(Hmmmm I can have a go! I haven’t written Sheriarty in aaaages! Thank you for the prompt - hope you like it!)

…

Jim lay in his bed, a cigarette between his lips, the smoke curling and undulating up towards the ceiling. The window was slightly open, and the cool night air felt good on his bare chest. Sherlock was sleeping soundly next to him - the detective was curled up like a little cat, breathing softly and infrequently. It really was like watching a pet sleep - one second you think they’re dead, the next second they breathe and you’re relieved. Sherlock didn’t often sleep, but when he did, Jim liked to watch him. It was relaxing, seeing the erratic man be calmed by something as simple as sleep.

Jim took a long drag from his cigarette before stubbing it out in the ashtray on the bedside table. He paused for a second, letting the smoke out of his lungs in a long, slow stream, then swung his legs out of the bed and stood up. He didn’t want to sleep - his brain was too alive for something so mundane - and he didn’t want to watch Sherlock either. Instead, Jim crossed to the window and closed it, just for something to do. He ended up staring out at London, watching the tiny cars flash past with beams of light streaking behind them.

If he squinted, he could just about see Buckingham Palace, right over in the distance, along with Big Ben and the Eye. Following a random road, he eventually saw the Yard, then Hyde Park, then Baker Street, where he was confident in knowing that John Watson was sleeping soundly in his own bed. Jim smirked. He wondered if Sherlock missed his little toy. He doubted it.

Jim only looked at Baker Street for a second. He followed the road right towards his own block of flats, eventually ending up staring at his own face in the reflection of the window. For a moment, he didn’t recognise himself. He looked too happy, too positive to be Jim Moriarty. Moriarty was a cold, ruthless killer - a man who had killed his first victim at merely 13 years old, a man who had done untold things to be in his current position. But this was Jim staring back at him - the Jim that wanted to shed the Moriarty exterior and be someone he’d never been. A proper human being.

Jim whirled around to face Sherlock, who was still sleeping. He shook his head violently, trying to rid himself of those contaminating thoughts. He was Moriarty! He would always be Moriarty! That was his life, that was his purpose. To be a criminal, to devise schemes and plots, to be, as he was so often called, the Napoleon of Crime!

Jim paused. He knew that was his fate.

So why did it make him so sad?

Sherlock stirred under the covers. He rolled onto his back, blinking his grey eyes to get rid of the drowsiness. “Jim? Are you alright?”

“Fine.” Jim snapped. He caught himself, took a slow breath, then replied normally with a smile: “I’m fine.”

(Holy Hell anon, that’s so depressing o_o I LOVE IT!! Thank you so much for the prompt - I really hope you like it! Also, I’m really not that popular :D love you!)

…

Piss off. -SH

Don’t talk to me like that. What would Mummy say? -MH

Sherlock, when will you stop being so childish? -MH

When you start that diet you so sorely need. Now piss off, I’m busy. -SH

Sherlock, listen to me. -MH

John needs you. Lestrade needs you. I need my brother. -MH

I don’t need you. -SH

You wouldn’t be alive if it weren’t for me. Please, Sherlock, come home. -MH

I said piss off! -SH

Sherlock, please. -MH

<number is unavailable at this time>

Sherlock? -MH

<number is unavailable at this time>

I’m sorry.

<number is unavailable at this time>

Please.

<number is unavailable at this time>

I want my brother back.

<number is unavailable at this time>

I’m sorry.

<number is unavailable at this time>

“I’m back.”

Sherlock opened the door to Mycroft’s Diogenes Club office, throwing his rucksack onto one of the ornate chairs. “You told me to come back, so I expect something bad has happened. Can’t function five minutes without me… honestly, Britain… how’s John?” he strode over to a chair and perched in it, looking around for his brother. “Mycroft?”

A solemn butler entered the room, his mouth set in a grim line. “Are you Mr Sherlock Holmes?”

“Yes.” Sherlock frowned. “What is it?”

“I’m afraid that I have some bad news.”

“Go on then.”

The butler sighed. “I’m very sorry, sir, but Mr Mycroft Holmes suffered a heart attack about two days ago.” 

Sherlock’s blood ran cold. “What?”

“Ah, forgive me, sir, it’s a little personal.”

“Tell me every last detail!” Sherlock sprang from his chair, staring at the butler with wide eyes. “I want to know everything!”

The butler cleared his throat. “Well… he wasn’t eating, sir. He refused food for at least a week before the attack. I think it was stress that caused it - maybe an argument, or the workload.” the butler stared back at Sherlock. “Were you very close to your brother, sir?”

Sherlock was frozen, his mind whirling, but he snapped out of it long enough to whisper: “No. No, I wasn’t. Is he… is he dead?”

“Yes, sir. My condolences.”

“When’s the funeral?”

“Tomorrow, sir.”

“That’ll be all. Thanks.”

The butler bowed and shuffled out of the room. Sherlock walked backwards, falling into his chair, and pulled out his phone. His fingers trembled, and teardrops fell onto the screen as he slowly typed:

Mycroft. I’m sorry. Forgive me. Please.

(Awwwwww I love this prompt!! Thank you so much – there’s not enough Holmes brothers stuff out there :D I hope you like this!)

