I’ll be here the entire time. The running’s over, Sherlock, I will not leave your side, no matter what.” John tried to hold back his sobs. He knew what he had to do. “Now, why don’t you tell me about the first time we met?” Sherlock stared blankly at him until light flashed in his bright eyes.

“I asked to borrow your phone, of course. It was at St. Bart’s and I had just gone from the mortuary to tend to my other experiments and then you and Stamford walked through the door. I, of course, knew all about you. Not counting the detail about your sister, but there always has to be something, does there not?” Sherlock smiled a true, all encompassing grin. John’s heart lifted as he saw it appear.

“Yes, quite right,” John reached into his jacket, hand shaking. “Go on, tell me about our first chase together.” He gripped the handle hidden safe inside and slowly withdrew it.

“Ah, yes, that was quite a thrill. Of course, it was more to prove my hypothesis of your limp being psychosomatic that was not entirely conducive to our case, but it was an absolute rush. And it was…nice to have someone by my side. Your steady breath comforted me, kept my mind absolutely fixed on catching up to that blasted cab. Although your short legs struggled to keep up, you did, which thoroughly surprised me. It takes a lot to surprise me.

“For example, I was surprised how you killed for me, without knowing me for more than several hours.” Sherlock turned to John, not realizing the arm rising to his head, gun attached to it. His eyes blazed into John’s as he spoke, “You are amazing John, incredible, my conductor of”- Sherlock was cut off by a short, quick bang. Blood seeped from the wound in his temple. His body slumped to the ground.

“I know, love, I know. Everything’s going to be alright now, just you wait.” John leaned down to press his lips on Sherlock’s pale forehead before putting the gun to his temple, pulling the trigger.

Homg I dunno what this is.  I really wanna write stuff for this prompt, but I really wanted to draw John in Rambo mode (but just a shot gun cuz I don’t know how to draw those things/no time for references).  I just scratched this up in like 20 minutes, hopefully I’ll have time later to finish it. *crosses fingers*

Any ideas for what Sherlock should be holding?  I thought maybe some alien thing that caused the apocalypse. (A little robot?  The head of a Weeping Angel?  Or maybe I can just put Skully in there, as Sherlock has gone mad and carries it around always.)

Music like this makes me write like a pretentious douche. 

Sometimes, when John runs with Sherlock, he tastes starlight.
There is a certain power you get when you’re watching the flap of Sherlock’s coat as he pursues a criminal, John’s felt it. It’s a bit like the feeling he got when he saved a soldier from bleeding out- it’s a certain sense of living that he’s never really been able to obtain on his own. He’s not sure if it’s a sense of purpose he’s after, or just a cheap thrill, but after finally finding it after life as a soldier he knows that he’s hooked. It’s his own personal addiction, and Sherlock is his unfortunate drug dealer.
As a kid, he’d always had a thing for superheros- It probably explained his career choice, getting high off saving lives- and he, quite ridiculously, feels like he is one. Like he’s making history. Like his spine is a book that Sherlock could run his dexterous fingers down and he would explode in a supernova of a million pages so that the world could read his story- their story.
And then, in the peri-winkle early morning moments, when Sherlock’s €800 shoes are slapping against the concrete and the next serial killer psycho-murder is getting away from them, John will start to laugh. And the noise will ricochet through the alleyway and all the way to the underground where it will fill all of London because John can feel the cosmos turning under his feet as the world shifts as he saves lives and catches bad guys and laughs and laughs and laughs and lives. Sometimes Sherlock will ignore him, but others he will half turn to grin his stupid grin at his blogger, and John will see the rest of the universe in his impossible eyes. Because when Sherlock had asked him if he wanted a bit more danger and he had said God Yes he had really, really meant it.
Sometimes, when John runs with Sherlock, he tastes starlight.

AUTHOR NOTE PLEASE READ: Can one of the team leaders please submit this for me? I can’t do it from my phone. D: the song was the second one, and don’t bother with a title.

I completely forgot I had volunteer work to do today

and it’s from 4-8

I am so upset because this prompt is my absolute favorite and I was brainstorming last night while listening to the pieces and just ugh

Journal of Sally Donovan 

There was another one of those suicides today, over at Lauriston Gardens. Lestrade called in the freak again, and this time he brought along a “colleague”. Why Lestrade even let’s him on our scenes, I will never know, and now he’s bringing random strangers with him, it’s absolutely unacceptable! We’re the police, it’s our case, we can handle it. He’s just some psychopath who fancies dead people. If it was up to me, Sherlock Holmes wouldn’t ever get past the police tape. Lestrade just doesn’t see what I see, but like I told the “colleague”, one of these days, the Sherlock will do something, and then Lestrade will see, but by then it’ll be too late.

I swear there must be something going on between Lestrade and Sherlock. No, actually I know there’s something going on between them. It’s so obvious, I know what an affair looks like. Every single case we get, no matter how simple, I know Lestrade’s just itching to call him in.  And he always puts up with all the shit Sherlock pulls (just this week he was texting reporters during press conferences, making us, the police, look like idiots) It’s absolutely horrible how Sherlock treats people (especially poor Anderson), but Lestrade just excuses his behavior, saying “that’s how he works, it’s part of the process”. Lestrade is the closest thing Sherlock has to a friend, and now he’s been sucked into thinking that Sherlock Holmes is a giant and the rest of us are just pathetic little insects for him to squish. He idolizes Sherlock so much, it’s no wonder his wife is leaving him. I am so fed up with all of this. Lestrade needs to be a real detective, do his own investigating, and leave his boy toy at home.