#Watson was so perplexed

[fogdraws]

Watching the soviet Holmes adaptation and in love with Watson........ My only complain is that he eats like that sad rat video. The one in which the rat is eating a m&m or something like that. Which I can't tell if it really is a complain or just... a comment of notability

[thegildedbee]

:: March 4 :: Selection for Week 10 of 2025 :: 🐝"a study in scarlet" (1887) from sherlock holmes: a year of quotes* 🖊️

"I never read such rubbish in my life." "What is it?" asked Sherlock Holmes. "Why, this article," I said, pointing at it with my egg spoon as I sat down to my breakfast. "I see that you have read it since you have marked it. I don't deny that it is smartly written. It irritates me though. It is evidently the theory of some armchair lounger who evolves all these neat little paradoxes in the seclusion of his own study. It is not practical. I should like to see him clapped down in a third class carriage on the Underground, and asked to give the trades of all his fellow-travellers. I would lay a thousand to one against him." "You would lose your money," Sherlock Holmes remarked calmly. "As for the article, I wrote it myself."

The first two chapters of A Study in Scarlet are a master-class in writing -- and although I've made desultory dissections of them multiple times, it seems that no matter how much I deposit into the dusty trunk in my mental lumber room, oddly enough, the interior space never seems to fill up. Hmmmm.

So, the appearance of this article, "The Book of Life," which sports a "pencil mark at the heading," occurs simultaneously with the curious incident of the flatmates at the breakfast table. What curious incident, you may ask? That Holmes was already ensconced at the table before Watson's arrival, when -- heretofore -- "he had invariably breakfasted and gone out before I rose in the morning." And yet, on March 4th, Watson arrives somewhat earlier than is his norm (some manipulation on Holmes's part?), and it seems likely Holmes lingered somewhat later than his norm, and there, placed to hand, the periodical in question, containing an article that not so subtly announces: "read me!"

You can see, no doubt, where I'm going with this :-) Watson has been fascinated by Holmes over the many weeks they've shared digs, and one of the objectives of his Sherlock-sleuthing has been the effort to fathom what in the devil his fellow lodger's occupation may be, reticent as he himself is to inquire straight off. I imagine Holmes has been equally fascinated by Watson, and fascinated by Watson's responses to Holmes's being, and has been deliberately mum on the topic of his lifework just to see how Watson proceeds in consequence. How likely is it that Holmes has ever had such an up-close and personal continuous opportunity to observe another individual? That in itself was likely an addictive circumstance. I find it hard to believe that Holmes was unaware of Watson's perplexity, and therefore had, for whatever reason, decided that March 4 was the day the question was to be answered, in a manner of his own choosing. So: in which periodical did "The Book of Life" appear? This is, admittedly, a tangential question and likely there is little to be gained by trying to posit a realistic option (and here I've no doubt made it obvious as to why it is taking me so long to process two (!) chapters). . . . Nonetheless :-) I reckon that the periodical would be a weekly, because that would allow Holmes, after however many weeks he and Watson had been not-answering the question, to be able to arrange for the article to appear at a non-too-distant time, once he had hit on the idea of using TBofL as his door-opener -- to the world, and to Watson. That is, I don't think it is a coincidence that this event happens when it does (and the universe would never be so lazy, correct? :-) After pondering and hunting, my candidate is Nature, which was founded in 1869, and in which it was not unusual for articles to appear without an attributed author. I think that the Proceedings of the Royal Society are unlikely as Holmes isn't FRS, and the dry exactitude of the essay rules out a general interest publication intended for entertainment. Nature seems to hit the sweet spot between these two poles. As editor Walter Gratzer notes in A Bedside Nature: Genius and Eccentricity in Science, 1869-1953, the journal was filled with material such as "leisurely ruminations on phenomena involving rainbows and lightning and the curious behaviour of ants and pet spaniels," and of reports from all over the globe, such as those of the Astronomical Society of Riga and the Montevideo Natural History Association. I propose, therefore, that Nature is likely to be a congenial home for the purported article.

And in taking a closer look at the period roughly from 1873-1891 (Holmes and Watson are held to have met in 1881), here are some indications of the potpourri of topics one would find within the pages of Nature: observations on how tuning-forks affect garden spiders; whether scorpions are suicide-prone; if sea urchins are capable of altruism; and a weighing of evidence that animals have a sense of humour. Surely there is room for a report within Nature's pages on how observations on "The Book of Life" might best be conducted?

But consider as well: there is an article by Francis Galton on the genetics of criminality; an article on the chemistry of cremation; a review of a work of geometry by Charles Ludwige Dodgson and his construction of an algorithm for finding the day of the week for any given date; reports on the physics of surface tension by Agnes Pockets, a German woman who had not been allowed to attend university and used her kitchen as a laboratory; and "The Remarkable Discovery of a Murder in Bermuda" (of a man who had killed his wife, weighted her corpse, and deposited it in the ocean, calculating "truly enough that the fish would very soon destroy all means of identification; but it never entered into his head that as they did their ravages, combined with the process of decomposition, would set free the matter which was to write the traces of his crime on the surface of the water"). I rest my case :-) Sherlock Holmes himself subscribed to Nature, and announced the arrival of the science of deduction within its pages! The readers of A Study in Scarlet might themselves have made such a comparative observation, underscoring -- between the lines -- a strong indication of Holmes's membership within the scientific community, broadly understood. And, for fun, two more examples of the congeniality of Nature's topics in this time period and the Sherlock Holmes stories: 1) the first is editor Norman Lockyear's stamp of approval for Jules Verne: "For in the author we have a science teacher of a new kind. He has forsaken the beaten track, bien entendu; but acknowledging in him a travelled Frenchman with a keen eye and vivid imagination--and no slight knowledge of the elements of science -- we do not see how he could have more usefully employed his talents." and

2) A rhapsody on the introduction of the Remington Typewriter: "The principal question which this beautiful and ingenious little instrument suggests to our minds is, whether it would not be better for every one of us to learn the Morse telegraph language, and employ it for writing upon all occasions instead of the cumbrous letters now in vogue." (Oh, and it was here that William Gladstone published his argument that Homer was colour-blind, which apparently excited much heated discussion!) [If you're curious about the question of color identification (and how blue and green figure into this in particular) here's a good place to start (in today's world): "The way you see colour depends on what language you speak." . . . And, guess what, I haven't even had time to consider the specifics of Watson's remarks! I am a slave of the digression . . .

...................................................... *Levi Stahl and Stacey Shintani, eds., U of Chicago Pr, 2019

& bespoke notifications as requested :-) [thanks for reading!]: @totallysilvergirl and @winterdaphne2 and @keirgreeneyes and @calaisreno

[veryfastnighuncatchable]

So I'm currently workshopping two (2) different original Holmes adaptations and they're eating my brain all the time and I really want to talk about them so I'm putting this here for anyone who might enjoy it:

The (Extra)Ordinary Life of Mycroft Holmes is a modern retelling set in London that follows the titular character in his desperate attempts to convince people that he is a completely ordinary guy--which, as we all know, is simply not true. Featuring Mycroft's golden retriever boyfriend, Fem! Sherlock, pining John, dad Lestrade, BAMF Irene, perplexed Yarders, and a genuinely unhinged Moriarty. This story begins after most of the original ACD stories but before The Final Problem, which is adapted within this story (although in this version, neither Sherlock nor Moriarty die, and the plan goes wildly wrong for both of them). It begins with Mycroft, who hasn't seen his sister in 12 years and goes by the pseudonym Mycroft Smith, working as a tax lawyer in Central London with his boyfriend, James (no, not that James). When a murder occurs in their building, things escalate quickly, and all of Mycroft's secrets come out into the open--including his own genius and his relationship to famous consulting detective Sherlock Holmes. The story evolves from there, with mystery, romance, and quite a heavy dose of angst.

Quite Contrary is a Victorian story following Mary Morstan as she navigates her marriage-of-convenience to Dr. John Watson and her begrudging friendship with her husband's eccentric flatmate, Sherlock Holmes. Meanwhile, a serial killer is stalking London, and the Yard is clueless. Featuring oblivious idiots Sherlock and John, a BAMF but tired Mary who wishes they would get over themselves already, and Police Inspector Lestrade, who is convinced that there is more to Baker Street than meets the eye. This story is much more mystery than drama, and begins with nurse Mary Morstan announcing her marriage to former army doctor John Watson, and Watson's flatmate's displeasure at the announcement (along with Watson's and Mary's, but they do a better job of hiding it). As they spend time together, however, Holmes finds a companion in Mrs. Watson and vice versa (made all the better when Holmes learns that Mary and John are not interested in each other romantically, for their inclinations both lie...elsewhere). With a good mix of intrigue and humor, all three work together to solve the serial killer case with the help (and hindrance) of D.I. Greg Lestrade.

[voilaammayi]

okay okay wait a second

victor trevor interrupting stranger’s conversation just because he heard the name sherlock holmes in it? asking if he has been mentioning him? being the only friend sherlock had in college? remembering that the one kind of pasta he eats is penne and having his own predictions about who sherlock’d be in the future? asking right away if he’d been right? thinking that sherlock of all people was a great laugh? and have I heard being in between boyfriends???

finally, speaking about sherlock with this warm nostalgic tone and always with a bashful laugh hidden behind it? oh my, mister victor trevor, you were in love!

and don’t mind me at all, but I’m having a certain vision - of sherlock and victor in college, victor coming late to their dorm after long evening studying in the library or a night out with friends in a pub, and finding sherlock transfixed on some experiment, of course having gone a whole day without a proper meal. victor complaining loudly about you and your fucked up diet, honestly, sherlock, but at the same time getting ready to go make sherlock some pasta for a late night diner. because did you know this penne with mascarpone and tomato sauce that is the only pasta sherlock eats, is originally a victor’s recipe? and after it’s done, them both sitting on a couch, sherlock eating from a pot - they’re students after all, the dishes are in a big dirty pile in the sink - while victor watches him out of the corner of his eye. then the rest of the evening spend on Sherlock talking about his experiment, some interesting plant or a new deduction, while victor just listens to him with a dreamy expression on his face, because that’s what he has been waiting the whole day for.

and I won’t speculate whether sherlock was in love, too, because the man is a mystery to me, but I do imagine victor calling him after the events of gloria scott, asking if he can come by to baker street to thank properly for solving the case. after sherlock agrees - but invites him over when he knows nor john neither mariana would be home - victor arrives with a shoping bag in hand and, in spite of some attempts at protest close to it’s not necessary, he prepares the penne pasta for sherlock one last time. then all is done and there’s no excuse for him to stay longer, really, so he stands up to say goodbye. quick enough for sherlock to not be able to do anything about it, victor kisses him on the cheek. but he had been watching sherlock during the case and heard enough my dear watson to know that he has lost his chance. so he says simply good luck, sherlock and walks out of baker street.

john would come back to the flat few moments later to find sherlock standing in a doorway, hands holding his cheeks. sherlock being even weirder than usual, john would get worried and trying to pry any information from him, even checking his temperature by a quick touch to the forehead. but as sherlock doesn’t comply, in the end john would just shrug his shoulders and leave him alone, only to become perplexed seconds later, when he enters the kitchen.

because there are leftovers of penne with mascarpone and tomato sauce already on the countertop, while john himself was just about to cook them this same thing for dinner.

[sandcobangevent]

Good Grief

By @shinymoonforest and saturn11dae

—- ˚ ༘ ⋆ —-

Sherlock never understood emotions very well. How they worked, how others experienced them in comparison to him, how he was either “too much” or “too apathetic” … All of this and more was a bit of a mystery to him, despite spending years trying to study people’s reactions. 