…

Mycroft wondered what life was like before Sherlock arrived. The eldest Holmes was seven when the new boy came along – he remembered clearly the tiny blue bundle in Mummy’s arms, the wide eyes slowly opening to meet his brother. Sherlock had grown quickly, his black locks waving down to his ears before he was two years old. He used to be so peaceful, attentive even, following Mycroft around like a baby duck after its mother.

But that was a simpler time. Now Sherlock was six, and Mycroft was thirteen, and Mummy had decided to go out for the evening, leaving Mycroft in charge of the little terror. Mycroft glared at his brother, who was sat on the sofa, glaring at the TV.

“I don’t understand this programme.” the petulant little oik scowled.

“What don’t you understand?” Mycroft sighed.

“How can people have television in their stomachs?” Sherlock gestured to the Telletubbies on-screen. They waved back. “It’s highly illogical. Also, where does this land exist? The sun has a baby inside! Wouldn’t someone notice?”

“It’s a children’s programme, Sherlock. I think you’re meant to suspend a certain amount of disbelief.”

“All the same…” Sherlock rolled onto his side, staring at the TV sideways from the sofa. He didn’t finish his sentence, in favour of staring blankly at the screen. Mycroft went back to his book. A few minutes later, Sherlock moaned: “I’m bored.”

“Change the channel.” Mycroft suggested flatly.

“No. TV is boring.”

“Play on the computer.”

“It’s broken.”

“Go outside like a normal child!”

Sherlock groaned and flopped dramatically onto his back, spreading his arms out wide. “Dull! Everything is dull, boring, stupid-”

Mycroft cut in: “Are you going to complain until I suggest something less mainstream?”

Sherlock smirked. “Maybe.”

Mycroft placed his bookmark into the page and closed his book, slapping it down onto the chair arm. “Fine. Let’s play… who-can-keep-quiet-the-longest.”

Sherlock glared at him. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Alright.” Mycroft glanced around him. “Aha! Right. If you don’t find it too immature, let’s play… the-floor-is-made-of-lava.”

Sherlock sat up, staring suspiciously at his brother. “How do you play that?”

“Easy!” Mycroft stood onto the chair – if he stretched his arms, he could almost reach the ceiling. “You must travel from and to the different pieces of furniture – NOT the bookshelf or the television! - and you must not touch the floor under any circumstances, or the lava shall get you.”

Sherlock smirked. “How can lava ‘get’ you?”

“Just humour me, Sherlock.”

Sherlock obediently stood on the sofa, standing statically and waiting for Mycroft to move. The elder of the two took a huge leap, landing onto the sofa next to Sherlock. He laughed, throwing his head back – Sherlock had never seen his brother this happy.

“Go, Sherlock!”

Sherlock took a deep breath. Suddenly, all the furniture was a million miles away – he’d never be able to jump that far! After a cautious glance at Mycroft, Sherlock risked it – and instantly fell on his face onto the floor. He screamed, writhing in pain.

“THE LAVA! THE LAVA IS BURNING ME!”

Mycroft sighed in exasperation. He should have suggested Monopoly.  

(You have no idea how much fun I had writing this :D Thank you so much for the prompt – I hope you like it!)

…

“This is frankly ridiculous.” Jim snarled, tugging at his blazer sleeve. “I look like an elf!”

Sherlock was grinning at himself backwards in his full-length mirror, admiring his own arse. “I don’t know, I rather like this… Do you even eat carbs?”

“Will you please focus!” Jim growled.

Sherlock turned round, a huge, snide grin on his pale face. “I’m just trying to have some fun.”

“Well stop it. I don’t have time for fun. John will be home any second, and-”

Sherlock’s eyes lit up. “Johnny’s coming home? Ooh, this is brilliant!”

Jim strode up to Sherlock, staring into his eyes. “You are not seeing John in that body, or any body at all, so get out!”

Sherlock spread his hands in a show of helplessness. “I’m afraid I can’t do that, Sherlie. It was your experiment, not mine. I don’t know how to change back.”

Pause. “I don’t know either.”

“That’s a first, Mr Consulting Detective.” Sherlock sang happily.

Jim gritted his teeth. “Yeah, well… you’re short!”

“And you’re sexy.” Sherlock turned to the mirror again, admiring his cheekbones.

Jim (the real Sherlock Holmes) groaned, wandering into the living room and slumping into his chair, putting his head in his hands. He felt weird, tingly even. This body wasn’t right for him – it was too short, too… fitted. His head kept wiggling on his neck like he was missing a spine – the trademark Moriarty oscillation. Sherlock (the real Jim Moriarty) walked slowly out of the bedroom, savouring every second that he was in his enemy’s body.

“You have very long legs.” Sherlock complained. “It’s like living inside a spider.”

Jim smirked. “You should know what that’s like.”

Sherlock grinned back, his eyes flashing. “You remembered.” he sat in John’s chair, making a big show of pulling his knees up and steepling his fingers, imitating Sherlock’s idiosyncrasies.

Jim wanted to be sick. “Yes, of course I remembered. I remember everything about you.”

“Aw, I’m flattered.” Sherlock sounded far from flattered – he was amused and slightly annoyed, putting poison into his words. He tried to oscillate his head, but it didn’t work, only making him seem like a bewildered giraffe.

