#I share her sentiment on Sherlock ending | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

janeofcakes · 1 year

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The Final Solution

Here it is, friends. The one shot of which I spoke, the first of the two snippets I shared in the WIP Tag Game. I was inspired by a Tumblr post a few weeks ago, or maybe days, who knows? Everything oozes together into one sloppy puddle these days. I hope you enjoy.💜

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The tarmac around them was barren, bleak and lifeless. There was a line of planes some distance away from them. All had sunny destinations that were perfect for family vacations and weekend get-aways, but that was another world. The private plane they stood close to had an all-together different target, one that held nothing but pain and death.

“John, there’s something I should say,” Sherlock’s words were quiet and full of regret. He looked down at the cold, gray concrete beneath his feet and took a deep breath. He could get through this. He had to say this. He had to tell John how he felt, how he’d always felt.

He raised his eyes to meet John’s again and his breath caught in his throat. The doctor’s face was a mixture of discomfort, sorrow and agony. He knew. John knew what all of this meant. In spite of all Sherlock had just said, all of the questions he answered vaguely, John knew that Sherlock was being sent to his death. This was an assignment he would not complete and Captain John Watson had no delusions that Sherlock would still be alive when it all came to an end. The detective silently berated himself. He should have known that John was not so naive as to not comprehend the gravity of the situation, no matter how easily Mycroft thought it was to pull the wool over the doctor’s eyes.

“I’ve meant to say always and never have,” Sherlock continued, biting back a shuddering gasp that nearly overtook his words.

John must have heard it in his voice because his face twisted in anguish, but he quickly schooled it with the purse of his lips and squinting his eyes. Those deep blue eyes that told so much were fixed on Sherlock like a vice that would never loosen its grip. Anger born by helplessness shone through them, thrusting like spears into Sherlock’s mind, but it wasn’t alone. Unbearable grief filled John’s eyes into glassy orbs of thick water, slowly sloshing this way and that. His inherent rage held it like a dam made of the strongest stone. Anyone else who saw him would simply see the fury, but Sherlock could see it all and it slid into his heart with the cruel whisper of a sword.

“Since it’s unlikely we’ll ever meet again,” Sherlock said hesitantly, his voice kept steady by sheer force of will, “I might as well say it now.”

Sherlock stopped speaking abruptly and bit his lip. His eyes slipped closed and he could hear John’s feet shuffling, his body full of nervous energy and tension. Sherlock shared the sentiment. He was on a great precipice, torn between the desire to confess his true feelings this one last chance he would ever have or carrying it to his grave. Both were exceedingly selfish. He believed John would want to know what he had come to mean to him, but it would make their parting all the more painful. John was Sherlock’s life, his conductor of light, his soul. He loved John with his very being. Why he had never found the courage to tell John was beyond his own comprehension. Sherlock knew what dangers they faced in their line of work. Any day could be his last, or John’s, but somehow it seemed as though there would always be more time. That wasn’t the whole of it though. Sherlock was scared of losing John and confessing his love was the surest way to push John “I’m not gay” Watson away.

Telling John would also mean throwing his whole life on its end. John was with Mary. He chose Mary. Sherlock told him he should forgive Mary for the sake of the child and for John himself. He loved Mary. Yes, she had lied. Nothing about her life was as she made it out to be. She was an assassin for hire, blackmailed by the most sinister of villains. She had shot Sherlock, but she made John happy and they had only just married. Sherlock could hardly tell his newlywed best friend that he loved him when said marriage was just beginning and there was a baby on the way. No. Sherlock couldn’t do that to John, not when things were finally starting to take form. No. John would have the life he had always wanted; a job, a wife and child, and Sherlock would disappear. It was better that way. Better for John, and Sherlock would always put the doctor’s happiness above his own.

“Sherlock is really a girl’s name,” Sherlock muttered at a loss for anything else. He tried to keep his lips from curling into a knowing smirk with mixed results.

One look at his face and John turned his head away, a huff of strangled laughter bursting from his lips. He put his hands on his hips and stared resolutely at the concrete beneath his feet, trying to collect himself. Sherlock had seen this before. A war waged within John and he was doing his utmost to keep it at bay. No one side could triumph over the other or chaos would consume John’s mind and the emotions he tried so hard to hide would flow out of the banks of restraint.

“I’m pretty sure it’s not,” John said through clenched teeth when he looked at Sherlock again. He let out a quick, fake laugh, but said no more.

Sherlock took a deep breath and blinked once slowly, his eyes fixed on the ground. With nothing left to do, he raised his right hand and held it out to John. Blue eyes full of confusion looked at it and then melted into sorrow as they reached Sherlock’s face. John immediately took the offered hand and squeezed it tightly in one final handshake. Sherlock saw the first time they touched hands in the lab at Bart’s in his mind’s eye. That first touch of fingers when John handed his mobile over was the impetus for Sherlock’s love. He could see that John was struggling with sorrow and self-loathing that day, and he had instantly wanted to make it better. He wanted to make John more again, into the man he once was. That small spark had grown into a love so large that Sherlock had to make whole wings in his mind palace for John and time spent with him. His very heart, which he had been reliably informed did not exist, increased in size and scope to accommodate the level of feeling he had for John.

“Goodbye, John,” Sherlock whispered when the scrape of John’s shoes on the tarmac brought him back to the present. He retrieved his hand from John and took a step back. John’s hand slowly lowered to his side as he watched Sherlock move. His mouth said nothing, but his eyes spoke volumes and every one crushed Sherlock’s breaking heart.

Nodding at John one last time, Sherlock turned his back and began walking toward the door of the plane. He stared straight ahead, closing off his heart as he went. He mustn’t let the emotion overtake him. He would not let John witness his collapse, lest it add to the sorrow the doctor already felt. There would be time to allow the breakdown once he was alone on the plane. Alone. It was what he used to want and he guarded it closely. ‘Alone protects me.’ The words were so hollow now and not at all what he desired. John had changed his very way of thinking and he honestly wasn’t sure he could go back.

Imaging a small ball of ice in his heart, Sherlock willed it to grow until it could encapsulate the whole organ. If he succeeded, he could make it to the plane and into the air before his emotions betrayed him. He could feel the inevitable prick of tears in his eyes and fought to keep it at bay. He hadn’t even taken that many steps, the feeling of John’s body heat still warm on his back, and Sherlock furrowed his brow at that. There was more than enough distance between them, even with the few steps Sherlock had taken. John’s warmth should already be a distant memory. The detective’s shoulders sagged slightly. It felt like he had walked miles.

This thought fled his mind as quickly as it came when warm fingers wrapped around his left elbow, closing against a palm that was suddenly pressed against his arm. The hand tugged Sherlock around and he was facing John again. His John.

The doctor’s arms were around Sherlock, his face buried in the taller man’s shoulder before the detective could say a word. John drew him in snugly, pressing the whole length of his body against Sherlock tightly. A wet gasp sounded near Sherlock’s ear as the force of John’s bone-crushing embrace increased. Thoroughly startled, Sherlock’s own arms were suspended as far out to the sides as allowed by John’s grasp, his fingers spread in shock. His lips were parted in surprise and he was lost for words, solely unprepared for this reaction.

“Don’t…don’t go,” John begged into Sherlock’s shoulder. His voice was heavy with emotion and tears. “I don’t want you to go.”

Sherlock’s icy heart shattered with such force that he gasped aloud and blinked his eyes wide. His long arms wrapped around John almost of their own volition. He tilted his head to rest a cheek against the side of John’s head, the scent of his soft hair drifting into his nostrils as a tear ran down the other cheek. Sherlock fought with the emotions that threatened to overtake him, breathing deeply and slowly in an effort to maintain control as he hugged the stuffing out of his blogger.

“Fuck me,” Mary Morstan muttered from where she and Mycroft Holmes stood at a distance observing the scene.

Mycroft, ever the pragmatist, reached into his breast pocket and removed a thin bundle of pages folded into thirds. He passed the document to Mary without looking at her. Confused, she hesitantly took it, opened it slowly and scanned through the words of the first page. Once she had ascertained its contents, she looked up at Mycroft sharply, her chin jutting out in fury.

“I will give you one chance to walk away,” the elder Holmes said, his eyes still on his brother and the man he loved. “You will not return under any circumstances or contact either of them again.”

Mycroft paused for a long moment, allowing his words to hang in the air, heavy with intent. Mary didn’t move a muscle, her glare seering into his skin. Finally, the tall man turned his head slowly to stare at her with piercing ice-blue daggers.

“If you do not,” Mycroft’s tone was definitive and whispered with a dangerous promise, “I will drop you where you stand.”

Some distance away and well out of earshot, Sherlock shook his head and released his grasp, taking hold of John’s biceps instead and pushing him away. John stared up at him, face full of concern, as Sherlock stepped well back from his friend. He held out his right hand, palm facing John, to prevent any advance. Sherlock’s mind was reeling. He couldn’t organize the thoughts that spun this way and that, not while John was touching him.

“Stop,” Sherlock managed, taking a half step back and bracing himself when it looked as though John would reach for him. “I have to go. This is how it must be.”

“Bullshit,” John muttered furiously, taking in Sherlock’s wet cheeks and red-rimmed eyes. “Your brother can fix anything he wants.”

“This is different,” Sherlock’s voice was unsteady, despite his best efforts.

“When you were gone,” John began, his voice shaking with emotion. He obviously didn’t want to spend any more time on such a useless argument as what Mycroft can and cannot do, “all I wanted was for you to stop being dead. And then, when you came back, I just…rejected you.”

Sherlock didn’t know what to say or do. He couldn’t seem to move his body. He was torn between wanting to hear every word and wanting to get as far away from John as possible. Still, he found himself looking at John inquisitively, silently urging him to go on.

“I never asked you where you were or what happened to you or why…” John trailed off as he gazed at Sherlock meaningfully. His expression made it clear that he did, in fact, know exactly why Sherlock had leapt off Bart’s and why he made John watch. Damn Mycroft, meddling in Sherlock’s life without consideration for how his actions affect others.

“You were injured. Badly,” John said flatly. He reached a hand to touch Sherlock’s shoulder, but the detective flinched back and John stopped a few inches from contact. Sherlock would never be able to go if John touched him again. The doctor’s hand hovered in the air as he continued: “I tackled you to the ground and hit you. Your back was covered with wounds.”

“You couldn’t have known, John,” Sherlock said. It was nothing John didn’t know already and obviously did not ease his guilt, but needed to be said. For the first time in his life, Sherlock understood the meaning behind useless placations. He needed John to know that however he felt about it, Sherlock did not blame him for his reaction to the return. It hurt Sherlock, of course. It still did, but he did not blame John in the slightest. John was shaking his head, ready to place the blame where he thought it belonged, but Sherlock would not allow it.

“I made a game of it,” the detective admitted with shame. “My conceit made me think you had done nothing while I was gone. I let myself believe you were lost without me and had just waited for my return like it was inevitable, but it wasn’t. Not in your mind. I was dead to you, and then I just waltzed back in with a fake mustache and a bad accent in a public place, no less. I set myself up for exactly what happened.”

John looked at him with soft, trembling eyes, unable to speak. The hurt was plain on his face and Sherlock’s heart wept for the man before him. God, how he wanted to fold his arms around him and take all the pain away. The pain he put in John’s heart with his carelessness.

“I’m sorry, John,” Sherlock’s voice was low and reverent. He dipped his head to glance down and then met John’s eyes again, his face contrite and sad. “I’m so sorry. You gave me something precious and I…abused it.”

“You abused it?” John huffed a humorless laugh. His hands were at his sides again, his left clenching in and out of a fist. “I’ve done nothing but abuse you since you came back. Even when I was glad to have you back, I held your very presence against you as if I could never forgive it. Like things would never be the same between us.”

“Can you forgive me?” Sherlock asked slowly and against his better judgment.

He knew full well if John said yes he would never be able to get on that plane and he honestly wasn’t sure where that left him. John was right about Mycroft. His pompous brother could get Sherlock out of this mess with Magnussen. It would be difficult, since the British government wasn’t at all happy with the circumstance, and considering its public nature, but Mycroft could still do it. If he did though, what would it really mean for the future? John was married and would soon be a father. Things would never be the way they were. Was living that way better than the alternative?

“Yes,” John said definitively, surprising Sherlock with an answer to his unasked question. He met his blogger’s sincere face with wide eyes and parted lips. “I can only hope you’ll forgive me when I hurt you in so many ways. I was wrong and selfish and…”

“I do, John,” Sherlock interrupted him quickly. “Please believe that.”

John studied him for a long moment and nodded once with the barest dip of his chin.

“I do,” John said solemnly and this time he did reach for Sherlock, but not his shoulder as before. His left hand came to rest warmly on Sherlock’s cheek, cupping it as if it would break. Sherlock couldn’t help but lean into the touch and John’s lips parted ever so slightly to suck in a quiet gasp before closing again.

Suddenly, Sherlock had to say more. John had to know it all. He absolutely had to know the depth of Sherlock’s feeling for him, that he was home. I love you. I love you . Instead of simply saying that, however, his mind went back to the beginning.

“That day at Bart’s,” Sherlock began, already wanting to kick himself, “I saw you for what you had once been. A soldier and doctor, confident and pleased with the life you had chosen.”

John tilted his head curiously and let his hand slide from Sherlock’s face. The detective’s cheek felt instantly cold from the loss of warmth, but John did not simply pull away. He let his hand drift down to rest on Sherlock’s chest, directly over his heart. Sherlock hoped he couldn’t feel it beating wildly, but was sure he could.

“From that day, I’ve wanted to make you happy. I know I didn’t always do the best job,” Sherlock cringed apologetically. “Aside from fixing the psychosomatic limp and entertaining you with cases, I wasn’t terribly good at it.”

“I was happy, Sherlock,” John said quietly, but sincerely. “Very.”

“Still, I was inconsiderate and harsh and certainly did not take your feelings into account on many occasions. Most occasions,” Sherlock pressed on quickly, his tone changing to a more timid one by the end. He inhaled deeply before he went on: “I severely underestimated how my… absence would affect you. Had I known…”

“Don’t say you would’ve done it differently,” John’s voice was harsh and Sherlock only just stopped himself from recoiling. “We both know that’s not true.”

“No,” Sherlock agreed after a long pause, “I wouldn’t have.”

They stood staring at one another, John’s hand still on Sherlock’s chest. The warmth from that point of contact radiated through Sherlock’s body. It was what he had longed for as he looked down at John from the roof of Bart’s that day. What he had wanted every day and night while he chased Moriaty’s factions all over the world. He hadn’t said those three words on the mobile before he jumped because they would’ve done more harm than good and now, here he was on another precipice, ready to jump.

