bakerstreet | a story in six words

1. “This is our secret,” Dad whispered.
2. Free rent. Three squares. Maximum Security.
3. “Uh oh,” said the heart surgeon.
4. Siblings argue. Salt in her coffee.
5. Monday morning, accidental decaf. No survivors.

1. We’re lying in bed. He’s mine.

2. Murderous rooster slaughters hens. Never returned.

3. Big rock, strong rope. Visions, Journeys.

{ It shouldn't be possible for a patient from Bedlam to look so angelic whilst sleeping, yet Renfield was doing precisely that. Well. "Patient" was putting it gently. More like he was detained there for information and once deemed no longer useful, he was dumped onto the streets without so much as a change of clothes or even a restful night

So he'd wandered, the world being a shattered disaster to his addled mind. The more he regained clarity, the more the world became a mess of colors. Whenever that hunger returned, everything grew too sharp and too bright and blood was all he could think of til he appeased the unnatural desire.

It was chasing a rat that he'd wound up on 221's doorstep, and it was there that everything gave way. The drugs, adrenaline, heightened senses, realization of what he now was, it all came crashing down at once, so his mind had shut down, literally, forcing him to rest.

So he slept, curling protectively around a clutched pillow - or Sherlock - like an abandoned puppy seeking comfort in the first warm and fuzzy thing it encountered. }

He wasn't sure of the man's name, he hadn't come with any form of identity and barely any clothes when he basically clung to Sherlock like a limpet and wouldn't let go for any reason, other than for perhaps a pillow or a warm water bottle.

Sherlock is not a nursemaid, by any means, so he had somehow extracted himself to make some sort of broth, sure the poor creature was hungry. He hadn't come with any identification at all, and his clothes weren't worth scraps, so he's in one of Sherlock's nightclothes. He seemed to have obviously escaped from Bedlam, and for now Sherlock had no intention of returning him.

It's a while before Renfield comes to. He stirs, whines, then slowly sits up, pressing his palm to his forehead. What the hell had Seward given him? It had been a rather large dose, whatever it'd been, and his neck still felt sore around the injection site. He thought she'd cared, that she would be his friend...

...It'd all been a ruse. Of course it would've been. Who was he to them, except a direct link to the Master? He had no other purpose.

Now he's... actually, he hasn't the foggiest idea where he's at. Nervously, he rubs at the spot on his neck and looks around.

"H-hello?" Oh, his mouth was dreadfully dry. He looks about some more and, spotting Sherlock, he speaks up again. "Sorry, where are we?"

Sherlock frowned at his guest's dry-sounding voice, and offered water or the fortunately warm broth. "You are in Baker Street in London." He answers the question, but he wonders if the man even knows his own name because he would at least have something to go on then, though he'd be very discreet in his inquiries and pretend it was about something else entirely.

He may have to help with the cup first, followed by offering the broth. Sherlock saw there was a mark on the man's neck, but he doesn't act like it's been noticed. In fact, he'd rather the man told him that he escaped from Bedlam. It would make the case much easier, and he could likely forge something if it was required. "I mean you no harm, you seemed rather in need of help of some kind." And the fact he'd clung like a limpet and was cold hadn't helped Sherlock's normal attitudes about strangers in his rooms.

Renfield sips at the water, drinking it down in large gulps until the cup is empty. Yet still it did not slake his thirst. It wasn't red or thick enough. After one spoonful of the broth, he shakes his head at the next offering, holding up his hand and waving it away.

"Thank you, but I... It's not what I need." He swallows hard, his soft round eyes moving from the bowl to the man's neck. That pulse beat so strongly, he could hear it like a drumbeat in his ears. He shakes his head again, this time to nothing and no one. He brings his knees to his chest, hugging them tightly.

Don't bite the hand that feeds, don't bite the hand that feeds...

"Baker Street. I do not know how I got here. I was running, chasing something, and then..." It's a mess. He rubs at his head again. "Sorry, dreadfully sorry, I suppose I should explain some things. What I can tell you. My name is Renfield and I was at Bedlam. They injected me with... something. I'm still uncertain of what."

