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Plot bunnies and inspiration
BBC Sherlock —> Sherlock calls on Victor Trevor (Tom Hiddleston) to befriend John during his three year absence, as Victor and him were once close friends in university.
(The character of Victor Trevor can be found in the short story The Adventures of the Gloria Scott by Conan Doyle)
It was three weeks after the fall, Sherlock had been monitoring John’s movements in his spare moments when he wasn’t chasing a lead on Moran’s whereabouts. He tried to act under the front that he was looking out for him, should Moriarty’s henchmen carry out their original deed after the suicide of their master. But even he knew why he watched.
John was sad, more, broken? No deeper, he was empty. Sherlock watched as he left their regular grocery store, his automatic movements and the resonting echoes of his war limp indicating the hollowness residing in him. He knew he had to do act, fast, John was rotting, all exitement and intrigue removed from his life, all drive and companionship gone, John would rot. He was strong, he would live and move on, but Sherlock wanted him to do more than exist, he was the conductor of light, and his symphony was far from over.
Before he knew what he was doing Sherlock was in Norfolk, he was standing in a familiar estate, the memories of his university days creating a nostalgic tightness in his chest. He knew this was what must happen, he was aware that there was one man at least, who could give John the companionship he needed, the conversation, someone who he would not associate with Sherlock. He rang the bell again forcefully, casting his discerning eyes over the property, noticing foot marks and misplaced stones that were no doubt significant in betraying the proprietors habits, staff and even scandals.
The door was pulled open by a butler with sleek black hair and and a lofty manner. Sherlocks forthcoming request, led him with the butler, into a room adjacent to the grand but tasteful lobby, the room was dark with a single window, an office of sorts with a heavy air of study and reverie. There was a man sitting in a chair at the far to the left of the door, he turned as Sherlock entered and raised his eyebrows slightly, first with surprise and then his face settled into a nonchalant coldness.
“Victor.” muttered Sherlock, “I have a favour.”
(via basilof221b)
OH HOT DAMN. THIS IS MY MAN.Oh god it’s Benedict on a motorcycle. Oh god. Oh dog. I. I. I CANNOT EVEN. CAN’T. HANDLE. THIS. MADNESS.
His hair is shorter, his jacket leather, but it’s the motorcycle that makes him unrecognizable. Under the helmet, the rider could be anyone. His ride is loud, unsubtle, and no one would ever dream this was a man attempting to avoid detection. An excellent disguise, so plain in sight that the only second glance leveled his way was one of appreciation or envy.
He’s accustomed to that now. It’s been difficult, but he’s taught himself to ignore, to not engage, to - most difficult of all - keep quiet and never mention the unending flood of information the world insists on pelting him with. No more interacting. Even when he recovers his helmet from the local gang of bored teenagers, he doesn’t do much more than scoff and glare. Alone is what he has, alone is the only thing he has out here, tracking down the remaining shreds of Moriarty’s network in this deceptively idyllic locale.
It’s what he has until the moment John Hamish Watson decides to take a holiday abroad.
This is the exact moment alone because loneliness.
Terror as well. The terror need not be forgotten, not when John is so close to those who would destroy him. And Sherlock as well, but he’s had more than enough time to acclimatize to this notion.
It’s possible Sherlock immediately begins to stalk his old flatmate.
It’s possible Sherlock begins to stalk him relentlessly.
On Day Two of this, Sherlock realizes this is unfeasible. Less from the noise of the bike, but more from John’s appreciative eye toward it - and him. Sherlock has followed John back to his hotel, sits on his motorcycle and quite obviously checks his own watch before looking up and down the road, clearly waiting for someone, clearly not there for John. John seems to be there for the same reason - curious - and it’s not long before John’s attention wanders to the man on the motorcycle.
The helmet is all that saves him. When John looks straight at him, when John runs his eye down Sherlock’s body with a small yet excellent smirk, the helmet is the only thing that saves them both.
Sherlock immediately swears to keep his distance from now on.
Sherlock immediately changes his mind.
Not out of sentiment - never out of sentiment, not even for John - but because the man to meet John at the hotel, the man John greets with a smile and a wave, the man who answers with a familiar “how’s the shoulder?”, that man is Colonel Sebastian Moran.
Holy…
Bless you.
I was actually busy being jealous of the tree….
Ovaries GONE
The thought of Sherlock looking like this just…holy fuck. My god.