“But I would have put more thought into my return,” Sherlock said hoarsely. “I would have understood and regretted what you had experienced for two years. I would have said…”

“But you couldn’t,” John interrupted forcefully. “Mary was there and I was about to propose. It… It wouldn’t have gone any better.”

John cleared his throat and lifted his hand from Sherlock’s chest. The taller man blinked twice in rapid succession. His hands shot up to clasp John’s before it could retreat completely. John knew what he wanted to say. Had he always known? John stared at him in surprise, but did not pull his hand away.

“Since my return, I have done my utmost to see that you are happy. That your life is happy in every way,” Sherlock’s voice was clear and decisive, like a deduction. The most important of his life. It hadn’t been easy. So much of what he had done hurt him terribly, but he convinced himself he deserved it for hurting John so much and for so long.

He knew now he hadn’t deserved it. Not really. John had spent every day telling him that in his own way. Sherlock had seen that, but had not observed. Looking at John now, as he was about to leave him once again, and for good this time, Sherlock could finally observe.

“I planned your wedding,” Sherlock said bitterly. It wasn’t what he had meant to say and he wasn’t even sure where it had come from. He had wanted to voice it for a long time and could not stop himself from finishing the thought, the accusation, “and had to watch you marry someone else.”

He closed his mouth with a snap and dropped John’s hand as though he had been burned. His friend was shocked, his face slack. Sherlock had said it. Not the words, but he had told John he loved him. He had watched John become someone else’s husband, all the while wishing he was the other groom instead of the best man. He saved the life of John’s former commander, saying ‘We wouldn’t do that to John Watson’. Wouldn’t ruin his wedding day with such a trifle as ‘I love you. Marry me’. No. Sherlock had wanted John to be happy, he still did, so he sacrificed his own.

Now, with his words, Sherlock could see connections lighting up in John’s mind. The switch had truly been flicked on, and lightbulbs and fairy lights were springing to life to sparkle and shine. John’s eyes were wide, his brows raised to his hairline. He was probably trying to work out how his life had become so unhinged. Newly married to a woman who was pregnant with his child and his best friend in love with him, John “Not Gay” Watson. What would he even say to Sherlock? What could he, besides the obvious?

Sherlock stepped back abruptly. He knew John didn’t want him. He didn’t need, didn’t want to hear the words. The heart-crushing words that had danced through Sherlock’s mind for years now. The ones that would destroy him utterly if said aloud. I don’t love you, Sherlock.

The detective’s eyes flashed dangerously in panic when John made to speak, reaching for him as he did so. Sherlock jerked away from his hands, backing up and nearly stumbling over his own feet.

“Sherlock,” John began, but his friend was too quick for him.

“No!” Sherlock nearly shouted. His arms jutted out in John’s direction to hold him at bay. “I can’t hear you say it. Don’t say anything. Just let me go.”

Sherlock turned quickly towards the airplane, his body ready to sprint and run up the stairs. He was dimly aware of John’s protestations and tried to shrug off the hand that grasped his left elbow. He shook and pulled when it would not relent and finally turned to face his friend once more. Sherlock’s eyes were blazing, his expression thunderous. He jerked his arm once more, but John’s ironclad hold did not budge. Sherlock lurched forward and planted himself firmly in John’s personal space. He glowered down at the man in one of his most intimidating stances.

“Let. Go,” Sherlock’s voice rumbled the threat in a deep tone. His eyes were narrowed into razor-sharp slits that would have burned through anyone else’s skin in seconds.

John. John Watson simply stood in front of Sherlock, taking the full impact of his ire without flinching. In contrast with Sherlock’s sharp angles and fierce stare, John’s face was calm and soft. His features seemed lighter, as though the weight of the world had been lifted off his shoulders. His blue eyes were deeper and darker than usual, welcoming Sherlock in to swim in their comfort and safety. The corners of John’s mouth turned up ever so slightly, flirting with a smile. Sherlock’s brows darted up, furious at the very thought that John would mock him for his feelings.

“I love you,” John’s words cut through the dizzying haze of anger. The sound of Sherlock’s rapid breathing and the murderous flow of blood in his ears suddenly vanished. The hint of a smile had vanished and John looked very serious. “I love you, Sherlock. I love you.”

Sherlock’s whole demeanor changed in a split-second and the wide expanse of his shoulders eased until he was more his own height, rather than the deadly looming and decidedly taller-looking one. His mind ground to a halt and he blinked in confusion. He stared at John for what felt like hours while his slowed brain struggled to resume its usual pace.

“I think I always have,” John said plainly and then scrunched up his brow, pressing his lips into a thin line. “No. No, that’s not right. I know I always have.”

Sherlock straightened his neck, angled his shoulders down and tucked his chin, observing John with a furrowed brow. He looked at him with troubled confusion, unable to piece together all he was hearing. Sherlock tilted his head to the left and straightened his neck again, trying to size up the man before him. The iron grip on his arm was more relaxed now, but Sherlock had no desire to pull away. He blinked once slowly and opened his mouth, but John seemed unwilling to let him speak.

“I’m an idiot,” John began solemnly, “but I’m not stupid. I felt the spark the moment we touched. When we burst through the door of 221, breathless from running our asses off that first time, do you know what I wanted to do?”

The silence hung heavily between them, hot and charged. Sherlock did not answer. He did not move or even blink. He felt as though his very life was suspended, its safe release dependent upon John’s words. He watched John’s darkening eyes as he stepped closer to Sherlock.

“I wanted to push you up against the wall,” John’s voice was low and intimate, “and snog you senseless.”

Here, John paused again. His breath quickening, eyes dilating. Sherlock blinked in astonishment.

“I wanted to bodily drag you up the stairs and stay in your bed until you came apart at the seams,” John’s throaty tone fluttered into Sherlock’s ears like a melody. He closed his eyes to fully absorb the words and absolutely not imagine the scenario John had described.

“Why didn’t you?” Sherlock’s own voice was a full octave deeper when he opened his eyes to look at John.

“You had just finished telling me you were married to your work, i.e. not interested. Get lost, Watson,” John quipped, the words taking on his typical tone.

A sigh passed through Sherlock’s lips and his shoulders drooped slightly.

“What an idiot I was,” the detective mused, then furrowed his brow again. “You never brought it up again. Why?”

“I was scared,” John shrugged lamely. “I’d spent so much time telling everyone I wasn’t gay. I knew you believed me. I didn’t think you’d even take me seriously if I did try again, or told you I was bi. I was a coward.

No, I was,“ John went on quickly when Sherlock started to protest. “My parents were furious when Harry came out at 15. They threw her out of the house, completely disowned her and spent every god forsaken minute telling me just how wrong it was to be gay. By the time I was done with medical school and had joined up, I didn’t care anymore what they thought, but their prejudice was so deeply ingrained in me that hiding that side of myself came so naturally. It had become my normal.

When I met you,” John’s voice went a little unsteady and he stopped to gather himself. “Once I knew I was in love with you, I knew I couldn’t hide it and I couldn’t ask you to hide it. I know I didn’t have to, but it took a long time to get my illogical and biased upbringing the fuck out of my head.”

John stopped and studied Sherlock’s face. The detective wished he knew what John saw there because the doctor’s shoulder sagged and his eyes filled with sadness. He let go of Sherlock’s arm to rest his hand on the taller man’s chest again. John seemed to relish the feel of Sherlock’s heartbeat.

“I was going to say something, you know,” John told him quietly. “I’d finally worked myself up to it. Knew I’d be ready if you said you really didn’t feel things that way, though I was sure that whole sociopath lark was bollocks by then. I was going to tell you just before you…”

John’s voice cracked and gave out and he looked down at his feet. Sherlock’s heart broke. He raised his arms and lightly placed his hands on John’s biceps. The doctor did not need holding up, but Sherlock felt the need to do so regardless. When John looked up at him again, there was defiance in his eyes and the line of his jaw was hard.

“I used to think he knew somehow,” John bit out as if the words were rotten, “at least for a while. I thought he’d done it on purpose because he knew how I felt and wanted you all for himself. Didn’t make any sense, but it didn’t stop me from wishing I’d killed him. He’d taken that away from me too. I was so angry, Sherlock, and so alone.”

Soon, John’s hands were on Sherlock’s biceps as well and their bodies were close again. Sherlock never wanted to be any further from John than this again. John loved him. John loved him. John “Not Gay” Watson loved him. He felt as though all of his Christmases had come at once. Never had he thought this day, this fantasy, would become a reality.

“And when you came back I…” John’s expression morphed into one of horror. Sherlock was ready to quell his guilt once again, but realized all too quickly that was not what put John in his current state. “Oh, shit. Mary.”

John dropped his hands and twisted out of Sherlock’s grasp so he could look to where his wife and Sherlock’s brother stood watching them say their goodbyes. Regretfully, Sherlock turned his head toward them. Only Mycroft looked smugly back at him, the picture of stuffy nonchalance. Sherlock furrowed his brow, assessing his brother as John stomped over to the man.

“Where is she?” John demanded. “She’ll kill him now that she knows.”

“ Now that she knows?” Mycroft repeated snidely. He fixed John with a condescending gaze and leaned on his umbrella. “You must have known she at least suspected before today, Dr. Watson.”

“I swear to god, Mycroft, if you don’t tell me where she is I will do some really unpleasant things with that bloody brolly,” John threatened, very close to the elder Holmes now.

Part of Sherlock didn’t mind watching John and his brother trade insults. He always loved seeing John outwit the insufferable git, but deducing Mycroft had brought to light something far more important.

“She’s gone,” Sherlock said loudly so they would both hear.

John instantly turned on his heel and stared at the detective incredulously. Mycroft lifted his chin and looked down his nose at the younger in self-satisfaction. Sherlock walked over to where they stood. He glared at his brother and then looked at John with a softer expression.

“What do you mean she’s gone? Where is she?” John asked, his voice full of tension.

“He’s sent her away, John,” Sherlock told him carefully. He did not want to say any more than that because he honestly wasn’t sure exactly what his brother had done with her. John stared at Sherlock for a moment, letting the words sink in, before turning abruptly back to Mycroft.

“What have you done?” John asked sharply. He looked on the verge of a good shout and Sherlock was trying to decide whether or not to let him. John did not need the added stress of whatever Mycroft’s response would be, but releasing his anger might help to calm him. It could go either way and was a difficult line to tread when it came to John.

Before either John or Sherlock took action, Mycroft smoothly reached inside the breast pocket of his coat and extracted a small bundle of folded pages. He offered it to John, who glanced at it and then fixed hard eyes back on the taller man.

“What’s this?” John asked gruffly.

“Annulment documents,” Mycroft answered haughtily. “All they require is your signature.”

John took the bundle hesitantly, unfolded the pages and began to read. He took two or three steps back as he scanned the words carefully, turning slightly away from the Holmeses in the process. Burning with anger at his brother’s interference, Sherlock squared his shoulders and took a step toward the elder.

“What the fuck, Mycroft,” he demanded and was gratified by the momentary flash of surprise on the older man’s face. Mycroft had known Sherlock his entire life, obviously, but even he could count the times he had heard the detective use that particular word on one hand. “Why can’t you just leave it be, you insufferable ass?”

Mycroft raised an imperious brow in response. His haughty attitude made Sherlock’s blood boil. He was certain that his brother had nearly pushed John away from Sherlock several times throughout their friendship with his intrusions into their lives, some very intentional. Sherlock moved closer to his brother as he spoke in a low, dangerous tone.

“Your obtrusion into my life is tiresome to say the least,” Sherlock began, his demeanor a deadly calm, “but you have no business nosing into John’s.”

“Now, Sherlock,” Mycroft tilted his head up to look down his nose at his brother, “I have no intention of interfering in Dr. Watson’s affairs, I assure you.”

“Bullshit,” Sherlock snapped, borrowing from John’s vernacular. He was toe to toe with Mycroft now, their faces close. “John does not want to leave his wife or child. He has responsibilities and is a man of great principle.”

“Done,” John’s voice sounded decisively from over Sherlock’s shoulder.

Sherlock spun to face his friend, who had stepped closer to him and his brother again. The detective gaped and moved away from both men, his eyes locked on John. The doctor held out the unfolded papers in offer to Mycroft, who nodded slightly as he took them. Sherlock could see both John and Mary’s signatures on the top sheet as they passed from one hand to another. He looked back into John’s face, not giving a toss that his brother bore witness to his shock and confusion.

“I trust you’ll get these to the proper authority,” John commented tersely, adopting a military stance as he spoke to the elder Holmes.

“I will, indeed,” Mycroft replied superciliously. “It will be official within the hour.”

John chewed on his upper lip for a moment before pressing his lips together in a thin line and inhaling pensively. He met Mycroft’s gaze, his own eyes hard like that of a captain, and clasped his hands behind his back.

“Good,” John clipped. “Thank you.”

The corner of Mycroft’s mouth lifted minutely and he raised his chin slightly in approval.

“Mary Morstan will not enter your life again,” he told John in a decisive tone before turning to Sherlock and saying, “Your name is clear. My car will return you to Baker Street immediately.”

With a tap of his umbrella, Mycroft turned his back on them and walked to the two sleek, black cars parked not far away from where they stood. John watched him a moment and then turned his eyes to Sherlock. His whole demeanor changed in an instant the moment he saw the detective’s stunned expression. His features softened and his shoulders lost that crisp, military edge. He took a step toward his friend, reaching out his palms cautiously as though assuring a skittish animal.

“Sherlock?” John asked in a quiet, uncertain voice.

“Why?” Sherlock broke in, the word catching in his throat. He swallowed audibly and tried again. “Why would you do that? Your life, your marriage…”

“Was a sham,” John finished for him. “It was all a lie. She lied from the moment I met her. I don’t even know who she is.”

“But you love her,” Sherlock protested, his voice full of confusion and hurt. John was a man of principle and high standards. He would never shirk that responsibility. Sherlock didn’t understand. He felt as though he was looking at a stranger.

“I hate her,” John said sadly and Sherlock blinked in disbelief. John took a small step closer, giving Sherlock every opportunity to move away, but he did not. The detective had to know everything. He needed to understand.

“She shot you, Sherlock,” John said so much more with his eyes than words could ever express. Anger and terror swirled in their oceanic depths, but also sorrow and fondness. There was an unspoken sentiment hovering around them all, winding in and out of the other emotions. Sherlock felt his own bemusement and uncertainty fading away.