"Alright." Sherlock is a bit pleased with this detail. "I would guess you fled, you came here soaked and rather cold and clung a bit to me."
Sherlock will go looking for a Renfield, just to see if he ought to be aware of things and maybe act like no, poor Renfield didn't flee Bedlam at all.

He looked rather sad and scared, and like he was hungry but couldn't eat. He knows they inject a lot of things at Bedlam, it's rather well-known. Also Bedlam requires someone to turn someone into their services or report it and Sherlock won't do that. "You said... that soup isn't what you need. Do you know what is?"

Oh, did he ever. That was the downside. He knew all too well what he needed.

"Blood." Renfield finally admits, with a swallow. He gives Sherlock a look, then a longer one. Moving quickly (for a human, anyway), he lunged for his host. It's not a graceful display. He bellyflopped onto the bed as he reached for either of Sherlock's wrists.

He does not bite. His lips hover just above the flesh, his shallow breaths warm.

"Pulsing, flowing, vital... He promised me lives, little and large, then He left." A low keening whine escapes his lips and he looks pained, but he does not let go. "You have been kind but you are also a temptation of sin, and one I should not indulge in..."

"Oh." Sherlock breathed at the odd, new sensation on his wrist. He should pull away and flee, but that wouldn't work, would it?

He'd not heard of this, and clearly the man isn't sane at all, but he can't just fetch him blood from the morgue. It wouldn't be the "vital" that he had
asked for. Having stuck himself with bodkins for his own experiments, Sherlock's probably not as disgusted as most would be. A temptation, Renfield said. Sherlock was gangly and not particularly attractive, or so he thought. "I haven't much that I can spare, I don't think." But it's not a no or a pull away or shock and disgust. "How much would you find... sustaining?"

Not a 'no'. That's encouraging. Renfield trails light kisses along Sherlock's pale arm, following the length of a prominent vein to the crook of his elbow, which he'll swirl his tongue around within that tempting space. The sight of many a drug user, he knew, yet he always was too squeamish for needles before.

How ironic his life turned out to be.

"Just a couple swallows, sir, enough to take away the edge." Renfield says. It's an addict's plea. "I can be good, after that, I promise."

Sherlock looked odd and thoughtful, trying not to shiver at the thought of being kissed in such a manner, especially the fact that Renfield had chosen the site that he had often chosen himself for more baser desires.

He also knows that 'good after that' isn't exactly true. But there's no point in contradicting. He wonders if there is need to find Renfield a proper donor in the future for such things, but does not say this either.

"Alright," he acquiesces, wondering if Renfield requires something sharp or is base enough to pierce the flesh anyway. He's curious, not... exactly afraid. His pulse was definitely faster. He rolled up unbuttoned shirtsleeves, scooting a bit to sit properly on the bed. Maybe Sherlock himself would need the soup, after all.

Lacking fangs, let alone being a proper vampire, it is indeed something sharp he needs. There's a hitch in his breath when Sherlock makes himself readily available, and he wants to bite, its his instinct, but he knows that would do far too much damage.

So he hops off and hunts, finding within seconds a suitable blade. Letter opening, elegantly carved at the handle, of a chimera or dragon perhaps. Renfield isn't thirsty for knowledge so he cares not which legendary beast actually adorns the blade. He kneels before Sherlock, looking up with wide, needy eyes as he brings the blade close to the crook of the elbow, but just below.

There he'll kiss at the skin, sucking at it to bring forth a more prominent vein as he squeezes at the upper arm. Almost as if he's done this before, but in actuality, it's only shots he's seen administered, and he's adapting the logic to suit his purposes.

It works. A vein does make itself known and it is above this that Renfield will make a small horizontal cut with the letter opener, hardly bigger than an injection site. The blade is dropped immediately as, with both hands, Renfield cradles Sherlock's arm and sucks greedily from the crimson flow.