Detective Holmes had solved some of the toughest cases in the UK, from online creeps to diamond thieves, and yet emotions felt more difficult than almost anything he had ever experienced.

And this new emotion was no exception.

He and his friend and colleague, Dr. John Watson, were spending time at The Volunteer, the latter’s favorite local pub. It was nothing out of the ordinary that evening; a few drinks, a few laughs, spending time with his flatmate. Yet despite this, a sinking feeling made itself more known in Sherlock’s chest. Except it wasn’t sinking, rather it was… floating? Bubbly? Empty? He wasn’t sure what to make of it as he rocked back and forth in his chair, making popping noises with his mouth. Something that the doctor seemed to catch onto after a minute or two.

“You alright Sherls?” he inquired, noticing the other’s common methods of self regulation at play. Sherlock, meanwhile, merely looked at John with his lips tightly pressed together. It almost mimicked the constrictive feelings in his chest, as much as he tried to fight them. 

“Sherlock?” John asked again, brow now furrowed with worry after not initially receiving an answer. “Sensory overload?”

An assumption, based on past experiences with public places, but a correct one at that, and Sherlock quickly seized the opportunity to leave their current situation with a brisk nod.

“Alright- Hey, that’s okay, we can head home if you’d like- Would you like that?”

Another nod, his hand now fidgeting with his own shirt, as if he could twist this pressure free.

“Okay, gotcha, I’ll just—uhh— Oi, ‘xcuse me mate! Can we get the bill?”

—- 𖦹 —-

“It’s really rather difficult to explain, Watson,” huffed Mr. Holmes, quickly taking off his shoes and beginning to pace around the flat. The poor doctor nearly had to sprint to keep up with his flatmate, who had gotten a head start in storming out of the pub when the noise supposedly got too overwhelming.

“What, even for you?” John scoffed, earning a look from the detective and a nervous smile for himself. “Right, bad time— bad joke— If you don’t want to explain it, you don’t have to, mate, but it might help a bit if I knew what was going on.”

“Well, what if I don’t want to?” he chided back, finally bringing his movements to a stop with a curled up seat on the couch. 

“Then you don’t have to,” the podcaster replied, through which Sherlock could hear the sigh in his voice and thought that perhaps his tone was a bit harsh. “I’ll get your sensory things.”

As John wandered further into the flat to grab a few things for his friend, Sherlock’s mind couldn't help but begin to spiral. Clearly, he decided, this wasn’t a sensory issue - at least, not fully. He gave a nod and signed ‘thank you’ upon being handed his ear defenders first and foremost, but even with them on he still felt overwhelmed by something. It spiked and simmered in his chest with each back and forth the doctor made, rising and falling like his breathing, his heartbeat. Even in his current state he can deduce this, that something about the man was causing a disturbance in his mind. It was horribly distracting to his deduction process - an attribute he had noticed in some of their previous cases - and he wasn’t going to figure out what on Earth was bothering him so much with those sparks dancing in his head. 

“I am going for a walk,” declared the detective, suddenly standing from his current position on the couch just as John was about to hand him a cup of tea. The beverage is held by the perplexed podcaster for a few moments, too stunned to speak even as his flatmate begins to walk to the door. With ear defenders, no shoes, and a blanket still draped around his shoulders, he adds, “I would not like to be disturbed,” before closing the door behind himself. He could hear the confused sigh behind the door of 221B, the supposed placing of his cup of tea before John wandered off to do something else. 

It only stirred around the pit in his chest even more.

So he wandered down the stairs to the closest place that he could decompress and process… everything, really. 

221A. The door was shut faster than it was opened, somehow, causing Ms. Ametxazurra to practically jump in her seat. “Sherlock, wha-??” “Do not worry, Mariana, I am simply in need of an area to self-regulate.” Right on cue, the detective begins to pace back and forth in the flat. “And you can’t do this in your own room? It has to be my flat?” “Yes, of course it does!” he groaned with frustration, throwing his hands in the air as he spoke before they began to move repetitively. Mariana’s curiosity grew at the sight of such an abrupt entrance followed by such a tone. She paused her current TV show and resigned to watching Sherlock instead, attempting to discern what could be bothering him. 

“...Would you… want to talk about it?” She inquires following a pause. “First Watson, now you, for goodness sake-” The man stopped himself, both physically and verbally, from going any further after recognizing the tone of his voice. A deep breath was taken, in for four counts, holding for seven, out for eight, just as he had practiced and performed so many times in the past. Many times still, most likely, in the future, given the complications his own mind could cause him. The accountant noticed this technique and noted its implications, worry lines forming within her expression. “Sorry.” “It’s okay,” Mariana acknowledged, turning her body towards Sherlock and her full attention with it. “Frustrated?” “Very,” he started, his pacing picking up again. “There is a certain individual whose very presence causes me to feel sick. Or… not exactly “sick,” rather… anxious. Confused. A whirlwind of different emotions combined into one that seems as though it should make sense, and yet it doesn’t. I feel as though there is a great storm in my chest, sirens blaring, red lights flashing, a swarm of chaos ready to explode right out of my body. Just the same, this person brings me peace, comfort, stability, and while I do not understand how these two polar opposites can co-exist I do understand that it’s fairly overwhelming that-” He stopped. “Why are you laughing?” Sure enough, the Spaniard had partially put a hand over her mouth to try (and fail) at hiding her smile, only for small bits of laughter to slither through her fingers. “Sorry, sorry, cariño, I’m not laughing at you- well- I’m not laughing at your feelings-” “Then what?” he inquired, albeit with a bit of childlike impatience. “Just- you being you, Sherlock. I promise you, you’re getting yourself all worked up over something that’s not nearly as bad as you think it is.” “You have the answer, then?” This had grabbed the detective’s attention, his eyes widening as he stepped closer to her. She, in turn, made a silent offer for him to sit next to her on the couch, to which he quickly accepted.

“Mhm.” “Well?” “Love.” And all of a sudden, everything stops. The heightened heart rate, the restlessness, even the stimming all completely freezes as soon as that word is uttered by her lips and processed in his ears. “It’s… complicated, for sure,” Mariana continued, “But also beautiful. And messy, and charming, and chaotic, peaceful, gut-wrenching, comforting��� That’s love. It’ll make you question everything and feel completely right all at once. The right person makes you absolutely frustrated with how much you adore them, one way or another, even if they frustrate you to hell and back sometimes.” Sherlock chuckled at this last comment, as if finally releasing some of that built up pressure in his chest. Still nervous, but it’s something.

“I’m not surprised that it’s overwhelming you, from what I can tell-” He nodded in response to this, both confirming her observation and urging her to go on. “But the only way to push through this feeling is to confront it. Otherwise, you may as well explode from pushing it down so much.”

“How on Earth would I go about doing that,” the man retorted, “when I could hardly word this- this blasted feeling myself??” “Sherlock-” “No, I-” He stood up again, taking a few steps forward, a few back, circling her couch a few times as he spoke. “This- this love is metaphorically oozing out of the very core of my being, infecting everything I touch. Cases, tasks, thoughts-” “Sherlock.”

Another forced pause, as he did earlier, though this time upon hearing her firmer tone. “Please just… take a breath, we can work through this, okay?” “...Okay.” Sitting down once more, he closed his eyes and rehearsed the breathing technique taught to him what felt like ages ago. In for four… hold for seven… out for eight. “There you go,” she sighed, her voice gentle, quiet, giving him the necessary silence to take a few deep breaths. Then, just as he’s exhaling, as if able to read his mind…

“...It’s John, isn’t it?”

He opened his eyes as he exhaled, preparing mentally as his secret was fully revealed. 

“...Yes.”

Her eyes held a certain sincerity that Sherlock often admired in people. The ability to properly empathize, know generally what the right thing to say was as if it was second nature. A type of kindness he had attempted to tap into but generally saw brighter in other people rather than himself. 

People like Mariana. People like John.

“Whether or not you tell him how you feel - which you should, by the way - these feelings won’t change anything.” “But what if they do?” His counter was quick, alert, frightened, as if he had rolled this thought through the crevices of his grey matter countless times.

“You really think he would stop caring for you that quickly? After all this time?” Her remark, meanwhile, came softer, her tone leaning on that apparent second nature of hers. The words gave the detective pause as he pondered them, thinking on how sensitive John had become to his needs. How he came to care for his scattered self, even when they were at odds. 

“...He did attempt to calm me even as I stormed out of the flat… Even… when I was unable to give him a straight answer as to what was happening...”

How much he cared for Sherlock, no matter what.

“And he’d do more than that, Sherlock. He has done more than that, multiple times.” “...I… I love him,” he stammered, as if fearful of the words being somehow forbidden or cursed.

“You love him,” reassured Mariana before gently going to hold one of his hands. She squeezed. He squeezed back. “And you want to tell him… don’t you?” “...I do.” “Okay,” is all she replied before aiding him in finding a solution. A plan to properly structure his feelings in word form, one way or another.

—-  ˏˋ ✸ ˎˊ —-

‘Stick to the plan,’ Sherlock told himself whilst marching back up to 221B. ‘Just stick to the plan, and everything will be fine.’ It was easy, he thought, until he was back at the door to his flat, his home, with test tubes bubbling in his gut all over again. A hum of… love, apparently, according to Mariana. One that motivates him to push open the door, albeit carefully, as if it would shatter if he rushed into things. 

John was turned away from the entrance, fixated on something in the kitchen. Archie soon perked up from his bed upon being alerted to the detective’s presence and ambled over to him, jumping up a bit to paw at his leg. A small half-laugh, half-sigh sort of noise escaped his throat, and he can’t help but lean down to give the dog his due affections. “That you, Sherls?” rang that oh-so-familiar voice, whose owner soon turned around to discover the answer to his own question. “Oh good- I uh-” He shifted back to what could now be seen as two pots on the stove. Next to it, two plates ready to go with one half of Sherlock’s favorite comfort meal.

“Did you make-?” “Yep, just ah- just finishing up the sauce here.” Soon enough, tomato sauce was poured onto the penne noodles, cooked just as it was preferred, down to the very brands of sauce that were combined to create what was often described as “the perfect array of flavors.” He really did care for him… The thought made the taller man smile.

Both men soon took their seats, glasses of water already set at the couch table that John brought their plates over to. It isn’t even a few seconds, though, until the shorter shuffled back to the kitchen to retrieve the earlier cup of tea from the microwave. “It’s not as warm as it was earlier,” he sheepishly explained after sitting back down, “but I figured it’d be a shame if I just tossed a good cuppa of Chamomile. Besides, I didn’t know if you’d want it later and-” “Thank you.” His voice was soft, though his smile seemed softer. The sight alone brought a tinge of warmth to John’s cheeks. “Oh- Yeah, of course. Anytime.” Just as that second nature of kindness fascinated Sherlock so, too, was he fascinated by the patience of some of the people around him. Never cross when emotions threw his tone and temperament out of balance (not unless it was deserved, anyhow), yet never infantilizing him due to his behavior. There were times where it felt close, yes, but many times it was for good reason. Many others it was because of genuine concern for his well-being, just as he cared for theirs. In his own way, yes, but still never usually questioned in a negative light. Another thing he admired about the man that was John Watson, it seemed…

Minutes went by filled with nothing but the clinks of forks on plates, the occasional scratches and wanderings from Archie, the doctor talking to himself and the dog a bit. All the while, Sherlock attempted to keep his metaphorical ducks in a row internally. His thoughts raced around in the waters, threatening to spill out at times where a random urge struck him, only to be pushed back by the dam that was anxiety and comforting food filling his mouth.