(Source: vitalyorlovs, via bbcsherlockftw)
idk why but i’m picturing him on the train going to hogwarts
WHAT IF HE IS A PROFESSOR AT HOGWARTS
Finally, a decent Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher.
oh god yes
John is the new flying instructor and Quidditch referee, who retired from his professional Quidditch career after some kind of accident
Lestrade is the Transfiguration teacher
Molly is a nurse
Jim teaches Potions
Anderson and Donovan are the annoying as fuck prefects
Mycroft holds a minor position in the Ministry of Magic
Boom. Someone fic this.
It seemed to be some sort of tradition that Hogwarts had to have at least one professor no one could stand. Before, when Harry Potter was around, it was the infamous Professor Snape. After that, there had been an Arithmancy professor named Wiggins who was so unbearable that most students blocked him out of their memories completely. Now there was Holmes.
He wasn’t so bad - at least according to the girls who sighed and fawned over him. And some of the boys. Certainly enough, Holmes was good looking, but that seemed to be a running trend among the staff lately. Professor Lestrade, in Transfiguration, couldn’t go more than an afternoon without a student coming in for extra practice, usually with form. Professor Watson, who doubled as flying instructor and the dueling team’s coach, had more broomstick and wand jokes aimed at him than anyone cared to hear in a lifetime. But he had an easygoing personality that made him easy to joke around with. Even the teensy-bit unbalanced potions master, Professor Moriarty, had a sort of deranged charm to him, and Nurse Molly was sweet and remembered all her patients’ names.
There was no longer a curse on the Defense Against the Dark Arts post, but after the first week with Holmes, most students wished it would come back. He showed up five minutes late for the first lesson and then burst in with a swish of his trailing cloak, mouth going at a thousand miles a minute.
“Wands out, everyone, and you’d better behave responsibly if you’ve been trusted with them for three years. That means no poking, no unauthorized spells, and no being idiots, understand? Most professors like to say there’s no such thing as a stupid question - I disagree; there are a lot of stupid questions, especially if you don’t listen. Take every word I say as gospel and don’t fall asleep or I’ll throw the nearest projectile, and don’t think I’ll pity you if you can’t deflect it in time. There will be no skiving off, because I’ll know if you’re lying, and random pop quizzes through the term. We’ll start with Shield Charms, something even the most inadequate first-years can grasp, shall we?”
Even if he hadn’t talked to them like babies at the end, everyone hated him.
Holmes was never happy with anyone, never smiled, and never gave praise, even if a student did something truly brilliant and inspired with his lessons. The closest he would get at complimenting someone was to lean back in his chair, feet on the desk, and say, “You could have done worse, I suppose. At least you didn’t kill me.” He only ever looked interested when a student lipped off in class or Professor Lestrade showed up for a word.
That was another funny thing about Professor Holmes. He liked mysteries, but not in the way that most people liked mysteries. He solved them, even mundane ones like missing magical creatures that escaped into the forest, or students who cheated on their exams. Professor Lestrade seemed to have a lot of trouble with cheaters, and Holmes always found them, which only made the student body resent him even further.
His pursuits brought him to dueling club practice one day, where for the first time he met Professor Watson. The moment he entered the practice room a hush fell over the students, causing Watson to look up in alarm; they all knew that one of their number was going to get in big trouble.
“So, the best technique would be to - guys?” asked Watson, turning to see Holmes in the door. His eyebrows rose. “Oh, Professor Holmes, what a pleasant surprise. Are you here for a lesson?”
There were scattered giggles around the room as Holmes scowled. By then it was common knowledge that, though he was a genius in almost every other respect, Holmes was a terrible duelist. “Actually, I was going to correct your form,” he retorted.
Hushed “Ooooh”s spread across the room. Watson smirked slightly. “Really? And what’s wrong with it?”
“It’s - ah - crooked.”
“Crooked?”
More giggles. “Perhaps it could be more improved if you didn’t have a psychosomatic limp.”
“Pardon?”
“You heard me loud and clear. Your limp is psychosomatic. It’s all in your head.”
“And what does that have to do with anything?”
“Nothing, really. But I bet you ten Galleons I can fix it.”
“Oh, really?”
“Flipendo!”
Watson dodged immediately away and shot back a spell of his own. They weren’t even on the dueling tarmac, and students had to quickly back away against the walls as the fight very quickly got messy. Holmes either didn’t know the rules of dueling or disregarded them completely, amplifying his voice and shrieking or shooting off blinding sparks to disorient Watson before shooting a curse. Though even then Professor Watson managed to keep the fight even.