Jim grinned at how stupid he looked. “Uncomfortable?”

Sherlock smirked. The front door opened, and both men froze as John called up the stairs: “I’m home!”

Jim glared at Sherlock. “Don’t you dare embarrass me!”

Sherlock assumed a look of innocence. “Why would I do that?”

John pattered up the stairs, glancing in horror from Jim to Sherlock. “What’s going on?”

Sherlock grinned and stood up. He walked over to John, putting a hand on his arm. Jim gripped the arm of the chair, glaring intensely at the contact between them. Sherlock sighed softly. “Nothing is going on, Johnny.”

John stared hard at Sherlock. “Your eyes are different. They’re…” he tore his arm away. “What the Hell?!”

Jim grinned. Good old John.

(DUDE! CALM YOURSELF! I LOVE YOU TOO!! :D I hope you like this!)

…

“I had a great time tonight.” Amy Pond grinned, fumbling in her purse for her keys. 

Sherlock Holmes stood before her on the doorstep, watching her face intently as she unlocked the door. “So did I, surprisingly.”

“You thought you wouldn’t?” Amy raised an eyebrow.

Sherlock smiled. “No, but I don’t often have a ‘great time’ when I go on dates. I don’t go on dates, which is probably why.”

Amy chuckled. Her long red hair cascaded over her shoulders, contrasting with her short green dress, making her look… stunning. Sherlock tried to ignore that. She started to open the door, but paused for a second, slipping her keys back into her bag and staring up at Sherlock.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Would you like to see me again?”

Sherlock frowned. “Are you going somewhere?”

Amy laughed. “No! I just- would you like to have a second date?”

“Well.” Sherlock coughed. “That really depends on my work, and John, I suppose… and you have the Doctor…”

“Hm, true.” Amy sighed, twisting her mouth into a sideways smile. “I don’t ever know when he’ll show up…”

Sherlock glanced at his phone - 11pm. He should have been at the Yard an hour ago. “I have to go.” for a moment, he looked torn. “I’m sorry. Thank-“

“Sherlock, I really like you.” Amy gazed up at him, unabashed and confident. Her eyes sparkled as she continued: “You’re the most amazing man - human - I’ve ever met. I’d love to go out with you again, but I don’t know if you’re as committed to this as I am.”

Sherlock stared at the floor. “My work-“

Amy pushed forward, pecking her lips softly and quickly onto Sherlock’s cheek. “I understand.” she started to go inside.

“Wait.”

Amy turned round. Sherlock gently took her arm, pulling her forwards again, and kissed her properly on the lips, closing his eyes. Amy sighed happily into the kiss, breaking away at just the right moment (too soon, in both of their opinions). 

“I’ll see you again, Miss Pond.” Sherlock smiled.

“I can’t wait, Mr Holmes.” Amy giggled.

(Hello there! Thank you so much! :D a lot of practice, and a love of writing, I suppose :P I adore that prompt! I hope you like this!)

…

Lestrade, John and Sherlock leapt out of the police car, sprinting towards Trafalgar Square. A huge crowd bustled inside, a great many of the people crying and cowering against each other. The night sky was speckled with stars, but the moon was hidden behind ominous black clouds. Sherlock and his friends stopped running when they were in the thick of the crowd. They stared in horror and confusion at the man that stood before them.

“Kneel before me.” the man smirked cruelly. He wore long, flowing robes of green and gold, and his eyes flashed dangerously as he spoke. The crowd fell silent, but no-one moved. Lestrade bristled with anger. The man looked angrier. “I said KNEEL!”

The crowd convulsed – people slowly got to their knees, bowing before this maniacal man. He smirked again, strolling slowly through the crowd, parting them with his golden sceptre. John and Lestrade glanced at each other before reluctantly bowing down too. Sherlock simply smirked at the gold guy.

“Who are you?” Sherlock called.

The man whirled round, glaring at Sherlock. “What?”

“What’s your name?”

“I am Loki, of Asgard.” the man announced proudly. “I mean to rule this world and every human within it.”

Sherlock scoffed. “Good luck with that.”

“You doubt my abilities?” Loki raised an eyebrow. He pointed his sceptre at Lestrade’s car and powered up – a huge jet of blue energy shot out of the sceptre, knocking the car into the side of a building. Lestrade winced, resisting the urge to yell out and kill Loki as he watched his car get wrecked. Loki turned back to Sherlock with a taunting smile. “Do you doubt me now?”

“Meh.” Sherlock shrugged. “You could have made it catch fire. Then you would have impressed me. However, just waving a gold glowstick and making a car roll over doesn’t convince me of your so-called ‘abilities’.”

Loki growled. He pointed the stick – I mean, sceptre – at Sherlock, his eyes glowing dangerously. “You are an arrogant fool.”

“And you are an idiot for thinking that the human race can be enslaved that easily.” Sherlock smirked.

Loki gestured to the crowd with his free hand. “I have made a whole city kneel before me!”

Sherlock laughed. “You’re not from around here, are you? Read a guidebook, mate – this isn’t the whole city.” Sherlock walked forward, stepping between crouching bodies. John and Lestrade watched helplessly as Sherlock stood right before Loki, sneering into the God’s face. “I agree that the human race is stupid. They’re cattle, predictable, ignorant, selfish.”

