damaged and delusional
Sherlock Holmes
and believing in a higher power


sherlock getting drunk for a case and a MATD song starts playing and he just shouts out “i loVE THiS soNG!!!!!!” and john’s like “i didn’t even know you listened to popular music” and sherlock just turns to him and deadpans “it’s marina, john, everyone knows marina”

He is Sherlock.


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[ sorry not sorry. p.s. i <3 u ] Claimed



Put "Claimed" In my ask box and I'll generate a number below. NSFW Version


10: Your Choice.


"This should be fun."

Jim only smiled into the kiss. Sherlock was hardly the one to be propositioning Jim. It was always the other way around, earning growls of frustration (and pleasure Jim assumed because he was all too familiar how those sounded like) or ‘tease’ and ‘insufferable git’ from the taller male. Jim lived for it. He enjoyed being one of the only ones to get Sherlock Holmes flustered. This was definitely something new but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy it. 

The water hit them and Jim found himself slowly deepening the kiss, still tasting and feeling Sherlock through the water, subconsciously pushing Sherlock closer to the wall, bringing their bodies closer together. An almost embarrassing whine of disapproval escaped the Irishman’s lips as Sherlock pulled away. It didn’t take much to get him riled up, it seemed like. It was times like these that Jim was more than happy that Violet loved spending time with her grandparents and vice versa. 

The Irishman resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the soap in Sherlock’s hand. Irony at its finest, he guessed. He reminded himself to chide Sherlock afterwards or to just get rid of all the green soap before lifting his gaze to Sherlock’s, eyebrow arched. “Oh I’m always thorough.” he countered, not hiding the mischievous grin that graced his lips then. “Would you like to see for yourself?”

"And to think I was supposed to be the one to give you a bath." He handed the soap over to Jim, his eyes briefly resting on the shower knob before moving back to Jim’s face. Knowing his husband the way he did, he suspected there was going to be a long, drawn out process, which would end with him aiming the shower head at Jim just to make him move faster. 

Sherlock ran a hand down Jim’s torso, liking the obvious lack of hair - the idea of feeling curls in that area was enough to send a shiver of disgust through his body; he did like Jim clean shaven - before stopping at the curve of his waist.

"I expect it to be thorough, James. Like you promised." A light squeeze punctuated the last word as he took another step closer, his head cocked to one side. 


Only when she picked up her phone did Christa realise her hands were shaking. It was Sherlock. /Oh God no/ she thought, /No, no not with Jim back. This can’t keep going./

[text: Dickhead]: Of corse I diidnt. Trust mee im just as shocked as you.

Christa knew there were a couple extra letters in there, but her hands had started shaking badly, and she couldn’t be bothered to fix it before she pressed send. Christa covered her mouth with her hand and sat down when she sent the text, her eyes never wavering from the telly.

She couldn’t help wondering, /Did I miss him?/ Of course. Of course she missed him, his death tore her apart. She didn’t really miss the job, but certainly her brother.

[ ✉ Christa | sent 12:04 PM ] Even more so, apparently. —SH

He set the mobile phone down and moved over to Mrs. Hudson, switching off the vacuum cleaner she’d been using. Half-grateful that the annoying device was finally off and half-apprehensive at the news, he stared at the all-too familiar face on the screen. 

He should have checked if the bullets were blank, but it wasn’t as if he had the luxury of time then.

"Sherlock…oh Sherlock, what are we going to do?" Mrs. Hudson gripped his wrist, and he patted her hand awkwardly.

"The only thing we can do. Put him back where he belongs." 

[ ✉ Christa | sent 12:010 PM ] We need to talk. —SH


have you ever loved a fictional character so much that whenever you see a picture of them your heart tingles and your vocal cords produce this awkward screeching noise that sounds a bit like a dying cat



No, I am not beginning to ship Sherku after one reply that involved the word “baby”. Nope.

[ *blinks* ….I…what… ]

"Sherlock, thought I'd stop by and let you know that I told Seb ... What in the bloody hell - There's chocolate ... Sherlock, are those /bite marks/ on your neck?" [happy sexual Sunday, my darling Alex hehe]



Sherlock turned towards the door as Eirene entered; he heard her falter and put on an unaffected expression as if he woke up every day to a neck that looked like it had been used as a grown man’s pacifier.

                     ”——And if these are?”

His eyes slid towards the bedroom door, where he knew Jim was most likely going through his clothes. Chocolate was difficult to wash out, and the consulting criminal was rather picky about his Westwood suits. 