What he needs and what he wants has become a blurred line. Moaning as much as drinking, his tongue laps at the small cut, and with eyes closed, he's momentarily lost to the rapture of the act.

It doesn't ... hurt. Sherlock was expecting more than just a slight sting, but it's more akin to the prick of the needle, although the sensation is almost similar to previous vices and he sighs, but he continues to watch Renfield, mesmerized by his actions and expressions. He felt odd, and dizzy and a bit warm in his stomach. He let his arm droop enough, just slightly. It would be easier if Renfield had chosen to be on the bed as well, but he's not interested in that at present. Clearly. Sherlock wasn't one for many oddities, he didn't think. He was, very boring for what society considered a deviant, but he liked this and it was pleasant.
His arm ached a bit, but he didn't care, not just yet.

The blood flow was already slowing, clotting, lessening beneath Renfield's insistent tongue. It's another reason he'd dropped the blade, knowing he would've been tempted to dig in deeper. But the man was kind, and beautiful, and a gentle soul...

None of those thoughts prevented him from standing and pressing bloodstained lips to Sherlock's, thanking him with an intense kiss.

Sherlock pulled him by the wrist so he was close enough for his liking and returned the kiss heatedly. He felt that the man's cheeks were slightly warmer and he didn't feel as fragile.

Sherlock smiled then and let go of his hand and let the separation of lips happen naturally. He definitely had his own blood smeared on his face, but he smiled dazedly. Was he being seduced? If it was that, he liked this method.

Once parted, Renfield presses his forehead to Sherlock's, almost as a nuzzle, before moving to sit beside him on the bed. Gently, he holds up Sherlock's arm, only enough to examine the wound. Though not a doctor, working within the office of a false one, well, he'd picked up a couple things. The cut would require some ointment, perhaps a covering, but it would heal without incident in a couple days. No worse than an animal scratch.

The blood had affected his appearance. His skin held a more pinkish glow, though still pale, and his eyes were no longer as bloodshot.

"How long have you been injecting yourself with poison, sir?"

Sherlock was not one to have accepted affection like this and he watches curiously at Renfield's examination.

"For some time. A vice, one might say. Sometimes morphine to help me sleep or cocaine to keep one awake. Or to curb ... perhaps other vices." He might as well admit to the other that he wasn't like others of his status. He takes the soup, now cold, but he drinks from the bowl in one go, trying to avoid uncomfortable conversation.

"You look a bit better. When will you need to sustain yourself again?" He could refrain from vices if he endeavored to, properly.

Renfield gathers a napkin or two from the tray and dabs at Sherlock's lips once he's done with the bowl of soup, being a studious little assistant, as ever.

"Later, much later." He says almost too quickly. Truthfully, he could drink at any time of day, for this hunger never truly dissipated. For now, it was momentarily sated and in its place, curiosity reigned supreme. "Other vices, sir?"

Sherlock accepted the attention, liking the fussing.
Later. Later gave him time to figure out how to acquire more blood to sate the man in his bed. Renfield's question on other vices he wasn't expecting. It wasn't ever discussed in polite society.

"Sometimes the combination is successful in ... curbing the desires of pleasures of the flesh," he said, flushing entirely scarlet. It wasn't known, it was only murmured in non-polite circles about such things. No one was supposed to know of it, and it wasn't talked about. "I liked someone, once. In university. It wasn't returned and his father discovered about it and was furious." He doesn't elaborate much further than that. "My obsession with crime also distracts me, and the police seem happy to indulge me in allowing my expertise in solving cases. They probably wouldn't if they knew I thought like a criminal."

If Sherlock had expected his new friend to be dismayed or even repulsed as society dictated he should feel, the consulting detective might be surprised. Renfield was none of those things. He simply continued to watch his host with a pleasant expression, head slightly canted with curiosity.

"Well. Have to think like a criminal to catch the criminals, yes?" Renfield asks patiently. Not a comment to the revealed history. He's had dalliances since his early teens. None of what Sherlock revealed was shocking to him, especially not with his recent experiences with Dracula.