‘If you tell him now, you’ll ruin the plan,’ Sherlock tells himself. ‘Have dinner, then go over the bullet points, rehearse what you want to say, then just say it. That way you say everything you want to say, you don’t embarrass yourself, and-’

“I love you.” Even Archie seemed to go silent at the words, ones that the detective didn’t even realize have left his mouth until he noticed John staring back at him in awe. Maybe he didn’t hear…? “You…? Sorry, what?”

‘Bugger.’  His complexion was quick to match the podcaster’s flushed face and then surpass it, the dam beginning to crack under pressure as he finished his bite of penne, careful not to choke on it. 

“There’s a stampede in my chest that I cannot control and it drives me mad when I am around you.” The anxious stimming started as fidgeting with the fork. 

“There are times where I have to watch you through my fingers because staring at your face for too long causes a bubbling in my stomach and chest that is almost nauseating.” Then it transitioned to snapping once the plate was put down. 

“It is an absolute whirlwind that has distracted me for some time now.” Then his leg was bouncing. 

“With you I am both anxious and at peace and comforted and confused and all sorts of things in between that I can hardly decipher on my own-”

Then-

“Woah- woah woah woah-” The plate and fork alike have been placed onto the table, the blonde holding up his hands in Sherlock’s general direction. “Easy, mate, easy.”

He did his best to do so, to “take it easy,” as it may, even if he felt the exact opposite in the current moment. Alarms rang in his mind, blaring at how he had completely and utterly ballsed up his whole plan after Mariana had so carefully gone over things with him. And now what would happen? Who was to say what would happen now?

“...Sorry,” the detective murmured, looking down at his plate with a twinge of guilt tainting those striking eyes of his, complimenting the embarrassment clearly shown on his florid face.

“No, no, you’re okay!” blurted John, almost instinctively placing a hand on his arm without a second thought. “I…uhm…”

The unexpected rise in volume gave Sherlock just enough courage to raise his gaze to glance at the man next to him, only to be met with a face similar to his own. Blushing, nervous, avoiding eye contact, smiling. He was… smiling? “I… I love you too, mate...”

It was almost amusing how much four simple words could mean to a person, how much weight they can carry coming from the right people. All of this pressure inside of the detective, fizzing and soaring and popping like fireworks inside of him. A slight smile creeped onto his face, even if he did think it premature, as he hadn’t even confirmed the meaning of these four - or rather, five - words.

“You… love me? You-” “Yeah- uhm-” John cleared his throat as a means of pausing before speaking. “I have for a while, mate, I just… each time I thought about bringing it up, I got this… this sinking feeling in my chest. Like something-” “-would go horribly wrong if you revealed your feelings?” Sherlock’s smile grew as he finished John’s sentence, particularly when being met with a nod of confirmation.

“Y-Yep. Dead on there, Sherls.”

The doctor’s flatmate soon pulled him into a tight hug, burying his head in the crook of the man’s neck. A factor that, especially when he could feel his best mate’s warmth, only increased his own. Nevertheless, he hugged back tight, above the diaphragm just as Mr. Holmes liked it. His arms stayed there, too, even as they both pulled out of the hug. It worked out, though, as Sherlock’s arms also seemed comfortable wrapped around John’s torso. “I love you,” he proclaimed once more, as if to triple confirm they shared this feeling.

“I love you too,” John echoed, laughing upon being given a second, shorter hug before the detective - his detective - is zooming around the flat, jumping up and down with a grin. 

‘Good grief is he adorable when he’s happy,’ the doctor silently pondered. Because they were, truly, especially now. They were both in love and happy. 

Even if the road to the moment had its bumps, they were both content with that.

 —- ‪‪❤︎‬ —-

[calaisreno]

Three Women Perplex the British Government

1362 words / Prompt: Journey / A sequel to Sixth Sense. (Just in case you were wondering what Molly decided to do!)

---

He doesn’t recognise the woman standing before him. His mother trained him well, though, so he rises and gestures at the chair. 

“Please.” He glances at Anthea, who is giving him an inscrutable look from the doorway. The one that says he’s offended her in some way that she will neither admit nor explain. 

Anthea closes the door. Mycroft regards the woman, who is still standing. 

“Please,” he repeats, giving her a generic smile. 

His visitor is regarding him as well. Studying him. No smile. “I’d rather not.”

She’s a tiny woman, and he’s a tall man. If she would only sit down, he could sit as well, and it would not feel so much like he’s bullying her. That’s not his style, at least not with women. Small women, dressed in hand knit jumpers. 

He has no idea what she wants, but is afraid that some persuasion might be necessary. Not the bullying he reserves for his brother, or even the subtle manipulation he aims at John Watson, a difficult man to intimidate.

“Miss…?” He feels like he ought to know her. 

“Molly Hooper,” she says. “We haven’t met. I’m—”

“Yes, of course. Doctor Hooper. How can I help you?” He looks down at her, desperately wishing she’d take the chair. “I should thank you,” he remembers to say. “Your help was greatly appreciated. I hope my brother expressed that to you.”

“I’m here about John Watson.”

“Ah.” He narrows his eyes, anticipating the outburst of sentiment she will unleash. “I’m maintaining surveillance on him. You need not concern yourself about any retribution against him. He is safe.”

“It’s not that,” she replies, folding her arms across her chest and glaring. She’s about as intimidating as a kindergarten teacher, but she’s making him uneasy. 

He should have anticipated this. Sherlock assured him that she would play her part well, and Mycroft himself managed the business about the body. But even a goldfish might have a conscience, especially if other goldfish are asking questions.

“Are you receiving any scrutiny over your part in the plan? That can be handled.”

“No, it’s fine. What I mean is, John isn’t coping well with Sherlock’s death.”

“Ah. My brother asked you to assist him in keeping Doctor Watson in the dark, and you’re feeling guilty that you know things which he does not. I assure you that we considered all possible scenarios, and none of them involved taking Doctor Watson into our confidence.”

“Why not?”

“Doctor Watson is a soldier. He is used to death and equipped to handle grief.”

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” she says, glaring in earnest now. “It’s been months. Have you seen him?”

“My people are keeping a weather eye on him.”

“But you haven’t called on him?”

“He would not appreciate hearing from me, Doctor Hooper. I’m afraid my concern will not help him.”

She closes her eyes briefly, shaking her head. “You made a mistake. You and Sherlock.”

“There were not many options before us.”

“Was it you or Sherlock who decided not to tell him?”

“My brother has a great deal of sentiment for Doctor Watson. I’m afraid I had to dissuade him.”

Her voice raises. “Because he loves John?”

“Doctor Watson is not…” He considers how he should word it, decides that being forthright will end this conversation sooner. “My brother’s feelings are not returned. Cannot be returned. Sherlock is gay, and Doctor Watson is not.”

“How do you know?”

“He has stated this publicly several times. Sherlock knows as well. In order to undertake the task he set for himself, it was necessary to leave him behind. I have no doubt that the doctor will meet a lovely woman and be married before long.”

“I don’t care what label you put on him. He loved Sherlock, and it’s killing him that he’s dead. He has PTSD. When they met, he was suicidal. If anything happens to him—”

“Miss Hooper. If you are considering breaking your promise, I must warn you. This matter involves branches of our government whose existence is unknown to most people. I would hate to—”

“Don’t threaten me, Mr Holmes,” she says. “At this point, what is the harm in telling him? If there are still snipers trailing after him, you haven’t done a very good job, have you? And if there aren’t any snipers, there’s no reason not to tell him.”

He has erred. This woman is no goldfish. 

And Anthea keeps asking him about Watson, suggesting that it’s time he knew. 

And then there’s this other woman. Mary Morstan, she calls herself. A complication. She vexes him. 

“Very well,” he says. “I will handle it.”

---

“Well, I’m back,” John says. 

The headstone is silent, as it should be. John Watson does not look like a man who expects an answer from a block of marble. He squares his shoulders and stands at parade rest, hands clasped behind his back. 

“I’m back again,” he repeats. “I just wanted to tell you something.”

He looks uneasy, Mycroft thinks. A confession, then.

“When you died, I thought I’d never… find myself again. I wasn’t good, not for a long time. Maybe that would surprise you.” He smiles grimly. “Well, you’re beyond surprise now, so I may as well say what I didn’t say the first time I came here. No, I’m not going to ask again. I know there’s not going to be any miracle. You’re not… coming back.” 

He lowers his face into his hand. For a moment his shoulders shake. Mycroft waits.

Drawing a deep breath, he raises his head. “So, this is it. What I should have told you… when it might have made a difference. Maybe it wouldn’t have, but I wish I’d said, just in case… well. I love you. I always did.” Choking back a sob, he continues. “You didn’t do that, though. No sentiment. Caring’s not an advantage. Yeah. But I did. Love you.”

The sentiment is so thick, it’s almost nauseating. Mycroft desperately wants a cigarette. Reminding himself of what he’s here to do, he waits.

“Once, I asked you for a miracle. But there aren’t any miracles, at least not for us. And now…” John wipes his eyes on the sleeve of his jumper. “Now it’s time. I know I’ll never be over you, never forget what it was like… but I’m alive, and I think I have to do something to stay that way. Get on with it, try to have a life without you.” He clears his throat and sniffs. “I met somebody. She isn’t you, but I think you would have liked her, that she would’ve been the one who finally passed muster. I know she would’ve liked you. So, I’m giving it a go, asking her. To marry me, I mean.” 

He makes a sound that might be a laugh, or maybe a sob. “I have to try,” he says. “I wish… well, it’s no use. I love you, but you’re not here. And I just can’t be alone forever. So.” He straightens his back, nods at the black marble. “This is goodbye, Sherlock.” 

As he turns, Mycroft steps out. John’s eyes widen, then narrow with suspicion. 

“Doctor Watson,” he says. “There are several things you need to know.”

—-

When he opens the door of his office, Anthea is waiting for him.

“Well?”

“You were right.” He sighs and meets her eyes. “Good call.”

The look on her face softens into a barely-detectable smile. “I’ve taken care of the Morstan woman. Extradition is underway.”

“She was…?” 

“Yes. Different name, but she’d done several jobs for him. The Americans will be glad to have her back. She won’t be visiting us any time soon.”

He nods, suddenly weary, and sinks into his chair. Too much sentiment, too much emotion. It’s exhausting. “Now we only need to bring my brother home.”

“We’ve received word this morning that he’s on his way to to Serbia.”

“No.”

“No?”

“Intercept him. We’ll let Baynes and his team handle that. Sherlock needs to come home.”

Her smile broadens. “As you wish.”

The door closes behind her. 

“Good journey, brother,” he whispers. “No more surprises.”

---

Read / comment on AO3

[ileenhaddockhawkins]

There's a new French TV series based on Sherlock Holmes. Yes.

It's called Mademoiselle Holmes.

Pitch: Charlie Holmes, Sherlock's great grand daughter, is an ordinary (Sherlock would say 'dull') policewoman struggling with mood disorder and lies surrounding her past. One day she's assigned an intern, Sami. They both go out on cases and help each other, Charlie's deduction powers unveil and she begins to uncover the truth about her ancestors.

Of course I had to see what it was made of. Wasn't expecting something big

–and let's be honest, it's clearly not the best series I've seen–

but I found myself going back to it, if only for the silly vibe and the ACD canon cameos,

even some BBC ones, or maybe I'm the only one seeing them but don't tell me Charlie and Sami hailing a cab and failing admirably isn't a mirror of BBC Sherlock making cabs appear magically out of nowhere.