“Thanks.” John muttered sarcastically.

“But they while they will always be boring, they will always have someone to defend them.” Sherlock grinned.

“And you think yourself their defender?” Loki laughed harshly.

“No. But they do.” Sherlock pointed upwards towards the Avengers helicopter in the sky.

“Loki!” Natasha called over the speaker. “Drop the weapon and step away from the detective!”

Loki growled at Sherlock – he put his hand onto Sherlock’s chest and pushed, flinging Sherlock into the road.  

(Cute prompt!! Thank you so much – I hope you like it!)

…

Sherlock and John sprinted through the street, the starless night sky covering them in black shadows. Sherlock’s hair was ragged, John’s jacket was hanging loose off his shoulders, but neither of them cared as they ran through London, hot on the trail of their latest case. The criminal they were chasing took a sudden left – the detectives turned after him, their feet skidding along the concrete. The man was trapped between a chain-link fence and the chasers; all three panted heavily, catching their breath.

“We know, Mr Peters.” Sherlock called, his husky voice deeper than usual from his dry throat. “Give up. It’s useless.”

Mr Peters, the criminal, smiled almost gratefully at Sherlock, digging into his pocket – John raised his gun, preparing to shoot, but Peters simply brought out a small bag, tossing it to Sherlock. The detective opened the bag – the stolen gems were there, nestled in a plush purple case. Sherlock smiled.

“Thank you.” Sherlock nodded. He closed the bag, turned on his heel and strode out of the alleyway, leaving Peters to collapse against the wall, exhausted.

John ran after his friend. “You’re just going to let him go?”

“He gave back the loot.” Sherlock shrugged. “There’s no need to send an innocent man to gaol.”

John frowned. “He was innocent?”

“Of course. The real perpetrator is long gone – he passed the gems to Peters, who acted as a decoy.” Sherlock smiled. “The case is solved.”

“But we don’t have the real criminal!”

“Does it matter?” Sherlock tossed the bag into the air and caught it one-handed. “Lady Clarence gets her loot back, Peters goes free, the police didn’t spend a penny on this case – Lestrade will be pleased, I bet – and you didn’t have to shoot anyone. Overall, I consider this a success, don’t you?”

The two of them were out into the brightly-lit roads now, the dark sky illuminated by shop windows, Christmas lights and the rivers of people bustling along the pavement. John was still grumbling, shoving his gun into his trouser waistband.

“I suppose…” John sighed.

“But?” Sherlock smirked.

“But- OUCH!” John stepped wrongly onto his ankle – he stumbled, clutching at Sherlock’s back as he fell. His hands grasped folds of Sherlock’s long coat, saving himself from smashing onto his face.

Sherlock turned his head around to see the man on his back. “John? What are you doing?”

John stood up properly, brushing off his hands. People around them were sniggering; Sherlock didn’t notice, but John went slightly red. “I just-”

Sherlock smiled, turning around properly and pulling his friend into a huge hug. “I get it. I’m not completely clueless.”

“Sherlock?!”

“You wanted a hug.” Sherlock beamed, clinging onto his friend. More people were laughing at them now.

John struggled in Sherlock’s bear-grip. “Let me go! I don’t want a hug!”

Sherlock smiled into John’s hair. “You’re right. This isn’t the time or the place.” he let John go and grabbed the man’s hand instead, pulling him along the pavement. He cried out happily: “Onward home!”

(Sure thing! Sheriarty is awesome :D I hope you like it!)

…

Sherlock scowled at Molly and her boyfriend, Jim. They were making smoochy faces at each other, while John and Lestrade stood next to Sherlock, looking equally disgusted.

“Why did she have to bring him along?” Sherlock growled.

“Jealous?” John grinned.

“Not in the slightest.” Sherlock sniffed. “It’s just distracting from the case.”

Lestrade and John glanced at each other, smiling. The five of them were stood in the St Bart’s morgue, trying to solve their latest case – a series of arsons that had left their victims badly burned and, of course, dead. Even John, with his years of training, felt sick at the sight of their half-melted faces, the eyeballs long-exploded in their sockets. Lestrade was rapidly turning green. Molly and Jim stopped talking in baby-language long enough to join their friends. Jim kept his eyes on Sherlock, grinning, while the detective ignored him deliberately.

“Um, Sherlock?” Molly spoke hesitantly. “Jim wants to help in the investigation. I said-”

“No.” Sherlock glared at the two of them. “I refuse to let him interfere.”

“I won’t be a bother, promise.” Jim smiled sweetly.

Sherlock’s lip curled. “What do you know about murder?”

Jim stepped up towards Sherlock, his dark eyes deepening. “More than you know.”

Sherlock felt a shiver go down his spine. Lestrade frowned. “I don’t want him working on this case either!”

“Please?” Molly simpered, smiling cutely.

Lestrade sighed. “Fine. Five minutes, the pair of you.”

Sherlock was livid. He turned to Jim, who beamed at him, then to the body, focussing on the charred features. “Alright. If you’re going to help, you might as well prove your competence. Let’s see what you can find out.”

