Congratulations on coming a close second everyone!
A huge thank you to everyone who contributed! xx
Team Pink: Molly
Molly’s Magnificent Meowths
It was another boring Thursday evening.
Sherlock, luckily for John and Mrs. Hudson (and pretty much everyone else in the apartment building), did not have any wall-shooting urges. He curled up in the armchair with a cup of tea and watched those godawful Jerry Springer-esque shows.
John, meanwhile, was at his computer, trying to drown out the sounds of Sherlock shouting frustratedly at the screen. “They can’t hear you, you know,” he muttered repeatedly under his breath.
His flatmate fell silent as the adverts came on, and John breathed a sigh of relief as he continued his blogging.
“Sherlock…” John mumbled.
“Did you say something?”
“Sherlock…Sherlock, look at this.” Sherlock looked over his shoulder as John angled his laptop toward his flatmate’s general direction. The webpage on the screen had a colorful header which read, “Molly’s Magnificent Meowths”. Underneath was an professionally-shot photo of four girls wearing flashy dresses and clutching various instruments. Suddenly, a loud guitar solo blared from John’s computer, startling the two men. A girl’s bold, defiant voice began to sing.
He said he loved me but he was playing
How could I fall under his spell
I believed every word he was saying
But lies were all he could tell
“Wait. I recognize that voice. Is that…Molly Hooper?” Sherlock questioned.
“It definitely sounds like her. And one of those girls in the picture definitely looks like her,” John replied.
“John, that picture. It was taken recently. And look,” Sherlock pointed to the side of the screen, “it says they’re currently on tour. Molly’s living a secret life as we speak.”
John glanced at his flatmate. The expression on his face was undecipherable. He supposed Sherlock had never been this dumbfounded before. Sure, there were a few murder cases that might have baffled him briefly. But finding out that the bashful, soft-spoken, and, frankly, bland-as-boiled-cabbage girl from the morgue was actually a loud, confident pop star? That was beyond astonishing.
———-
It was 2 am. John had gone to bed, but Sherlock had one major item on his mind that refused to budge. He sneaked out into the living area, grabbed a pair of headphones from the ox skull mounted on the wall, and plugged them into his computer. Sherlock turned the volume to a comfortably loud level.
He said he loved me but he was playing
How could I fall under his spell
I believed every word he was saying
But lies were all he could tell
The song was titled “Jim”, and Sherlock easily figured out that the lyrics were based on Molly’s breakup with Moriarty. He listened to the song on repeat for five times before listening through the rest of Molly’s Magnificent Meowths’ hit debut album. Sherlock was never a popular music fan, but he was mesmerized by the all-girl band. The rousing guitar solos, the frenetic drumming, the catchy choruses - Sherlock listened to every single song with keen ears, his foot endlessly tapping along to the beat.
———-
John awoke and stumbled to the living room, where he found Sherlock dozing off with his head on the desk and headphones over his ears. John shook his flatmate awake.
“Huh-wha-John?” Sherlock mumbled. “It’s too early.”
“It’s 11 am, Sherlock,” said John. He looked at the headphones, and a smirk began to spread across his face.
“Shut up, John,” Sherlock muttered.
———-
Sherlock arrived at the morgue at noon. He spotted Molly outside the cafeteria. “Molly!” he shouted.
Molly turned. “Oh, hi, Sherlock!” she squeaked.
“Molly, I know your secret.” Sherlock smirked.
Molly looked confused. “What secret?”
“Does the name ‘Molly’s Magnificent Meowths’ ring a bell?”
Molly blushed deeply. “You - you know about that?”
“Google works wonders,” said Sherlock. “Your band is quite popular, as I’m sure you’re aware.”
“Well, I, um, I - ” Molly stuttered.
“Molly, I wanted to ask you something,” Sherlock began.
“Yes?”
He grinned. “Can I have your autograph?”
Why there is no waterfall in the BBCverse
In which Mycroft marries his umbrella and invites cake.
I don’t even-
(via friendsbians)
I’m not even sorry
“What the hell is this?” John asked as he held the plastic container as far away from himself as he could.
“It’s a pituitary gland, John. Surely you should be able to tell that, you are a trained medical professional. As such, you should also know that it is the gland that secretes oxytocin, a hormone that has been implicated in pair bonding behaiours. Thus, that the pituitary gland is the seat of affection.”
“Okay, yes, fine. But,” John angled the container so that Sherlock could best see it through the morning light provided by their kitchen window, “why on earth does it have a miniature doodle of a train on it?”
“Elementary, my dear Watson. It is because I choo-choo-choose you.”