It was both Jim and Sebastian’s suggestion that she visit Sherlock.  The latter was a surprise.  Honestly, Eirene was surprised that Sebastian had not gotten sick of her depressing mood over the consulting detective.  It was humiliating, really, that the man she called her best friend could affect her almost as much as her husband - just in a different way.

Sebastian had been beyond understanding while this vague shadow seemed to overhang their lives.  He had not said anything when she had chosen to forego rest of the wedding planning for a simpler ceremony not long after that day at 221B.  He let Jim get hopped up on red velvet cake, and still expected his wife’s brother to be the least bit respectful for some reason.  The honeymoon was lovely and probably the only time Eirene really enjoyed herself.

Sebastian took all of it in stride, saying little to upset her.  Then the time came around for another routine visit to the doctor and a sonogram, and “go talk to Holmes before we go” was all Sebastian said.  Rarely did he order her around since Sherlock and Jim’s return.  No reason to - she did not accompany him on jobs anymore.  He was serious, now, though, as his hand found her belly, and she knew what he was thinking.  They would most likely be finding out the genders of the babies tomorrow, after just over twenty weeks, and he wanted to be able to enjoy it with her.  Eirene also imagined that he was tired of worrying about her when he could not really do anything about it and strangle Sherlock himself.

So she went for Sebastian, of all people, more than for herself, and she found herself - after a tip from Mrs. Hudson - at the front door of Mycroft Holmes’s humble abode.

"Brillant," she muttered as she knocked on the door.  "An introspection before I’ll even be allowed to see anyone -"

"Eirene."  The door opened quicker than she had expected, and she was consequently stunned for a moment, her monologue fading on her tongue as she stared up at Mycroft, gaping a bit.

"My - Mycroft."

"Congratulations again," the older man offered, though that lemon-sucking smile of his was plastered on - peeved and not the least bit sincere.  Eirene found a hand going to her belly just out of protective instinct.

"Thank you.  Is Sherlock at home?"

Mycroft gave her another once over before stepping past her, his umbrella in hand.  ”I trust you know the way to the living room.  I’ll be gone for at least an hour.  Try not to do anymore damage while I’m away, hm?”

He walked off before Eirene could answer, and she stepped into the house in a daze, closing the door behind her.  She was quickly revived, however, when a gunshot rang through the house, causing her to half-scream and bite her tongue to keep from swearing.

"For God’s sake.  Sherlock, it’s Eirene.  I came to see you, but I am not armed, and I’m five months pregnant.  If you don’t want to see me, tell me, and I’ll go.  Otherwise, put the gun away, please.  As you may recall, we don’t have the most favorable history when it comes to firearms.”

Monologue spent, she slumped against the door, her heart pounding, and turned the knob.

[ Tell me to leave.  No don’t.  But you will.  You will.  Just … don’t. ]

The safety snapped on, he flung the weapon with an almost careless abandon at the open drawer, before sliding it shut with his hip and almost leaping onto the couch. “Come to return the gift, have you? Mm, I suppose silver spoons aren’t the best wedding present.” 

Sherlock sighed, looking straight up the ceiling so as to avoid eye contact with her. He wasn’t in the mood for any arguments today, not since he’d been set back a few days in the latest case he’d been handling. A mysterious cyclist who had been dogging their new neighbor was enough to make him drop another potential case in London, mostly because he didn’t want to go back just yet.

The silence stretching between the two of them was uncomfortable, but he simply refused to be the one to break it. He did notice her belly was already starting to swell, a hint that she was carrying more than one, as he deduced. 

[Text - Sherlock] Your face. I like it. I might also be a little buzzed. But I still like it. You face, that is.



Hoku | sent 4:59AM ] Your state of inebriation is evident over your text. —SH

Hoku | sent 5:00AM ] Are you going to tell me where you are, or are you going to make me deduce? 

She blinked slowly. “Y-you heard us?!” She balked, turning redder, than watched as he drank some of whatever he had made. “You stop that! I swear, you’ll give me a heart attack one day.” She huffed, standing, intending to march right out of the flat. She got as far as John’s chair, then spun back around to face him. 

"I want a baby."

"So did John," he added, setting the beaker down and smacking his lips quietly. Sherlock gave her a confused look, before covering the beaker with a clean filter. "It’s homemade soda, Hokulani. I wouldn’t commit suicide in front of someone."

He was about to prepare another batch when she spoke, and the pipette clattered into the empty beaker, as he slowly turned to look at her.

"I’m sorry?"