Jim took his cue and walked around the body, analysing the corpse. Lestrade, Molly and John recognised the animosity in the air between the detective and the unknown man, and stepped to the side, leaving the two of them to their deductions. Jim finally looked up, a slight blush on his pale face.

“Ladies first.” he purred.

Sherlock clenched his fists. He took the comment in his stride, however, and started his usual monologue: “The victim is thirty-two years old, female and married. She wasn’t the target of the arson – that was a person who is currently unknown. There were thirteen other bodies found at the scene of the crime, any of whom could be the- what?” Sherlock glared at Jim, who was shaking his head, amused.

“Wro-ong.” Jim sang. “The profile? Correct, I’ll give you that. Yes, she’s a female, and you’re one year out of date, but that’s alright – I expect that from an amateur.” he grinned. Sherlock’s glare intensified, but Jim continued: “She was the target. The arsonist’s name is Wendall Lisbon. That mark-” he pointed to her left leg, where a tiny cross was engraved into the flesh. “-is his signature. He’s a serial arsonist.”

“How do you know that?” Sherlock growled.

“I have my ways.” Jim replied quietly, still grinning.

Lestrade walked up to Jim and examined the leg for himself. “Are you sure this is Lisbon’s work?”

“Ninety percent positive.” Jim nodded.

“Alright.” Lestrade legged it out of the room, already typing a number into his mobile. John and Molly followed him, shooting incredulous glances at Jim. Sherlock and Jim were alone.

“How do you know that?” Sherlock repeated his question.

Jim grinned. “Aw, Sherlie. If I told you, I’d have to kill you!” he leaned forward. “And I’d hate to break my toys the moment I get them.”

“Who are you, really?” Sherlock murmured.

Jim laughed. “Your best friend – or your worst nightmare.” he winked. “See you soon, Sherlock Holmes.”

And with that, Jim Moriarty skipped from the room, leaving Sherlock bewildered, angry and confused.

(Yes, you probably did dream it :D I LOVE YOU TOOO! Thank you for the prompt – I hope you like it!)

…

Sherlock Holmes crouched low, pressing his belly against the cold roof. He hoisted his rifle quickly onto the ledge and prepared it, replacing the magazine of bullets with a fresh one and wiping away a thumbprint on the barrel with his sleeve cuff. He was ready.

The sky was a dark indigo, fading into complete darkness as the minutes ticked by slowly. The sun had vanished, leaving a trail of stars in its wake, but the clouds covered the moon, leaving Sherlock with barely any light to see. Not that he needed it, of course, but it was an inconvenience all the same. A faint breeze rustled through the metropolis of London, making Sherlock shiver in his thick coat. He wished he’d brought a book to read or a penknife to play with. This job was getting more boring by the second – and Sherlock hated boring jobs.

The lights in the building opposite came on – Sherlock focussed on the matter at hand. One quick kill; one bullet to break the window, one for the death, unless the man defended himself, which was likely. Sherlock went through the stats in his head – target: Dr John Watson. Reason: the man had been poking into several top secret Government cases, which had pissed Mycroft, Sherlock’s brother, right off. Sherlock grinned, remembering Mycroft’s purple face when he came to the safe-house and requested the murder. Sherlock had been playfully hesitant at first, but when Mycroft threatened to confiscate his violin and rifle, Sherlock had reluctantly complied.

Sherlock peered through the sight on the top of his rifle. Dr Watson was a small man, with fair hair and a tanned complexion. His clothes were modest, the room around him was warm and cosy… hardly the environment or the appearance for a trained killer and spy, though Sherlock knew better than to underestimate the man. He trained the barrel of the rifle onto Dr Watson’s head.

Sherlock’s finger itched to pull the trigger. Watson was in exactly the right position – if Sherlock timed it correctly, he could pass it off as a suicide. He ground his teeth, the target just in sight…

John stared at him. Sherlock felt a buzz of electricity rip through his brain and spine, stunning him and making him lose his grip on the rifle. Dr Watson kept staring, even though he couldn’t possibly see Sherlock from that distance. Sherlock regained his composure, aiming the rifle again – but John had moved, and the shot had been lost. Sherlock glared at his hand, mentally accusing it for not shooting. Why didn’t I shoot? He stared again at the window, then looked through the magnifying sight to see into the room. Dr Watson had left.

Sherlock sighed, sitting upright and placing his rifle on his knees. Mycroft is going to kill me… but what the Hell was all that about?

(I love this prompt! Thank you so much - I hope you like it!)

…

Sherlock sat in the second, less grand living room of Holmes Mansion, his legs crossed nonchalantly, his eyes flicking round the room and analysing the furniture. The Mansion hadn’t changed much since he left all those years ago. Sherlock didn’t know whether to be pleased or freaked out about that.

Mummy Holmes sat opposite her son, sipping tea from a cup. Her hair was perfect, not a blonde hair out of place, and her eyes danced as she glanced over Sherlock. She set down her cup and clasped her hands. “So.”

“You’re wondering why I am here.”

“You don’t need to be a detective to work that out, sweetheart.” Mummy Holmes chuckled. “Why are you here?”

“It’s about my friend, John Watson.”

“Oh? And what do you expect me to do about him? I can have him arrested for stealing my son’s heart…” she winked.