(also, the scenes when Charlie plays violin, or the one when she deduces someone's being in love by their dilated pupils and pulse. I mean)

Let's not forget Charlie Holmes' Watson (aka Sami) played by Tom Villa, who is SO giving me Jay Baruchel vibes that it's not decent, and whose annoyed/perplexed/happy/amazed faces remind me so much of Martin's John.

[witchofhellridge]

Fanfiction: Sherlock Holmes and The Case of Curious Celebration

The early morning sunlight filtered through the foggy London air, casting a soft glow over 221B Baker Street. Inside the cozy apartment, Mrs. Hudson hummed to herself as she set the kettle on the stove. Today was no ordinary day, though it would take a man of Sherlock Holmes' peculiar genius to uncover that. Mrs. Hudson was not in her usual quiet mood-no, today she was brimming with the kind of secret anticipation reserved for grand schemes.

Watson descended the stairs, a small grin tugging at his lips. He entered the kitchen and nodded to Mrs. Hudson, whose conspiratorial smile grew wide as she handed him a cup of tea.

"All set, Mrs. Hudson?" Watson whispered, his eyes twinkling.

She gave an enthusiastic nod. "Everything is prepared. Oh, Dr. Watson, do you think he'll notice right away?"

Watson chuckled softly. "Sherlock? He'll suspect something in ten minutes, no doubt. But if we play it right, we might still catch him by surprise."

"Goodness me, I do hope so," Mrs. Hudson said, her voice a tad breathless. "He's never celebrated a birthday before, has he?"

"Not that I know of," Watson replied, sipping his tea. "And believe me, I've tried. He insists it's frivolous, but I have a feeling this might finally break his icy demeanor."

They both shared a knowing glance. The plan had been laid out over the past week with meticulous care, worthy of Holmes' own standards of precision and planning. Small puzzles scattered about the apartment would lead him to his inevitable fate: a birthday celebration, whether he liked it or not. Each clue would seem disconnected, but they would all converge in one unexpected conclusion.

Watson placed his cup down and stood straight. "It's time."

As if on cue, Sherlock Holmes emerged from his room upstairs, his dressing gown flaring like a cape behind him. His sharp eyes darted from Watson to Mrs. Hudson, instantly detecting the shift in atmosphere. He narrowed his gaze suspiciously, but said nothing as he walked past them, heading for the sitting room.

"Morning, Sherlock!" Watson said, trying to sound as casual as possible. "I trust you slept well?"

Sherlock paused mid-step, tilting his head slightly. "A strange question, Watson. What are you up to?"

"Me? Up to something? I'm insulted," Watson replied with feigned indignation. He busied himself by picking up a medical journal from the armchair and flipping it open, though he could feel Sherlock's piercing gaze upon him.

Mrs. Hudson, clearly struggling to maintain her composure, excused herself in a flurry. "Oh, I must fetch something from the kitchen!" she called over her shoulder as she practically bolted from the room.

Sherlock arched an eyebrow. "Suspicious," he muttered, folding his arms. "Very suspicious indeed."

Before Sherlock could probe further, a knock came at the door.

"Ah, that must be the post!" Watson said, leaping up a little too eagerly. Sherlock's eyes narrowed again. Watson's behavior was off-unnaturally chipper and too quick to act. Sherlock moved to the window, peering through the curtains as Watson retrieved the letter.

"How curious," Watson said, holding up the envelope. "It's addressed to you, Sherlock."

Holmes strode over, snatched the letter from Watson's hand, and examined it with keen interest. The envelope was plain, save for a rather smudged postmark, and the handwriting was unfamiliar. Sherlock opened it swiftly, eyes darting over the note inside. His brow furrowed.

"Interesting," he muttered. "A riddle."

Watson leaned in. "What does it say?"

Sherlock read aloud: "'What is seen once in a lifetime, twice in a moment, but never in a hundred years?'"

Watson feigned a thoughtful expression. "A curious puzzle, Sherlock."

"It's an elementary riddle," Sherlock replied, his tone clipped. "The answer is the letter 'M.' But why would someone bother sending me such a trivial thing?" He tapped the note against his palm, looking perplexed. "I despise this kind of petty amusement."

Watson suppressed a grin. The game was already afoot.

Holmes, never one to leave any mystery unsolved, was already turning the letter over, searching for more clues. A small slip of paper fell from the envelope, and Sherlock caught it with practiced ease.

"There's more," he murmured, unfolding the scrap of paper. "An address."

It led to a small shop not far from Baker Street. Sherlock's eyes gleamed with curiosity, though he would never admit it outright. Before Watson could utter another word, Sherlock was already reaching for his coat.

"Are you coming, Watson, or are you going to sit there all day with that insufferable smirk on your face?"

Watson hurried to his feet, grabbing his own coat. "Of course, Sherlock. Wouldn't miss it."

***

The small shop turned out to be an antiquarian's curiosity, filled with trinkets and oddities, the sort of place where one might stumble upon a forgotten treasure-or an elaborate prank. The bell above the door jingled as they entered, and a wizened old man looked up from behind the counter.

"Ah, Mr. Holmes," the shopkeeper said with a crooked smile. "I've been expecting you."

"Have you now?" Sherlock asked, his tone icy. "And why might that be?"

The old man chuckled and reached under the counter, producing a small box wrapped in brown paper. "This arrived for you early this morning. Special delivery."

Holmes took the package without hesitation and tore away the paper. Inside was another note, this one much more cryptic than the last: "From the place where the hands of time do not move, look beneath what has long since passed."

Sherlock's eyes flickered with intrigue, though he kept his face impassive. Watson could see the gears turning in his friend's mind.

"Watson, we're going back to Baker Street," Sherlock declared, his voice sharp. "I know where this leads." ***

Back at 221B Baker Street, Sherlock wasted no time. He moved with precision, scanning the room until his eyes settled on the old grandfather clock by the window. With swift movements, he pulled it away from the wall, revealing a dusty ledger hidden beneath. Inside the ledger was a third note: "The key is hidden where stories are spun, and the game is won."

"Stories are spun?" Sherlock muttered, his brow furrowing. "The answer must be the bookshelf." He crossed the room in quick strides, running his fingers along the spines of the volumes. His hand paused over one particular book-an anthology of old folktales. He tugged it free, and from the pages, a small brass key dropped into his hand.

"Another key," he said, holding it up to the light. "But to what?"

Watson, leaning against the mantel, did his best to suppress his amusement. "What do you think, Sherlock? Where could it possibly lead?"

Sherlock shot him a sharp glance, then pocketed the key. "It's time to solve this. There's only one place left to check."

Without further explanation, he strode upstairs to his own room. Watson followed, heart racing in anticipation.

Inside Sherlock's bedroom, the detective immediately approached his locked trunk, where he kept various personal effects and important case documents. The brass key fit perfectly in the lock, and with a twist, the trunk popped open.

Inside, to Sherlock's visible confusion, was a cake. A cake adorned with candles and a small note tucked into the icing that read: "Happy Birthday, Sherlock!"

Watson, unable to hold back his laughter any longer, clapped Sherlock on the shoulder. "Surprise!"

Sherlock blinked, staring at the cake as if it were a bomb waiting to explode. "A... cake?"

Mrs. Hudson appeared in the doorway, beaming. "Oh, Mr. Holmes, I do hope you're not too cross. It's just that we thought-"

Sherlock held up a hand, silencing her mid-sentence. He looked from the cake to Watson, then back to Mrs. Hudson. "You planned all of this?"

Watson nodded. "It was Mrs. Hudson's idea, really. I merely assisted. A little birthday surprise, Sherlock."

For a moment, Sherlock stood in stunned silence, as if his mind were processing the concept of a birthday celebration. Then, to Watson's great astonishment, Sherlock let out a small, reluctant chuckle.

"I see," he said, though his voice still held a trace of bemusement. "So this entire day-the riddles, the clues-they were all leading to this?"

"Precisely," Watson said, smiling. "Happy Birthday, Sherlock."

Sherlock sighed, but there was a softness in his expression, a faint gleam in his eyes. "You know, Watson," he said, picking up a fork and examining the cake with the same scrutiny he would reserve for a crime scene, "I think I despise birthdays a little less now."

And with that, Sherlock Holmes, the greatest detective in London, took a bite of cake, much to Mrs. Hudson's and Watson's delight.

[imagines--galore]

Destiny,

Reader x Sherlock

Summary: No matter where you are, he is there. Pairing: Sherlock x Reader Rating || Genres || Warnings: T. Romance. A/N: I mean come on I love the whole Serendipity thing. I have a soft spot for romances like that :3

The first time you met the man with the impossibly blue eyes you were on holiday. It had been a dream of yours to go visit a new country every year, and so far you were holding up to your promise. Your most recent venture had allowed you to experience new things.

One of which was learning how to act for a complete stranger because he said his life was in danger.

"There are two men tailing me and I need you to pretend to be my girlfriend."

You stared at him from where he had settled into the chair across from you at the small cafè you frequented. For a moment you had thought he was some scam artist or a con man, but when you looked in the direction he asked you to, you could clearly see two men staring at him.

And with what suspiciously looked like a gun hanging from one of the man's belt.

A cold feeling settled in your chest as your gaze flitted back to his, and though they didn't away much, you could see him pleading silently. You would rather take the chance of being conned, then allow someone to hurt another person when you could've done something to stop it.

Smiling brightly, you reached out to place a hand on top of his, the perfect picture of a worried girlfriend as you spoke.

"It was very sweet of you to come have coffee with me. I know how work has been lately." He smiled back at you, taking the hand that you had rested on top of his and raising it to his lips.

His mouth brushed just barely against your skin, but your eyes did widen at the gesture. To any onlooker it would look as if you were taken surprised by the sudden affectionate gesture.

Truthfully you were surprised.

"Anything for an exquisite creature such as yourself." So this was pretend, and you didn't even know this man, but even you had to admit that the words would make any lover swoon. A shy smile was your only response, as you averted your gaze, feeling a little too vulnerable under his penetrating blue gaze.

The both of you sat in silence, with you stealing glances at him every now and then. For his part, he continued to look at you with an almost perplexed look on his face. As if you were a riddle he could not figure out.

In your nervousness, you dropped your spoon, and once you straightened back to after retrieving it, he was gone.

Your hand still felt warm from where he had held it.

                                         ————————–

This was what Sherlock Holmes had been reduced to.

A mere delivery boy.

Granted it was a favor for a friend, but it didn't mean he would carry out the task happily.

The task in question being picking up some pastries that Mary. And these days what Mary wanted she got. Sherlock had no desire to face the wrath of an ex-assassin who was pregnant.

"Picking up a box for Mary Watson." He said as he strode into the shop. The girl behind the counter took his ticket before disappearing in the back to retrieve the box. Sherlock took the moment to look around and simply observe. The interior of the bakery was bright and open, and the scents that hung in the air? Anyone passing by simply had to stop by to buy something from the bakery.

Unconsciously he began to decipher the scents and what they belonged to. Fresh bread, of course. Cakes. Sugar. Cream, perhaps. Vanilla. And something.......flowery?

It was certainly familiar.

It lingered in the air, not as strong as the other scents but clearly there. Perhaps a customer had been wearing it? He remembered the scent. He had categorized that scent in his mind the day when he had asked a random stranger to pretend to be his lover.

What were the odds that it was the same person?

One in a million.

Just as he exited the bakery with the goods now secured, he caught that scent again. This time though, he dismissed it as nothing but coincidence before starting the walk back to 221B where Mary would be waiting.