“She killed you, Sherlock,” John whispered, feeling the impact of every word like a bullet. “I don’t know what brought you back, but I will thank my lucky stars for the rest of my life.”

John did touch him now. He placed his hands on Sherlock’s biceps gently and gave them a squeeze. His brows were high on his forehead as he searched Sherlock’s silvery eyes for any sign of comprehension. When John parted his lips to speak again, his expression and tone hardened:

“And I could never forgive her for it. You’re my life. You mean everything to me, Sherlock. I’m not me without you.”

Sherlock struggled to process John’s words. It was a lot to take in, even for his brain. He had admitted more than once that he was not an expert at emotions and sentimentality, but so much had changed since he had met John. His perspective had certainly altered dramatically during his two years of hunting Moriarty’s network. Still, it was difficult to wrap his head around the sentiments of others and John had always been an enigma. Some parts of him were so easy to read and others never failed to surprise the detective. It was one of the many reasons Sherlock loved him with such intensity.

As pieces of the puzzle that was John Watson clicked into place, his words making more sense as the seconds ticked by, Sherlock began to feel his confusion lift. The tense muscles in his body began to ease and his hands ached to touch John. Something still ate at Sherlock’s mind, however. One niggling, enormous, hateful thing.

“What about the baby,” it wasn’t a question. It was a blockade to all Sherlock wanted, all he hoped, however vainly, that John wanted to. He watched as John’s shoulders sagged and his brow wrinkled in a kind of anguish. The doctor did not take his eyes off of his detective as he let out a low, deep sigh.

“It’s not mine,” was the simple answer.

Sherlock’s jaw dropped. He had known this, of course, but that John had also was incomprehensible. His mind scrambled for an explanation, something that would explain John’s possession of this knowledge. He could only see one and the realization burned in his veins with the fury of an uncontrollable blaze.

“How?” Sherlock stammered and then growled, “Mycroft.”

“No, it wasn’t him. He didn’t say a thing,” John said quickly. He squeezed Sherlock’s arms again, knowing it would ground the detective.

Sherlock tried to slow his own breathing, looking into John’s eyes as he forced himself to concentrate on calming himself. Without intending to, he glanced toward the black cars a short distance away, knowing his brother sat inside one of them.

“No. No,” John snapped in a stern voice that regained Sherlock’s attention. “Look at me. Keep your eyes focused on me.”

His own words from so long ago stung and Sherlock flinched, only just resisting the urge to pull away. He knew John had not meant to cause harm, but must have realized what he had done because his eyes widened and then fixed on Sherlock more intently. John moved his hand to cup Sherlock’s cheek gently. It was warm and welcoming and more comforting than the detective could express.

“I knew,” John told him. He raised his brows as he looked up into Sherlock’s eyes, his own full of honesty and resolve. “I knew as soon as you told us at the wedding.”

Sherlock blinked and his brow creased, disbelief overtaking him once again. He thought back to that night, the moment after he told them both about the baby. They were both shocked, and rightly so, then happiness. Sherlock studied their faces right at the moment between the two emotions in his mind’s eye and saw it. How could he have missed it before when it was so obvious? Nervousness and then resolution danced across Mary’s features before she smiled happily. John’s had been pensive and then resigned. After he congratulated them, John had put his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and thanked him. He had looked up at the detective with an uncertain smile that did not reach his eyes. It almost looked pained more than joyful. At the time, Sherlock thought it was because of how their friendship would change. No more midnight cases or taking risks, perhaps no cases at all. Now Sherlock saw it for what it was: John was trying to hide the fact that he knew his wife was carrying a child that was not his own.

“John, I’m so sorry,” was not what Sherlock had meant to say, but is what came out of his mouth.

“Don’t apologize,” John gave a shallow shake of his head. “I know you had no idea at that moment. I’m sure you figured it out as time went on, but…”

“I wanted you to be happy,” Sherlock interrupted quickly, hoping he could keep John’s inevitable fury at bay. “I thought you were happy.”

He watched John carefully. He wanted to wince against the onslaught, but the doctor surprised him again.

“I know,” John admitted in a soft tone. “I wasn’t. Honestly, I can’t even say I was up until that moment. I was happy with Mary when it was just her. She got me through something I’m not sure I would have on my own and I’m glad for that. I am, but it all changed when you came back. I just wouldn’t admit it to myself. I was so angry, but I still knew I didn’t want to spend my life with her anymore.”

John paused for a moment to inhale deeply, steeling himself for what he wanted to say next. For the second time that day, Sherlock became very aware of the fact that John Watson was cupping his cheek for longer than was custom and made no move to stop.

“I was always so careful because of it,” the doctor said with some shame in his voice. “I felt like I still had to marry her. I’d only just asked, after all. It seemed… like my duty to follow through, but I knew I didn’t want to bring a child into the mix. Two or three weeks before the wedding, she kept surprising me. She seemed to want to catch me off guard so I’d forget to use protection or something, but I didn’t think about it at the time. I had no reason to suspect her of anything. It all fell into place the moment you told us at the reception.”

John glanced at his own hand on Sherlock’s cheek in the silence that followed. He cleared his throat a little uncomfortably and let his hand slide back down to Sherlock’s bicep. Looking at his friend’s face, John bit his lip and loosened his fingers, allowing his arms to slowly fall back to his own sides. Sherlock’s arms felt cool with the lack of them. He looked into John’s haunting eyes and wanted to ask every one of the questions that skipped through his brain. He knew it would overwhelm his friend, but he found he could not stop himself no matter how much restraint he employed. His lips parted, ready for the words to fall from within, but John stopped him.

“I love you,” John said delicately, but surely. In his mind, their lives had led them here and this was the only possible conclusion. Yet, he seemed only hopeful, rather than sure, that Sherlock would reach the same one. “I’ve never wanted to be with anyone like I want to be with you for…for the rest of my life.”

His last words were a whisper, a prayer, a song drifting into the air and around their shoulders. Sherlock let them wash over his face and invade his senses. He drank them in and absorbed them instantly, deep into his body, into his soul. With his eyes locked on John’s, he swooped in and pressed his lips to John’s, even as the man began to speak hesitantly:

“That’s the bones of it, really.”

First it was a soft press of lips, warmth spreading from one man to the other and back again. They parted briefly, not but a millimeter between them, and kissed again. This time it was slow, sweet and chaste, and it spoke volumes. Every shared experience and feeling passing between them. All the unspoken words from months and years ago suddenly laid bare, both men aware of it all at last. All of the pain and hurt finally behind them as they shared a breath, the very essence of life.

Sherlock tilted his head and slotted their lips together, dimly aware of John’s hands coming to rest on either side of his face. His own arms moved until his palms were pressed against the crests of John’s hips. He wrapped his hands around the sturdy frame and settled on the small of John’s back. Their lips fit together perfectly, like a puzzle with a missing piece that was finally found. John parted his own to allow a soft sigh to escape from deep in his throat. He flicked the tip of his tongue across Sherlock’s lush, lower lip before closing his mouth again.

Feeling a sudden rush of heat, Sherlock deepened the kiss, raising his right hand to cup the back of John’s head. He skipped his own tongue along John’s mouth in a gentle question, the corners turning up at the answering part of lips. Their tongues slid together slowly, exploring and discovering, tasting. A low moan traveled from Sherlock’s mouth into John’s and he could feel a smile on the doctor’s lips.

When they parted a moment later and Sherlock pulled back to look at his blogger, the sight nearly knocked him off his feet. John was beautiful; soft and grinning, his eyes bright and excited. He was happier than Sherlock had seen in some time, since before the fall, and he knew the look was mirrored on his own face. Sherlock’s smile grew as he felt the light touch of fingertips playing with the curls that hung just around the nape of his neck. It was both teasing and luxurious at the same time, and he longed to feel his hair smoothed between full-length fingers.

“I love you, John,” Sherlock breathed. “Come home with me.”

“I’d love to,” John answered with a gentle kiss. He took the detective’s hand in his own and tugged playfully. “Come on.”

Anthea stood still as a statue as she watched the second black car drive along the airport’s winding path off the tarmac, 221B its final destination. With a sigh of satisfaction, she turned on her heel and walked to the back passenger door of the car that remained. She opened it efficiently and sat, tapping the glass that separated front from back. She took her blackberry from the pocket of her suit jacket as the car began to move. Typing out a message, she waited for her companion to speak.

Mycroft Holmes shifted next to her, still holding his umbrella in one relaxed hand. He turned his gaze away from the window to look straight ahead. Her own eyes still dipped down to look at her phone as she typed.

“Morstan has been neutralized?” he inquired in the steady tone of one who already knew the answer.

“Yes,” Anthea replied as casually as people talk about the weather. “She will not be found or missed. Your brother’s future with Dr. Watson is secure.”

Mycroft leaned back in his seat just a fraction more and let out a long sigh of relaxation. The barest of smiles flickered across Anthea’s face. His demeanor was all the commendation of a job well done she needed. She tapped send and replaced the blackberry into her pocket. They sat in silence as the car drove on, away from Heathrow and into London proper.

---------

Sometimes Mycroft isn’t so bad. Hope it wasn’t complete rubbish. 🤣 I’m off to work on my other WIP now and hoping I’ll be able to share it sooner rather than later. Love, Jane

#Sherlock Holmes #Sherlock #john watson #johnlock fanfiction #Johnlock fanfic #tarmac scene #sherlock fix-it

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inevitably-johnlocked · 3 years

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Quick question sorry if this has been asked before: do you know any Johnlock fanfic where they’re extremely sensual? Like not just making love but just super methodically drawn out and slow and sweet?

Hi Nonny!!

Ahh, because of this ask, I went through my bookmarks to see if I have any listed with “sensuality” so that’s what this list is!! It definitely doesn’t have all of my fics because I have to go back through them and tag them, but in the meantime, enjoy what I started tagging a few months ago when you sent me this ask, LOL <3

As always, add your own fics here, Lovelies!!

SENSUALITY

See also:

Emotional Love Making || [MOBILE POST]

Emotional Love Making Pt. 2

Loved. by inevitably_johnlocked (G, 1,231 w., 1 Ch. || First Sherlock POV, Slice of Life, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Nose Kisses, Morning After, Love Confessions, Morning Cuddles, Emotional Sherlock, Sentiment, Bed Sharing) – Sherlock reflects on his relationship with John. Part 5 of I-J's Tumblr Ficlet Collection

Morning Sunlight by slashscribe (E, 3,565 w., 1 Ch. || PWP, Morning Sex, Fluff, PWP, Established Rel., Soft Idiots) – A thin band of soft morning light peeks between the curtains and stretches across John’s torso, laying dormant across his forearm, dipping into the space between his arm and his chest, illuminating his right nipple but just brushing the edge of his left, disappearing into his armpit, and reappearing again right over Sherlock’s eyes where his head rests, nestled against John’s shoulder. Sherlock is not annoyed by the light’s intrusion on his sleep, not when it rests so soft and tantalizing on John’s skin, a work of unintentionally erotic art. A PWP with so much emotion.

Living Musical by VeeTheRee (G, 4,149 w. 1 Ch. || Est. Rel., Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Domestic Fluff, Hobbies, Summer, Song Fic, POV Sherlock, Painting, Play Fighting, Soft Sherlock, Dancing, Love Declarations, Hair Petting, Promise of Forever) – A one-shot of John and Sherlock being domestic during summer. There is paint, fluff, and music from Imagine Dragons, namely from the album 'Speak To Me', specific song in this one-shot is 'Living Musical'. Part 1 of the Happy Fluffy Johnlock Time series

London Gods by a_different_equation (E, 11,092 w., 5 Ch. || American Gods Fusion || Magical Realism, Sex Magic, True Love, PTSD John, First Kiss/Time, Marathon Sex, Sensuality, Genie Sherlock, Human John, Internalized Homophobia, Star-Crossed Lovers, Soul Mates) – Sherlock Holmes is a jinn who does not grant wishes. However, when Dr. John H. Watson, recently returned from the war in Afghanistan, gets into his cab by "accident", it might not even need magic to grant both men their deepest wish: love.

To be loved by Strange_johnlock (E, 12,436 w., 8 Ch. || Post S3, Established Relationship, First Person POV Sherlock, Pet Names, Soft Sherlock, Mild ADHD, Protective John, Captain Watson, Body Appreciation, Bottomlock, Rough Sex, Travelling for Holidays, Introspection, Sherlock Loves John So Much It Hurts) – John is so deeply integrated into the work, both as my conductor of light, and as a great shot with a vicious right hook who tackles men -and women- no matter their size all in my defense. He protects me with all he can without question, and this loyalty is surely more than I deserve. Or: Sherlock is counting his blessings.

The Invocation of Saint Margaret by Ewebie (E, 15,831 w., 1 Ch. || POV John, Crossing Timelines, Light Angst, Fluff, Series 3 John / Series 1 Sherlock, The Matchbox, Mushy Romance, First Time, Bisexual John, Pining John, Bottomlock, Love Confessions, Sensuality, Emotional Love Making, Snippets of Time) – When Sherlock Holmes opens the matchbox from The Sign of Three and John finds himself years in the past, back to that first dinner at Angelo's with a much younger Sherlock Holmes. Is he dreaming?

Permanent Fixture by vitruvianwatson (E, 18,836 w., 9 Ch. || Post-S4, Parentlock, Slow Build, Friends to Lovers, They’re Good Parents, Blushing Sherlock, First Kiss/Time, Explicit Consent, Sexual Content, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Pining, Big Feelings, Crying, First Kiss, Fluff, Anxious Sherlock, Inexperienced Sherlock, Emotional Communication, Love Confessions) – Now, as Rosie sat curled up against Sherlock’s side, John watched and wondered exactly how he had ended up here. Domesticity had never suited him before, not at any point in his life. His disastrous marriage had been proof of that. But somehow, here in the warmth and safety of 221B Baker Street, here with Sherlock Holmes reading medical jargon to his daughter, Sherlock’s bony feet nudging against his leg, John couldn’t imagine anyplace that would make him happier.

Division by MrsNoggin (E, 19,542 w., 11 Ch. || Coffee Shop AU || First Kiss/Time, Fluff, Barista Sherlock, Clingy Sherlock, POV John, John’s Limp, Bed Sharing, Fluff, Sleepy Cuddles, Sensuality, Touching, Virgin Sherlock, Insecure John) – John likes mysteries. And every morning he dips into the local independent coffee bar with his newspaper and ponders another... one Sherlock Holmes.

