Sherlock/Watson/Lestrade/Mycroft idea

Just joined this fandom. And i have a thought here.( Yes this includes holmescest. Fuck off if you don't like it.)

And it may have already been said.

But the skull Sherlock has in the flat being used as Yorick's skull in a small reciting of Hamlet.

It's a Sunday. Neither Greg nor Mycroft are needed at their places of work. So it's a rare day off for all of them.

Greg is slowly making himself and Mycroft cups of afternoon coffee. A small indulgence they share and enjoy. The little frother Sherlock gave him at a crime scene whirring away in a small metal carafe to create light and cold milk foam.

A case had been solved on Friday morning in the wee hours, so Sherlock is content to relax for the moment. He's playing with his fingers on the chair's armrests, mentally going through a section of a piece of music he's been lowly composing.

John is writing something down on a pad of paper with the pen Mycroft got him for Christmas. The buttery soft scratch of the fountain pen in his hand is a delightful harmony to the soft tapping of Sherlocks fingers and socked toes along with the even hum of the frother.

And Mycroft is perfectly happy relaxing on the couch with his eyes closed, listening to the soft trio of sounds in 221B. The domestic silence is a balm over his usually busy mind. The slippers Greg had told him to get were warm and cozy as he had his feet elegantly proped up on the fool rest John had bought for the flat.

The silence never lasts. It only pauses.

They had put their mundane conversation on hold for the few minutes it took for Greg to get himself and Mycroft a treat. And to toss the pack of dark chocolate coated digestives to Sherlock. And to bring a small packet of crisps for John to pick at.

Once he had sat back down next to Mycroft on the couch. However, it was like someone had pressed play again.

They had started out earlier with reminiscing on University days. Then Greg had laughed and said Sherlock probably blew through all his classes in one year. Which then dragged them down a line of their early childhood and teenage educations.

"What load of tripe did you lot have to read for Shakespeare. We had a play each year from year 7 until year 11." John had bemoaned. "I then had The Dumb Waiter for my GCSE program. Thank christ."

Greg smiled into his mug when he heard Mycroft scoff. This was good.

"Shakespeare may be entirely over taught but his tragedies still hurt to experience."

"You had Macbeth, didn't you?" John lifted his pen and looked at Mycroft.

"Three bloody years in a row." The mild disgust on Mycroft’s face had both Greg and John grinning. "I didn't really care for the plays, Shakespeare or otherwise. The epics were more for me."

"Posh boy." John teased with affection.

"Indeed."

Greg swallowed around the rich warmth. "We had Romeo and Juliet for the 8th. Then Othello for the 9th. Then the two Richards. Got stuck with The Tempest in uni. It was alright."

Sherlock laughed. And then bit his lip to try to keep it in. But it was woefully impossible.

"Thanks, love." Greg's voice belayed his eyeroll. "What did you have?"

"He got lucky. Only had to do two." Mycroft said through his teeth. Semi-annoyed.

"Macbeth. And, Hamlet."

"Is that why you have the skull?" Greg's brows rose.

"Oh- no, that's a different item altogether. The original was blown up, remember? I replaced it. But-" Sherlock stood up, putting the still unopened pack of biscuits on the floor next to his chair. He glided easily over to his skull friend and picked it up. He held it out and regarded it. A smile flicked up his lips. John capped his pen and sat back in his desk chair as Sherlock cleared his throat and stood tall, face changing into one of teasing but serious nature as he pressed his voice to be bold.

"Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio. A fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy. He hath borne me on his back a thousand times. And now how abhorred in my imagination it is!

My gorge rises at it. Here hung those lips that I have kiss'd I know not how oft. Where be your gibes now? your gambols? your songs? your flashes of merriment that were wont to set the table on a roar? Not one now, to mock your own grinning? Quite chap- fall'n?

Now get you to my lady's chamber, and tell her, let her paint an inch thick, to this favour she must come. Make her laugh at that."