A few seconds later, you emerged from the apartment building adjacent to the bakery. With a croissant you had just bought and the file you had nearly forgotten on your desk, you smiled and started down the path.

In the opposite direction.

                                         ————————–

You sighed as you handed in yet another file that had been buried in the archives. Sometimes it astonished you just how careless people could get when it came to such important files. They were records of crimes.

This was why you were one of the few people in charge of digitizing the files that the police filled when speaking to a potential victim or culprit. And though it had made things a little easy, it just meant more work for you and your team. You had to digitize a lot of the old files as well. Especially those cases that were still open.

Which were a lot, to say the least.

One the plus side, you were now off for the day. Smiling to yourself, you quickly gathered your things, tucking your phone back into your bag as you hummed along to the music that played in your ears. You loved listening to music while you walked back home. Though as soon as you stepped outside and noticed the dark clouds gathering overhead, you pursed your lips.

Taxi it was then.

You quickly hailed one, and climbed in, just as the heavens opened and the rain began to fall in earnest. As you waited for the driver to start the ride, something compelled you to look out from the back window. You had never done that before. Maybe there were some unknown forces at work?

Whatever it was, you saw a very familiar coat racing down the street in the rain. Of course the coat was worn by a man, but you could hardly make out who it was as they disappeared from view.

Just then the ride started, and as the car drove further and further away from the spot, you continued to stare in that direction.

It couldn't have been him?

Could it?

                                         ————————–

It was instinct that drove you.

Instinct that had you rushing towards the source of commotion.

Instinct that had you reaching for the first thing you could use as a weapon.

And instinct that made you bring down the pipe on top of the head of the man who seemed to be choking another.

The man you had hit toppled to the side with not so much as a cry of pain. You had hit him hard enough that he fainted! But you hardly paid him any mind, instead turning to the figure as they gasped for breath after having been choked.

"Are you alright?" You asked, reaching out with your hand to gently lay it atop their shoulder. Slowly the man nodded. "Yes, I am. Thank you for your assistance." His voice was hoarse, as it would be after a person has had their throat constricted. "Maybe we should go to a hospital?" You suggested, eyes flicking over to the unconscious man laying on the ground. "And the police." The man shifted as he pulled out his mobile phone and opened it up. "Yes, I have a friend, Dr. John Watson, who can....."

It was at that moment that the man finally lifted his head and you were able to see his face.

You stared.

He stared.

"You?!"

The both of you gasped simultaneously, however whatever injury he had sustained, and there were multiple, caused Sherlock to pass out at that very moment.

The fight had clearly been brutal. Luckily he had been able to dial his friend, and you had told the man of everything that had happened. Watson had asked you to stay with him, saying he would be there soon.

And so, you had stayed and you had waited.

Every now and then you would reach out to press your fingers to the side of his neck, just to make sure he was alive. But he soon regained conscious and his eyes found yours.

Neither of you said anything, and neither of you looked away.

It was so strange to finally see him after months. You had to admit that somehow, somewhere, he had always been at the back of your mind. Your interaction with him was not one to forget soon, and you had often wandered what he did that would make him ask you to pretend to be his girlfriend.

For Sherlock there was no doubt he had detected your perfume that day in the bakery. And now that he thought about it, he had picked the same scent at the police station as well. But he had thought it was Molly, perhaps trying out a new scent.

What were the odds that it was you.

John soon arrived, along with your boss Inspector Lestrade. The ambulance soon followed and the medics took over. You stood there, explaining the situation to the two worried gentlemen, but you paused, as you watched Sherlock being wheeled away.

"Is he going to be alright?" You asked, worry evident in your voice. John gave a nod and a reassuring smile. "Don't worry. He's been in tougher spots then this one. Normally he would protest going to the hospital, but there might be damage to his neck that we need to check over."

The doors to the back of the ambulance shut, blocking your view of Sherlock, but not before you were able to meet his gaze once more.

"I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name?" John's question had you looking away from the departing ambulance and offering a small smile to the man. "Y/n Y/l/n." You introduced yourself. "And since you're Dr. John Watson I'm guessing the man I just helped is Sherlock Holmes."

John raised an eyebrow. "You know him?" He asked.

You shrugged. "Everyone in the police work knows Sherlock Holmes." Lestrade cut in, clapping a hand down on your shoulder. "Now, lets say you give me a full statement of what happened. Or should I just have you type it all in tomorrow?"

Shaking your head at your boss you proceeded to tell them both what had happened.

And once everything was done, and you were finally home, you laid in bed, thinking how funny the entire situation was. How strange it was that you met Sherlock during your vacation and helped him. How weird it was that when you returned from your vacation you were transferred to the police station that he frequented. How hilarious it was that he had you had probably been just a few floors away from one another and never meeting.

Fate, it seems, had a sense of humor.

                                         ————————–

Glancing at your watch, you pursed your lips, feeling a little annoyed. You had planned on having a long lunch break and perhaps do a little shopping. But work had detained you, and you had two options. Either skip lunch altogether, or quickly grab some fish and chips from the nearest cart.

You opted for the latter, and quickly hastened your steps as you gathered your belongings, and after pulling on your coat reached for the door of your office.

Only to run into someone standing there already.

"Oh! I'm sorry I..." You trailed off when you saw who it was.

"Y/n Y/l/n." He spoke in his deep voice, prompting your lips to pull up in a smile, and action that was near involuntary on your part. "Good to finally put a name to the face huh?" You said, before holding your hand out for him to shake. "And you're Sherlock Holmes."

There was a brief pause, where he simply looked at you, before he reached out to gently grasp your outstretched hand. You were transported to all those months ago, when he had taken the very same hand and kissed it.

It had all been for show, but you couldn't help but feel a little flustered over it.

"I wanted to thank you, that is twice that you have aided me in some manner." He said, once he had let go of your hand. You shrugged. "Well it was something anyone would've done. No? I mean if you see someone in need, help them, or thats what my Nana always says."

He shook his head. "I have encountered people of different backgrounds over the years, they all have selfish agendas and needs that they meet. When I asked for your help that day, I fully expected you to either walk away or ask for something in payment."

You grinned. "Well you didn't really give me a chance to do either now did you? But if you're asking if I helped you just because I wanted to then yes. I did. Both times."

Silence followed your words, in which Sherlock never once looked away from you. The corner of his mouth pulled up in a soft smile, and there was nothing but intrigue in his blue eyes. "You are an enigma, Y/n Y/l/n." You held his gaze, raising your eyebrow a little. "I hope you meant that as a compliment Sherlock Holmes." Reaching behind you, you pulled the door to your office close.

"I was just about to go on my lunch break for some fish and chips. Care to join me?" You asked. "You do owe me an explanation as to why I had to pretend to be your girlfriend when we first met."

You started to walk off, and a few second later, Sherlock followed after you, falling into step beside you. "Its a rather long story." He admitted to which you grinned at him.

"Then we'll add a dessert to our lunch as well. I know a really good ice cream parlor."

[edupunkn00b]

The Game is Afoot!

Photo by Ashni via Unsplash. Edited by edupunkn00b.

Rated: G - WC: 1036 - CW: None

Three weeks after Christmas and Logan is still working on his puzzle from Virgil. Is it any wonder why?

"The game is afoot!"

“But I thought you said Virgil’s game is a puzzle, Logie!” 

“Patton! It’s a—” The Moral Side’s head tilted far to the left, brow knit together in deep confusion. Breathing slowly through his mouth as he pinched the bridge of his nose, he nearly missed the quiver at the corner of Patton's mouth. He groaned. “Okay, okay, you got me.”

“So can I play, too?” Patton bounced on the balls of his feet, Watson scarf already tied in a neat knot around his neck.

Logan groaned again. “No, not this time, Patton.”

“Yeah, Popstar, I get to play Watson and Moriarty for this one.”

“Don’t worry, Daddy,” Remus purred from his spot behind the television. “You can help me air fry fish fingers.”

“Um, do fish have fingers?” Patton asked, his perplexed expression genuine this time.

“Doctor Who reference?” Logan asked, eyes darting up from the frayed newspaper in his hands. Christmas had been over two weeks ago and he was still working through the mystery puzzle Virgil had created for him.

The Anxious Side chuckled. “Focus, L…”

“I dunno!” the Creative Side laughed, either not hearing the other two Sides or simply ignoring them, and grabbed Patton’s hand, his new—well, formerly new air fryer tucked under one arm. The thing reeked of a mixture of pickle brine and peat, and its once pristine white plastic casing was charred and cracked on the sides. A neon green mold had begun to grow around the control panel, nearly obscuring a flashing ERR-80085. “Let’s go find out!”

Before Patton could say another word, the two had sunk out to the Imagination.

“And then there were four—err, well,” Logan cleared his throat and returned his attention to the newspaper. 

“Yes,” Janus purred from the corner of the couch. “Don’t mind us, we don’t want to play your silly little scavenger hunt—”

“It’s not just a scavenger hunt, Jay! Ugh, why do you—” Virgil cut himself off and adjusted the ties on his hoodie. “Nope, not gonna engage. Not worth it.”

“That’s right, Tall, Dark, and Stormy,” Roman agreed from the staircase. He leapt over the side of the banister with a flourish, the new gold—was that real gold?—trim clinking gently with the impact. “I shall keep the living room safe from any of Janus’ dastardly plans.”

“Oh, no, you caught me drinking wine,” Janus slurred.

“Off you go,” Roman said to Virgil and Logan, pretending not to hear Janus’ mocking. Virgil and Logan exchanged a look. Selective hearing seemed to be a tool in each of the brother’s kits. “I’ve got everything under control here.”

“If you’re sure, Princey,” Virgil began, gaze trained on Janus’ oh-so-innocent expression.

“Wait, Virgil!” Logan grabbed his arm in a remarkable imitation of Remus dragging Patton to the Imagination. He held the newspaper to Virgil’s face. “Does this symbol represent the meter outside?”

Worry shifted into a wicked grin. “Only one way to find out, Detective Holmes.”

“Ha! I knew it!” Logan grinned and ran toward the door, Virgil at his heels.

They flung open the door together and stood on the sunny first step, just as Thomas’ neighbor walked by, well, more like was led by her noisy dog.

“Oh! Good morning, uh, Thomas?” she called as she jogged past, barely managing to slow the pace of her five pound monster of a chihuahua, Craig the Dragon. 

“Good morning, Betty!” Logan called quickly, stepping to obscure her view of Virgil’s face. “You’ve met my brother Jake, have you not?”

“Yes, yes, of course…” she agreed, voice fading. She was already three doors down. “Nice to see you, Jake!” Betty called one more time before Craig spotted a lizard in another yard and dashed after it.

“That was close,” Virgil muttered, peering around Logan’s shoulder to watch Betty stamp her foot and shout, Leave it!

“Indeed,” Logan agreed, scanning the newspaper. “Is this the only outdoor clue?”

Virgil nodded, eyes fixed on the race between the lizard and the chihuaha. “Yeah.” The chihuaha won.

“Well, then…” Logan adjusted his deerstalker. “Shall we?”

Another neighbor ran out to help pry the lizard from Craig’s maw and Logan and Virgil used the distraction to swing around to the other side of Thomas’ house. Logan began counting the meters. The final meter in the row showed was lettered LUC.

“Is that meant to be ‘look?’” Logan asked, eyebrow raised.

“What do you want? I was outside and in a rush,” Virgil shrugged, keeping watch around the corner. “L, hurry up, she’s on her way back and I look nothing like Jake.”

Nodding brusquely, Logan examined every inch of the glass casing. Finally, he found a series of tiny scratches. Running his fingers over the markings, he grinned. “Morse code? T-h-e—space—n-e-x-t—space—g-l—Wait—” He rubbed his fingertip over another section. “Ha! You thought you could catch me with pre-1874 Morse code!”