"Yes, of course." Not become one, which is what Sherlock is doing, with this man with his bloodthirst in his bed. The one that Sherlock did not want returned to Bedlam by any means.

He does not know where he ought to move next. He knew where he wanted to move next, but not if he ought. And it wasn't a matter of if it was a crime or not. Dalliances in bed were definitely on the lawbooks as criminal but that was only if they were caught in the first place.

Edited 2021-01-05 04:23 (UTC)

1. Nothing to declare. Much to remember.
2. Beers were cracked, so were jaws.
3. Death extends his hand, smiling, “Deal?”
4. Saw her smile. Crashed the car.

[ assumed crs, crosscanon, au/ocs all welcome! ]

1. "Heard you got a new weapon."

2. "Someday I'll fly away from here..."

3. Focused on repairing broken little gadgets.

4. "I'm a good pilot. Ship's bad."

5. In a corner, wearing a shroud.

1. First date, awkward smiles, rewarding kiss.

2. She wanted to go feral, sometimes.

3. “Wrong number,” says a familiar voice.

4. Relationship expires; leaves a bitter aftertaste.

5. Empty highway. Petrol light flickers. Alone.

1. Boy cries holding his dog's leash.

2. Followed my heart. Funny, restraining order.

3. Burnt the haystack. Found the needle.

4. Parents died yesterday. Won lottery today.

5. Suicidal arsonist burnt at the stake.

1. "You? Beat me? In your dreams."

2. It was time to pick sides.

3. Sins of the father never expire.

4. It was a nice day. Was.

5. Why we can't have nice things.

6. Only three choices: run, fight, die.

1. "You gotta say it three times."

2. The couch was on fire, spectacularly.

3. "That was all your fault, kiddo."

1. Painfully, he changed “is” to “was.”

2. Endless stars. Home is there somewhere.

3. Fungus from a log. Visions, Journeys.

4. Lost in wilderness, he found himself.

1. Lots of death, unwavering job security.

2. Dreaming of Hawaii...thinking of her.

3. Annoying YouTubers have made me wealthy?

4. New book. Comfortable sofa. Perfect evening.

[[Assumed CR is always welcome.]]

1. Haunted, he begs for her blade.
2. Nestled in bed, cold waiting outside.
3. "There is no 'home' for me."
4. One candle, unattended. One letter, unsent.

1. First Friend. Then Lover. Lost both.

2. Cat leaps from shadows. Floating feathers.

3. Unwanted boy grows into wanted man.

4. Lovers only when people aren’t watching.

o1. The snake spit acid. Completely inappropriate.
o2. Hacking emails, texts... Everything is boring.
o3. Three bind mice. Cat had lunch.
o4. My inside voice is too quiet.
o5. There's a hum. Fix it. Please.

Edited 2020-12-28 09:00 (UTC)

1. They died with their boots on.
2. Nothing to declare. Much to remember.
3. Best friends. Circumstances change. Worst enemies.
4. Fork in road. Knife in back.
5. The war for peace. No survivors.

1. “Wrong number,” says a familiar voice.

2. New start. New you. Not you.

3. Beers were cracked, so were jaws.

1. Alllll out of fucks to give.
2. Ah, shit. Are you categorizing me? 😑
3. Whatever you heard, it ain't true.
4. WHAT ARE WE EVEN DOING HERE?

I've heard a lot, darlin'. Mostly 'bout you bein' reckless. Can't tell me that ain't true.

[ Ah, shit. ] I take calculated risks, chére. Some people just don't agree with my math.

So, what am I supposed t'have been reckless with, this time?

What calculator you usin'? Think it might be broken. Or you're real bad at math.

Do I really have ta fill in the blanks?

You know damn well I can't do th'maths.

Is this about th'Basilisk? Or the Basilisk's egg? Because before y'decide t'chew my ass out, you should know that I already put it back after Nas read me th'riot act.