Sherlock bowed when he heard the claps from his lovers, Greg taking the piss and shouting, "Bravo, bravo! Encore!"

Sherlock snorted before placing the skull back on the mantle. Patting the cranium lightly before going back to his chair.

"You did enjoy the theatrical, brother mine." Mycroft sighed it softly, "I remember you performing the whole of Henry the fifth's speech. Quite emotional for me to hear you like that."

Sherlock closed his eyes and tipped his head in a bow.

John's little smile grew to be that all encompassing hug of one. Where his eyes softened and it made you feel safe. "I'd love to see that. I bet it's a deep moment."

"My voice cracked in the middle of it on my last performance of it."

"It was a- fragile time if I remember it right." Greg's voice pitched down as he looked at Sherlock, his hand finding Mycroft’s leg for something to hold. "You wanted to prove you were sober. Finally. We were at Mycroft's home, in the guestroom, and it was officially a month clean. And here Sherlock was, standing on the bed in his pyjamas, voice steady for the beginning, and quieting down as the intimacies of the speech hit him." Greg took another sip of his drink. Licking his lips he tilted his head and kept his brown eyes trained on Sherlock. "It was the most beautiful thing I had ever witnessed. Held you between the two of us we did. Let you cry it all out. Fielded your tantrum after. But it's worth it."

Sherlocks shoulders relaxed as he heard that.

Mycrofts own hum of assurance added to Greg's sentiments.

"And it led us here." Sherlock murmured into the room between them all.

"Indeed it has." Mycroft smiled warmly and placed his free hand over Greg's on his thigh.

john watson/greg lestrade rarepair shippers, this one (james/archie) is for you

D.I x Coroner

(Johnstrade?)

Inspired by How They Fall by MagdaTheMagPie on Ao3 (which is nice, but not exactly my cup of tea, it gave me this idea tho, so check it out if you want)

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Sherlock (TV) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Greg Lestrade/John Watson Characters: Sherlock Holmes, Greg Lestrade, John Watson Additional Tags: Bored Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes Makes Deductions, That's it actually, Embarrassed Greg Lestrade, John's on the phone, Maybe a bit of crack?, Beginnings, Look - I just needed some sort of Johnstrade ok? Summary: Sherlock was too bored so he went to see if Lestrade could give him something but instead, he ended up discovering something else... even before those involved did.

I’ve been searching for this specific fic since forever and I still can’t find it. John is hired by sherlock’s mom (who works for the secret service) to be sherlock (7) and mycroft (11) babysitter. Then Lestrade gets introduced and it becomes a Johnstrade kind of. Lestrade is investigating a series of murders which end up being done by Ms Hudson’s husband. Mycroft ends up being kidnapped by him but rescued soon after. It ends with all of them living in London in Baker Street.

Reply: I know for sure I haven't read this but I'll it up in case someone else recognizes it.

in sync

#sherlockrp pleaaase interact

characters I rp:

Greg Lestrade

Jim Moriarty

Sherlock Holmes

Mycroft Holmes

(Badly) John Watson

ships:

open to almost any but won't do any mxf ships w Sherlock or Mycroft bc I hc them both to be gay.

main ships are:

mystrade

johnriarty

johnlock

+more

I am open to polyships too

triggers:

Will discuss triggers in dm but I won't ever rp pedophilia or r&pe/non-con/dub-con/cnc

Where you can find me:

Instagram: @moriartyslegacy & @ofholmesiandemeanour

Discord: gr.lestrade#9265

Tumblr: dms too ofc

what if i write johnstrade fic in the year of our lord 2022

Whumptober 2021, -Day 24-

Hoo boy. Tonight I pulled Johnstrade, with the prompts self-induced injuries to escape, flashback, revenge, and/or self-sacrifice. I have literally no idea what to do here.

*

Flashback

It was a bad night.

They’d been asleep an hour or two--Greg couldn’t get to his eyeglasses and even squinting, couldn’t read the clock from his side of the bed. He thought he could make out the small hand of his wristwatch, and if that was really it, it was between 12 and 1. John muttered in his sleep--angry patter like barking, like gunfire--and it was a sudden, vicious jab of his elbow in Greg’s back that awakened him.