Through the Clouds by Mazarin221b (E, 20,004 w., 6 Ch. || Retirement, Sussex, Bees, Home Improvement, First Time, Romance) – Sherlock takes a remarkably early retirement at 47, and convinces John that a change of pace would do them both good. They buy an old cottage on the South Downs, and exchange their nonstop life in Baker Street for quiet contemplation, bee studies, and book writing. They might go completely insane, but sometimes it takes stepping outside of the life you're living to find the life you want. Part 1 of Through The Clouds

How To Unfold a Heart by elwinglyre (E, 25,477 w., 7 Ch. || Post S4 Fix It, BAMF John, Mentioned Eurus, POV First Person Sherlock, Case Fic, Fluff, Slow Burn, Topping from the Bottom, 3 Yr Old Rosie, Introspection, Sexual Fantasies, John Worship, Ogling, Hand Holding, Kidnapping, Domesticity, Sherlock Whump, First Kiss/Time, Doctor John, Caring John, Soft Sherlock, Sensuality, Touching, Crying, Love Confessions, Anxious Sherlock, Rimming, Toplock, Fingering, Bossy Bottom John) – To Sherlock’s dismay, John’s return to Baker Street with Rosie is only temporary. Sherlock’s daily visits to Regent Park with John and Rosie illuminate his lost childhood memories and missed opportunities. But with each trip to the park, Sherlock also feels a growing sense of hope. That is until the past horrors return unexpectedly in a cryptic note folded in the shape of a heart. To decipher the message, Sherlock must uncover the nature of the hearts around him, including his own.

Lucifer's Gardens by ampersand_ch (E, 32,679 w., 12 Ch. || GERMAN VERSION || Romance, Friendship, Friends to Lovers, Murder, Poison / Drugging, Mystery, John Undercover, Academic Club, Therapy, Rituals, Jungian Archetypes, Doctors & Physicians, Grief/Mourning, Esotericism, Hospitals, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, John Falls In Love With Another Man, Jealous Sherlock, Crying, Doctor John, Hand Holding, First Kiss/Time, Mysticism, Hugging, Touching) – John goes undercover for an investigation as a favour to Lestrade in a village in Suffolk. The events surrounding the case awaken deep-seated fears in Sherlock. While John begins to come to a realisation of what he needs in Lucifer's Gardens, Sherlock tries to find a way to reach John – in more ways than one.

A Promise Made to Be Broken by PlantsAreNeat (E, 37,018 w., 7 Ch. || Fake Relationship, Pining, Slow Burn, RST, Eventual Relationship, POV Sherlock) – A young John makes an ‘if we’re still single at 40, we’ll get together’ pledge to a woman who ends up all wrong for him. She keeps reminding him of the promise, and won’t let go of it. John asks Sherlock to pose as his boyfriend at a family wedding, so as to dash her hopes permanently. Sherlock, who has at last acknowledged his feelings for John, reluctantly agrees despite knowing how painful it will be to ‘have’ John, but not keep him.

Gold Rush by ShirleyCarlton (E, 71,783 w., 17 Ch. || Post S3 / No Mary, Friends to Lovers, Mentions of Past Sexual Abuse, First Kiss, Case Fic, Slow Burn, Alternating POV, Switchlock, Angst with Happy Ending, Marriage Proposal, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Abduction, Anxious/Insecure Sherlock, Miscommunication, Emotional Lovemaking) – John has divorced Mary and pops round to 221B one evening to find Sherlock in the middle of a case. As Sherlock tries to find the identity of a young woman’s stalker, John realises he can no longer deny his feelings for Sherlock – which then, to their befuddlement, turn out to be mutual. Shy kisses and tentative embraces ensue. But will Sherlock be able to cast off a shadow from his past that he thinks might prevent John from wanting to stay?

Repairing the Broken Things by BakerTumblings (M, 75,252 w., 15 Ch. || S4 Compliant, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Medical Trauma, Hospitals, Big Brother Mycroft, Misunderstandings, Realizations, Severe Accident, John Whump, Pneumonia, Medical Procedures, Bed Sharing, First Time, Healing, Happy Ending) – "I'm calling today to notify you that there's been an accident."

Northwest Passage by Kryptaria (E, 95,157 w., 27 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || Canadian AU || BAMF!John, Canadian John, PTSD, Anal / Oral Sex, Rimming, Emotional Hurt / Comfort, Drug Rehab, Falling in Love, Pining Sherlock, Love Confessions, Sherlock’s Violin, Panic Attacks, Switching, Anxious / Protective Sherlock, Hugs for Comfort, Suicide Mentions, Healing Each Other) – Seven years ago, Captain John Watson of the Canadian Forces Medical Service withdrew from society, seeking a simple, isolated life in the distant northern wilderness of Canada. Though he survives from one day to the next, he doesn't truly live until someone from his dark past calls in a favor and turns his world upside-down with the introduction of Sherlock Holmes." Part 1 of Tales from the Northwest

Against the Rest of the World by SilentAuror (E, 151,714 w., 20 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || Post-TRF, Hiatus Fic, POV First Person Sherlock, Present Tense, First Kiss/Time, Big Brother Mycroft, Escaping from Capture, Soft Sherlock, Toplock, Insecurity, Infidelity, Travelling, Introspection, Pining Sherlock, Depression, Fantasies, Yearning for the Past, PTSD Sherlock, Suicidal Ideation) – Sherlock has been away from London for nine hundred and twelve days and counting, and has no idea what sort of reception to expect when he finally returns.

#steph replies #johnlock fic recs #my fic recs #sensuality #soft sherlock #soft john #Anonymous

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leescoresbies · 4 years

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top 5 things holmes says to/about watson across all canons

oh jesus fuck. whoof. okay. were you expecting an essay? no?? should have asked somebody else.

“by god, it is as well for you. if you had killed watson, you would not have got out of this room alive.” from “the adventure of the three garridebs.” this is obvious but also - it’s such a moment. such a pivotal emotional upheaval for both characters - holmes in a moment of pure anger & fear and watson seeing that happen! everything that means! kind of vicious, incredibly romantic. there’s a reason 3GAR is, like, the hurt-comfort holmes story of all time. i love it so much. it’s not in the public domain but i don’t care because i will take a bullet in the leg myself to be able to effectively talk about it. 3GAR i am coming for you, doyle estate be damned.

"no, we’re much more than that. we’re two people who love each other.” from elementary. this show does a very clever thing where joan will say something offhand, and then sherlock repeats it back to her later with three times the emotional womp. (i.e. “i think what you do is amazing.”) this is the BEST example of that. they do! that’s really all there is to it. no matter where or when.

“we have shared the same room for some years, and it would be amusing if we ended by sharing the same cell.” from the adventure of charles augustus milverton. there are all these coded implications about blackmail & its victims, & how holmes & watson’s shared decision to purposefully break the law in CAM puts them on the side of sympathizing with those victims that is so fascinating & fragile & wonderful to me. but on top of that, this is also just hilarious. the definition of “good friends will bail you out, best friends will be right there in jail with you” and whatnot. people forget how funny holmes is. i love this entire scene so much.

“i believe in mathematics, logic chemistry, in your eyes red in the cold and in your good heart.” from the new russian holmes series. need i say more??

“my dear watson,” said the well-remembered voice, “I owe you a thousand apologies. I had no idea that you would be so affected.” from “the adventure of the empty house.” this line is a) heartwrenching and b) hysterical. they’re probably crying on each other, watson fainted for the first and only time in his life, and sherlock holmes is the master of crystal clear observations about the human condition that come to him about a minute and a half later than they’d actually be useful. they probably have weird & weepy sex because one of them was dead & the other married for a while about six hours after that line is uttered.

BONUS!

“good old watson! you are the one fixed point in a changing age.” from “his last bow.” people use this line in reference to watson a lot, but it has such a solid sentimentality to it that i understand why. its said by characters looking into the brink of wwi and also their old age, but it’s also so telling of how holmes thinks about watson - as a solid and steadying presence running through his life

bonus BONUS

“unlike you, i repress nothing” and also “always good to see you watson,” from guy ritchie’s sherlock holmes: a game of shadows. i’m sorry, but also, should be selfi-evident.

bonus BONUS x2 I CAN’T HELP IT!!!

“I have my eye on a suite in baker street,” he said, “which would suit us down to the ground.” from a study in scarlet, of course. there are so many good lines in this very first scene but i love this one so much. it just sounds so nice on the tongue. like that, they kick off 30 years of friendship that’s literally immortalized in hundreds of thousands of adaptions and spinoffs trying to capture what they’ve got. a friendship so great that there’s literally a big plaque up commemorating the day they met. but also, they’re in love. and it starts right there. that is that on that.

#i left the conductor of light quote off purposefully its overused #but its good.......#also the bit about watson's tongue and also his eyebrows from the cardboard box #sh #sh canon #very sincerely yours #ask meme #thehazardsolove

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cheuwing · 3 years

Text

James Sholto & Flowers

At long last, it is finally time to publish this meta! I adore TSOT and its intricate flower subtext (I already wrote two pieces about it: x, x). As we’ll explore in this analysis, it is fascinating to see how much the flowers associated with James Sholto can tell us about him and his link with John.

First of all, I find it quite striking to note that James Sholto is always presented surrounded by flowers and nature. Admittedly, TSOT is a very flowery episode, but:

John and Sholto warmly greet each other in the flowery reception hall and its nature-inspired wallpaper,

Sholto’s room is covered by the most flowery wallpaper (and I will point out what a fascinating choice of pattern it is),

Sherlock and John discuss James “former commander/ex” Sholto in a park (surrounded by grass with sparse daisies),

there are paintings of flowers hanging in the hall while John, Sherlock and Mary try to save Sholto.

This character is constantly associated with nature and flowers, which serves to convey an intricate subtext.

So let us embark on an exploration of this flowery subtext!

The wallpaper in Sholto’s room

On the wallpaper in Sholto’s room, we can observe a pattern including:

pink forget-me-nots (5 round petals, distinctive shape),

oak leaves,

shamrocks.

I will start to focus on each symbol, before trying to combine their meanings.

A) Pink forget-me-not:

The flower symbolises the reminder of an old flame, as well as moments spent with a loved one you don’t want to forget. The flower represents a strong connection lasting through time. It conveys the remembrance of a true and undying love during partings or after death and highlights fidelity and loyalty in a relationship despite separation or challenges.

(personal hypothesis => typically, forget-me-nots would be blue, so using pink ones as a pattern for Sholto’s room reinforces the romantic/sentimental symbolism)

So: reminder of an old flame, remembrance of true, albeit forsaken, love.

I will not try to hide my belief that John and Sholto shared an intense relationship. To me, the entire episode establishes James Sholto as John’s former lover, and creates multiple parallels between Sherlock and Sholto. Sherlock’s words “we would never do that to John Watson”, which confirms Sholto’s assertion that they “are similar”, combined with Sholto’s pained expression reflected in a mirror is pretty damning in itself.

Having Sholto surrounded with walls of pink forget-me-nots (as he’s about to die... and will be saved by John) strengthens this implication. Actually, the very first image we see of Sholto is surrounded by this wallpaper (combined with a parallel between Sherlock and Sholto putting their uniform on, going “into battle”). Therefore, it seems both men are assimilated to “old flames”, men who face separation from their loved one as they witness John marring someone else. They both stay loyal to John through this difficult parting (And as the story unfurls, John ends up saving the lives of both men, aka their hearts, in series 3).

***

Incidentally, Sholto is not the only person associated with pink forget-me-nots in series three. Mary wears a pink forget-me-not necklace during the confrontation scene. I already explored the connection between Sholto and Mary via the flower. To sum it up, my belief is that Sholto and John shared an intense relationship, but it left John heart-broken with even more trust issues. To me, through the forget-me-not, Sholto and Mary are linked as two lovers who have betrayed John, his love and his trust, disappointed him and/or left him heart-broken.

Of course, now that TAB came out, we have another association with the forget-me-not: The Bride. “Do not forget me...”. The Bride is strongly linked to Mary (... the bride) and Moriarty. I personally think that we can discard Sholto for this connection (although imagining Sholto in a wedding dress seeking revenge for John’s potential past misbehaviours is quite tempting). Interestingly, it won’t be the only link with Moriarty & Mary in this room.

B) Oak leaves:

In the Victorian language of flowers, oak leaves mean bravery.

The oak is a symbol of strength and endurance. A tree highly revered for its size and longevity. It is also associated with honour, stability and wisdom.

Oak leaves are strongly linked to military traditions. In Antiquity, victorious officers were offered oak-leaf crowns to honour a successful campaign. The tradition extends today, for example with the US army using the oak leaf as a symbol for some of their decoration.

(Also, oaks tend to be very good shelters, such as Major Oak, a large English oak tree, very popular, which is said to have sheltered Robin Hood and his merry men, or Royal Oak, the saviour of King Charles II)

Other interesting associations with oak leaves:

The Royal Float Auxiliary counted two ships named Oakleaf, one of which served as a “dummy battleship” to imitate HSM Iron Duke. This strongly reminded me of John playing the “dummy” for Sherlock in HLV, as well as Sholto’s role in TSOT, mirroring Sherlock’s feelings in a more intense manner.

The oakleaf is a type of butterfly, an insect favoured by Mary (once again). Its wings are shaped like leaves, so there is an implication of hiding, camouflage.

C) Shamrock:

The shamrock is the symbol of Ireland. To me, the obvious association with Ireland found in BBC Sherlock is Moriarty (especially if you consider the waterfall painting). It has been debated whether Moriarty actually planned for Sholto to be killed at John’s wedding, acting as a consulting criminal for Jonathan Small.

The shamrock could represent the fact that Moriarty is looming over the wedding, maybe through his allies: Mary, Tom or Janine?

Additionally, the shamrock is a symbol of the trinity. And I find it incredibly interesting, as it is a concept which is repeatedly associated with the wedding => the engagement ring is a three-stone ring (symbol of the trinity), "my husband is three people", the whole episode is entitled “the sign of three”, which features multiple love triangles (TSOT introduces Sherlock/John/Sholto, John/Sherlock/Janine, Greg/Molly/Tom, and confirms Sherlock/John/Mary). Plus, TSOT presents three love interests of John Watson’s life.

(Personal hypothesis linked with the concept of trinity => in John’s heart, Sholto = faith; Mary = hope; Sherlock = love?)

D) The wallpaper symbolism

On the wallpaper, we have a pattern of a pink forger-me-not surrounded by oak leaves and crowned with a shamrock.

