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Aug. 1st, 2016

JWP Masterlist 2016

Below are links to the individual fills. All of them are also in a series on ao3. Detailed characters, tags, relationships, warnings, etc can be found by following the link to the fic.
1. Reassurances (BBC, g)
2. A Calculation of Risk (BBC, g)
3. A Single Box (BBC, g)
4. An Interruption of Regular Programming (BBC, g)
5. A Sharp-Witted Tongue (BBC, g)
6. many things will change (though some will stay the same) (BBC, g)
7. A Calm Night in Sussex (ACD, pg)
8. a soul compelled to look upwards (BBC, g)
9. A Greater Science (BBC AU, pg)
10. The Deeper the Grief (BBC, pg-13)
11. An Abrupt Goodbye (BBC, g)
12. The Land of Ice and Snow (BBC, g)
13. Life, Multiplied (BBC, pg)
14. an attempt at control (or, a scale in d major) (BBC, g)
15. Loveliness and Subtleties (BBC, r)
16. In the Lobby of NSY (BBC and Doctor Who crossover, g)
17. turn the memory to stone (BBC, pg)
18. Dear Johnny (BBC, pg-13)
19. A Greater Bond (BBC, pg-13)
20. not a typical trip to Brighton (BBC, pg-13)
21. moments of intimacy (BBC, g)
22. Archie Comes to Baker Street (BBC, g)
23. the typing habits of John H. Watson (BBC, g)
24. efficiency (BBC, pg-13)
25. No Longer Ordinary (BBC, pg-13)
26. in the dark (BBC, pg)
27. Coffee Run (BBC, g)
28. an oasis (BBC, r)
29. Across the Channel (ACD, g)
30. Living With Sherlock Holmes (BBC, g)
31. rebuilding the foundation (BBC, g)

Jul. 20th, 2015

JWP 2015 Masterlist - Complete

July Writing Prompts (JWP) is a challenge hosted by the LJ comm watson’s-woes. Each day, a prompt is posted, and the goal is to write a response to each prompt. Here’s a masterlist of all my fills! Titles only, I’m afraid-- for contents, tags, warnings, etc, check each story. (All links go to AO3; at some point I may cross post to my journal on LJ, but that day is not today.)

Whole Series on AO3

Day One: The Time Has Come

Day Two: From Your Lips

Day Three: Pomegranate Trees

Day Four: Unparalleled

Day Five: Solidarity

Day Six: The Furnace That Is You

Day Seven: Cinnamon

Day Eight: Torn Asunder

Day Nine: Intentions

Day Ten: Burden

Day Eleven: Intertwined

Day Twelve: Upon Waking

Day Thirteen: When I’m Grown

Day Fourteen: Homecoming

Day Fifteen: The Elephant In The Living Room

Day Sixteen: The Loss of Control

Day Seventeen: With Your Hand In Mine

Day Eighteen: Reach

Day Nineteen: Seen By My Eyes

Day Twenty: Unsteady Feet

Day Twenty One: Appealing

Day Twenty Two: Signed, SH

Day Twenty Three: Escape Plan

Day Twenty Four: I'll Watch Over You

Day Twenty Five: An Ordinary Morning

Day Twenty Six: Deviation

Day Twenty Seven: It Was Always You

Day Twenty Eight: Bad Blood

Day Twenty Nine: To Watch From Afar

Day Thirty: The Space Between Our Words

Day Thirty One: Denouement

Jun. 16th, 2015


Title: Vulnerability
Author: biswholocked
Word Count: 930
Rating: Teen
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, Original Male Character, Sebastian Moran
Additional Tags: Post-Reichenbach, Fighting, Russia

Summary: “There is no such thing as a fair fight. All vulnerabilities must be exploited.”
Russia is cold.

Notes: Written in about four hours over a couple of days, in between job training and homework, because I've been dying to begin a series of vignettes about Sherlock's time away and now seemed like a good time to start. On AO3


Russia is cold, its bars are dimly lit, and wherever Sherlock finds himself a cloying desperation hangs in the air. Sherlock hunkers over his glass and watches the man across the bar out of the corner of his eye. They are alone in the establishment-- it’s late, and the bartender disappeared a minute earlier at a nod from Sherlock’s companion. Mikhail Radovilsky is a hulking man with an aura of danger that keeps others at bay, though Sherlock rather suspects it’s his connection to a crime ring that had the bartender fleeing. It’s why he’s here; after the wild goose chase in Prague, a new lead on one of the assassins came to Sherlock through whispers and notes, tracing back to a particular Russian mob. Radovilsky may be Sherlock’s weak link in.

