Prompt: Change something fundamental about the Sherlock show and write about it. Can be long, short, poetry - you choose!
Examples/Ideas:
- inhuman!Characters
- John and Sherlock don't investigate murders, they ...
Roll with it guys!
First thought: ...I have an excuse for Dracula poetry?
Horizon
1.
Welcome to my house! Enter freely and of your own will!
2.
John speaks high school German, but has never read Grimm in its own shape. He doesn't know the fairy tale tongue that speaks in locked rooms behind which hide love or death, or sometimes both.
In Grimm, John would be the boy who did not know what fear was.
In Grimm, he would open his chest and the wolf would be there.
3.
When John wakes, it is sunset, and Sherlock is at his bedside. "Did you sleep well?"
John pauses, relearns the shape of his teeth and tongue before opening his mouth. "Yes," he rasps.
Sherlock smiles as if he knows he is lying. "Walk with me," he says. "Let me show you my kingdom."
"There are locked doors," John echoes. "Where you will not of course wish to enter."
"When I walk with you, no door is locked to you."
"When you are not?"
"Then of course the doors remain locked," Sherlock says, and leaves to allow John some privacy to dress.
John shaves by touch and guesswork, one hand held out before him, an empty curve in which to cradle a mirror.
4.
He: a breath of air, a shadow, the shape of a cloud, the notes of a violin.
5.
"John," Sherlock says.
With his name, John remembers to shape of himself - but Sherlock never did say his name like anybody else John has ever met.
"Yes?"
Sherlock shakes his head and looks at him with hungry smile, hungry eyes, hungry everything.
Or: not hungry. Ardent. Both as dangerous as the other.
"Tell me where you wish to go."
"Anywhere is good to me," John says, "so long as I go with you."
6.
This is my castle: 221B Baker Street.
This is my kingdom: London.
This is my vow: for this is my kingdom and my castle and you are my knight and the oath of king is threefold: to protect what is in my power, to right what has been made wrong, to offer hope for a happier future.
I will lead you only into battles worthy of you, I will strive to make this kingdom we call ours a place in which you will thrive. All the nightmares that haunt you I will destroy so long as you only believe in me.
Believe in me, and I can do anything.
This is my home: 221B Baker Street. here I eat and sleep and fight and love and dream; here I stand fast, sworn to defend from all harm.
This is my battlefield: London, its dark alleys and shadowed corners, the dangers (only some men-shaped) waiting, and I am ready to meet them all.
This is my oath: I will be true to myself. I will never doubt my way. here I have made my place. here I stand. here will I fall.
7.
The dark was never something John feared.
When he was young.
When he was small.
The dark was something John felt he ought to fear, before the wolf licked his throat and lapped away the shape of something small that thought in shoulds and oughts.
Now the dark is something that enfolds him: a coat, a lover's arms.
8.
This is the secret: life does not unfold like a map, a path, a flower, a choice.
Sherlock Holmes offered his hand; John Watson took it.
9.
John dreams.
10.
Sherlock's mouth, hot with blood, and John's skin, cold with shock, papers torn and crumpled in his hand, fresh ink smearing his fingers like a reminder, but of what he has no idea when Sherlock sighs and takes his face in his hands, tilts his head back and murmurs "look at me".
John looks: the moon shining through the window, Sherlock's dark hair, his shining eyes, his head bent towards him, and somewhere far away skin yields to the press of teeth.
He says something, he feels the movements of his throat beneath Sherlock's teeth and tongue and lips, a vibration, an echo.
Somewhere far away, warm wet movement against his neck, the shape of a word.
11.
He is something tangible to Sherlock's aether: the lungs, moving, a living body in the sun, the earth beneath the feet, a song.
12.
This is the hunt: a man, a woman, a corpse, laid out. A body speaking without breath, speaking with its clothes, its paint, its perfume, its calluses, its wounds, its intact skin.
Listen: written somewhere is a name, a scent, a sound.
In it is the hunt.
13.
Vampire is the word. There is no secret in it.
14.
Come freely. – the happiness you bring!