The pink forger-me-not strongly implies that James Sholto is a former romantic interest of John. Even if the two men are now estranged, John and Sholto still share a connection to this past (the flower is a symbol of remembrance).

Oak leaves surround the flower, which might suggest that the notion of strength/resilience applies to this “remembrance of an old flame” as much as Sholto himself. Obviously the character is strong, resilient, focused on honour and has ties with the military. But it would make sense that the “reminder of an old flame” is very strong for Sholto (and probably John) on this particular day. He’s seeing his former love interest marry another person, is about to die at the wedding if not for the terrible thought of causing John pain. From John’s perspective, the audience witnesses how much of an eager admirer he still is of James Sholto - he speaks of him with similar expressions and fondness as he does for Sherlock, and he seems very enthusiastic, touched even, to see him again.

A shamrock is crowning the pattern (“and honey, you should see me in a crown”). Combined with the waterfall painting and the forget-me-not’s association with the Bride, it hints at Moriarty’s presence around Sholto. However, the shamrock is tiny in comparison to the other elements of the pattern. It may be a sign that Moriarty is involved in Sholto’s attempted murder, but, as we know, he failed. (Since Sholto is Sherlock’s mirror, it might also represent Sherlock’s fear of Moriarty, his other deep anxiety we know of, on this distressing day).

Furthermore, it is striking to observe that this pattern is composed by three elements, one of which is related to the concept of trinity. Once again, the wedding is connected to the number three. It is even more remarkable when you note that in the “saving Sholto” scene, John is surrounded by three persons - or, three love interests -: Sholto, Mary and Sherlock.

The wallpaper pattern could apply to all three of them =>

Sherlock -> Sholto’s mirror. He could be considered an old flame at the wedding, and we see both he and John celebrate (/pre-emptively mourn) their relationship in this episode. Sherlock is strong and resilient, as is his remembrance of the apparently lost romantic bond with John as they have to part. Moriarty and The Bride are looming over him (do not forget them), in connection to this precarious love situation with John.

Mary -> linked with the forget-me-not in HLV. She is strong and resilient. The shamrock might be a sign that Moriarty is looming over her, threatening her wedding and her stability with John; or it could imply that Mary (the bride) is tied to Moriarty (The Bride), maybe working together. I have theorised before that Moriarty and Mary might have been romantically involved, which pairs nicely with the pattern: reminder of an old flame, tied to Ireland, while someone dies at her wedding...

Sholto’s armchair

Sholto’s armchair is adorned with colourful lotus.

In the Victorian language of flowers, the lotus is a symbol of estranged love. It is rather interesting to note the correlation with the meaning of the forget-me-not. Sholto is already associated with two symbols of old flames, of forsaken/estranged love.

The lotus is also linked with the symbolism of the cycle, as it closes each night and blooms with the daylight. It is tied to the cycle of life/death/rebirth.

I find this idea engaging, as Sholto is between life and death when he sits down in the armchair. He has decided to accept his fate, until Sherlock, his mirror, reminds him the importance of John's feelings. It is then that Sholto chooses life, effectively going through the whole cycle.

Additionally, I believe that the idea of cycle is quite relevant in an episode which introduces John's successive love interests (Sholto, Sherlock, Mary) and presents multiple love triangles. Sholto is the oldest intense relation we know from John's life. But his position in John's heart belongs to the past: after a traumatic event (John being shot in Afghanistan, or perhaps a traumatic break up), Sholto left room to another man in an armchair (Sherlock), followed by Mary after another traumatic event (Sherlock's "death"). We know Mary's position in John's heart will change due to a traumatic event (Mary shooting Sherlock - or, depending on how you see things, Mary's death) (I had written this before s4 xD). The triumphant relationship presented in the episode is doomed to fail. The cycle will continue.

The lotus is also a symbol of purity and spirituality.

In a spirit of comprehensiveness: the lotus also makes me think of the Black Lotus in TBB. I probably wouldn’t have mentioned it if not for the other ties to Moriarty in the room.

Saving Sholto - flowers in the corridor

A) The yellow flowers in the staircase

We only see this flower when our heroes are striving to save Sholto, a scene when the connections between Sherlock and Sholto are more explicit than ever.

I believe the yellow flowers in the staircase to be yellow acacia (also known as mimosa). In the Victorian language of flowers, the yellow acacia is a symbol of “secret love”; the acacia in general being associated with concealed love.

Once again, we observe that Sholto is linked with the concept of love. It becomes a pattern that this love is concealed, secret, forsaken, estranged. I think it’s rather telling about John and Sholto’s relationship. These flowers hint at a secret love shared in the past, now estranged (as we know from their exchanges; John hasn’t seen where Sholto lives and so on).

Also interesting: in this scene, Sherlock and Sholto are linked more explicitly than ever. Thus to me, this idea of concealed, secret love, now forsaken, extends to John and Sherlock’s relationship. As a matter of fact, it is the heart of the episode that Sherlock has to let John go and witness as he marries another person. The concept of a secret love he has to give up makes sense.

On a more positive note, I’ve learned that acacia blossoms can mean “beauty in retirement”, which I find quite satisfying as regards to Sholto’s future (as well as Sherlock and John’s? Growing old in Sussex, producing acacia honey...).

(I am pretty sure the yellow flowers are acacia, but in a spirit of fairness: they might be goldenrods? Goldenrods mean “be cautious” -> which would also tie well with the spirit of the scene.. and, I would argue, the wedding. It also delivers a message of encouragement -> and we indeed see John and Sherlock encouraging Sholto to choose life)

B) The flower painting

Looming behind our trio, we see a painting with flowers. These flowers are, I believe, sunflowers. This is the second time sunflowers are seen in TSOT: Molly's dress has a pattern with this flower.

The sunflower is a symbol of admiration, appreciation and loyalty. Look at them radiating behind John as he’s about to save Sholto :)

Of course, sunflowers are a representation of the sun; as we know, John is strongly associated with the sun in the show.

Just like the lotus, the sunflower is linked to the notion of cycles. It reinforces the idea of the life/death/rebirth cycle which Sholto is going through in this scene.

I would also argue that, as Sholto chooses life, we can see the renewal of these two’s past affection and relationship. John’s words, "I believe I am your doctor", remind me of the first assertion of his position in Sherlock’s life from the pilot "I'm his doctor/Only a fool argues with his doctor". New beginnings. It is, I think, a strong assertion of affection for John and Sholto (and Sherlock recognises it). Sholto states he is “in need of medical attention”, of John’s attention, and John provides it, highlighting that he is his doctor. He ends up saving Sholto’s heart.

(Side note: it is extremely gratifying to see John fully embraced and celebrated as a doctor, both by Sholto and Sherlock in his speech; especially considering that he previously had to fight for recognition as a doctor in front of Major Reed. John’s identity as a doctor is paramount to him, and you can see how painful it is for him when this part of him is attacked). ((Now consider the “are you really a doctor????” scene from TLD))

Other side note: the sunflower was Oscar Wilde’s favourite flower. I don’t think it’s particularly relevant to the scene, but it’s always nice to point out.

Maybe more relevant to this scene => in Greek mythology, after losing her beloved Apollo (= the Sun God), who abandoned her for another woman, the water nymph Clytie mourned his departure, refusing food or water. After 9 days, she transformed into a sunflower, keeping her face longingly turned towards the sun to see her beloved’s course. Again, the myth is a painful reminder to Sherlock’s situation. The man has to see his beloved (the Sun, aka John) abandon him for another woman (Mary). When John finds Sherlock again, he is in a drug den, longingly hoping for John’s return.

Conclusion: Sholto and flowers

When one analyses the flowers associated with Sholto, a pattern seems to emerge:

Sholto as a character is connected to positive notions => bravery, strength, resilience, fondness, adoration...

A number of flowers are associated with the concept of love. This love is secret, concealed, forsaken, estranged. I find it extremely telling about John’s relationship with James Sholto. To me, it is a sign that the two were involved romantically, most probably in a secret affair. At the very least, they both had romantic feelings for each other and kept it silent. The flowery subtext makes it clear to me that James Sholto is a lost love from John’s past.

There are a few ties with the notion of cycle. It makes sense to Sholto’s journey as he faces death, then revival. Additionally, it is also linked with the idea of John and Sholto reaffirming their bond and connecting once more (“I am your doctor”), especially in a room full of forget-me-nots -> remembrance, reconnection to the past. To me, the notion of cycle also implies the cycle of John’s loves -> Sholto from the past, Mary in the present, but the cycle will continue.

Sholto and Sherlock are mirrors, which means that the flowery subtext which applies to Sholto also applies to Sherlock. Remembrance of a past flame, staying loyal through hardships, secret love, eventual reconnection...

There are hints that Moriarty looms over Sholto at the wedding.

Pink forget-me-nots link Sholto and Mary in the confrontation scene -> remembrance of past loves. Potentially hinting at a betrayal of John’s trust on James’ part? Or maybe his sense of emotional safety broken by James?

Feel free to share your thoughts/remarks on the subject with me! And never hesitate to correct me on the identification of flowers: it is not my speciality, so even if I do my research, I might get things wrong.

And as always: take care. Sending you warm, flowery thoughts!

tagging a few lovely people who might be interested in this piece => @sarahthecoat, @fivefeetfangirl, @tremendousdetectivetheorist, @isitandwonder

#bbc sherlock #sherlock meta #tjlc meta #sholto #james sholto #sherlock-sholto #john/sholto #john's past #john watson #sholto as a mirror #tjlc #johnlock #the sign of three #john and mary are doomed #mary is moran #Victorian Language of Flowers #john and flowers #sholto and flowers #tsot

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melon-kiss · 3 years

Text

This is just going to be a ramble about everything Sherlock. You’re most welcome to discuss or just ignore it. I needed the space to vent.

I watched Sherlock. Again. I think it’s beginning to become my annual tradition. And I have a crisis. Don’t get me wrong, I am always Sherlollian at heart. It’s just… I have doubts sometimes. And what triggered those doubts this time was the fact that Sherlock calls Molly “John”. Twice. And then Irene Adler. And then one post on Tumblr. And many, many more.

OK, these are just my random thoughts. Enjoy if you’re willing to read them.

1. “John”. “Molly”.

We often mix up names of people we consider to have the same place in our lives. Which is good, right? Right. Only, in Sherlock’s case, we’d have lean into the theory that Sherlock does love John romantically and feels the same way about Molly. Or concede the fact that he loves them both platonically. Neither of these options is really satisfying, isn’t it? Well, that’s why I’m struggling… One could say he’s in denial of feelings for Molly and identifies them as friendship, as this is the strongest, purest relationship in his life, the only one he describes as emotional and the closest he’s ever had to love. Besides, Molly and John are similar in one way – they both share the same – medical – knowledge. Of course, Sherlock doesn’t realise her other qualities until The Reichenbach Fall when she says she can help him whenever he needs it. It’s not until she’s honest with him again and tells him, without a shred of grudge, that she knows she means nothing to him, that he realises he has at least two friends. He calls her “John” when his mind is busy with something else, so there’s no room for any purposeful confusion. The same thing happens in The Empty Hearse. What else can it mean if not friendship?

2. Nothing Hits Like Irene

Irene Adler is created as the love interest for Sherlock. Is she, though? Well, we see Sherlock utterly confused upon their first meeting. We also see him flirting and creating an atmosphere of sexual tension for the first time. OK, he saves her but then she vanishes, he got over her, I thought. And all was fine until The Lying Detective came and Irene Adler sent a text to Sherlock, first in such a long time. John, of course, suggests that if Sherlock should be romantically involved with anyone, it should be her. And then it hit me.

Irene Adler is the symbol of chemistry in Sherlock’s life.

She’s a dominatrix. She’s all about sex, that’s obvious. At the critical point of The Scandal in Belgravia Sherlock says: I believe John Watson thinks love’s a mystery for me but the chemistry is incredibly simple and very distractive. Sherlock discovers that he, indeed, can have chemistry with people. He doesn’t mention love, he merely says sentiment, referring to the crush Irene Adler had on him. She is, indeed, a simple distraction – you can see it clearly in his memory palace when he yells at her to get away. But Molly… Molly stays. She leads him through the entire process of surviving a shot.

And then Irene Adler returns in The Lying Detective. John confesses to Sherlock about texting with a stranger met on the bus. And that he wanted more. Sherlock says everyone gets to be human sometimes. Even he can’t resist the urge of replying to Irene Adler sometimes. It was all about attraction again.

And that’s why she’s not considered a romantic relationship in his life. John rambles about love changing him, to be more specific, the love of his woman changing him. But he says Irene’s a dangerous criminal. How would that change Sherlock in any way?

In The Final Problem, upon deducing the coffin, John suggests Irene Adler but she’s not his first thought in general once they all hear that this is about someone who loves Sherlock. Sherlock’s response is very telling: Don’t be ridiculous. Look at the coffin. It seems like Sherlock pieces the puzzle at once – the coffin, plus the “name” on the lid – it couldn’t have been Irene Adler.

And that’s why Sherlock calls her The Woman. As a symbol of his sexuality. The Woman who’s woken up certain impulses in his life.

3. Makeshift Gauge

Who is she?, Sherlock asks John in His Last Vow.

Based on what Mofftiss duo said about Molly, she was supposed to be featured in two episodes top. Yet, she stayed. The uncanonical character not only stayed but became fans’ favourite. I think she became a useful tool for Moffat and Gatiss. I think that not only she represents Sherlock heart (of which existence he has no idea at first) but later becomes our makeshift gauge. For what? For measuring Sherlock’s progress. See, it’s like when you live with someone, you don’t notice when they put on weight or grew a little but those who see less of them will notice all changes right away. So, when Sherlock runs around with John, we don’t notice the change in his behaviour at once (also because he’s always been nice to him, from the very beginning), we need to focus to see that. But Molly pops by once per episode and we see how Sherlock’s perception changes. In season one, he has good intentions, but they turn out bad. In season two, he’s more neutral but doesn’t restrain himself from rude comments. And Molly is being Molly – tells him he’s rude in her natural, soft way and he says sorry. For the first time. Without anyone making him do that. Almost the same happens in The Reichenbach Fall – but this time, Molly doesn’t let herself be fooled by Sherlock’s arrogance and just ignores it, going straight to the point. She says: “I’m here for you” and lowers his defences. In season three, he spends an entire day with her, smiles at her and is the sweetest, softest Sherlock we’ve ever seen. Moreover, when Lestrade asks him about her helping him solve cases, he says: [John] is not in the picture anymore, implying that she not necessarily had to be a temporary replacement. In season four, he says I love you to her.