Sherlock watches as Radovilsky drains his drink and stands, lumbering towards Sherlock. A heavy hand lands on his shoulder.

“You look familiar. We’ve met before?”

Sherlock takes a sip of his vodka and shakes his head. “No, I don’t think so.”

The hand tightens. “Oh, I think we have. Come, we’ll catch up somewhere more pleasant.”

Alarm shivers under Sherlock’s skin, warning bells going off in the back of his mind. Sherlock stands and shrugs his way out from under Radovilsky’s hand. “You’re mistaken.”

“I think I am not, Sherlock Holmes.” Radovilsky cracks a smile. “You did not do such a good job at hiding as you thought.”

Ice trickles down Sherlock’s spine at the words. No. How? No-one should have known, he was dead. Gone.

“Who?” he demands, stepping close. “Who told you? Who hired you?” It couldn’t have been the mob; Sherlock checked, double checked, was certain that no-one knew who he was. That no-one in the whole of Russia suspected.

Radovilsky laughs. “Doesn’t matter. You’ll be dead, soon. So will your friends,” he says confidently, reaching for the gun Sherlock knows is tucked in his waistband; when it appears Sherlock wrenches it from Radovilsky’s grip and hurls it away, then lands a blow to Radovilsky’s gut. He can hear his pulse in his ears, adrenaline fueling his strength.

Radovilsky grabs the bottle Sherlock had ordered and smashes it against his head; Sherlock’s fist connects with Radovilsky’s nose with a crunch as his vision blurs. Sherlock holds on to consciousness with grim determination, disengaging and taking a few steps back. Radovilsky follows; they clash in a flurry of uppercuts, jabs to unprotected flesh, and muttered curses. Sherlock has lost track of who has the advantage by the time he falls through the window after a kick from Radovilsky sends him spinning; his only thought is to pull Radovilsky along with him and shut his eyes.

Glass shatters as they fly through the window, collapsing onto the pavement amongst the shards. Sherlock lands on top and fire courses through his veins as he wraps his hands around Radovilsky’s neck, pressing down with unexpected strength. Radovilsky bares his teeth, grasping, and thrashes underneath him; it’s a lucky boot to the ribs that throws Sherlock off balance, and they roll into the road, grappling for dominance.

“Tell me,” Sherlock growls. Radovilsky punches him in the mouth and Sherlock tastes blood.

Radovilsky swears heavily in Russian when Sherlock retaliates. “No.”

Sherlock reclaims the top position and stares down into Radovilsky’s dark, cold eyes, and lets the deductions slip from his mouth. “You have a wife and two children, one who’s named after you. Your wife is six months pregnant, but you don’t know if it’s a boy or girl because you wanted to be surprised. She knows what you do, but not the extent of it.” Sherlock lets his right hand creep back and down his leg, still talking. “She doesn’t know that the man who sent you gave an ultimatum, that the comfortable house they spend their days in is being watched by sharks.” There. The weight of the knife Sherlock pulls from his boot is familiar, as is the flash of steel as he presses it to Radovilsky’s neck. “You’ve failed. How long do you think it will take them to find out?”

Radovilsky’s features twist with fear and rage, and struggles against Sherlock’s grip. Sherlock reminds him of the knife with a gentle nudge and a sharp elbow to the solar plexus that leaves Radovilsky gasping.

“Tell me what I want to know, and maybe you’ll have enough time to get them to safety.”

“It was all through phone calls, emails! I don’t--”

Sherlock presses the knife down harder, until a bit of blood wells up from the point. Radovilsky stares up at him with wide eyes. Sherlock drags the knife, making a shallow cut, and the Russian swallows sharply. His gaze searches Sherlock’s before he licks his lips.

“Sebastian Moran,” he says. Sherlock quirks his mouth with satisfaction, then runs fingers down on each side of Radovilsky’s neck, finding the beat of blood that marks the carotid and squeezing; his pulse gets weaker under the pressure, and Sherlock watches cognizance fade from Radovilsky’s eyes.

When Radovilsky’s breathing evens out with unconsciousness, Sherlock stands; the knife is slipped back into its holster in Sherlock’s boot. He doesn’t spare a glance at Radovilsky as he abandons him, focused on melting into the dark, becoming unseen.

“Sebastian Moran,” Sherlock whispers to himself. It’s only a name. After a year of dingy alleys and close calls, a year as a dead man, that’s all he’s unearthed. Not a face, or location, not a body in front of him. It doesn’t matter. Those shall come in time.

