rw: sherlock


[x] // requester: anonymous // request here

Sherlock had just texted you to come to his apartment, and you were about to knock on his door when he opened it before you even raised your hand. You strolled inside, grinning, as you said, “It’s been a little over a week, Mr. Holmes, have you still not figured out who my mother is?”

“You’ve covered your tracks reasonably well, y/n.” Sherlock stepped back, and you folded your arms across your chest. “Or should I say, y/n Adler?” 

You heard clapping from the other side of the room, and you smiled when you saw your mother appear, a smirk on her face which resembled yours. Raising an eyebrow at you, she said, “I didn’t think he’d take so long to figure out, my dear girl. Well done for fooling him.”

Magnussen and Redbeard

So Magnussen had a whole file on Redbeard. Which, if we believe the TFP story, means that he knew about the dangerous but brilliant Holmes sister who was kept in a high-security prison and was used for secret state purposes and who had done unspeakable things to her brother Sherlock which were bad enough to make her victim his pressure point, right? Because if Magnussen was so clever and devious he would have known that the dog never existed. 

But this does not work either because if Magnussen knew about Redbeard the boy who was killed by Eurus he did not need Mary or John or Sherlock to put pressure on Mycroft. He could have blackmailed Mycroft with this knowledge alone. 

Which - if we assume a mid-HLV starting point - works very smoothly: Then Magnussen would have something on Redbeard not connected with Eurus which still constitutes a trauma for Sherlock but cannot be used so easily to dominate Mycroft. 

P.S: If we believe the TFP story we must ask how Magnussen could know about Victor Trevor being called Redbeard. Only the Holmes family knew what happened so one of them must have spilled the beans, right? On the other hand half the British government seems to know about Eurus Holmes - but not her own brother - so it is possible that Sir Edwin or Lady Smallwood or someone else chose to to talk. 

P.P.S.: Which, again, makes EMP seem much more plausible. But this is old news. 

Keep reading

note to the curious colleague who tried to sneak up on me an hour ago:

this is not my laptop i don’t even know who benadryl cumberbund or whatshisface is and in no way am i associated with over a million words of gay angsty fanfic. thankyou and merry Christmas 😂😂😂😂😂

(not that they’ll see this note but anyway. I must practice on reflex speed of shutting my laptop lid)

*At Bart’s*

Greg: *doubted* Do you think it’s going to work?

John: *certain* Definitely, if we just stick to the plan, he’ll admit it

Greg: *convinced* Alright, this is going to be fun!


{In the lab}

Sherlock: *working*

Molly: *reading files*

Greg: *grinning* Hey, what’s up? Need help with anything?

Sherlock: *not looking up; a bit annoyed* You seem happy, any reason?

John: *smirking*

Greg: *confident; smirking* Not really, just realized something recently

Molly: *looking up; nervous*

Sherlock: *disturbed* Something good I suppose?

Greg: *smiling* Well yeah, I would say so *wrapping his arms around Molly*

John: *smirking; knowingly*

Molly: *stiffs, chuckles awkwardly; nervous, pats Greg’s arm*

Sherlock: *looking up; annoyed* What the- Stop doing that

Greg: *on the verge of laughing* Why? What’s wrong Sherlock? I didn’t think you’d care

Sherlock: *through gritted teeth* Well, I don’t

Greg: *mighty* Then what’s the problem? *kisses her cheek*

Sherlock: *stands up; angry* Stop, just stop! *Pushing Greg away*

Molly: *folds her arms around Sherlock’s neck; sighs*

Sherlock: *embraces her*

Greg and John: *laughing; shaking hands*

Sherlock: *confused* Wait, you knew about this?

John: *smiling* It’s not that big a secret, you know. Every time someone just mentioned Molly, a smile cracked over your face. And you’ve been asking a lot about her lately

Greg: *grinning* Yeah! And same for you *puts his hand on Molly’s shoulder*

Sherlock: *relieved*

Molly: *delighted* Well, then there’s no reason to try and hide anything *snogs Sherlock*

John: *laughing* Yes, but you could still pay a little regard. You can do your ‘things’ when you’re alone

Molly: *blushing* Sorry

Sherlock: *starts kissing her neck* then why don’t you leave us alone

Molly: *giggling*

Greg and John: *watching them; smiling*

Sherlock: *puts Molly on a table; snogging her*

Greg and John: *atonished; hurries to the door*


I, I can’t get these memories out of my mind

And some kind of madness has started to evolve

I, I tried so hard to let you go

But some kind of madness is swallowing me whole, yeah…

I have finally seen the light

And I have finally realized

What you mean..

And now, I need to know is this real love

Or is it just madness keeping us afloat?

And when I look back at all the crazy fights we had

Like some kind of madness

Was taking control..

And now I have finally seen the end (Finally seen the end)

And I’m not expecting you to care (Expecting you to care)

But I have finally seen the light (Finally seen the light)

I have finally realized (Realized)

I need to love

I need to love..

Come to me,

Trust in your dream

Come on and rescue me…

Yes I have known, I can be wrong

Maybe I’m too headstrong

Our love is


There’s this trope in “soulmates” fic, where the first time you see or touch your soulmate, you know it. One fic I read recently (lovely, btw!) had a world where you stopped aging at eighteen, until you finally encountered that person. But it could take years before you realize, hey, I now have the body of a 22-year-old rather than an eighteen-year-old. And even if it’s relatively instant recognition, it’s incredibly easy to have “love at first sight” happen when you’re looking in a crowd, so you’re not actually sure which person you’re meant to love.

So imagine: John, on a train out of London to join his regiment, realizes that particular birthmark is now gone, and one of the hundreds of people he laid eyes on that day in King’s Cross has to be his soulmate. And there’s fuck-all he can do about it because a) they’re all on trains headed around the country, except those that aren’t and will just fade back into London with no paper trail at all, and b) he’s bound for !@#$ing Afghanistan in the next 48 hours. So he goes off to war thinking there’s now no way for him to know it, if he ever comes across her again (because of course it would be a her). And it gnaws and gnaws at him until, when he’s finally shot and recovering back in England, he engages a certain deductive genius to track the movements of all the women making their way through King’s Cross on a particular day some sixteen months prior.

The fact that said deductive genius was on his way out to Essex on that case was surely a coincidence. Not worth noting. He was in King’s Cross several times a month, and he never had put much stock in that soulmate garbage, anyway.

Basically what I’m saying is: why is this not a fic?