With an almost lazy flick of his wand the spells momentarily stopped flying, and Watson snapped, “This isn’t exactly a fair fight, Professor.”
The taller man grinned. “Oh, come on, Professor, even your Muggle sister could do better after indulging her alcoholism.”
Watson dropped his wand and charged at him. For a moment Holmes’ eyes widened with pure panic before immobilizing Watson with a leg-locker jinx. He knelt at his colleague’s side, handing back his wand. “I told you it was in your head,” he smirked before getting up again to point at Miranda Hodgins. “You. With me to the Headmaster’s office, now.”
He swept out, with Miranda timidly following and the remaining students in awe. Watson reversed the jinx and gaped after Holmes while absently stretching his leg. Holmes was right; he hadn’t limped at all during the fight.
Most students thought the professors would hate one another on principle after that incident, and were taken by surprise when the pair were practically inseparable from that moment on.
(Source: benedict--cumberbatch, via riddlemehiddleston)
Rose Tyler meets Sherlock Holmes in the parallel universe.
Rose: So, what’s your name?
Sherlock: Sherlock Holmes, Miss Tyler.
Rose: Your parents a fan of the books, then?
Sherlock: What books?
Can someone write a fic with this jesus I need it like burning.
Oh my GOD. Write this. Write this now.
Oh.
My.
GOD.
Nel. Nel. Nel. Nel. Nelllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll.
Nell. Nelllllll. Please? Oh god please? You have such an amazing Rose voice, PLEASE????
(Source: doomslock)
Eleven/Rose… be still my fangirl heart <3
“Wait, where are you going!”
Seventeen-year-old Rose Tyler chased after her boyfriend, refusing to let him do this to her. Again. “Goddamnit, Jimmy, answer me!”
“I’m leaving!” He rounded on her, eyes like fire, his voice fierce and angry. “I’m leaving, and there’s nothing you can do, Rose.”
She crumpled at his expression, the feeling of finality crushing her. “Please,” she softly begged. “I don’t want you to.”
Her words seemed to melt him and he sighed, stepping closer. He hesitated slightly before reaching out and gently touching her face. She closed her eyes and leaned into his hand. “Rose,” he breathed. “I have to go. This is the only way.”
Rose’s breath hitched and she bit her lip. “But why?” she asked, gasping as she opened her eyes.
He was gone.
“Here’s the thief we caught trying to steal one of the horses last night, your Lordship.”
“… he’s nothing but skin and bones, why on earth would he try to steal a horse instead of food?”
“No idea sir. Shall we have him punished?”
“…”
“Highness?”
“No- no, that won’t be necessary. Have him cleaned and sent up to my rooms. I’m sure I can find a use for him.”
(Source: fassbender-mcavoyobsessed, via zimothy)
Five years ago, Charles was burned and Erik assumed they’d killed his partner and lover. Erik spent days, weeks, months, years trying to find him - to at least see if Charles was even alive. It was only a matter of time before he got dropped from the bureau as well, burned and left in Miami in the middle of a shithole full of gangs and rich, old people.
It takes Erik four months to pick up a trail on who burned him, and he’s starting to think its the same people who made Charles disappear when he finds himself receiving text messages that send him on a wild goose chase. Each messages leaves a hint, a clue about Charles with information that Erik knows they kept between them - that only someone who had been watching them would know.
That’s when he reaches the destination and gets the final text.
Look Up.
(via zimothy)
“Mycroft always was father’s favourite.”
John frowned. “I’m sure that’s not true…”
“Oh, perhaps you’re right, John.” Sherlock began, his voice taking on it’s familiar sarcastic edge. “Perhaps I’m reading too much in to ‘overlooked’ invitations regarding their trips to the park, or to the opera, or Parliament.” He snarled distastefully. “My brother was so well behaved; so eager to impress and become the man he admired. I, on the other hand… was too much of a handful. An inconvenience.”
He paused, and glanced toward John. “…You remember?” He smirked.“I remember you being a handful when we were young, yes, but…” John shook his head. “I’m sure your father cared just as much for you. You were a little stand-offish then, y’know.”
Sherlock didn’t respond to that. Instead, the genius plucked his violin absently. “Check the website. I need a case.” He muttered.# kidlock series 1
# kidlock series 2
# kidlock series 3* anon request || i love ur kidlock! can u pls do a kid!mycroft picture too????
(via 7yrsofbadluck)