The game is on.



Feb. 19th, 2015


Title: Smoking
Author: biswholocked
Rating: General
Word Count: 256
Character(s): Sherlock Holmes
Summary: On hotel rooms, and cravings.
Notes: Written for the Drabble Fest 2015. The prompt was "Sherlock Holmes; smoking". Turned out a bit longer than the 221 word limit, but I figured I'd post it anyway. Also on AO3

The hotel room in Amsterdam is cold and filled with the smell of musty furniture. There are cracks running up and down the walls, but it’ll do; Sherlock drops enough money in the owner’s hand to cover two week’s worth of payment and closes the door in his face with a brusque dismissal.

He knows he has to lay low for a couple weeks, long enough for Moriarty’s network to begin lowering its watchful eyes, but inactivity makes his skin itch with craving. With a sharp huff of impatience, Sherlock runs his hand through his hair - trying to disregard how rough the newly-shorn ends feel - and unzips his suitcase with sharp movements. His stash of cigarettes and matches is sandwiched between two shirts, and with a short, sharp grin, Sherlock stuffs them in his pocket. He stalks to the window and wrenchs it open, ignoring the blast of cold air against his face as he shimmies out onto the fire escape.

The smell of sulfur makes something in his tense with anticipation, but the first drag of the cigarette makes it uncurl in his chest, relaxing his muscles. He holds his breath for a count of ten, savouring the taste of nicotine and tar on his tongue, then releases it in a plume of smoke; it lazily drifts up into the air, and Sherlock watches impassively, wiping his mind clean of London, John, Lestrade, Mrs Hudson. They will do him no favours now.

He sticks the cigarette between his lips again, then takes another steady breath.

Feb. 14th, 2015


Title: Socks
Author: biswholocked
Rating: General
Relationships/ Characters: Sherlock Holmes/ John Watson
Word Count: 442
Notes: Originally written April 2014; also on AO3
Part three of the 221 series


John was sleeping. The key word, as usual, being “was.” He felt himself being reluctantly dragged into wakefulness by someone settling down on the mattress, the extra weight forcing John to roll over slightly.

“Nmgph...Shelock, waddya doin,” he slurred, half asleep, the cobwebs of slumber still sticking to his mind. John could feel his flatmate curl up behind him and throw an arm over John’s side.

“It’s cold,” came the petulant answer, and John jumped slightly as a pinprick of ice nuzzled the back of his neck and two bloody blocks of it wrapped themselves around John’s legs.

“Jesus,” John gasped. “You’re freezing.”

“Yes John. Brilliant observation.” Sherlock’s breath was hot in contrast to his nose.

“Why?” John mumbled, starting to fall back into sleep.

“Because it's cold in the living room without you.”

“You….” John yawned and nestled further into the curve of Sherlock’s body behind him. “you should wear socks.”

“Why?” Sherlock’s voice was at a low whisper, and slower than usual. John’s mouth tipped up in a half smile-the detective would be asleep soon, hopefully.

“Because….” What had he been saying? Oh. Socks, right. “Because then your feet wouldn’t be sho cold.” He felt himself slip a little further into unconsciousness.

Sherlock hummed. “You’re slurring.”

“Shuddup nsleep.”

There was no reply except even breathing, and they slept.


“Got you something.”

Sherlock looked up from the beakers at the sound of John’s voice in time to see him set a box down on the table. (Been out to the shops, stopped for a coffee, nervous-) Sherlock paused. Nervous? Yes, or agitated, he was doing that thing where he clenched his fingers. Sherlock turned his eyes to the box (plain, from a shop, boring, so why was he so worried?) and picked it up.

“Why?” he inquired, hand on the lid.

John shrugged stiffly. “Just..thought you’d need it.”

Sherlock pried the lid off to reveal a pair of socks. (Black, long enough to wear with a suit) Why was John getting him...ah. Climbing into bed with him-the socks were a deterrent.

“I have socks, John.” Sherlock could admit, to himself, that he was a bit disappointed. He’d liked having John’s warm body next to his, being able to feel his breathing.

“Well…” John looked down and shrugged again. “Maybe you’ll wear these. It would be nice.”

Sherlock nodded. “I apologize,” he started. “For..getting in your...space.”

John looked at Sherlock, confused. “No, no that’s not-” he paused, breathed, then looked at Sherlock (shyly?). “Sherlock, I don’t mind...us, sleeping. In the same bed. You’re feet are just cold.”