He fell quiet, studying the scratches. “C’mon, L, we gotta get back inside now.”

“Ha!” Logan crowed, triumphantly. He grabbed Virgil’s hand and dashed around the back of the building. “Let’s go through the patio. ‘The next clue is in the kitchen.’”

Virgil was the first to smell smoke. The pair exchanged one last quick look and raced to the door.

Before either could reach it, the patio door slid open with a crash and Patton stumbled out. “They’re moving! The chicken fingers are moving!” he screeched, smacking at his own shoulders. Embers sparked in his hair and on the sleeves of his catigan. A wall of acrid smoke soon followed and they all stepped back.

“Come back, Daddy!” Remus called, his voice and the tromp of boots growing louder. The Creative Side emerged from he smoke, arms full of wriggling—and burnt—breaded somethings. “I think I got ‘em all this time!”

“Remus!” Roman shouted from inside. “They got in my crown!”

“Oops. Almost all of ‘em,” Remus winked and ran back inside. "Keep your pants on, Ro Bro! Believe me—you don't want those little stinkers getting in there!"

The trio shared a moment of confused silence before Janus sauntered out, an uncorked bottle in one hand and a tray of four glasses in the other. “Wine, anyone?”

[beardedmrbean]

COLUMBUS, Ohio − Police are investigating a strange finding buried in a backyard of a Columbus woman's home after her videos went viral on TikTok.

"It could be anything," Jennifer Watson, spokeswoman for the Columbus Division of Police, said Friday.

Katie Santry was digging holes for a fence in her backyard when she struck what appeared to be a buried rug, she said in a video posted to TikTok earlier this week. She also joked that her house might be haunted, saying her laptop had been broken and items were misplaced.

Santry's initial video has over 3 million views, and her entire chain of more than 20 clips about the rug mystery has garnered over 100 million views.

The investigation continued Friday morning, with significant police and media presence at the cul-de-sac in front of Santry's house. A few groups of curious neighbors and onlookers gathered nearby, filming videos and discussing updates.

Cars slowed down as they drove by, and many of the drivers held their phones out their windows to take pictures and videos.

Columbus police get involved

Several TikTok users urged Santry to contact the police as her videos went viral, and Columbus police visited the property Thursday.

Santry streamed the investigation on TikTok live, including the moments when two cadaver dogs sat down after sniffing a section of the yard. Cadaver dogs are often trained to sit to signal they have discovered human remains. Santry said at least 100,000 people watched the livestream.

"I'm still just hoping maybe someone just had a bloody nose on a rug and buried it," she wrote in a caption.

Watson said the dogs could have alerted to a variety of things.

"It could be body oil," Watson said. "It could be sweat. It could be it could be blood, like maybe a nick or a paper cut, something's as insignificant as that. So at this time, we don't know what we're looking at."

Who are the previous owners of Katie Santry's house?

The Columbus Dispatch, part of the USA TODAY Network, contacted the previous owner of the house – a 95-year-old Ohio resident – who said police called his family Thursday. He said that he and his wife did a lot of gardening, and he wondered if maybe they had discovered a burlap bag buried by mistake. 

He added that they're both perplexed by the whole ordeal and said the attention has been upsetting to his wife.

“The police called us yesterday, and they also asked some questions," he said. "They talked to my son too. None of us could remember anything about what was buried.” 

He added: “I just hope that if there’s treasure there … I hope they get lucky.”

Why are police investigating?

Watson said investigators on the property Friday were "starting to dig." Police held the scene overnight and continued investigating in the morning – Watson said they "needed light" to work.

"We're treating it as seriously as we can," Watson said. "You know, you can't leave any stone unturned in these incidents, so we just want to make sure that we are doing our due diligence."

[abigailspinach]

2, 15, 17, and 24 for book ask, please!!

2. Did I reread anything?

I had a mega re-read focus year. I think I wanted comfort books?

I did almost a complete reread of Anne of Green Gables (Skipped Anne of Avolnea and Rainbow Valley - sorry Anne's twee progeny). I also reread Emily of New Moon (another LMM protagonist who is both a writer and an orphan) but Emily is bitchier and more goth and a little bit psychic and the most frustrating love interests.

Plus I reread all of Lois McMaster Bujold's Penric and Desdemona novella. Pen is just a good boy who respect women and has a chaos demon living in his head and it's amazing. 10/10 would recommend.

15. Did you read any books that were nominated for or won awards this year (Booker, Women’s Prize, National Book Award, Pulitzer, Hugo, etc.)? What did you think of them?

Hmmm, scrolling through my notes.

I read "Redemption in Indigo" which won loads of awards in 2008 when released. "Karen Lord’s debut novel won the prestigious Frank Collymore Literary Prize in Barbados, the Mythopeic, Carl Brandon Parallax, and Crawford Awards." I enjoyed it. I really like Caribbean literature and should make a point to add some more to my TBD for 2025.

17. Did any books surprise you with how good they were?

I hadn't read any Robert Jackson Bennett before because the print copies were very expensive and the e-book queue at the library was long. His previous works looked rather grimdark and I need to be in the right mood for that. I pre-ordered the e-book for the "The Tainted Cup" and I really enjoyed it. It was really fun. Great characters and I love a Watson and Holmes riff.

From Amazon "A BEST BOOK OF THE YEAR: The New York Times Book Review, NPR, BookPage In Daretana’s greatest mansion, a high imperial officer lies dead—killed, to all appearances, when a tree erupted from his body. Even here at the Empire’s borders, where contagions abound and the blood of the leviathans works strange magical changes, it’s a death both terrifying and impossible. Assigned to investigate is Ana Dolabra, a detective whose reputation for brilliance is matched only by her eccentricities. Rumor has it that she wears a blindfold at all times, and that she can solve impossible cases without even stepping outside the walls of her home. At her side is her new assistant, Dinios Kol, magically altered in ways that make him the perfect aide to Ana’s brilliance. Din is at turns scandalized, perplexed, and utterly infuriated by his new superior—but as the case unfolds and he watches Ana’s mind leap from one startling deduction to the next, he must admit that she is, indeed, the Empire’s greatest detective. As the two close in on a mastermind and uncover a scheme that threatens the Empire itself, Din realizes he’s barely begun to assemble the puzzle that is Ana Dolabra—and wonders how long he’ll be able to keep his own secrets safe from her piercing intellect. By an “endlessly inventive” (Vulture) author with a “wicked sense of humor” (NPR), The Tainted Cup mixes the charms of detective fiction with brilliant world-building to deliver a fiendishly clever mystery that’s at once instantly recognizable and thrillingly new."

24. Did you DNF anything? Why?

The House Witch - started charming-ish but it just kept going and nothing happened that hadn't happened three times before.

Can't Spell Treason without Tea by Rebecca Thorne

My blood pressure kept rising in annoyance so I had to stop. Characters felt shallow, choices made were bizarre, worldbuilding slight. Too cozy for me?

[holmesoverture]

I have. Posted a fic.

It's still restricted to AO3 users, so if you have an account and want to see a pre-slash Holmes story set in the 1970s for no good reason, then by jove, do I have the fic for you. Preview behind the cut :)

“What drivel are you reading now?” Sherlock Holmes asked me as he half-heartedly shuffled his papers about his desk. He only began to straighten his things in earnest, though rather ungraciously, when I gave him a stern look. Holmes rarely, if ever, approved of my taste in literature, calling it puerile on his good days and mind-rotting offscourings on the days when he’d made a mistake on a case, or when he’d been pushed to a near-meltdown. But on that early autumn day in 1978, I had him.

“It’s no mystery novel or Norse poem this time,” I replied. “It’s called The Sexually Oppressed. I bought it because it’s got a paper about asexuality that reminded me a bit of you.”

“Is that what we’re called now? Asexuals?” The word was as comfortable on his tongue as any crime-related word ever could be.

“You don’t have to use the term if you don’t like it, of course. I just wanted to know more of it in a general sense.”

“On the contrary, asexuality is a much more pleasingly precise word than Dr Kinsey’s X. I am not some mysterious unknown variable that requires discovering.”

“I don’t know about that,” I said, teasingly. “You do exude a certain aura of mystery from time to time.”

“If anyone thinks of me as mysterious I can hardly be blamed for it. People generally are arrogant enough to assume that they are capable of learning everything about a man with an examination so superficial that it can scarcely be called an examination at all. Then they cease to observe and dub anything which they still don’t comprehend as mysterious to excuse their own indolence.”

“And here I thought I was doing a fair job of figuring you out.”

“You are not people,” he replied, perplexed. “You are Watson.”

To him it seemed to mean nothing more than a puzzled but simple statement of fact, but I could not help the flush of pride and affection at my friend’s words. I rarely had reason to doubt his regard for me, but I could never tire of hearing him confirm it. I glanced out the front window to give myself a moment to recover.

“Looks like Giles is moving out,” I remarked, and I immediately regretted doing so as it caused Holmes to abandon his attempts at rearranging his papers and to join me at the window. Regardless of how bored and morose he had been of late, he could not stand the idea of occupying his time with organizational chores.

Next door to us stood a building owned and inhabited by Giles Newport, an elderly gentlemen with sparse, grizzled white hair and a complexion pale enough that Holmes looked positively swarthy by comparison. I rarely ever saw him leave his home, and his only visitors were the men and women who brought his milk and his groceries and such.

Today, however, a bright white van sat outside the house and two men were going in and out, carting large armfuls of seemingly random things from the house to the van. Holmes stared at them for several long moments, worrying at the stem of his pipe with his teeth. He no longer smoked, so the pipe was empty, but he liked the feel of it in his mouth.

“Giles isn’t moving out,” Holmes said, definitively. “There isn’t any sign out front, and I haven’t read anything about it in the paper. This is something else. Get Blackjack. We’re going for a walk.”

“We’re going to snoop.”

“Perhaps.”

“Do you actually believe there is a crime being committed next door, or are you just being a busybody?”

“There hasn’t been a decent case for days, and the lithium only goes so far.”

[yorik59lene]

Baudelaire’s sketch of Jeanne Duval, dated 1865, five or six years after they parted ways

À la Recherche de Jeanne Duval

Who Was the Mysterious Mistress Immortalized by Two 19th-century Geniuses, Charles Baudelaire and Édouard Manet

The widespread protests in the wake of George Floyd’s murder in May, abetted by the swelling powers of the Black Lives Matter movement, got some of us with an interest in art history thinking about the accomplishments of many underknown Black artists (not the usual suspects like Kara Walker, Nari Ward, and Nick Cave). And so I started posting (and will continue to post) on social media about noteworthy artists who never spent much time in the limelight, including Benny Andrews, Mary Lee Bendolph, Bill Traylor, Barbara Chase-Riboud, and others.

But Black artists are not the only aspect of art history, past and present, to fly under the radar. For centuries, Black models have served to supply the ends of mostly white artists, from Velázquez to Eakins to Matisse, playing important roles in mammoth tableaux like Géricault’s Raft of the Medusa and John Singleton Copley’s Watson and the Shark.

Women of color were critical to (mostly male) artistic visions as well, figuring importantly in such milestones of art history as Manet’s Olympia and Matisse’s “Jazz” sketches and cutouts. (This territory was thrillingly surveyed in one of those shows I deeply regret missing:  “Posing Modernity: The Black Model From Manet and Matisse to Today,” a traveling exhibition that debuted at the Wallach Gallery in New York in late 2018).

