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Published:
2015-03-11
Updated:
2015-10-09
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2,102
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9/?
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221 B-days

Summary:

221B ficlets for your birthday! Yes, that's right, yours! Ratings and tags vary by chapter. Still taking prompts if you'd like to be included!

Notes:

Chapter 1: February 7, 2013 - for testosteronetea - prompt: internet

Summary:

John must be going mad. This is a mad thing to do. Absolutely mad.

His lips move silently as he reads his words back, his finger hovering over the delete button.

Notes:

"It wasn't because he had to but because it was a game of wits. He wasn't going to let this other arrogant, pompous psychopath win. Which is when someone shot the taxi driver. Someone like that's bound to have enemies so it shouldn't have been a surprise but I hadn't seen anyone shot since Afghanistan. It's something you never really get used to. That someone could have the power of life and death over someone else - but I'm glad whoever it was did it, because they undoubtedly saved Sherlock's life."
~The blog of Dr. John H. Watson, A Study in Pink

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

John must be going mad. This is a mad thing to do. Absolutely mad. 

His lips move silently as he reads his words back, his finger hovering over the delete button. 

He sucks in a breath. Anyone reading this might see. Anyone. It might've been fine if he'd come forward—an investigation and more therapy and a major favour from Sherlock's poncy brother—but he let Sherlock talk him into a cover up. What was he thinking? He's a normal person! He's not above the law, he doesn't belong to this mad world of archenemies and police chases and poison riddles. 

His phone is ringing; Ella again. She will not be pleased.

Except... his leg is working. It's stopped hurting, stopped seizing, started supporting his weight. He feels alive again, flush with adrenaline, with purpose, with the fact of his own necessity. He's seeing in colour again, he can taste his food and feel the sun on his skin, 
he wants to laugh and shout and run until his lungs give out. 

There's a hissing noise from the kitchen, followed by a thin, dry thwack. Sherlock is cursing in that plummy voice and the room is filling with thick, blueish smoke.

Laughing, John abandons his blog and throws the windows open. Leave normal for Ella. At least he won't be bored. 

Notes:

This is a 221-birthday fic for the lovely and generous testosterone-tea! I'd wanted to get it posted earlier, but ended up on a plane all day... I wish you a fantastic day and a fantastic year ahead! Happy birthday!

I'd never done a 221B before and it turned out to be a fun challenge! It'd be interesting to do more of these, so if you're interested, leave me your birthday and a prompt in the comments! The prompt for this one was "internet," by the way.

Thanks for reading!

Chapter 2: "Shower" - bottomlock5eva - prompt: steamy

Summary:

Two short words. Seven little letters.

It would have been so simple.

Notes:

Happy birthday, bottomlock5eva! Your prompt, “steamy”, got away from me so I added a second fic to make up for the birthday-inappropriate content. Hope you’re having a great day!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Two short words. Seven little letters.

NOT
 DEAD

It would have been so simple.

He’d thought about it, he had—he’d lingered in the humidity, scowling at his reflection, contemplating John’s routine, the rate of condensation, knowing it was safe. He’d imagined John’s open face, how his eyes shift, how his voice creaks over lies. He’d imagined John’s skull cracked, eyes dark and opaque as blood and brain on the pavement, and he’d bit his tongue and wiped the steam away.

Now, he thinks of nothing but time lost, trust broken. The flat emptiness in John’s voice when they talk of Mary, the disk and the baby, the future.

He wrenches the faucet right and thinks of nothing and lets it burn.

 

 

John wakes with a pit in his stomach and a panic that means Sherlock. He can hear the water running. His feet are on the stairs before he’s thinking.

When he opens the door, he’s blinded by a wall of steam so thick and hot he can’t breathe. The shower curtain is torn and Sherlock is curled in a ball beneath the spray.

“Hey,” says John, and he’s taking off his jumper, stepping into the bath to grab Sherlock under the arms. “Hey, what…”

Sherlock turns and presses his face into John’s thighs. His bandages are soaked and dangling, his chest seeping pink. His fingers are digging in to the curve of John’s arse and he is trembling, rubbing his face against the placket of John’s trousers.