Sherlock stared at her. “What?”

“Nothing, dear.” Mummy Holmes sighed. “Please continue.”

“I don’t need him arrested.” Sherlock shook his head. “Far from it. I need…” he took in a deep breath, spitting out the word as if it were poison: “…advice.” 

“On what?”

“On how to make him…” Sherlock hesitated. Mummy Holmes simply waited - she wasn’t going to let him off easy. Sherlock cleared his throat. “…fall for me.”

Mummy Holmes beamed. Finally! I thought this day would never come! She controlled her face, settling back down into a graceful, respectable smile. “I’m proud of you, dear.”

“Thank you.” Sherlock eyed his Mother suspiciously. “Now then. Please, give me some advice.” 

Mummy paused and thought for a moment. “John likes romance, yes? So you could take him out on a date. Give him presents - and a hug once in a while wouldn’t hurt. Don’t try and sleep with him yet.”

Mummy didn’t expect her son to flinch when she mentioned sex, but Sherlock looked mildly horrified. “John wouldn’t want to sleep with me!”

“Why?” Mummy frowned slightly. “If he falls for you, then why wouldn’t he want to?”

Sherlock was at a loss. He glared at the floor, trying to make heads or tails of this new information. “So I take him on a date-“

“Sherlock?” 

Mummy Holmes smiled over Sherlock’s head at John, who had appeared in the doorway. “Hello, Doctor Watson. Have you come to reclaim your friend?”

John nodded tersely. “Yes, ma’am. Sherlock.” he jerked his head towards the door.

Sherlock glanced at his Mother, who gave him a wink. He stood up and faced John, clasping his hands behind his back. “John, I would like to invite you on a date.”

John blinked. “Sorry, what?”

“Would you like to go on a date with me?” Sherlock amended the sentence. “To Angelo’s, preferably. Before nine. Smart clothes.”

Mummy stared at John, mentally crossing metaphorical fingers. John looked bewildered, but eventually he smiled and nodded. “Yes. I’d love to.”

Sherlock grinned. “Good. Now,” he turned to his Mother. “Goodbye, Mother.”

“Good luck, Sherlie.” Mummy Holmes giggled happily.

(Perfect! :D Thank you so much - I hope you like it!)

…

“Hello, dear brother! How nice to see you again!” 

Mycroft glowered at Sherlock as the cell door opened. The police officer in charge of the cells scuttled away at the prisoner’s glare, leaving Mycroft, Sherlock, John and Lestrade in the hallway. Sherlock was grinning from ear to ear.

“Hello, Sherlock.” Mycroft murmured.

“I heard you robbed the Bank of England.” Sherlock grinned.

“Really?” John raised an eyebrow. “I heard he stole all the cake from Buckingham Palace.”

“No, I heard he sat on the Queen and crushed her.” Sherlock chuckled.

John and Lestrade burst out laughing, holding onto the wall to stop themselves falling over. Mycroft faced their insults with dignity, standing tall in a suit that looked extremely out of place in a prison. He strode away and into the offices, the gang following him (still laughing), reclaiming his belongings. They eventually made it outside, where a big black car was waiting patiently to whisk Mycroft away. Sherlock was having none of it.

“So what did you do?” he giggled.

“Mistaken identity.” Mycroft sighed as if he was dealing with a child (he was). “Pure peasantry. Now, I must be off…”

“Hold on.” Lestrade grabbed Mycroft’s arm, a hint of sadness on his face. “You skipped our date.”

Sherlock and John glanced at each other; John mouthed “told you!” at his friend, who just nodded affirmatively.

Mycroft sighed. “I was in prison, Gregory. I apologise for not-“

“Oh shut up.” Greg grinned, leaning forward to press a kiss onto Mycroft’s cheek. Sherlock nearly tore the DI’s head off, but John held him back. Mycroft smiled.

“Rendezvous tomorrow? Same time, same place?”

“You know it.” Greg nodded.

Mycroft turned to glare at Sherlock before slipping into the car and driving away, thinking of ten different plans to get back at Sherlock for that Queen remark…

(I love you too! I haven’t done Sheriarty in a while, so thank you for the prompt, and I hope you like it!)

…

I’m waiting. -JMx

Sherlock smiled to himself as he put away his phone. John frowned at him and grabbed his arm before he could leave.

“Who was that?”

“An old friend.” Sherlock shrugged. He swept out of the crime scene, leaving John and the Yarders confused. 

Lestrade glanced at John. “I thought he didn’t have friends?”

Jim Moriarty leant on the wall of the house, putting his phone back into his pocket. He smirked when he heard Sherlock’s footsteps on the concrete next to him.

“Danielle Westward. Nineteen.” Jim smiled. “Asphyxiation. You’re welcome.”

“I knew that already.”

“Really?” Jim turned to look at Sherlock - the detective was smiling, hands in pockets. Jim shifted to copy Sherlock’s pose, stuffing his own hands into his jeans. He flicked his head up, making his hat uncover his eyes. “Do you also know who killed her?”

“Let me guess…” Sherlock stepped forwards, towering over the smaller man. “You?”

“Bo-ring.” Jim sang. He pulled his hands out of his trousers and slipped them around Sherlock’s chest, stroking up the detective’s back. “Guess again.”