“Watson,” he said, little inflection in it, middling volume. John shifted from his back to his side, wordless groans becoming louder, angry fear in it. Greg knew better than to touch him, said his name again, a click louder. He reached for the lamp and switched it on so that when John woke up he might see where he was.

The way he bolted upright, fists flailing, furious at the way the blankets tangled his legs, was startling and broke Greg’s heart in an instant; three years after leaving the battlefield, John was still fighting for his life.

“Hey, Watson. Hey. You’re home. Look.” At last he laid a hand on John’s upper arm, not too tight, but not soft. “It’s a dream. You’re home. It’s me. See?”

It took a long time to ground him. Felt like forever, was definitely longer than a minute, which was unusual. When he came fully awake, John was sweat-drenched, teary-eyed, panting.

Greg got him a damp cloth for the back of his neck, a fresh t-shirt, the weighted throw blanket just big enough to cover his chest--similar and weight and size to his old kevlar armour--the glass of water from his bedside table. John cursed himself and tried to let Greg off easy.

“I’ll go out in the sitting room for a while,” he volunteered. “You need to sleep. You’ve work in the morning.”

“No, stay,” Greg replied, and rearranged the pillows so they could sit upright. His head was spinning with fatigue, but he would not let John go it alone. “Here.” He opened his arms and John settled back against his chest. Greg pulled the heavy little quilt up around John’s neck, held him across the chest for good measure. “What will we talk about?”

John hummed lightly, thinking. He slipped a hand under Greg’s, and Greg held on. After a breath’s time, John said, “Our caravan.”

Times like these they imagined themselves on a caravan holiday--nothing they’d ever done, nor were likely to--and it was no ordinary caravan they imagined.

“All right, then,” Greg agreed, and yawned as little as he could, and shook his head a bit. “So first of all there’s a wooden deck attached, we can sit out there in the hot tub and the view is of nothing but woods and a stream--no neighbors, just us, quiet. The door opens into the main room. Nice soft carpet, big wide sofa we can lounge on to watch the football on the giant telly hung on the opposite wall.”

Greg went on describing every detail--the feel of the throw pillows, the contents of the kitchen drawers, the feel of the towels in the bath--and John mostly listened, now and then added or asked something. His eyes eventually closed, and Greg swapped holding his hand for stroking his hair, but he didn’t fall asleep. Was afraid to. Around four, he did, but before Greg could get comfortable enough to doze off himself, John was back to his fight, and it started again. The second caravan was as exotic as Greg could imagine--purple velvet setees, gold fringe tassels on the drapes, candles everywhere, and on and on.

Work would be hell next day, but John was worth the sacrifice.

Where are my Sherlock peeps at?

Does anyone out there in the Tumblr cosmos still watch/like Sherlock? If so, hit me up! I’m getting back into the fandom and would love someone to talk to about it! 

Seems like I'm on the hunt for someone to role play with once again (18+) ! That never gets old, my most common ships are Johnlock and ineffable husbands, less common Johnstade, sherstrade and johnlockstrade (I love me some Lestrade) if you're interested we can build a plot from the ground up or I'm open to ideas, just message me or like the post

Fairytails Have Nothing On This

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes/Greg Lestrade/John Watson

Rating: G

No Warnings

Summary:

Sherlock wakes up on an October morning. Seeing his two lovers in bed with him gives him a bit of retrospection. Day 28-1 of promptober: Awaken

AO3 Portal

There was no 'one day' that settled everything that had happened. It came in small bursts or lazy waves just making it to shore. Their routines were haphazard but there for formalities. The different starts to their separate days became a beloved pattern. 

A scramble for an alarm setting. 

An ease of folding the covers down.

A pull on a pillow to put over a head.

The groans and huffs of aching joints or stiff muscles. 

The need for a quick kiss or a small 'I love you' answered.

