volume twenty eight — bodyswap.

table of contents

• intro

story one •

• artwork

story two •

• edits

story three •

• outro

hello everyone! it's gwyn here,

back with teh's twenty eighth

volume!                                        

sorry for the long wait, with    

the recruitments, we had to   

put the blogs on hold.              

but we're back!                          

if you want to the crew,    

click here! we're still                  

receiving applications!             

this time, the theme is a           

bodyswap au! read on to          

discover all the takes on this   

prompt!                                         

:small_orange_diamond:

When Sherlock woke up in a bed beside another person, he really had not expected that person to be himself.

“Bloody hell!” He shouted (in someone else's voice, he realized faintly) and promptly scrambled up into a sitting position, falling on the floor in the process. The landing was rough, and a sharp bolt of pain shot through his shoulder at the impact, making a deep grunt force its way out of his throat.

Above him, the other person (he?) was waking up and stretching, eyes still squeezed shut.

“What’s got you all worked up this morning, ‘Lock?” The man on the bed (Sherlock?) asked on a yawn, oblivious to the fact that he was currently stealing Sherlock’s face, his voice, his body. Sherlock, pushing himself off the ground in a nearly panicked state, ran to the nearest mirror.

Sherlock was thankful for the sink in front of him, because when he looked in the mirror and saw the face of John Watson, he grew faint and needed a surface to lean on lest his knees give out on him. Faintly, from the bedroom, he could hear John calling him, catching on to the fact that something was very, very wrong.

“Sherlock, what’s-” Sherlock could tell when John entered the bathroom down to the second, because he swore loudly, and in the mirror, Sherlock saw John’s (his?) face grow pale. John, rubbing his hands over his (Sherlock’s?) face, was visibly trying to find words to explain just what was happening to them.

“John…” Sherlock said, his voice (still not /his/ voice) rough with disuse. “John, what the /hell/ are we going to do about this?” Sherlock was panicking now, running his fingers through his (John’s?) hair, over the face that was no longer his.

“Why in hell would I know what to do?” John said, his words not fitting with the sound of Sherlock's voice. “You’re the genius here, you figure something out.” John didn’t seem as frantic as John. In fact, to Sherlock, it looked like he was appreciating himself in the mirror, staring openly at his face, appreciating the sharp angles and the cupids-bow lips.

“John, are you seriously iring my face in the mirror right now? Be serious about this,” Sherlock said, pouting a little bit (a look that did not fit on John’s face). John smirked at him in the mirror, which just made Sherlock sulk more.

“Your face? I think you mean /my/ face now,” John said teasingly. “I don’t think I’d mind being stuck as you for a while. Christ mate, these cheekbones…” John trailed off, rubbing his hands over his face once more. Sherlock groaned in frustration, slamming his hands on the edge of the sink. “Oi!” John said, breaking out of his trance for a moment. “Stop pouting with my face, you look like an idiot.”

“Oh, what does it matter John? I’ll pout as much as I want. Agh, we were supposed to be going on a case today! We- we can’t let Scotland Yard see us like this, John. We /can’t/. If I suddenly start solving cases in your body, and you act like yourself as me, they’ll know for sure! And we certainly can’t tell them about the situation, they’ll never believe us,” Sherlock said, starting to pace around the small space of the bathroom, rubbing at his temples. His (John’s) leg was starting to hurt a little bit, and Sherlock wondered how John could live like that.

“Just text Lestrade and make a deal with him, Sherlock, it’s not that difficult. It wasn’t a particularly exciting case, just tell him that you found an especially interesting mold culture that is more suited to your time,” John said distractedly, still staring in staring in the mirror. Sherlock grumbled loudly, plopping down onto the edge of the bathtub.

“I guess I could do that…” He said with a sigh, standing up and trudging back to the bedroom for his phone. He typed for a few seconds then sent off a quick, detached-sounding text.

Can’t come for the case today. Mold cultures need my attention. -SH

Without waiting for a response, Sherlock threw the phone on his bed, marching back towards the bathroom where John still was with determination.