Sherlock blinked. “Oh.”

John smiled. “Yeah.”

Sherlock smiled back.

Feb. 9th, 2015


Title: Dancing
Author: biswholocked
Rating: General
Relationships/Characters: Sherlock Holmes/ John Watson
Word Count: 221
Notes: Originally written April 2014; also on AO3
Part two of the 221 series


“Stop looking down,” Sherlock commanded sharply. “You’re only throwing yourself off balance.”

John stepped back and crossed his arms. “I told you this was a bad idea.”

Sherlock walked over to the stereo and switched the music to a slower, darker orchestral piece, waving John’s words away. “Nonsense,” he said. “You just have to feel. Stop worrying about the mechanics of it.” He turned back to the short doctor standing in the sitting room of 221B and unfolded his arms, taking his left hand and placing it in Sherlock’s right.

John looked at Sherlock’s face and raised his eyebrows. “This isn’t going to work.”

The taller man rolled his eyes. “Just one more time. Eyes up here.”


As they started to move, John tried to keep his eyes on Sherlock’s, and found it easier than he’d have thought. Sherlock’s eyes were captivating- a kaleidoscope of colors. They traveled around the room, and eventually John realized that the music had stopped and they slowed down in unison until they were just swaying together, and then standing still.

“See?” came the soft murmur. “Balancing. Not that hard.”

“Shut up,” said John with a soft smile. “It’s easier for you- you’re tall.”

Sherlock smirked and lowered his lips to John’s, pressing a soft and gentle kiss to them.

“It certainly has its advantages.”


Title: Morning
Author: biswholocked
Rating: General
Relationships/Characters: Sherlock Holmes/ John Watson
Word Count: 221
Notes: Originally written April 2014; Also on AO3
Part one of the 221 series


John woke slowly, the sounds of London gradually pulling him into consciousness, a dusky, early morning light shining through the window. His back was against the mattress, Sherlock thrown over him, an arm looped around his chest and their legs intertwined beneath the sheets. His breath ghosted over John’s collarbone and his hair tickled against John’s nose, filling it with the scent of match smoke, shampoo, and something that was purely Sherlock, that made him think of home and experiments and dashing through London at 2 am. A small smile on his face, eyes still closed, John lifted his left hand and wound it into the soft curls, pulling a soft purr of approval from Sherlock, who then nudged his nose into John’s neck, breathing in slowly.

“Morning,” John whispered, and Sherlock mumbled something unintelligible into John’s skin- he stirred and tried to bring his head closer to hear. “What?”

Sherlock lifted his head slightly, eyes barely open but still glaring at John. “Shut up. Don’t move. Comfortable.”

John huffed out a chuckle and continued to card his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. “Some of us do have things to do, you know. It’s chores day.”

“Do it tomorrow,” came the muffled response. A slight pause, and then more quietly, “please.”

John pressed his lips to the crown of Sherlock’s head. “Okay.”

Feb. 2nd, 2015

A Belated Hello

So...hello, livejournal!

My name is Bonnie, in case you were wondering. I'm fairly new to LJ, so I'm still finding my way around; tumblr is the main platform I use for stuff but I've recently run into some issues with it (ie restricted internet access), so I thought I'd actually start posting on here! Realistically I'm expecting this journal to be mostly a place to cross-post all of my fan fiction off of my AO3 account, and as a way to stay more up-to-date with the communities on this site. (It'll probably take me forever, because cross-posting is a pain.) I suppose at some point, when I begin to get more comfortable, I might start posting other stuff, like links to poems I like, show reviews, or original stories.

I'm not really sure what else to say...I'm sixteen years old, and from America. I've been a fan of BBC's Sherlock for about a year and a half now, and I've been writing fan fiction since about April or May of last year. I'm also a fan of Doctor Who, but I'm pretty far behind.Lord of the Rings, The Hobbit, Fargo, Third Star, The Imitation Game, and Parade's End are all fabulous. I plan to study drama at university, and my favorite color is blue-grey.

I guess that's all for now, really-- and even if I'm talking to the wide open chasm of the internet and no one actually reads this, I hope everyone has a good day!

Jan. 29th, 2015

The Inevitable Dusk (Chapter 2 Cont)

Chapter One, One cont, Two

Author's Note: This is it! I rather enjoyed writing this, despite the (many) bumps I had during the process; it was a nice piece that gave me the chance to ponder Sherlock and Mycroft's relationship, and what would happen if one of them died. Let me know what you think!
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The Inevitable Dusk (2/2)

Chapter One, One cont.

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