(In Sherlock's case on a light affection day, an easy touch or two. Nothing more. On a heavier day, a stroke through his curls, a thorough kiss, and soft pets anywhere the other two pleased.)

On a Sunday in the middle of October, with all three of them home, it finally shook awake in Sherlock, the realisation that his relationship with John and Greg had finally fallen on stable footing. He should have known it ages ago but- he didn't and it blindsided him in a good way. 

He was awake exactly 5 minutes before 7:30am, when the first alarm on John's phone goes off on weekdays. A habit he had picked up about a month after they started waking up in the same bed. It’s still wonderfully dark out and won’t be bright for a little while yet. He’s happy Greg turned the heat on before they piled into bed after a long Saturday. Hunches being batted away and sifted through within an inch of their worth. Otherwise the room would have been ice cold and they all would suffer the consequences of trying to get out of a warm bed into the frigid air.

He turns his head on the pillow towards his two lovers, his two boyfriends, his two partners. Years ago, when John had asked him a few leading questions while they were first learning of each other as roommates, Sherlock never could have imagined he’d be here.

He lets his open eyes roam over the pair.  

The slackness of Greg's face is wonderful. The lines of worry and anger and disappointment are gone from between his eyebrows and his forehead. The sad twist of his mouth that is usually there on a case is wiped away while in sleep. Silvered hair that's growing out from another tight cut is sticking up stiff at odd angles on the one side. Chances are it's flat to his skull on the other. Sherlock won't tell him outright, at least not sober, but it's sweet and sexy. The Silver Fox look is something Sherlock has come to love over the years he’s known Greg Lestrade. He's pretty sure he caused most of the greys there anyway. 

Paired with deep doe brown eyes and a solid body, Greg is every bit of a fantasy as Sherlock had panted after when he first had known the D.I.. Said fantasy loves him dearly and would do almost anything for him. Sherlock can see the crusted sleep in the corners of those closed eyes. Knows there’s a high chance for a little dried line of drool down his cheek.

Sherlock smiles softly to himself. He loves to observe and commit things to memory. This is one of the best images to do that with.

He drags his eyes toward his first love, the one he had fallen so fast for that it took his breath away. He won’t admit it. And he won't admit that having John tinker and operate on Sherlock’s dormant heart gave way for Sherlock to see he was in love with both John and Greg. It took a while for him to settle that issue within himself. 

John is between them, curled away from Sherlock and huddled under the covers for warmth. The quilt pulled up high to his ear. He got in late from the clinic on Friday night, an emergency he needed to follow through on, which had delayed him a few hours. The thick jumper he wore over his button up and tie didn't do much to keep him warm in the evening. He didn't expect to be caught out in the bitter cold though, only the cooling air after a warm afternoon. 

He has been chilled to the bone since then, and both Greg and Sherlock have tried to warm him up in many ways. For now however, he sleeps on, tucked in tight between Sherlock on his back and Greg on his side facing towards the Doctor. The light grey-blond, but mostly grey, hair was softer than Greg's and was plastered to John's head from him rolling around in sleep. Sherlock knows that John's mouth is open because he's snoring softly into the edge of the pillow he shared with Sherlock. 

Carefully he shuffled onto his own side and pressed up close to John’s back, infusing his own warmth into the warm skin pressed against him. He leans in to kiss the starburst of a scar on John’s shoulder, breathing against it and nuzzling the tender skin there. 

He’s woken up into a life he never thought he’d have. Something like stability. A strong bond between the three of them. A little girl snoring away in what was ‘John’s Room’ with the monitor on Sherlock’s bedside table. He was the one most likely to be awake and notice if something was wrong. He had developed a sense for Rosie and her whims or whoa or wonder. 

Currently it is quiet. An enveloping quiet that settled Sherlock’s inner workings as he settled in to a cuddle with his partners. He closed his eyes and listened to the world around him. He could hear cars faintly through the door to their bedroom and the front windows. He heard a bus break a bit up the street. The soft snores of John. The light and somewhat uneven breaths of Greg that no longer worried either Doctor Watson or Medically Curious Sherlock. And he finally heard the soft huffs of an awakening little girl through the monitor. 