John Singleton Copley, Watson and the Shark (1782), oil on canvas, 36 by 30 inches, Detroit Institute of the Arts

But of all the Black models in Western art, the one who has most intrigued me is Jeanne Duval, mistress of Charles Baudelaire, immortalized in Manet’s portrait of 1862, roughly a year after the poet and painter became fast friends, and also a year after Baudelaire broke off the stormy 20-year liaison with his dark-skinned muse, who by then had suffered a stroke and was nearly blind.

One of the reasons I’ve always been seduced by Manet is because so many of his paintings pose baffling mysteries about their ultimate meaning: he has teased art historians for decades in works like The Bar at the Folies Bergère, Le Déjeuner sur L’Herbe, and the scandalous Olympia, consigned to a dark corner when it was shown at the Salon in 1865.

The portrait of Duval is no exception, and is perplexing not just in its subject but in its execution and composition. The hand of the somewhat haggard-looking model is larger than her head; one foot protrudes at an angle that makes it impossible to imagine it joined to the hip; and nearly half the painting is dominated by Duval’s loosely painted voluminous dress, identified as a crinoline popular among the fashionable set of the 1860s.”One can assume that Manet intended Baudelaire to be the prime viewer of the portrait and planned to give it to him, perhaps in gratitude for the favorable notice the poet gave him for his essay ‘L’eau forte est a la mode,’ which appeared in 1862 in ‘La Revue Anecdotique,’” wrote art historian Therese Dolan in The Art Bulletin in 1997.

Charles Baudelaire, Duval’s long-term lover and the author of Les Fleurs du Mal

But back to that model. Securely identified as the inspiration behind Baudelaire’s cycle of poems Les Fleurs du Mal, Duval is celebrated in verses of an extreme sensuality abhorrent to many readers in mid-19th-century Paris

“My loved one was naked and, knowing my heart/Was dressed only in the music of her jewelry”

“So she lay upon a divan preparing to be loved,/Smiling on my lust, as it rose like the tide of a distant sea”

“Her legs, her arms, her thighs, polished as if with oil,/Uncoiled with swanlike grace before my eyes;/Her belly, loins and breasts, the fruit of my vine,/Thrust themselves forward, more tempting than demi-angels….”

And so it goes in a few of the choicer verses from “Les Bijoux.” Not exactly as lewd as most present-day pornography, or even John Updike, but nasty enough to bring Baudelaire and his volume to trial. Ultimately six poems had to be excluded from the cycle; its publisher nearly went bankrupt; and Baudelaire failed to achieve the financial and critical acclaim he was sure Les Fleurs du Mal would bring his way.

But not all that heat and passion was confined to the bedroom. The long Baudelaire-Duval relationship was one we would today characterize as co-dependent to an extreme. “Baudelaire claimed that Duval made him suffer greatly, admitted striking her on the head with a console table, and more than once he sold her jewels and furniture,” reports Dolan. “When they were apart, however, he grieved intensely. She was his single distraction, his sole pleasure, his only friend, and the sight of a beautiful object or lovely landscape made him long for the pleasure of sharing his thoughts with her.”

Nadar’s photo of Duval, ca. 1845

About Duval herself, though, little appears to be certain. She is described as a “quarteroon”—three-quarters white, one-quarter Black—but her birthplace in varying accounts is cited as Nantes, Guadeloupe, Martinique, or Haiti. “Duval (who also went by the names Lemaire and Prosper) was likely born….around 1815–1820 to a black prostitute and a white father, and had performed in vaudevilles under the stage name Berthe in 1838 and 1839,” claims Colin Bailey in his review of “Posing Modernity” in The New York Review of Books. “She had been the photographer Félix Nadar’s lover before meeting Baudelaire in 1842.”

The poet may have first encountered her in a cabaret. “It seems that she was a ‘femme entretenue’—a kind of nineteenth-century call girl—who, prior to meeting Baudelaire, led the life of the ‘demi-monde’ so aptly described by Alexandre Dumas [whose grandmother was a Black slave],” writes Marc Christophe in the Journal of the College Language Association. The lovers both became seriously addicted to laudanum and alcohol, and Baudelaire constantly petitioned his mother for more funds to support a bohemian and peripatetic lifestyle. As Christophe admits, “It is not easy to determine who this Jeanne Duval really was. Even in Baudelaire’s opinion, she changes temperament and characteristics from one letter to the next [and] Baudelaire’s biographers hardly bothered to research, in depth, the poet’s attachment to the ‘Black Venus.’” In spite of complaints of mistreatment at her hands, however, the poet finds in her both “joy and tranquility.”

Yet by the late 1850s they seem to have parted for good. After Duval suffered a stroke in 1859, she “tried to extort money from Baudelaire,” Dolan claims. Three years later, Manet painted her portrait; and in 1865, the poet produced a little sketch of her as a voluptuous young woman with large dark eyes. Wikipedia says that Duval may have died of syphilis as early as 1862, five years before the poet, who also died of syphilis. But the photographer Nadar claimed to have last seen her in 1870, when she was on crutches.

So many mysteries remain. Why would Baudelaire sketch his lover as a young woman years after they parted? Why would Manet paint her when she was obviously frail and infirm? And capture her in a kind of costume that was most likely alien to her tastes and means (if you’re interested in crinolines and caricature, a truly fascinating discussion of this is in Dolan’s scholarly article, available here).

But the biggest gaps of all are in our knowledge of Duval herself: Did she have ambitions as a singer or an actress? Was she any good? Did she aspire to a more conventional life? Or could she have chosen a more favorable match than the scrawny and chronically impoverished Baudelaire? An exotic beauty in the Paris of her day, one suspects, could have done a whole lot better in the mistress department.

And why would she agree to model–raddled by infirmities, her glorious beauty long gone—for Manet after she’d broken off with the poet?

No letters or journals of Duval’s survive, to the best of my research, nor is there much in the way of testimony from Baudelaire’s friends and acquaintances. Her legend, though, has inspired novelists and artists to re-imagine her struggles. I’ve read only one, a rather tepid piece of historical fiction called Black Venus, by James MacManus, which fails to breathe life into this shadowy half of a love affair as stormy and steamy as this morning’s Hollywood gossip.

There are a couple more fictional accounts out there by the late English writer Angela Carter and Canadian-Jamaican novelist Nalo Hopkinson, which I will track down in due time.

My own take, after admittedly only two or three weeks of cursory investigation? She was dedicated to her abusive genius, but she probably gave as good as she got.

Love is strange.

Ann Landi

Top: Edouard Manet, Portrait of Jeanne Duval (1862), oil on canvas, 35.5 by 44.5 inches

À la Recherche de Jeanne Duval | Vasari21

À la Recherche de Jeanne Duval

Baudelaire's Mistress, Reclining represents Jeanne Duval, mistress of Charles Baudelaire

Wer war die geheimnisvolle Geliebte, die von zwei Genies des 19. Jahrhunderts, Charles Baudelaire und Édouard Manet, verewigt wurde?

Die weit verbreiteten Proteste nach der Ermordung von George Floyd im Mai, die durch die wachsende Macht der Black-Lives-Matter-Bewegung begünstigt wurden, haben einige von uns, die sich für Kunstgeschichte interessieren, dazu gebracht, über die Errungenschaften vieler unbekannter schwarzer Künstler nachzudenken (nicht die üblichen Verdächtigen wie Kara Walker, Nari Ward und Nick Cave). Und so fing ich an, in den sozialen Medien über bemerkenswerte Künstler zu posten, die nie viel Zeit im Rampenlicht verbracht haben, darunter Benny Andrews, Mary Lee Bendolph, Bill Traylor, Barbara Chase-Riboud und andere.

Aber Schwarze Künstler sind nicht der einzige Aspekt der Kunstgeschichte in Vergangenheit und Gegenwart, der unter dem Radar fliegt. Jahrhundertelang dienten schwarze Modelle dazu, die Ziele meist weißer Künstler zu beliefern, von Velázquez über Eakins bis Matisse, und spielten wichtige Rollen in Mammut-Tableaus wie Géricaults Floß der Medusa und John Singleton Copleys Watson and the Shark.

Farbige Frauen spielten auch eine wichtige Rolle für (meist männliche) künstlerische Visionen und spielten eine wichtige Rolle in Meilensteinen der Kunstgeschichte wie Manets Olympia und Matisses "Jazz"-Skizzen und -Ausschnitten. (Dieses Territorium wurde in einer der Ausstellungen, die ich zutiefst bedauere, verpasst zu haben, spannend untersucht: "Posing Modernity: The Black Model From Manet and Matisse to Today", eine Wanderausstellung, die Ende 2018 in der Wallach Gallery in New York debütierte).

(Bild)

John Singleton Copley, Watson und der Hai (1782), Öl auf Leinwand, 36 x 30 Zoll, Detroit Institute of the Arts

Aber von allen schwarzen Modellen der westlichen Kunst ist mich Jeanne Duval, die Geliebte von Charles Baudelaire, die in Manets Porträt von 1862 verewigt wurde, am meisten fasziniert, etwa ein Jahr, nachdem der Dichter und der Maler schnell Freunde geworden waren, und auch ein Jahr, nachdem Baudelaire die stürmische 20-jährige Liaison mit seiner dunkelhäutigen Muse abgebrochen hatte. der zu diesem Zeitpunkt bereits einen Schlaganfall erlitten hatte und fast erblindet war.

Einer der Gründe, warum ich mich immer von Manet verführen ließ, ist, dass so viele seiner Gemälde rätselhafte Geheimnisse über ihre endgültige Bedeutung aufwerfen: Er hat Kunsthistoriker jahrzehntelang mit Werken wie Die Bar in den Folies Bergère, Le Déjeuner sur L'Herbe und dem skandalösen Olympia verärgert, das 1865 im Salon gezeigt wurde.

Das Porträt von Duval ist da keine Ausnahme und verblüffend nicht nur in seinem Motiv, sondern auch in seiner Ausführung und Komposition. Die Hand des etwas hager aussehenden Models ist größer als ihr Kopf; ein Fuß ragt in einem Winkel hervor, der es unmöglich macht, sich vorzustellen, dass er mit der Hüfte verbunden ist; und fast die Hälfte des Gemäldes wird von Duvals locker bemaltem, voluminösem Kleid dominiert, das als Krinoline identifiziert wurde, die in der Modeszene der 1860er Jahre beliebt war." Man kann davon ausgehen, dass Manet Baudelaire als den Hauptbetrachter des Porträts beabsichtigte und plante, es ihm zu geben, vielleicht aus Dankbarkeit für die wohlwollende Aufmerksamkeit, die der Dichter ihm für seinen Essay 'L'eau forte est a la mode' zukommen ließ, der 1862 in 'La Revue Anecdotique' erschien", schrieb die Kunsthistorikerin Therese Dolan 1997 im Art Bulletin.

(Bild)

Charles Baudelaire, Duvals langjähriger Liebhaber und Autor von Les Fleurs du Mal

Aber zurück zu diesem Modell. Duval, der als Inspiration für Baudelaires Gedichtzyklus Les Fleurs du Mal identifiziert wird, wird Mitte des 19. Jahrhunderts in Versen von extremer Sinnlichkeit gefeiert, die vielen Lesern zuwider sindheit-Jahrhundert Paris

"Meine Geliebte war nackt und kannte mein Herz / War nur mit der Musik ihres Schmucks bekleidet"

"So lag sie auf einem Diwan und bereitete sich darauf vor, geliebt zu werden, / Lächelte über meine Lust, wie sie stieg wie die Flut eines fernen Meeres"

"Ihre Beine, ihre Arme, ihre Schenkel, poliert wie mit Öl, / Mit schwanengleicher Anmut vor meinen Augen aufgerollt, / Ihr Bauch, ihre Lenden und Brüste, die Frucht meines Weinstocks, / Stoßen sich nach vorne, verlockender als Halbengel ..."