Sherlock’s eyelids fluttered. “Moran?”

“Nope. You’re being deliberately stupid, aren’t you?” Jim grinned.

“If you’re trying to seduce me, you’re going the wrong way about it.”

“Ah, so he says, but the trousers tell a different story.” Jim glanced down gleefully.

Sherlock turned his pelvis away, pushing his face forward to make his nose press against Moriarty’s. “Shut up.”

Jim grinned and pulled his head up, meeting Sherlock’s lips with his own. They kissed deeply for a moment, hands trailing along chests and backs, shrugging off jackets and scarves and tossing Jim’s hat into a nearby bin. Sherlock finally pulled away, taking a deep breath. Jim smirked.

“Had enough?”

“We’re going to be caught in two minutes. John has just finished being stupid.”

“You can’t possibly know that!”

“SHERLOCK!” John called from the front garden. “Where are you?”

Jim rolled his eyes at a smirking Sherlock. “Point taken. I’ll see you tonight.”

“Where?”

“Your room.”

“Risky.”

“But so worth it.” Jim caught Sherlock’s lips into another kiss before pushing away and darting over a wall, disappearing just before John arrived.

“Who were you talking to?” John frowned.

“A friend.” Sherlock picked up his coat and pushed past his friend, leaving him confused for the second time. 

(Poor old Greg! :D thank you so much – I’m sorry it’s late, but I hope you like it!)

…

“You are the besht friend ever, Jawn.”

John sighed. “Yes, Greg. I know. Try not to talk, okay?”

“Hmph.” Lestrade hiccuped. “This is why you can’t get a girlfriend, Johnny. You’re a party pooper.” Greg’s eyes widened and he giggled like a little girl. “Hahaha! Pooper!”

John rolled his eyes. Lestrade wobbled dangerously on his feet as he and John ascended up the stairs to 221B. His arm was slung around John’s neck, leaning on the poor doctor for support, and he still had an empty bottle of beer clutched in his hand. Lestrade was a mess.

They finally made it into the living room. Lestrade’s head was spinning; he could barely see out of his blurry eyes. John pushed him forwards onto the sofa and whipped the beer bottle out of Lestrade’s hand.

“You’ll have to sleep here, mate.” John sighed. “God knows what Sherlock’ll think…”

“What would I think?”

John jolted – Sherlock was sat at the kitchen table, staring earnestly into a microscope.

“Jes-us Sherlock! You scared me!”

Sherlock glanced up, frowning at the almost-corpse of Greg Lestrade. “He’s not staying here.”

“It’s just for one night.”

John popped the bottle into the bin and went back to Lestrade, turning the DI onto his side and propping his arm against the back of the sofa. Greg was in a light doze now, his jaw hung open and his eyes closed. Sherlock stood up, crossing his arms.

“No. I refuse.”

“Come on, Sherlock! He’s already asleep!”

Sherlock’s lip curled. “We could still hail him a cab…”

John gave Sherlock an icy glare. “No. He’s staying, and that’s the end of it.”

John tottered out of the living room and up the stairs to his bedroom, slamming the door loudly. Sherlock shuffled his feet. He wasn’t quite sure of what to do. In the end, he wandered into his room and brought out his duvet – it’s not like he needed it, his experiment was going to take a while – and laid it over Lestrade’s totally unconscious form. The DI murmured something in his sleep, but then started snoring loudly. Sherlock winced. He looked around for a bit of duct tape or a gag that he could fix to Lestrade’s face to make him shut up, but there was nothing except… Sherlock grinned. Well. This could be interesting…

The next day, Lestrade woke up on the sofa of 221B. His head was splitting with a hangover; the sun was shining weakly through the curtains, making his brain throb even more. He groaned, bending double to avoid the sunshine. Slowly, he got up, making his way over to the bathroom. He started running a hot shower and stripped off his alcohol-drenched clothes, putting them into the laundry hamper. Greg realised he didn’t have any clean clothes – if worst comes to worst, he’ll borrow some of Sherlock’s. He shuddered at the thought of asking Sherlock for a favour. The detective would likely lord it over him for the rest of his days.

Greg looked at himself in the bathroom mirror, trying to assess how bad the night before had been. He had dark bags under his eyes; his irises were bloodshot and watery; his moustache had grown considerably… Lestrade’s blood ran cold. He didn’t have a moustache! Or a monocle, or sideburns, or the word “idiot” across his forehead! As his eyes focussed, he let out a yelp.

“SHERLOCK!”

In his room, Sherlock grinned, holding a permanent marker pen to his chest. Yes. It was definitely better than duct tape.  

(It’s a fantastic prompt! Don’t worry, I love it :) Posts referenced:
Part 1 – http://epicluna.tumblr.com/post/32204868830
Part 2 – http://epicluna.tumblr.com/post/32211807745)

…

The crime scene was packed with officers. Some of them were arguing; most were declaring that they wanted to go home; two people had already gotten into a fight over which fingerprints matched up. Donovan was going crazy trying to control them all, and Anderson was leaning on the wall, watching his own team argue about dust.

The two taxis pulled up at the same time. Lestrade stepped out of the first, along with a small, rat-like man in a hat and cape. Donovan’s jaw dropped, but she regained her composure, running over to her boss.