What can we deduce about his heart?

4. The Eurus Conundrum

We could write an entire book about Eurus and not even be able to grasp her spirit. I’m not going to do that right now.

I have issues with what happened in season four finale. I mean – Molly, of course. Mycroft says Eurus and Jim Moriarty met five years ago, so before Moriarty revealed himself to Sherlock. They both planned the entire game for Sherlock. Does that mean Sherlock never really won with him? Does that mean Moriarty let him use Molly to “win”? Since she was included in Eurus’ plan, we can safely assume Jim knew about Molly back then. At first, when I saw Moriarty saying We both know that’s not quite true [that you don’t have a heart] in many Sherlolly fanvids, I was like naaaaah. He didn’t see her as one of the important people in Sherlock’s life, it couldn’t have been a reference to their meeting. But now… how deeply back in time was Eurus’ plan allocated? Which events did she predict?

Or maybe I’m missing something? Any thoughts on this?

5. Sherlock Evergreen

I once came across a post here, about how BBC Sherlock is literature, about sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s struggle with his own genius character. He was over with him, didn’t feel like writing any more of his stories so he killed him, but fans demanded more. He kept writing, although he hated it from the bottom of his heart. Season four, so often considered as the worst of all of them, is a way of saying that Sherlock character is, unfortunately, invincible. Immortal. He will live forever. We can’t kill him, no one can. Even his creator couldn’t have done it.

In season four, Sherlock goes back to the start. He is a clean slate again. He went through the entire process of change – became a good Sherlock, considerate of other people’s feelings and emotions, appreciative, supportive, loving, ready to mend what he broke. That interpretation, although very good, kind of killed my Sherlolly spirit. But I guess every interpretation like this would do it. If we stop treating characters like real human being, we’re left with what they really are – a construct, tools, puppets in the author’s hands.

Based on this, I think we’re safe to say there will never be a fifth season of BBC Sherlock (gosh, how I wish I was wrong!). Why? Because, despite what Moffat said in an interview once (after season three finale he said they’ve plotted out the entire fourth and fifth season – liar, liar, pants on fire!), season four had the perfect ending. As mentioned above, Sherlock became a good man and Mary Watson summed up what Sherlock is all about: two man, a genius junkie and a former soldier, who solve the weirdest, the toughest of cases together in flat on 221B Baker Street. Now, Sherlock is ready to be taken over by other artists who may find a new way to tell his story (though, I don’t think so) all over again.

And that’s a big, big shame… I think I speak for at least most of Sherlollians when I say we’d like to see Sherlock and Molly’s first encounter after the call. The finale really closed all the story arcs and subplots, except for this one. I mean, c’mon. You don’t have to be a Sherlollian to be annoyed by this – just remember that it was such a “biggie” that Moffat was asked about this in an interview. And this may be another reason as to why we won’t ever get a fifth season of Sherlock – because that would mean taking a side. And none of the creators will do it because Sherlock cannot be an open-and-shut case. It has to be like literature: big, open, twisted, unclear and full of room for interpretation. As long as there’s no certain explanation – yes, Sherlock loves Molly, no, Sherlock is gay – we create more and more content out of the need of closure. Thanks to the room for interpretation, the story lives. I mean, it’s been four years since The Final Problem airing and here I am, discussing BBC Sherlock still.

Coming back to Sherlolly… don’t worry. Though I’m still not sure that we can harvest any hard evidence for Sherlock’s feelings for Molly (other than friendship and respect), I’m still a Sherlollian. There two new fics waiting for me to pull myself together and write them. I think it’s good to have doubts – it means my brain hasn’t rotten yet and I can still be critical, I’m able of having my own opinions.

Thank you if you managed to read it all! I’d love to discuss if you have any conclusions. If not, that’s fine, too. I just needed it get it out of my system.

PS WHY DOES MY POSTS IN ENGLISH SOUND SO SOPHISTICATED IN MY HEAD BUT WHEN I PUT THEM IN WRITING, THEY’RE SO SHITTY?!

#bbc sherlock #sherlock #sherlock holmes #john watson #irene adler #molly hooper #sherlolly #molly x sherlock #thoughts #eurus holmes

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notmrskennedy · 4 years

Text

The List

(Spencer Reid x GenderNeutral?Reader)

A/N - In order to curb the crushing weight of being bested by a vacuum cleaner at work and stressing about my calc test, I’m posting this. I hope you all like it as much as the last one. Y’all are just the fuckin sweetest.

Also, this was inspired by @definitelynotkatesblog and her awesome work Something to Cry About. It’s the cutest freakin thing.

Summary - A little list on what makes Reader fall asleep at night...

Word Count - 2.2k

Warnings - swearing, but what’s new?

----

1. A Podcast Episode on Epicurus and the Hellenistic Age

“Spencer, christ,” you laugh, fluffing your curls. “I can assure you that I am not touchy and sharing a bed won’t kill us.”

Spencer fidgets in his spot in the doorway, crossing his arms to keep from shaking too much. Is it wrong to be jealous of your casualness surrounding this? Is it wrong to wish away that massive crush he’s got? Just at least for one night—pretty please with a cherry on top.

You wait with a half raised eyebrow at the side of the bed he clearly doesn’t sleep on. Your hand poised above the comforter like it’ll make his decision any quicker. Like you can’t see the turmoil that has to be written across his face.

Because what does this mean? What does it mean to sleep in the same bed with your best friend for the first time? What if you end up snuggled up in the morning? Is that bad? Is that good? Is he totally secretly wishing that’ll happen and spur you in falling in love with him just as much as he’s fallen for you?

He glances one more time between your calm eyes, the made bed, the clock, the giant college t-shirt you’re wearing, finally back to your face. He nods. Adds in a dash of blushing. A teaspoon of agreeing words.

You shake your head, smile at him like he’s an idiot—though he supposes he is with you—and wrench the covers back. Like you belong. He wants you to belong.

There’s still time to back out and sleep on the couch. Does he really want to?

He wills his feet forward. Tries to tell himself that this is just like every night. Sets his watch on the nightstand, plugs his phone in, slips into the covers.

“Hey, bud?”

He hums as he turns his head to look over at you. He’s still sat up in bed, hand poised over his stack of books. Are you going to tell him to turn out the light?

You smile, shifting your weight ever so slightly. You’re the restless sort and he wonders how you work the boring middle management job that you do. Pulling your lips back into a nervous smile, you gently say, “I can’t fall asleep to the quiet, do you mind if—“

“Do you want me to read to you?”

He hopes the excitement goes unnoticed. It seems to as you chuckle. “I wish it would work. You’re too interesting, Spencer Reid. Podcasts on Hellenistic philosophy however—do you mind if I listen? It won’t be too loud.”

He shakes his head. “Not at all.” Never for you.

“Thanks, Spence,” you chirp through a stifled yawn. And as you turn the podcast on and flip over to press tightly onto the pillow, you say, “and don’t worry. I promise I keep to my side of the bed.”

And unlike the liar he wishes you are, he wakes up to find that you are very true to your word.

2. Discovery Chanel, Documentary on Revolving Door Manufacturing

He’s never seen you cry before. You make it a point to keep saying between sobs, “I hate crying in front of other people. I’m so sorry.”

He can’t fathom why it’s you that’s sorry, not after you asked him to pick you up from your mother’s. The same mother who’s apparently found it within her purview to explain just how much she hates you over a nice dinner. He’s buzzing with anger on your behalf—anger that clearly isn’t shared, though he knows it’ll come later.

It takes roughly 20 minutes to get you over the hill, trading tears for tissues. Snot for begrudging smiles at his bad jokes. He’s promised himself that he will listen—for once in his goddamn life—to your whole story without interrupting. You seem to appreciate the sentiment, punctuating the whole experience with asking for one of those hugs that just never ends.

You try to explain it—“like cats, Spencer, you know?”—like he doesn’t already empathise completely.

And weirdly enough, it gets to a point where you two switch positions without breaking the crushing amount of contact you have. It gets to a point where you insist on watching the most boring documentary he’s ever seen on revolving door manufacturing. It gets to a point where you pass out after 15 minutes and turn over into his chest.

He doesn’t dare move. Not until he’s effectively sure you won’t be waking up anytime soon. Spencer falls asleep with your soft breath fanning across his chest and his hands tangled in your hair.

5. A Librivox Recording of ‘The Five Orange Pips’

Now this is ridiculous. And he says as much as you roll your eyes. You’re both sweaty and exhausted and he’s sure he’s never met someone who looked this awake after a romp at one AM. Your eyes are twinkling the same way someone does after they’ve run a mile and feel like they need to run another. You’ve got energy and he can’t fathom it.

“Spencer,” you whine, falling back into the bedsheets. It’s really the first official time you’ve spent at his house as more than a friend—much more. He’s gotten accustomed, understanding even, to the little podcasts you listen to to fall asleep. There’s no sense in understanding your sleeping habits, not yet at least, but he understands the boring, droning voices you let lull you to sleep.

But this! Sherlock Holmes?

“Y/n, I literally have the story on my bookshelf. I could read it to you if you’re so choosy!” he mirrors your position with a huff, already reaching out to drag you over into his side. The feel of your skin is addictive. The safest kind of high he can get. The only one he really wants.

You pout, sticking out your lip. It’s adorable and breaks the tweak of frustration resting hard in his features. “Love-bug, with you talking to me, I’d never fall asleep. It just doesn’t work like that and I don’t make the rules.”

“Fine,” he mutters, effectively pulling you close enough you can share the one pillow. You giggle, kiss his nose, and reach behind you for your phone. It takes five seconds for the Librivox recording to start and he realises that as he listens to the intro, he’s already dropping off. It’s understandable—he guesses—but he hopes that one day you’ll pick a story he hasn’t read already.

9. News in Slow Spanish

Listening to you get ready for bed will never be tiring, Spencer thinks. Not when he’s playing a game with himself. He’s so terrible at guessing what you’ll choose to listen to. There’s never any rhyme or reason. Never a solid thought process that he can decipher. He’s kept to making a list—half because he likes lists, half because he wonders how long it’ll get.

Four months in and he’s at number 9—more or less.

This one shocks him though. Has him poking his head out of the bathroom, toothbrush still stuck in his mouth. You’re pulling your hair out of a pony tail, humming along to the intro music for a newscast in Spanish. Do you speak Spanish?

“Sugar plum—“ he loves every weird nickname you’ve given him over the months— “I can hear the whine of your brain from here.”

It’s then you turn to really look at him. Smirking. Gleaming in the shadows of the bathroom light. Wearing nothing more than a sports bra and shorts. His mouth runs dry as he tries to keep his thoughts present and clean.

He takes the toothbrush from his mouth. You giggle as he speaks through the spit. “Do you speak Spanish?”

“I must not talk about work enough,” you mutter to yourself, slipping into bed. Like you belong. “My entire job is setting up relationships between the hotel company I work for and Latin American, well, anything. Hotels, river cruises, restaurants—I speak Spanish more than I do English some weeks.”

He nods, finishes brushing his teeth to process the thought. No, you don’t talk about work enough, and he’s suddenly worried about what you don’t talk about. It suddenly feels suffocating. Like he doesn’t know a single thing about you. Like he’s never known anything about you.

But as you drag yourself into his side once he’s beside you, as you kiss his cheek and settle in, he’s reminded that he doesn’t need to know everything to care. For you to care back. There’s enough time in the world to figure out all the other stuff. He’s content to learn as it comes. Appreciate every new thing he can get his hands on.

And, hey, if you listen to this podcast enough, he might learn Spanish too.

11. Whose Line is it Anyway? Reruns

“No, absolutely not. I’m putting the kibosh on this. The applause will drive me wild. Please, y/n, anything else.”

15. Spencer

If there hadn’t been a nightmare involved, it wouldn’t have been as terrifying to find you not in bed. To hear the door latch click with someone’s arrival. Or someone’s departure.

He’s out of bed before he can process. Before his brain can calm down enough to remind him that it’s fine. That there’s no way a burglar is going to be as loud as you’re being in the next room over.

He jumps out of the bedroom, ready to strangle the intruder with his bare hands, when you give a startled shout, “Jesus christ!”

Spencer settles. Realises that it’s just you in a sweatshirt and slippers. You look utterly exhausted in the dim light of the apartment. Fidgeting and restless despite the slump to your shoulders. He vaguely wonders if he should make you a pot of coffee to calm you down.

The world catches up to him and he slumps into the wall. Is it so wrong to be this decidedly tired after a nightmare that he could’ve sworn wasn’t coming back? The two of you stare each other down, both equally apprehensive to the other for decidedly similar reasons.

Spencer’s entire body is beginning to light on fire. He doesn’t want to burn you in the process.

You’re buzzing and tired and angry and there’s no reason to take any of that out on him.

“Can’t sleep?” he finally prompts.

You scrub your hands over your face, fluff your curls, in response. “I walked the stairs four times, bug. I’m so—“

“Frustrated?”

“Yes.”

He nods his head, waves you over. You half heartedly trudge over to him, lean your head into his chest and feel at least a tiny amount of frustration drift away. He pulls you both back to bed—he can’t believe he’s functioning this well, but maybe it’s just because he’s fulfilling the need to think about anything else. There’s a hesitance as you lay back down and he knows that you’ve probably tried everything. That you don’t believe you’ll get any sleep at 2:45 in the morning.

“You’ve worked through the list then?” he asks. Your eyebrows pinch as you settle onto your side, giving him your full attention. “The things that make you fall asleep,” he clarifies, “you know, that list.”

“Do you—do you keep a list?” your voice is almost judgemental, but decidedly too curious. He nods. “I’ve never had anyone care that much.”

“So where are you at?” he says instead. There’s too much to unpack. Too much for his still swimming brain. He needs something concrete. “What’ve you tried?”

You go through your list, letting every inch of agony you’ve faced for the last four hours creep over your face. Spencer watches as you turn over one more time and groan into the pillow. “I think I’d rather just suffocate at this rate.”

He chuckles. “Stop being dramatic. Come here, let me try something.”

“But—“

“Just—please, y/n?” he doesn’t understand your refusal to trust him sometimes—it’s always about such strange things, like how he does the dishes or what brand of milk to buy. You scoot over to him, settle into his chest with an indignant huff. As if you aren’t tightening around him like a vice.

He clears his throat, drags his fingers softly up and down your spine, and picks the most boring thing—for you at least—he can think of to recite: quantum physics. He feels you relax after a minute. Your eyes close and your nose sinks a little deeper into his shirt. It takes nearly two chapters to get you to zonk out. Long enough that he’s worried you were right, that he was just too interesting for you. Even if he was reciting quantum physics literature.