It’s really short
but anyways, it’s for the bonus
And I thought I might share it with everyone
[Also have never done anything close to a fanvid before- Team Molly you are taking so many of my firsts /le blush]
[Never written anything close to a fanfic, but I wanted to give it a try /hides]
They were eating takeout and watching James Bond save the world on John’s bed, the night Sherlock first kissed him. It all started, John thinks, when he felt cold. The damn weather had been particularly unforgiving as of late and their heater was broken. Not that John suspected Sherlock, who of course had denied being responsible multiple times.
So then John moved closer to Sherlock under the covers they were sharing. The doctor began to wonder whether it was a joke of the universe that Sherlock, being one of the coldest persons he’d ever met, was also one of the most unbelievably warm beings he’d ever met.
BOOM! the telly exploded through the speakers.
Sherlock felt it again, that…feeling. It was ridiculous. The tingles in his body, the twisting in his gut- He felt like he’d explode if he didn’t get more of John. But no- they’re flatmates. Friends. He couldn’t destroy this- being able to share the thrill of the chase and the cold clues of corpses with someone- it was too good. It was too good…to be Sherlock’s…but it was. No, he must control his self- John shifted his weight and Sherlock froze slightly. They were really close- And for the love of- Can’t John stop rubbing all up on him like that!?
They’d been close before, just never this close…this time it’s different.
He felt Sherlock’s hand go to his jaw, ever so slowly like a creeping jaguar after its prey. John didn’t stop him- couldn’t stop him. He wanted this and was having trouble breathing really. The hand reached his jaw, those absurdly graceful fingers touching gingerly, as if asking permission. Yes, you idiot. Yes.
“Sherlock,” John breathed out but their lips met, shutting him up.
It tasted good- No, fantastic.
So then John moved closer to Sherlock under the covers they were sharing. The doctor began to wonder whether it was a joke of the universe that Sherlock, being one of the coldest persons he’d ever met, was also one of the most unbelievably warm beings he’d ever met.
BOOM! the telly exploded through the speakers.
Sherlock felt it again, that…feeling. It was ridiculous. The tingles in his body, the twisting in his gut- He felt like he’d explode if he didn’t get more of John. But no- they’re flatmates. Friends. He couldn’t destroy this- being able to share the thrill of the chase and the cold clues of corpses with someone- it was too good. It was too good…to be Sherlock’s…but it was. No, he must control his self- John shifted his weight and Sherlock froze slightly. They were really close- And for the love of- Can’t John stop rubbing all up on him like that!?
They’d been close before, just never this close…this time it’s different.
He felt Sherlock’s hand go to his jaw, ever so slowly like a creeping jaguar after its prey. John didn’t stop him- couldn’t stop him. He wanted this and was having trouble breathing really. The hand reached his jaw, those absurdly graceful fingers touching gingerly, as if asking permission. Yes, you idiot. Yes.
“Sherlock,” John breathed out but their lips met, shutting him up.
It tasted good- No, fantastic.
“Imperfection” - a Shrock Song
“Imperfection”
written by lolgirl607
bonus round: Hamartia or Significant Error/Fatal Flaw
(spoken)
“Do you even care?”
“Would caring help save them?”
Do you see now, John?
I’m not the hero you thought I was
I’m more cowardly than you take me as
So please stop idolizing me
as your own personal god,
‘cause I’m not perfect.
I’m flawed.
I stay up all night
I don’t eat for days
I used to take drugs
I play rubbish on the violin
I never clean the flat
I leave my books askew
and sometimes there’s
a rotting finger or two
But you take this in pride
cleaning up after my mess
still finding nothing in me
but my brilliance
Do you see now, John?
I’m not the hero you thought I was
I’m more cowardly than you take me as
So please stop idolizing me
as your own personal god,
‘cause I’m not perfect,
I’m flawed
I’ve said that I don’t care
that’s cause I really don’t know how
to connect with emotions.
And when it really counted
I couldn’t handle the stress
and let you slip through my fingertips
And no matter how much
I try to apologize
You’re not here and it hurts
and I never realized
Why did you see me as
The hero that would save your life
when I’m too cowardly to even shoot a gun straight?
Why did you idolize me
and thought I was perfect
‘cause I’m not
I’m flawed
And why did you believe me
when you knew I couldn’t be trusted?
Your trust issues
became your downfall
And I blame myself for what happened
for meeting you in the first place
I should have let you go
I should have let you go
Why did you see me as
The hero that would save your life
when I’m too cowardly to even shoot a gun straight?
Why did you idolize me
and thought I was perfect
‘cause I’m not
I’m flawed
(2x)
oh just some John and Sherlock frolicking through a meadow, nbd
The Mona Holmes
Dystopian feral sweater boy!John.
BONUS ROUND: Dystopia: Art
i hope this qualifies
John’s Jam Problem (Anthropomorphism)
John needed his jam. Badly.