Sherlock kissed John’s scar again and slowly shuffled out from the covers, tucking them in close so neither John nor Greg would get cold with him leaving. His duty to a princess was calling.

I found this old fic written down in my chest of drawers. Kind of derivative, and isn’t complete, but it amused me. I kept in the crossed out bits and the typos. 

-

[Greg is lying on a park bench. He’s visibly wearing old clothing, multiple layers. He’s homeless] Mycroft: [Shakes Greg] Wake up. Greg: [Starts awake before opening his eyes, he grabs a knife from a pocket and levels it at Mycroft. Only then does he open his eyes. He doesn’t recognize him yet. His hair is completely white, and his eyes are sunken, and obviously he is half-starved] Whaddaya want? Mycroft: [Visibly surprised] Gregory, do you not recognize me? Greg: No. But considering I don’t remember beyond three years ago, I might’ve known you a while ago then. [shrugs] Mycroft: What is the first thing you remember? [visibly shaken] Greg: That I whatever is is I’ve forgotten it, I forgot it on purpose. [Greg is lying, but he wants Mycroft to leave him alone.] Mycroft: You are lying. Greg: [shrugs] Worth a shot. You give a fuck? Mycroft: Yes. I’ve been looking for you. Greg: I didn’t want to be found. Mycroft: You are sleeping with John. Greg: How is that relevant? Mycroft: You two are living together. Greg: [laughs] I’m homeless. I don’t I don’t really live anyway. Mycroft: Sherlock needs him. [An apparent pile of rags that has been semi-shadowed shifts. It turns out that it is John, curled up at the very end of the parkbench.] John: The fuck he want? Mycroft: John? LesGreg: Can’t you deduce it? John: You knew that he was alive. Mycroft: Of course. Greg: Why didn’t you tell either of us? Mycroft: You would have died. John: We did. Or as close to dead as you can be while still being sentient. Greg: Leave. Mycroft: John, you are Sherlock’s heart. He needs you. John: Not anymore. Greg: He killed my heart. John: Mine as well. I’m not his anymore. Mycroft: How do you know he’s not dead. Greg: They told us. Mycroft: “They?” John: Sherlock ever wonder why the Network fell apart without him doing anything? Greg: Go. [Brandishes the knife] Go! Mycroft: You two are sleeping together. John: We keep each other warm. Greg: Isn’t that good enough? Go! [End scene] Sherlock: Did you find Greg? Mycroft: And John as well. Sherlock: Good. Good. Are they… are they returning? Mycroft: [sighs] No. Sherlock: John doesn’t want to come back to me. Mycroft: What did you expect? He bound his very identity to you, and you killed him by jumping

Five years ago, on Saturday March 29th 2014, the first same-sex marriages in England and Wales took place after a change in the law.

We had a small celebration of that fact here on Tumblr at the time. The idea was to produce art and fic (or rec existing ones) for Silver Fox Saturday on that day featuring any of Rupert’s characters and which particularly celebrated weddings.

There were some lovely fanworks produced and I thought, rather than thinking about other things that may be happening on March 29th this year, wouldn’t it be nice to celebrate the anniversary of this auspicious day?

It’s just under 6 weeks away which should be plenty notice for all you creative geniuses to start planning your nuptials!

As before, any and all pairings/characters would be welcome - doesn’t even have to be same-sex (if you‘d like to imagine Luke marrying Susan on his narrowboat for example) though I suspect most of you may go in that direction!

So does anybody fancy it? (Psst - your response is “I do!”)

(*In the interests of full disclosure, March 29th still also happens to be my birthday but this time I’m putting out a shameless request not so much for pressies but to distract me from the ongoing catastrophuck… ;)

Don't reblog! Take a screenshot and upload it, but tag your OTP's