He keeps droning for a little time after he thinks you must be—have to be—asleep. And just as he settles, just as his eyes are closing and he could drift off peacefully, he doesn’t miss the ever quiet, ever gentle words, “You’re too interesting, Spence, too goddamn interesting.”

You roll over, your back pressed against his side. He wants to laugh. He doesn’t, just ends up dreaming of something nearly as peaceful as falling asleep beside you.

#spencer reid #dr spencer reid #reid #spencer reid x reader #reid x reader #Criminal Minds

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chiantidinner · 3 years

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THE UNCLE WORRIES

"Well, as you have the formidability of an Adler and the intellegence of a Holmes, I don't believe these moronic obstructions will interfere with the path you will take on in the future, now will it?"

\\~\\

"Yes, I'm fine- NO! Your father musn't hear about this!" Nero berated loudly to the phone stuck to his ear, hands flinging outwardly and feet rustling about outside the school gates.

The Adler-Holmes offspring had just retired from school for the day and was yearning to be back at the home-y confines of Bakerstreet; just him, his father, occassional (now, more often) visits from his mother, the skull on the mantelpiece, and the ghastly laboratory equipments filling the whole of the kitchen area - but it wasn't until he recieved the call from Rosie, aware of what had transpired between him and a couple of boys their age, who think themsleves as tyrants, and had offered a solution that involved telling John Watson about the matter at hand.

"You know he'll tell father and..." The boy paused, sighing, rubbing his elbow and hissing as he felt a slight sting of the movement, "Rosamund, don't you dare-"

Nero's attempt to dispose his friend out of the idea had suddenly died down his throat, ignoring her cries as he watched a black Jaguar car pull up right in front of him. His eyes narrowed, eyebrows furrowing ever-so-slightly but his expression remained stoic, hearing how the car door clicked and started to swing open. Nero tightened his grasp on the phone and muttered lowly, "I have to go.", then ending the call. He carried his long limbs toward the opening, slowly rasing his chin to imply confidence. Assuming the man inside the car is who Nero thinks he is, he'd have to appear much like his father - though for what reason, he doesn't know.

As he steps closer, a figure of a woman in a suit with light brown hair comes to view - further proving that the man responsible to the mysterious arrival of the vehicle, is indeed his uncle and not wealthy kidnappers trying to take him as bait for his father to willingly catch (which, unfortunately, has happened more than once in his 16 years of life). The boy closed the door beside him as he sat down on the leather seat, sighing before turning to face Mycroft - his apprehension expertly covered by his naturally sour facade.

"Nero." The older man inclined his head to his direction, as a way of greeting, the corners of his mouth curling upward.

"Good afternoon to you too, sir." the boy replied, still with a stoic and blank face.

Mycroft tried hard to hide his grimace as he heard his nephew call him: sir.

Ever since he was shown to Mycroft, it never really deemed him to be called uncle - much less ever being one - but the boy was different. The boy was far too brilliant and belongs to a far more extraordinary family than normal people would suspect. It impressed Mycroft how easily he could start a conversation with adults and then finds chatting with other children boring and annoying, how he could find clues in the most discrete of places at such a young age, and how he could act realistically and would use that against people that were worth the punishment, but he could say he wasn't the least bit surprised; he was Sherlock Holmes' and Irene Adler's son, after all.

"May I ask what could be so terribly important that you couldn't have just called me?" Nero replied pointedly, itching to get this over with and go home.

"I have heard about the shooting near your school and came to pick you up myself."

Nero's blank facade finally came crumbling down when it was replaced with pure confusion, mixed with a bit of shock, his face pulling into a grimace and his eyebrows knit together. The boy searched a reason from his uncle as he bore his eyes into his, but found that he didn't want anything from him and that his actions were from familial concern, apprehension, guilt (he didn't know where that came from), and, as much as he would deny, sentiment. He opened his mouth but no words came out, and the second try was unsuccessfull as well.

When he finally found the breath to reply, he choked out, "...Why?"

Much to the younger boy's surprise, Mycroft's demeanor actually softened; a soft grin played on his lips that spoke volumes, sharp brown eyes losing their sting. He looked nothing like what Nero had ever seen of his uncle, even his assisstant looked utterly surprised.

"Because I don't want my only nephew to become like my brother." Mycroft's eyes now showed signs of sadness and... guilt.

Ah, that's where that came from, Nero thought to himself.

"Really? Because I believe my father is in a good place. He receives inquiries for cases from the Yard, still gets to bring John Watson with him, and as much as he'd deny it.. he has his family. I would rather want to become like my father."

The British Prime Minister opened his mouth to speak, but not before something caught his eye: the scratches on Nero's elbow.

Nero covered his arms with his bag quickly upon realization, but the damage was done; Mycroft knew what happened to his nephew. He straightened and turned to the window - his face now unreadable and dismissive, a sharp contrast to the previous expression he donned.

"Tyrants." He spoke after a moment's pause, "Although they do not hold a single grudge in comparison to our intellect, they are the worst and most destructive enemies, us, Holmes' are destined to face - other than criminal masterminds. They are the ghosts that haunt our every sunny day, scribbled letters we keep in the very back of our minds." Mycroft continued with a dangerous glint in his eyes, his gaze slowly turning to the boy in front of him, a corner of his lips jerking upward knowingly (that somehow reminded him of his father's), "And you, to no surprise, have your own fair share, Nero."

For the first time since he stepped into the car, he allowed a one-sided but warm smile to appear on his face and felt pride fill his body. He wasn't proud that generations and generations of the family were ganged up and hurt, just because of their inexplicably curious nature. No. He was proud of the fact that they simply acknowledge the particular attribute each of them holds, that this experience may wound and scar them, but will always have their prodigious intellect as plaster.

The car came to a halt and suddenly they were at the Bakerstreet pavement.

"Nevertheless," Mycroft ducked his head slightly and glanced upwards to see his brother watching the car from the window, and turned back to Nero, "I hope you take this little conversation of ours as a precaution to not take into account what those babbling baboons imply to yourself."

"You are a smart boy, Nero. Make use of your intellegence for the greater good."

With nothing else to say, the boy merely nodded slyly, grabbed his bag and went out the door. But as he stepped foot on the hard ground, his name was being called from inside the car.

"Nero."

The person donning the name ducked and poked his head inside with an expectant look on his pale face.

Mycroft hesitated and sighed in fustration, his lips pursed together in a thin line, "I-... I worry about you as I do with my brother. I don't want you going through what he did."

Nero ginned once again, this time honest and genuine, his eyes smiling along with his lips, "I am aware.. uncle."

Giving, one tight smile to Mycroft and his assisstant, Nero disappeared from the door and into 221B Bakerstreet.

It was then that Mycroft realized the boy was as much every bit of his brother, and at the same time, not.

\\~\\

First of all, thank you to everyone who read and had actually finished lmao. Second, WOHOO my first fic!!

I got this idea from my own headcanon that generations of Holmes' - from the Holmes parents, to Mycroft, Sherlock, and Eurus, then Nero - were belittled and made fun of, because of their extraordinary intellegence, whether that was in school, or in the world at large. So, I incorporated that into this fic, mixed in with 'responsible-and-protective-big-brother-Mycroft' but instead of brother, we have uncle to Nero because, why not?

I also sort of made this because I had writer's block and read somewhere to write what's inside your pretty little head to bring back your natural creativity...

But, back to the matter at hand, I hope you guys liked it and I would REALLY love if you left some feedback and suggestions as to how I can improve my writing skills.

Much love, R. xx

#nero wolfe #mycroft holmes #uncle mycroft #adlock #sherlock headcanon #adlock fanfics #irene adler #sherlock holmes #rosamund watson #john watson #holmes brothers #parent!lock #sherlock au

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aion-rsa · 3 years

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Midnight Mass Ending Explained

https://ift.tt/39I2zkp

This article contains spoilers for Midnight Mass.

Ending a horror story is hard.

Perhaps no one knows that better than Mike Flanagan, the writer-director behind horror hits like Doctor Sleep, The Haunting of Hill House, and The Haunting of Bly Manor. After observing the occasional less-than-enthusiastic reaction to the endings of some of his other projects, Flanagan decided to end his latest, Netflix series Midnight Mass, on his own terms.

“I didn’t want to come up with an ending that I thought would please people,” Flanagan told Den of Geek and other outlets prior to Midnight Mass’s premiere. “I wanted to come up with the ending that would have the most to say down the line.”

So what, exactly, does the ending of Midnight Mass have to say? Let’s explain just what goes down in the conclusion of Midnight Mass and assess what it all means.

What’s Up with Mildred Gunning and John Pruitt?

Monsignor John Pruitt a.k.a. Father Paul (Hamish Linklater) was, by all indications, a good Christian man.

“The thing we kept coming back to is that authentically, through-and-through evil people are very rare. We’re all way more complicated. The humanity of Father Paul was something that was baked in relatively early,” Flanagan says.

Though Pruitt is not a bad man, per se, he is a deeply flawed one. A long time ago, before the “war” (probably World War II or The Korean War), Pruitt hooked up with the married Mildred Gunning and fathered their daughter Sarah Gunning out of wedlock. That is obviously a big no-no for a priest and Pruitt lived with the guilt of denying his daughter for decades.

Pruitt finally got a chance to alleviate that guilt when he came across a curious creature in Damascus. In this fictional universe where the concept of a vampire is clearly not well known, John Pruitt made the understandable mistake of confusing a monstrous vampire for an equally monstrous angel. After all, the angels of the bible are so visually terrifying that they make a habit of telling those they visit “be not afraid.”

Pruitt thought this angel had granted him the gift of eternal life, just like the Bible promises. He then decides to share that gift with his congregation. The priest’s major sin here though is pride. He didn’t share the angel’s gift with his congregation out of pure benevolence. He did it because he wanted many more years of life in his prime with Mildred and Sarah at his side. Catholicism means everything to Pruitt. And yet, he would cast it all aside for another chance to have the family he wanted.

“If you showed up and asked me, I would have taken this collar off and gone with you. Gone with you anywhere in the world,” Pruitt tells Mildred after she’s been vampirified.

That’s a touching sentiment from the artist formerly known as Father Paul but it’s unfortunately a destructive one.

“When it became clear that Paul could do bad things with pure motives, the show came into clearer focus. There’s only one character in the whole show who I think is evil and it’s not Father Paul,” Flanagan says.

Only one character who is evil? Who could Flanagan be referr….ohhh.

What Were the Vampires’ Plans?

Flanagan actually never confirms which character he sees as evil, but Bev Keane (Samantha Sloyan) seems to be the best fit…unless we count the angel, and he just seems to be a hungry, growing boy.

Bev is, let’s say, a real piece of work. As beautifully depicted by Sloyan, Bev Keane is the officious church lady who can’t keep her nose out of other people’s business. After Mildred talks some sense into John Pruitt, he understands that he and his congregation “are the wolves” and refuses to participate further. That leaves a power vacuum at the top, which Bev is more than happy to step into.

Why Midnight Mass is Mike Flanagan’s Most Personal Work

By Alec Bojalad

Midnight Mass Cast: Previous Credits From Hill House to Bly Manor, Legion & Sherlock

By Louisa Mellor

Now that Bev has a veritable army of superpowered vampires what does she intend to do with them? The same thing that all Bevs want to do: make more Bevs. Bev represents the worst of colonial Christianity and its historical penchant for converting all to its kingdom of heaven…through any means necessary.

When Erin Greene (Kate Siegel) finds out that Bev and friends have merely disabled the boats and not destroyed them, she realizes that their ultimate plan is to eventually take their vampire party to the mainland and create a whole planet of enlightened Christians who just happy to have an insatiable taste for blood and a severe UV-ray allergy.

What Happens to Crockett Island?

Thankfully, Bev’s ultimate goal never comes to pass thanks to the careful plotting of the handful of human beings left in Crockett Island. Erin Greene, Sarah Gunning (Annabeth Gish), Sheriff Hassan (Rahul Kohli), and Annie Flynn (Kirstin Lehman) get to work on finishing the destruction that Bev started.

Ironically, it’s part of Bev’s plan that eventually dooms her and her kind. When one of Bev’s lackeys proposes putting out a fire that the human crew started because the whole island could burn to nothing like in ‘84, Bev’s eyes light up.

“I mean…the church didn’t burn in ‘84,” she says.

Surely this is Revelation. And Revelation means a hale mixed with fire and blood. There will be a flood of fire that ends the world and St. Patrick’s church will be the arc. That’s a great plan and all…as long as something doesn’t happen to the arc.

Welp. Sarah Gunning burns down St. Patrick’s and Sheriff Hassan and Erin Greene (with an assist from Hassan’s son) burn down the rec center. As if burning a church designated as an arc wasn’t symbolically compelling enough, recall that the rec center next to it is equally as symbolic of Bev’s greed. It was Bev who convinced Crockett Island to take the oil company’s money for ruining their island rather than pursuing litigation. And all they got out of that settlement money was that stupid rec center.

With the church and the rec center gone, there are no man-made structures for the vampires to hide from the sun in the coming morning. And that’s how an entire island of 120-ish vampires perishes simultaneously when the sun rises.

Why Do Leeza and Warren Survive?

All of Crockett Island perishes save for two actually. Warren Flynn (Igby Rigney) and Leeza Scarborough (Annarah Cymone) are spared thanks to some quick thinking. Putting the only two remaining non-vampirized children in harm’s way is not an option for Erin, Sarah, Hassan, and Annie. Thankfully, Warren knows of one secret canoe to reach the “Uppards” that Bev’s crew wouldn’t know about.

The canoe doesn’t take Warren and Leeza to the mainland but it does get them away from the carnage to come. The last shot of the series is Warren and Leeza floating peacefully and Leeza announcing that she can no longer feel her legs. This means that the last bit of “angel” blood has likely left her system and with it Pruitt’s vampire legacy is over.

Saving Warren and Leeza has practical, emotional implications for Midnight Mass’s characters but it also has some symbolic ones as well. The concept of witnessing and witnesses themselves are very important in the Bible. As a second-hand text (though purportedly with every word inspired by God) there would be no gospel without witnesses. Good news is only half the battle. Someone to witness and report on the good news is the other half. Now Warren and Leeza can report on the ultimate good news that the world is saved.