I was just worried about it, but I guess snake babies don't really need... Anyway, I put it back, so what does it matter?

[m/m or m/nb for shippy things; cross-canon, ocs, assumed cr welcome]

1. Torched the haystack. Found the needle.
2. He was lovely. Then things changed.
3. New start. New you. Not you.
4. You almost convinced me I mattered.
5. Elegance is more important than suffering.
6. What have you done to me?

Edited 2021-01-01 00:37 (UTC)

A: Torched the haystack. Found the needle.
B: Rule the night. Rue the morning.
C: Death extends his hand, smiling, “Deal?”
D: Smoking my very last cigarette. Again.

01. She pours water on your leg.
02. "Sorry, have you seen a cat?"
03. "You wouldn't believe me. Few do."
04. Lying in the snow, making angels.

Hugh is an explorer. Well-prepared with his wide-brimmed hat and backpack to collect anything worth collecting, he's set off on one of his walks to wander the world endlessly. Until he has to return back to the boardinghouse for lunch, that is.

He's stepping along cheerfully, seeming very content to be on his own — though he isn't, not really. A handful of honey bees are trailing along with him, these being his best scouts. Their buzz is a quiet droning sound, a little hum. His head is tilted towards them, almost as though he's listening, when he starts to pass by a corner of the wide world he hasn't yet stumbled across, and there's a girl there on her own.

"A cat? Sorry, I haven't seen one.... but I can help you look!" The offer comes naturally and brightly, the boy seeming to perk up.

Fran is rather reminded of a younger version of herself. She always had a purse that she'd carry around with her for collecting things that were worth collecting. Though now that she's older, the purse has turned into a messenger bag. Much more room for very important things.

The bees don't seem to bother her at all, and she gently waves one on its way as it bumbles into her. "That would be very kind of you. I'd hate to think if he was stuck up a tree and couldn't get down."

Just like Hugh, his bees are forever curious of newcomers, having been devoid of meeting new people in quite a long time. They're humming close to the young woman, darting off as she gently waves her hand, but then returning to hover close by, watching her with a strange, almost thoughtful intensity.

"Oh, that'd be awful! We definitely have to find him." Hugh is nodding his head affirmatively; the decision To Assist was more or less made already, but this settles it. Leave no man, woman, child, or cat behind. At the passion in his youthful tone, the bees buzz a little louder, almost as though agreeing with him.

"What's your cat's name, miss? Ol' Hugh'll find him!"

When she realizes the bees aren't going away on their own like they usually do, she decides to be polite, at least. "Hello, bees. Lovely day to be flying, isn't it?

And thank you, Hugh. My cat's name is Mister Midnight, and my name is Fran. I think if we work together, we can find him!" There's a bit of nervousness in her voice; Mister Midnight is never far from her, and it's rather distressing not to have him at her heels like he usually is.

a story in six words

Malcolm Bright | Prodigal Son

Sherlock Holmes || Sherlock BBC || gen welcome, m/m for shipping

1 modern??? timey wimey???

hmmm, not modern because why not???

fair!

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

diana prince | dceu

Crow | Destiny 2 | ota

Kate Cordello - OC - OTA

Nagito Komaeda ; Super Dangan Ronpa 2 ; OTA

mercury black || rwby

Beetlejuice | Beetlejuice the Musical

Nikolai Lantsov | Grishaverse

Olivia Moore | Original Character

deshanna mahariel | dragon age | ota

Todoroki Touya | BNHA

Gary Bell | Alphas

Lindianne Parker/The Agent | Tom Clancy's The Division

natasha romanoff | mcu | ota

Oni Girard | garou OC | ota

Let's go with 3

yesss

JUST MAKE SOMETHING UP! I don't know what she did. lol

ok FAIR

Jamie | Changeling: The Lost OC | OTA

Jonathan Crane/Scarecrow - DC Comics

Fran Bow | Fran Bow

02.

no subject

4ever slow here, no worries if you're not feeling this anymore!

no subject