“Please.” He’s tugging at John’s hips, exposing skin and mouthing blindly. “Please, John, I’m sorry.”

John pulls Sherlock up to his height, steadies him against the wall. “Sherlock, you’re bleed—”

“Please,” he says.

So John takes him to bed. It’s a terrible idea, terrible timing, but oh, it’s sublime to spread Sherlock out, finally, to peel off his clothes and all those layers of hurt, to taste his skin and his sweat and the words that fall unbidden from his lips. To breathe from his lungs, to curl sated around him, souls laid bare.

 

 

 

Notes:

In the first one, Sherlock had wanted to leave a pre-Reichenbach message in the mirror steam to tell John he was alive. They say not to explain the joke, but anyway, I was insecure about whether that had come across properly. Thanks for reading!

Chapter 3: 57 Missed Calls - xsillyrabbitzx - prompt: screen

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

 

how’s your tan? lucky bastard… it’s quiet down NSY, but you owe me a proper night after that stag night disaster! ring me if you get a chance.

Seen 11:38

 

“Your sister thinks you’re dead, you know. Did you get milk? ”

“Ah. Ta.” John sets the bag down.

“Call her, John.” Mary shakes her head. “Honestly, you’re staring at your phone all day—you can’t pick it up once in a while?”

 

 

John,

A quick note cause I’m not sure you’ve been getting my calls—have you changed your number? I just wanted to thank you for recommending me. The job’s perfect and everyone’s been lovely. Once I’m settled in, let’s you, me, and Sarah go for drinks—my treat!

Best,

Marjan

 

 

Made too much again and thought I’d share.
Rang and rang, but nobody answered.
Hope they keep in this heat…
~Martha

 

 

“John, this is Mike. Guess you’ve gone all tech now—can’t reach you without email, ah? Anyway, now you’re home, I thought we might catch up. Could use an evening down the pub—it’s A-levels and Laura’s making her mum crazy—and I want to hear all about Aruba. Bye now.”

 

Dead florist. Decapitated, left hand partially degloved. Interested?

where?

Phlox Flowers, back entrance.

be there in 20.

 

i’ve missed this.

Good to have you back.

Notes:

Happy 20th, xsillyrabbitzx! For your prompt, I couldn't resist writing trash!John screening his calls (and doing a teeeny fix it on HLV in the process). Hope you had a great day!

Chapter 4: Bella Notte - for novanara - prompt: serenade

Summary:

“I think we have to pay them.” John’s speaking in a stage whisper, barely suppressing a giggle, cheeks pink with mirth. “If we pay them, they’ll probably go away.”

Notes:

Lyrics come from this video, if you'd like a bit of mood music. I don't speak Italian, unfortunately, but would be happy to fix any errors you can point out.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

“I think we have to pay them.” John’s speaking in a stage whisper, barely suppressing a giggle, cheeks pink with mirth. “If we pay them, they’ll probably go away.”

“This is absurd,” Sherlock hisses. “Why should we have to—”

“DOLCE  É SOGNAR LASCIARSI CULLAR—“

The guitarist inclines his head, smiling pointedly, beatifically.

“—NELL’INCANTO DELLA NOTTE—“

“I wanted to talk—”

“About the case, I know.” John’s shielding his face, eyes shining with tears of suppressed laughter.

Well… no, obviously, but he can’t tip his hand, not—

—LA STELLE D’OR CON IL LORO SPLENDOR—

The accordionist has joined in. They’re actually getting louder. If that’s even possible. 

—SONO GLI OCCHI DELLA NOTTE—

John loses the battle against his laughter and ducks his head, shaking silently. 

This is all. going. wrong.

—TU LASCIA ANDARE—

“All right, all right.” Sherlock fumbles in his pocket for his wallet (his fingers brush velvet and electricity shoots up his arm, straight to his heart). “Vada via.” He offers up a crumpled palmful of notes. “Basta.”

With a mille grazie, signore, they finally, finally disappear. 