Und so geht es auch in einigen der erlesensten Verse von "Les Bijoux". Nicht ganz so anzüglich wie die meisten zeitgenössischen Pornografien oder sogar John Updike, aber gemein genug, um Baudelaire und sein Buch vor Gericht zu bringen. Letztlich mussten sechs Gedichte aus dem Zyklus ausgeschlossen werden; sein Verleger wäre fast bankrott gegangen; und Baudelaire erhielt nicht die finanzielle und kritische Anerkennung, von der er überzeugt war, dass Les Fleurs du Mal ihm bringen würde.

Aber all die Hitze und Leidenschaft war nicht auf das Schlafzimmer beschränkt. Die lange Beziehung zwischen Baudelaire und Duval würden wir heute als extrem co-abhängig bezeichnen. "Baudelaire behauptete, Duval habe ihn sehr leiden lassen, gab zu, sie mit einem Konsolentisch auf den Kopf geschlagen zu haben, und mehr als einmal verkaufte er ihr Schmuck und Möbel", berichtet Dolan. "Als sie jedoch getrennt waren, trauerte er sehr. Sie war seine einzige Zerstreuung, sein einziges Vergnügen, seine einzige Freundin, und der Anblick eines schönen Gegenstandes oder einer schönen Landschaft ließ ihn sich nach dem Vergnügen sehnen, seine Gedanken mit ihr zu teilen."

(Foto)

Nadars Foto von Duval, ca. 1845

Über Duval selbst scheint jedoch wenig sicher zu sein. Sie wird als "Quarteroon" beschrieben – zu drei Vierteln weiß, zu einem Viertel schwarz –, aber ihr Geburtsort wird in verschiedenen Berichten als Nantes, Guadeloupe, Martinique oder Haiti angegeben. "Duval (der auch unter den Namen Lemaire und Prosper bekannt war) wurde wahrscheinlich um 1815–1820 als Sohn einer schwarzen Prostituierten und eines weißen Vaters geboren und trat 1838 und 1839 unter dem Künstlernamen Berthe in Varietés auf", behauptet Colin Bailey in seiner Rezension von "Posing Modernity" in der New York Review of Books. "Sie war die Geliebte des Fotografen Félix Nadar, bevor sie 1842 Baudelaire kennenlernte."

Der Dichter begegnete ihr vielleicht zum ersten Mal in einem Kabarett. "Es scheint, dass sie eine 'femme entretenue' war – eine Art Callgirl des neunzehnten Jahrhunderts –, die, bevor sie Baudelaire traf, das Leben der 'Halbwelt' führte, die von Alexandre Dumas [dessen Großmutter eine schwarze Sklavin war] so treffend beschrieben wurde", schreibt Marc Christophe im Journal of the College Language Association. Die Liebenden wurden beide schwer süchtig nach Laudanum und Alkohol, und Baudelaire bat seine Mutter ständig um mehr Geld, um einen unkonventionellen und umherziehenden Lebensstil zu finanzieren. Christophe gibt zu: "Es ist nicht einfach zu bestimmen, wer diese Jeanne Duval wirklich war. Selbst nach Baudelaires Meinung ändert sie ihr Temperament und ihre Charakterzüge von einem Brief zum nächsten [und] Baudelaires Biographen machten sich kaum die Mühe, die Bindung des Dichters an die 'Schwarze Venus' eingehend zu erforschen." Trotz der Klagen über Misshandlungen durch sie findet der Dichter in ihr sowohl "Freude als auch Ruhe".

Baudelaires Skizze von Jeanne Duval aus dem Jahr 1865, fünf oder sechs Jahre nachdem sich ihre Wege getrennt hatten

Doch in den späten 1850er Jahren scheinen sie sich endgültig getrennt zu haben. Nachdem Duval 1859 einen Schlaganfall erlitten hatte, "versuchte sie, Geld von Baudelaire zu erpressen", behauptet Dolan. Drei Jahre später malte Manet ihr Porträt; Und 1865 fertigte der Dichter eine kleine Skizze von ihr als üppige junge Frau mit großen dunklen Augen an. Wikipedia sagt, dass Duval bereits 1862 an Syphilis gestorben sein könnte, fünf Jahre vor dem Dichter, der ebenfalls an Syphilis starb. Doch der Fotograf Nadar behauptete, sie zuletzt 1870 gesehen zu haben, als sie auf Krücken war.

So viele Geheimnisse bleiben bestehen. Warum sollte Baudelaire seine Geliebte Jahre nach ihrer Trennung als junge Frau skizzieren? Warum sollte Manet sie malen, wenn sie offensichtlich gebrechlich und gebrechlich war? Und sie in einer Art Kostüm einzufangen, das höchstwahrscheinlich ihrem Geschmack und ihren Mitteln fremd war (wenn Sie sich für Krinolinen und Karikaturen interessieren, finden Sie eine wirklich faszinierende Diskussion darüber in Dolans wissenschaftlichem Artikel, der hier verfügbar ist).

Aber die größten Lücken von allen gibt es in unserem Wissen über Duval selbst: Hatte sie Ambitionen als Sängerin oder Schauspielerin? War sie gut? Strebte sie nach einem konventionelleren Leben? Oder hätte sie sich für eine günstigere Partie entscheiden können als den dürren und chronisch verarmten Baudelaire? Eine exotische Schönheit im Paris ihrer Zeit, so vermutet man, hätte es in der Herrinnenabteilung viel besser machen können.

Und warum sollte sie sich bereit erklären, Manet ein Modell zu stehen – von Gebrechen gezeichnet, ihre herrliche Schönheit längst verschwunden –, nachdem sie mit dem Dichter gebrochen hatte?

Nach meinen besten Recherchen sind weder Briefe noch Tagebücher von Duval erhalten, noch gibt es viele Zeugnisse von Baudelaires Freunden und Bekannten. Ihre Legende hat jedoch Romanautoren und Künstler dazu inspiriert, ihre Kämpfe neu zu erfinden. Ich habe nur eines gelesen, ein eher lauwarmes Stück historischer Fiktion mit dem Titel Black Venus von James MacManus, das es nicht schafft, dieser schattenhaften Hälfte einer Liebesbeziehung, die so stürmisch und dampfend ist wie der Hollywood-Klatsch von heute Morgen, Leben einzuhauchen.

Es gibt noch ein paar weitere fiktive Berichte der verstorbenen englischen Schriftstellerin Angela Carter und des kanadisch-jamaikanischen Schriftstellers Nalo Hopkinson, die ich zu gegebener Zeit ausfindig machen werde.

Meine eigene Meinung, nach zugegebenermaßen nur zwei oder drei Wochen oberflächlicher Untersuchung? Sie war ihrem missbräuchlichen Genie treu, aber sie gab wahrscheinlich so gut, wie sie konnte.

Liebe ist seltsam.

Ann Landi

Oben: Edouard Manet, Porträt von Jeanne Duval (1862), Öl auf Leinwand, 35,5 x 44,5 Zoll

Skirting the Issue: Manet's Portrait of Baudelaire's Mistress, Reclining on JSTOR

[sciencestyled]

The Curious Case of the Missing Aliens: A Deduction Fit for the Bizarre

There I was, seated in the familiar confines of 221B Baker Street, fingers steepled in the pose Watson has often described as my "thinking machine" at work. On this particular afternoon, I found myself wrestling with a most irritating question, one that had been gnawing at my mind for some time: where the devil are all the aliens?

Now, I know what you must be thinking. Holmes, you’ve solved all manner of convoluted criminal cases, yet here you are concerned with little green men. But allow me to enlighten you on the circumstances that led to my strange preoccupation with extraterrestrial mysteries. It all began after a most peculiar visit from an acquaintance—a certain Professor Fortescue, the kind of chap who seems to have misplaced his common sense somewhere between his study of physics and an apparent inability to tie his own shoelaces.

The man burst into my rooms, knocking over a stack of precariously balanced books that I had so carefully arranged, bellowing something about the Fermi Paradox. Naturally, I ignored him at first, believing this to be yet another nonsensical distraction from the simplicity of human reasoning. I had been in the middle of a delightful experiment involving tobacco ash and different brands of biscuits, determining the most effective combination for sustaining creative thought.

"Holmes!" he shouted. "Holmes, we should be swimming in alien civilizations by now! The numbers—the numbers, man!" He waved a chalkboard covered in indecipherable squiggles that were either equations or a summary of the man's latest nervous breakdown.

As Fortescue babbled on about the staggering number of stars in the galaxy and the inevitability of extraterrestrial life, my curiosity was reluctantly piqued. What bothered me most was not the professor's ramblings (though they were quite insufferable), but the sheer logical absurdity of it all. If the galaxy is so packed with habitable planets, where are all the letters from our cosmic neighbors asking to borrow sugar or, at the very least, demanding to know how Earth managed to produce such an utter lack of taste in popular music?

I dismissed Fortescue with a wave of the hand—he left, after knocking over my violin in an unfortunate act of clumsiness—and I proceeded to investigate. The Fermi Paradox, as it turns out, was named after some other poor soul who’d been equally perplexed by this cosmic silence. Armed with this new puzzle, I began applying my deductive reasoning to the matter.

I must say, it was quite a refreshing departure from the tedium of solving murder—really, how many times must a man be stabbed before people grow tired of it? The very idea that there could be countless civilizations out there, all hiding from us, was almost too tantalizing to ignore. I imagined alien committees gathered around in some interstellar version of Scotland Yard, flipping through dossiers of Earth’s greatest catastrophes and deciding, en masse, that we were best left to our own devices. Can’t say I blame them, really.

But the question persisted: Why? Why, with all the potential for contact, have we heard nothing? I explored every angle. Perhaps they were here but had mastered the art of invisibility. Or worse, perhaps they had simply been observing us, chuckling from behind some quantum curtain as we bumbled about our daily lives, occasionally electing disastrous political figures and creating self-driving car accidents.

And then it hit me—a realization so absurd, so bizarre, it could only be true: we were simply...uninteresting. Oh, the profound humiliation! Aliens, upon watching our species for mere moments, had probably decided Earth was the galactic equivalent of an awkward school dance where no one had quite learned the steps. Why visit a planet where the inhabitants argue over the shape of their Earth and willingly consume food labeled "gluten-free"?

The problem wasn’t that aliens were avoiding us; they were ignoring us. We were the neglected shelf at the cosmic library—a volume that had been read once, deemed thoroughly boring, and put aside to gather dust for millennia.

This conclusion, shocking as it was, led me to an irrefutable decision. Clearly, the public had to be informed of this cosmic slight. I could not sit idly by as humanity remained blissfully unaware of its standing as the galaxy’s most forgettable species. But how? How to spread the word? And then it came to me: the internet. The breeding ground of conspiracy theorists, amateur sleuths, and people with far too much time on their hands.

And so, I set about producing this video. It is my duty, after all, to enlighten the masses about the fact that we are quite possibly the universe’s least exciting discovery. Watson was dubious, of course. He always is. But that’s beside the point. In the end, the truth must be shared, no matter how painful it is.

So, dear viewer, I present to you the answer to a mystery far greater than any mere murder or scandal: why the aliens, in all their hypothetical glory, have failed to show up at our doorstep with fruit baskets or invasion plans. The truth is out there—and it’s desperately trying to avoid us.

Enjoy.