The rest of the day would be… interesting, to say the least.

—sceibbles

raven

rolling wind

summary:

When Mycroft Holmes and James Moriarty shook hands, the former accepting to exchange his brother's childhood for information on the criminal's web, they didn't expect to get thrown halfway across the room...

And they certainly didn't think the next thing they would see once their gaze cleared was their own faces.

click here to read the rest of the story!

—lyrae

food

forgotten

king

john

detective

story three

tw: cursing, mentions of death, drugs (nothing you haven't seen in the series tho)

Sherlock was running at full speed, John not far behind. The corridors of the art museum they were in blurred as he ran past.

In front of him, also running, was a black haired man. The distance between them shortened with every step, and Sherlock could feel the slight wheeze his lungs gave at the lack of air.

Taking his chance, he jumped forward, falling over the man and pinning him to the cold tiled floor. He quickly teared the guy’s gloved grasp from the bracelet he was holding, and twisted around, ready to throw. “John, catch!” He warned, and the doctor halted, his arms extended, ready to catch the object that was already flying through the air. Sherlock watched from the floor, the man struggling under his weight, as John grasped the bracelet.

Then, the world turned on its axis.

When the spinning stopped, Sherlock opened his eyes to find himself standing, and ahead of him, sprawled over the still struggling man, was…. Also him.

――――

Some days prior

Sherlock couldn’t decide if he wanted to jump in pure glee, or smash his head into the table. Mycroft was texting him nonstop, and the level of caffeine (John wouldn’t let him take anything else) in his veins was already reaching an alarming point. And he still couldn’t solve the damn case.

At first he’d been so excited, this case was jam. Terribly difficult, a blessing among the other clients he’d been receiving. But now? It didn’t make sense. How could it not make sense?! It was a standard crime! Robbery of a priced bracelet, the crime scene had fingerprints and everything! But when the owner of those fingerprints turned out dead, and the bracelet was still lost, things began to change. Some days later, another sighting of a different person, with the bracelet, a few hours ed, and the yard had another corpse and no bracelet.

They had about three more bodies now, and no clue whatsoever about anything at all.

Sherlock wasn’t stupid, he’d already ticked off every possibilty. There was no way the bracelet was being traded between different people so fast. There was still the possibility that someone who also was after the object was the one killing all the previous holders, but there was no evidence whatsoever. The first corpse had the second corpse’s fingerprints, the second had the third, and so on. What the hell was happening?!

He flopped himself into the couch just as John walked in, holding two cups of tea.

The doctor chuckled and handed one cup to Sherlock, who snatched it from him a little more aggressively than necessary, nearly spilling himself all over. Oh, how he needed a cigarette.

――――――――

Now

John just wanted for this case to be over with.

When Sherlock threw himself at the man, he allowed himself to think that yeah, they were finally done.

But now he was the one sprawled over the thug, with no idea how he got there.

Holding the guy’s hands behind his back in an experienced motion, John craned his neck to find himself a few feet behind, staring in bewilderment.

“What the hell?”.

Anyways, they’d figure that out later, now, they’d have to take care of the man currently under him.

John hoisted the man up, still holding his hands behind his back. Then he staggered. It was so weird, his body wasn’t responding properly. The collar of his coat flapped uncomfortably against his face as he steadied himself.

Wait― coat?.

The guy took the chance to race towards… him? The other him? Yeah let’s go with that. The guy threw himself at his copy-cat, both tumbling down with an “oof―!”. His clone made eye with him ― those eyes that weren’t his, they were Sherlock’s― and again the bracelet was searing through the air and John was catching it with difficulty, because why wouldn't this body answer to him dammit. The world spinned again.

And he was back, laying on the floor, ahead of him standing was Sherlock, staggering like he was drunk.

The other black haired guy had booked it. With the bracelet.

At least they knew what it did now.

—gwyn

that's it! thanks for reading! stay safe, and see you all on the next volume!