He was already suffering from the withdrawal symptoms. His mouth was dry, his hands were shaking, and he could barely walk. John hobbled to the kitchen as quickly as he could, and by the time he reached it, his legs were nearly ready to give out. John steadied himself on the counter with one hand and flung open the refrigerator door with the other.
Sherlock, thank goodness, had removed the human head he’d needed for his “experiment”. John rummaged through the contents. Milk…mayonnaise…peanut butter…bananas…leftover Chinese takeout…there it was. A glass jar with a familiar red checkered pattern on the lid. He grabbed the jar in such an excited frenzy that he forgot to close the fridge door. John opened the jar.
Empty. Aside from the small remnants of strawberry-flavored sweetness sticking to the inner wall of the jar, it was empty.
John stuck two fingers in the jar, tilted his head back, and frantically shoved the little bits of jam in his mouth. After his first jam hit, he put the jar down, closed his eyes and inhaled deeply with satisfaction. When John opened his eyes, he saw that the milk carton, mayonnaise jar, peanut butter jar, and the Chinese takeout container sitting on the kitchen counter. “What the hell?” he asked out loud to himself. He was sure he hadn’t taken those things out of the fridge. John figured he was just hallucinating and reached for the jam jar, hoping that another jam hit would clear his mind.
As John’s fingertips connected with the glass, he heard a squeaking noise. He looked around the room, but nothing appeared to be out of the ordinary. As he lifted the jar off the counter, he heard the squeak again. This time, it was louder, and sounded almost like a high-pitched voice.
“John! Stop it! Stop it this instant!” the squeaky voice yelled again, this time more intelligibly.
John flinched. “Yes, John, I’m talking to you!” said the squeaky voice. The voice seemed to be coming from the milk carton. As John picked up the carton to see if there was anything behind it, the carton shrieked, “Put me down, John!”
John nearly dropped the carton with shock, but he managed to calm down enough to place it on the counter gently. “You can…you can talk?” John said, his eyes widening.
“Yes! My name’s Milky. John, you have a problem, and we would like to address it right here and right now!” said the milk carton.
“Wha-what problem?” John replied.
“Your jam problem, of course!”
“What jam problem?”
“He’s in denial!” the mayonnaise jar piped up. Its voice was even higher-pitched and squeaky than Milky’s.
“This is Macy,” said Milky, leaning toward the mayo jar. “And Pete’s the peanut butter - “
“Hullo there,” said Pete, who had a deeper voice than Milky and Macy.
”- and the takeout carton is Brian,” Milky continued.
“Good evening,” Brian said tersely.
“Er, hello,” John said to the jars and cartons.
“John, you have a serious jam problem, and it must be stopped!” said Milky.
“But I need my jam,” John pleaded. “I can’t survive without jam!”
“Really, John? Those jam jars you ate - nay, slaughtered - were our mates! That jar whose last contents you just ravenously devoured? That’s Steve! Do you know how many memorials we’ve had for our fallen friends? Too many to count! May they rest in peace.” Milky sighed.
“May they rest in peace,” the others repeated sadly.
“B-but I…” John whimpered.
“No buts!” Milky yelled. “Starting this moment, we need to put an end to this appalling addiction of yours. You’re going cold turkey.”
“How are you going to stop me?” John said indignantly. “You’re just a bunch of jars and cartons.”
“Oh, we will,” said Brian. “Trust me. We will.”
“You’re going to have to put your jam jars in the fridge eventually,” said Macy. “Who’s going to make sure they’ll still be there when you open the fridge the next time?”
“You’re going to have to put your jam jars in the fridge eventually,” said Macy. “Who’s going to make sure they’ll still be there when you open the fridge the next time?”
“Guys…” John moaned.
“No more jam, John,” Pete urged. “You have to stay strong.”
“Do it for us? Please?” Macy squeaked.
The jars and cartons didn’t have eyes, but John could have sworn that for a split second, he saw each one of them making puppy eyes at him. “Okay. I’ll do it. I’ll quit the jam.”
“Yay!” the jars and cartons squealed in unison.
“Ha! Fooled you! Nothing will stop me from throwing you guys out!” John yelled. He scooped the jars and cartons off the counter and hugged them to his chest as he ran toward the trash can. Milky, Macy, Pete, and Brian screamed with terror as John dumped them into the bin. John let out a deep breath, straightened his jumper, and went back to the living room.
Sherlock came home later that night and opened the fridge door to find every inch of space occupied by a jam jar. “John?” he called. Sherlock heard a moan from John’s bedroom. He dashed over to find John sprawled out on the bed, his face and hands sticky with dried strawberry jam. Empty glass jars were scattered on the floor.
“John. John, get up.” Sherlock nudged his flatmate.
John turned to face Sherlock. “Sherlock,” he moaned, “do me a favor. Don’t put anything in the fridge ever again.”