“You were brilliant today.” John sips his wine, grinning. “But how on earth did you know…”

John is lovely, perfect, so very good—all shining eyes and laughter and admiration. Sherlock steadies his heart and gets ready to tell him, fingers stroking the box. 

 

Notes:

Happy birthday, novanara! I hope you're having a lovely day :D

I'm still open for these birthday ficlets, so if you'd like one, please leave the date and your prompt in the comments!

Chapter 5: Nursery - yellowmiche - prompt: yellow and blue

Notes:

Happy birthday, YellowMiche! I apologize for the downer -- I'm on the road for hte next few days, but I promise that a happier part ii is forthcoming!

Chapter Text

She shouldn't be doing this herself.

When he says so, she reacts like the woman he knows. Which, frankly, is more surprising than anything.

"Not much choice," she says. Dry, but sunny. An admonishing sort of affection.

And not eight weeks ago she'd put a bullet in him.

"Bag's in the hall, if he still wants it."

He'd seen; she must know he'd seen. He ignores the dismissal.

"The fumes alone..." He plucks the roller from her hand. "You can make the tea."

She stares, mouth set, arms crossed. "And let you have all the fun?"

She's chosen a bright sunflower yellow.  Soft-boiled eggs and sunshine, light and wildflowers, the colour of hope and warmth and all the good things he'd lost in Serbia. That he'd sought in London, that had slipped through his fingers yet again.

I'll talk him round.

His reach is longer, but her lines are straighter than his patience will ever allow. She finds a foam brush and inches precise paths around the moulding. He sheds his coat and works in earnest, painting in broad sweeps.

She doesn't ask about John, and he doesn't offer.

After, she makes tea in delicate cups. The golden smell of chamomile. He's silent, cradling the small warmth between his palms. She stares into middle distance, hands folded across her belly.

Chapter 6: Noodle Shop - yellowmiche - prompt: yellow and blue (ii)

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Gloria gets noodles and a can of cola that she doesn’t want but can’t seem to dodge—no matter how good her tones get, they keep appearing on her tray while she’s distracted. She grabs a stool before they can foist a fork on her, and huddles down with her textbook.

There’s another foreigner in the shop, an older woman, sat opposite her and watching. Not with the particular disdain long-term expats save for the backpackers, but intensely nonetheless. Actually, she’s remarkably inconspicuous in her observation, but Gloria is not her father’s daughter for nothing. 

There are kind wrinkles around the woman’s eyes and hard ones around her mouth. Her clothes are plain but fashionable; her scarf clumsily hand-knit. Gloria keeps reading, but can’t stop her skin from prickling.  

“HKU?” 

Gloria smiles thinly. “Economics.”  

Wrong answer, apparently. Her brows arch briefly, but then her chin drops. When her head raises again, her eyes are glittering and the years stand out in her face.

“Job opportunities.” The woman’s mouth twitches. “Stay out of trouble, eh?.” Her hand jerks as if to take Gloria’s, but instead she stands and turns. “Lovely girl like you.” 

She’s out the door before Gloria can process the tightness in her chest. She tries to focus on Keynes, but can’t shake that familiar shade of blue.

Notes:

I'm not sure that this is a truly happy ending, but hopefully it takes some of the bite out of the last fic!

ETA: Comments contain some theorizing on the possible lives of Mary, Gloria, John, and Sherlock, if you're interested.

Chapter 7: Crime Scene - for Burning_Up_A_Sun - prompt: "Mystrade"

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Greg is safe. Some poor bloke may be dead and skinned and dangling from a doorframe, but at least the horrible novelty of it all is gloriously, blessedly occupying Sherlock’s attention, and Greg is safe. For now. 

He adjusts his high-collared shirt, and re-checks his mobile.

He can’t do this. Not now, when any second Sherlock might give up berating the new forensics tech for her carelessness and shaky hands, when his eyes might drift from John’s fingers patiently prising apart the rib cage, when he might look up, notice Greg, and see.

There is nothing that Sherlock Holmes will not see. Your sweating palms, the creases of your trousers, some peculiarity in your grooming or the angle of your shoulders or the width of your smile, and it’s Wikileaks. Your weaknesses, your love life, all your pathetic excuses for secrets. 