“Sir, it’s chaos.” Donovan sighed.

Ratty Lestrade gasped. “Good Lord, women on the force! How times have changed!”

“Excuse me?!” Donovan growled.

“Not now, Greg.” Foxy Lestrade sighed. “Donovan, set up a barrier. I want all the officers to go back to the Yard – the forensics team can go home too.”

“Is that wise, sir?”

“I have my own team.” Foxy Lestrade smiled weakly. Ratty Lestrade drew himself up to his full height, looking self-important. Donovan glared at him.

The other taxi’s door opened and Scarf Sherlock and Jumper John stepped out, followed by an awe-struck Moustache John and a bored Scruffy Sherlock. Donovan almost fainted.

“Who are they?!” she pointed to the Victorian men.

Foxy Lestrade rubbed a hand over his face. “Don’t ask, Donovan.”

“But-”

“Just don’t.”

Meanwhile, Scruffy Sherlock had spotted something, and the other men were having trouble keeping up with the stream of deductions.

“…Charlotte Higson had come here with someone she trusted – there are no boot-scuffs on the ground or signs of a struggle. Look, the plants are intact.” he gestured to some flowers. “Therefore, the good lady must have known her kidnapper, if so he can be called.”

“But what about this?” Scarf Sherlock pointed to the window. “It’s open, and there’s a shoe-print on the window sill.”

“Great Scott!” Moustache and Jumper gaped at the two of them. Scarf and Scruffy looked rather pleased with themselves.

Anderson wandered over, crossing his arms. “Who are you?”

“Doctor John Watson.” Moustache John recovered and held out a hand for Anderson to shake.

“Don’t touch it.” Scruffy Sherlock warned. “It might be contaminated.”

“What, the window sill?” Scarf Sherlock frowned.

“No, that.” Scruffy Sherlock pointed to Anderson.

Anderson went red, and Scarf Sherlock laughed loudly, clutching his sides. “Holmes, you are fantastic!”

Scruffy Sherlock and Jumper John grinned.

Moustache John rolled his eyes. “Don’t encourage him.”  

Prompt: Wholock! Sherlock meets Amy and fancies her a bit and tries to flirt with her but she shuts him down (albeit kindly, since it’s not in her nature to be mean) ‘cause, you know, she’s married to Rory. I mean for it to be more cute/funny than sad…

Prompt from the amazing sparkleball.

I love a bit of Wholock in the morning! Afternoon. Same thing.

…

The Wiki Answers page for “How To Flirt” was loading frustratingly slowly. Sherlock glanced at the red-head at the bar. She’d be gone in a matter of minutes – hurry up, stupid page!

Sherlock had been encouraged to come out on the town and, quote, “pick up some chicks” by John and Lestrade. Both men had refused to go with him, but they promised to keep an eye on him through the CCTV. (Which meant they were spying on him with popcorn and fizzy drinks like a child’s sleepover party.)

The page finally loaded. Step 1: Make eye-contact.

Sherlock stood up slowly and made his way over to the red-head. Mid-twenties, no kids, stable job, flirtatious, recently got back from travelling. Perfect. She was just about to walk away from the bar with a small glass of cola, but Sherlock intercepted her. She smiled.

“Hello!”

Sherlock opened his mouth – nothing came out. He glanced at his phone. Step 2: Smile. He smiled his most charming grin at her, and she giggled. Good. Step 3: Start talking. Yes, fantastic advice.

Sherlock cleared his throat. “What’s your name?”

“Amy.” she smiled.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Sherlock.”

“Sherlock?” she grinned.

“Yes.” he frowned.

There was a bit of an awkward silence before Amy spoke up: “So are you with anyone?”

Sherlock shook his head. “My friend and Lestrade refused to come with me.”

“Oh, that’s a shame!” Amy frowned, genuinely sorry. “Well, I’ll keep you company.”

“Thank you.” Sherlock smiled. He glanced at his phone again. “Can I get you a drink?”

“Got one, thanks.” Amy tapped her cola glass.

Sherlock cursed in his head. “Ah, sorry.”

Amy grinned. “You’re nervous, aren’t you?”

“Just a little bit.” Sherlock frowned to himself. “I’ve never talked to a woman properly before. I mean, I’ve talked to them on cases, but that’s when I’ve been trying to get them to confess to murder or something.”

Amy looked slightly startled. “I’m sorry, what?”

“I’m a consulting detective. The only one in the world.” Sherlock announced proudly.

“Oh, a police officer! Yeah, me too, kind of.” Amy grinned.

“It’s nothing like a police officer.”

“Oh.”

“So, have you got a boyfriend?” Sherlock asked.

“I’m actually married.” Amy took a long gulp of her drink.

Sherlock felt the floor drop from underneath his feet – he had to glance down to make sure he was still standing. “Oh, I didn’t- you’re not wearing a wedding ring.”

“I know – it’s in my handbag.” she held up the purse. “I’m sorry – were you flirting with me?”

“No.”

Sherlock turned away, walking out of the bar and down the street, his hand in his pockets. A CCTV camera followed him, and he flipped it off before hailing a taxi. Worst night EVER.