Sherlock’s been consulting for ages now, more with Greg than anyone else, and Greg knows this like he knows the sun sets in the west, and yet he’s showing up to work hungover and lovebitten and unshowered, sore and stubbleburnt and gloriously happy, reeking of Sherlock’s brother’s cologne. He’s smarter than this. Or he’d thought so. 

Greg’s mobile buzzes and he stifles a smile. He mentally wipes his face clean, crosses his arms, and takes a deep breath.

 

Notes:

Happy birthday, dear Burning_Up_A_Sun! I've never written this pairing or POV before, but I do hope you enjoy my effort!

Chapter 8: Act II, Scene ii - Glowbunny1 - prompt: "waxing moon"

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

“You’re maudlin,” says the director.

Sherlock closes his eyes and listens. 

She shifts from foot to foot and the floorboards above their heads creak. “Once more.”

John’s breath is hot on his neck, John’s smell hay-sweet, familiar. Overwhelming.

Juliet clears her throat. “O, swear not by the moon, the inconstant moon…”  

John’s palm on Sherlock’s knee, sliding higher…  Sherlock narrows his focus. Razor-sharp. 

London-educated, but Lady Juliet can’t hide her Swansea childhood. Which is a connection—is it a connection? Why is it a connection?

John nips Sherlock’s nape, raising gooseflesh.

“…that monthly changes in her circled orb…”

This is wrong—the rehearsal started early. They’re not supposed to be in this mess, John is not supposed to be mouthing at the shell of Sherlock’s ear, trailing burning fingers along his inseam, making him writhe and flush and forget. They’re not—Sherlock’s not supposed to— 

Juliet’s footfalls. Small feet, heavy shoes; probably clogs, possibly the same as the murderer, but he can’t hear enough, can’t pinpoint—

John leans back and Sherlock follows gladly, falling into the vee of his thighs. He squirms and John’s hips rock up involuntarily. Sherlock feels him there, hot and hard and straining, and lust settles molten in his bones. 

John’s fingers trace over Sherlock’s zip. Sherlock bites his tongue and does not beg.

 

Notes:

Happy very belated birthday, Glowbunny1! I had some calendar mixups while traveling and I feel so terrible about it. I hope you had a wonderful day regardless and that this porn helps you forgive me!

(Picturing an orchestra pit like this one, if it helps.)

Chapter 9: Below the Line - for leyley09 - prompt: "hookah"

Notes:

I ran out of words to say so, but was thinking sometime pre/post TBB. Early days!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

"What, uhh..." John scratches at his nape. "Why's the landlady got a bong?"

"Hookah."

John laughs. "I think I'd know a hookah." 

"Think I'd know a bong." Sherlock doesn't even look up from his slides. 

Two hours later, John's absorbed in Skyfall and takeaway when Sherlock jerks upright, eyes narrow and intense.

"Is it Thursday?"

John’s eyes narrow. It is, though. 

"Could be the bong if it's Thursday."

"And why might that be?” John's starting to remember that awful grey bedsit almost fondly.

"Thursday," says Sherlock in that voice cultivated specifically for those in imminent danger of being too dull to merit attention, "is bridge night. Last week, Mrs Turner took her for a necklace. Tat, really, and not particularly sentimental either, but she's hardly a graceful loser, our Mrs Hudson. She might've brought the bong out to put Mrs Turner off her game, try and win it back."

John snorts. "What, are you serious?"

"Deadly." Sherlock's nose wrinkles. "Well, not literally—that's pricey even for her."

John swigs his beer and considers. “Y'know... I used to be handy at bridge. Should I go down and win us our rent?"

"Better not." Sherlock grins. "Your half's risky enough as it is."

"Hey now..." There's an edge to John's voice, but when he sees Sherlock’s face, he can't help but smile back.

Notes:

Happy birthday, leyley09! Sorry for the delay - I hope that it's still the eighth somewhere in the world, and that you had a fantastic 24 hours and change!

Note: Did you know that "above the line" and "below the line" are bridge terms? You learn something new every day!