The fact that the kids survive while the adults succumb to their own adult nonsense has some major implications for Midnight Mass’s creator

“That last moment of the next generation looking out at the ashes of what the grown ups made – that’s what my kids are gonna get no matter what,” Flanagan says. “That’s what all of our kids are gonna get. I wish it wasn’t as on fire as it it. But it really is. We’re never going to be able to explain adequately to our children what happened to the planet they inherited.”

What Happens to the Angel?

With all of Crockett Island burned to the ground, the world’s vampire nightmare is over, right? Well that depends on how well you think an angel can fly with torn wings. No, that’s not an aphorism or a poem, it’s the real question facing the end of Midnight Mass.

As if saving Warren and Leeza and upending Bev Keane’s plans weren’t enough, Erin leaves one last little gift for humanity before she dies. While the angel attacks her and drinks her sweet, sweet blood, Erin begins systematically, yet carefully cutting holes in its leathery wings. At first the angel is kind of annoyed but his hunger supersedes any level of discomfort or pain he’s feeling.

Later on, while Warren and Leeza watch their home burn they see the angel flying away but in a halted, loopy pattern. The kids aren’t sure if the beast will have time to find shelter before the sun rises. According to Flanagan, if Midnight Mass is a parable (and he assures us it is) then the ultimate lesson of all this isn’t too hard to glean.

“The angel doesn’t represent vampirism or horror but corruption in any belief system,” he says. “It represents fundamentalism and fanaticism. That’s never gonna go away. You might chase it away from your community for a minute. You might send it off to the sunrise and hope that that corrupting ideology will disappear. But it won’t. And the show could never show the angel die for that reason.”

With that in mind, the angel’s flawed flight pattern isn’t so much Inception’s spinning top but rather a promise that evil will find a way. And then we puny human beings will just have to find a way to stop it all over again. If that’s not Biblical then we don’t know what is.

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All seven episodes of Midnight Mass are available to stream on Netflix now.

The post Midnight Mass Ending Explained appeared first on Den of Geek.

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#aion-rsa #Den of Geek

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deliquescentnightmare · 3 years

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Character Introduction

Hello! my first little character sheet so you all can meet Delila, the main protagonist of my still untitled story. Most- if not all- of my characters are blatant self-inserts, and Delila is no exception. I identify as GF so she's kind of the embodiment of my very fem moments, and my soft cottagecore side. Anyways, here's all you need to know about her! I'll post newer versions of her character sheet later on as certain events happen in the story so I don't give you guys spoilers.

Name: Delila Amelie Lestrade

Age: 24

Hometown: Born in Atlanta GA, moved around a lot as a child.

Occupation: Forensic Psychologist. FBI agent.

Sexuality: Asexual, questioning.

Talents/Skills: Writing. Playing Uke. Can't cook at all. Great skill of falling down or bumping into things. Hands are steady in times of crisis and is very levelheaded.

Siblings (describe relationship): Theodore 'Theo' Grayson Markham. 35, older half brother. Second son of Alana Markham(nee Ramses) and Fredrick Markham. Lives in NY. Jameson Albert Markham, 36, oldest half brother, and firstborn son of Alana Markham and Frederick Markham. Lives in rural North Carolina with his wife and kids. Gwendolyn 'Gwen' Beatrice Markham (deceased). Born 1980, died at 26) Killed in a car accident in St Louis in 2006. Very close to Delila and Jameson. Entire family mourned after she passed, and Alana became very different emotionally.

Mother (describe relationship): Alana Elizabeth Markham (nee Ramses). 54, lives in Ojai, California with Frederick Markham. They talk intermittently, but Alana isn't very responsible and Delila refuses to interact with her too much because it's emotionally draining. Alana refuses to acknowledge Gwen even existed.

Father (describe relationship): Gregory 'Greg' Lestrade. 49. Their relationship is close, and Greg would often visit Delila, or fly her out to see him during school holidays when she was a child. They call often (when he actually picks up or calls her back) and email back and forth. She loves him more than life itself even if he often forgets to call her because he's busy.

Significant Others (describe relationship): Struggles to remain relationships due to lack of intimacy, but had a long-term relationship for 2 years that recently ended for undisclosed reasons.

Pets: none yet. had a childhood snake named Jonathan.

Friends: Li Huang (will be introduced in the next chapter or the one after), John Watson, Molly Hooper, Sherlock Holmes (tentative), Theo, Mycroft Holmes(eventually).

Height: 5'2" or 157.5 cm

Weight: 135 lbs. or about 61 kg

Race: Caucasian, British-American

Eye Color: Blue in Original Fictions. In this AU, however her right one is Purple. her left is Pink. (I like pink and purple very much)

Hair Color: Naturally brown, dyed pastel orange.

Distinguishing features: Constantly has scrapes and bruises, often topped off with band-aids on her fingers and cheeks. Her wild orange hair and round gold-rimmed glasses. (they're bigger than Harry Potter's, before you ask). She wears a black pea-coat often, and it's worn from years of use. (it was her sister's)

How does he/she dress? Black pea-coat when it's colder. Likes to wear slightly-too-large clothing. Often wears stolen shirts, sweaters and button ups. Flowy, flowery dresses and skirts and occasionally ripped jeans. She did go through an Emo phase and dyed her hair white in her late teens/early 20's, and has some clothing left over from that phase that she occasionally wears.

Hobbies: Writing romance fiction and crime. Reading, often James Patterson or fantasy. Playing ukulele, and singing. She likes to dance but isn't very good at it, so she often does it when she's alone or it's dark (or both). She likes to go for walks with John in the park, and used to go for walks with Theo.

Greatest flaws: She cares too much too fast, and becomes attached to people within a day or so of meeting them. She can be slightly needy and clingy if she doesn't have a lot of friends, because she thrives off of physical affection. She's very stubborn, and will do things even when she's been given explicit instruction not to because she thinks she may know a better way. (sometimes she does, but other times she just is too strong headed to stop). She can either be unabashedly arrogant or filled with crippling self-doubt dependent on the situation as she's experienced a lot of respect and praise for her intellect. She also puts a lot of pressure on herself to succeed and it can lead to devastating burnouts.

Best qualities: Very loving and openhearted. She will put others' needs above her own nearly every time. She will make sure her friends and those she cares about are taken care of, and are taking good care of themselves. She is extremely intelligent and knows an array of weird and sometimes useful facts, and has a large span of knowledge thanks to her time at uni. She also has a way of making friends wherever she goes, which leads to a large web of connections and sources whenever she needs them.

Introvert or Extrovert? Ambivert, it's dependent on the situation. For example, if she's forced to be in isolation then she's going to be more extroverted when she's around people again. She enjoys talking to people, but after a certain amount, she can become worn out and need alone time. I think it would be good to note she is much more socially adept than Sherlock, though he is better at other things socially. (she has Asperger's and therefore he picks up on certain cues or details she may miss)

How does the character deal with anger? Delila can either run hot or run cold in terms of temperament. When she runs hot, she is often so overcome with emotion that she 'loses' words, struggles to speak and gets really flustered. (not in a good way) she never really says anything unkind when she's like this but she will be very dismissive and tell people to leave her alone. She is prone to shouting or crying to voice her frustrations and get out her emotions. The best way to calm her down is to let her rant about it, and she often calls Theo- who lets her rant. When she runs cold, she is eerily calm. She becomes sharp-tongued, cold and calculating. She will destroy whoever has angered her in this way and feel no shame. Sometimes she will spend days like this, and will be snippy and distant to anyone who tries to talk to her. She is vengeful and fully of unabashedly cruel remarks. It takes a lot or something particularly bad to get her this way.

With sadness? Delila tends to cry when she's sad, and is most comforted by physical affection. She listens to sad music, curls up under a blanket, and will write, whether it be in a journal or creatively. She will occasionally vent, but usually keeps it to herself as to not burden people around her with her issues or emotions.

With conflict? Delila can be rather argumentative and stubborn, but if she cares about the person she will do her best to listen to their side of the argument or disagreement, even if she feels as though they are wrong. When it comes to other peoples' conflicts, she will try and take the side she feels is most correct, or try and be an unbiased judge. She will defend her friends if there is a conflict in which they are being attacked in some way.

With change? Delila isn't a big fan of change but she will try her best to adapt and overcome by setting goals and new routines.

With loss? Delila will self-isolate. She will spend a lot of time re-consuming media that reminds her of what she has lost, and will go through a period of denial. Eventually, though she will come to honour the memory and move on.

What does the character want out of life? Fulfillment. Delila has spent a lot of her short life searching for something she is truly passionate about, but once she finds things that make her happy she becomes hesitant to follow them. She longs for fulfillment in ways other than reproducing and relationships, but one day she wouldn't mind having a family.

What would the character like to change in his/her life? Delila wishes she'd spent less time worried about how her mother perceived her and hoe those around her viewed her and her achievements. She is quite successful now and has learnt better but she wishes she hadn't let her doubts hinder her in the past.

What motivates this character? Delila doesn't excel because she longs for success, but because she fears failure. She refuses to be a burden, and will be independent almost to a fault.

What frightens this character? Delila is terrified of her family being hurt in any way, or losing someone she loves again. She also despises spiders and rejection.

What makes this character happy? Music. Her family, her friends. The rain. Tea. she loves to dance, but she only does it when she's alone.

Is the character judgmental of others? Delila's job required her to profile people, and because of that it has become her nature to psychoanalyse or even try to make assumptions about people from the get-go. She will often alter this perception of people later on depending on how she sees them interact with their environment, and people around them.

Is the character generous or stingy? She can be overly generous when it comes to those she loves, but also hesitant to share other things. It all depends on the item or person's emotional and sentimental value to her.

Is the character generally polite or rude? Unless given good reason to be rude, Delila is generally kind.

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missmollybloom · 3 years

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Forget Me Not - Final Chapter!

Thank you for all the kind words as I shared my anxieties about writing and posting this final chapter. It’s up on Ao3 as well.

Thanks again for all who have encouraged me along the way with this fic. I hope the ending does it justice.

Mycroft was stood in the corner of Barts basement lab when she arrived, three-piece suit as impeccable as always. His umbrella stored securely at his side despite the fact there was no rain forecast that Molly knew of.

“You promised me answers,” Molly started. She didn’t want to waste the greeting.

Mycroft needed no social graces. “What do you know about my brother, Doctor Hooper?” He asked.

Molly exasperated, repeated, “Answers, Mycroft. No more questions.”

Her head was already full of questions, and had been every day since her accident in the lab.

Mycroft paced the length of the long lab-bench, his hand running along the aluminium countertop.

“The question is the answer, Doctor Hooper,” Mycroft replied, as obtuse as ever.

She didn’t want to play along with the elder Holmes’ game, but he had her cornered. She had been given no other choice.

“What do I know about Sherlock?” Molly closed her eyes, trying to recall all she’d discovered about Mycroft’s strangely familiar brother in the last week or so.

“I’m-“ she stumbled, “ I’m not sure,” she admitted.

And it was true. What she knew and what she had been told were not necessarily one and the same. But how could she explain to this man that she was starting to think there were two Sherlock Holmeses – one, the man she had just met, and another, a man with a rich history she was only just beginning to learn.

Mycroft’s eyes bore into her.

Molly continued. “I mean, I know the parts he’s told me, and what John has shared, but I can’t help thinking that I’ve only got-“

“Part of the picture?” Mycroft offered, his eyes reading hers although not with the same intensity of his brother. Mycroft never gave anything away.

“What does this all have to do with Sherlock, anyway?”

A fleeting gesture ghosted over Mycroft’s features then. On anyone else, Molly would have assumed it was sadness – but Mycroft Holmes didn’t do emotions.

“Unfortunately, I can’t provide anything more than you already know.”

Molly wanted to scream, she wanted to grab him and shake him. “But you know everything! You’re the fucking government, Mycroft!”

Mycroft nodded solemnly. “Indeed, I do know it, but what I know, I can’t share with you.”

“This isn’t the time for being delicate, Mycroft!” She was almost yelling now.

Mycroft remained his still stoic self. Yet there was something in the tightness of his mouth that hinted at a wellspring of emotion. Was the ice-man melting, Molly wondered.

“Doctor Hooper, believe me when I tell you that your mind is fragile, more fragile than you know.”

His tone was so dark, the implication so grave, she believed him.

“Since my accident in the lab,” Molly added by way of confirmation.

Mycroft nodded, but he didn’t entirely agree.

“Since the night of that incident. But you already know it wasn’t a lab accident, don’t you, Doctor?” He was using her title to draw out her analytical rather than emotional side.

It worked.

Molly had an image of the glass vial that she saw in her dream.

“I took something. Something you had given to me to use in an emergency.”

The dream, Molly was beginning to realise, was reality. “What was it?” she asked him.

“I can’t tell you what it was, but I can tell you what it does. But surely you know that, too?”

Molly closed her eyes, concentrating.

The gaps, the confusion, the fact that nothing in her world made sense.

The images, impressions and dreams of a man she had just met.

It could only mean one thing.

“It erases memories.”

“Indeed.” Mycroft nodded. One word that brought her present struggles into sharp focus.

“So what did I erase?” said to herself, rather than to her companion.

“I can’t tell you that, Molly.”

He’d never called her by her first name before, and as he said it, she saw Mycroft the man, rather than the unfeeling thinking machine.

“But, you do know?” Molly checked.

“Indeed I know. But as I said, your mind is fragile.”

“If no one can tell me what memories I’ve erased, then what hope do I have?”

“Somewhere inside of you is a keystone memory. If you find it, you will find everything.”

Molly searched her mind. How could she find a memory that had been erased?

“Nothing makes sense, I’m so sick of-“

Molly started crying, her head leaning into Mycroft’s shoulder, tears staining the sleeve of his suit.

He placed an arm awkwardly around her with the unfamiliarity of a man who had never been in such close proximity to a woman.

Which was precisely when Sherlock arrived.

---

Sherlock had told himself that he needed to check on some lab cultures, but truth be told, he was worried about Molly. The fact that her sleep had been so affected by the Elosia treatment gave him equal parts hope and concern. Hope, that somewhere in her dreams her memories were returning, but concern, because he didn’t know what might happen when she did remember.

But what he found in Barts lab was a sight he never expected in all possible versions of reality: Mycroft with his arms around Molly.

Sherlock had never seen his brother express sentiment, let alone affection, before.

The rational man would tell him it was nothing – Mycroft was no threat. But Sherlock’s newly unlocked emotional side had all the maturity of an eight-year-old. The sight of Mycroft and Molly turned the rational man into a possessive monster.

“It’s not enough to fuck up my life and mess with my-“ he caught himself, “with Molly’s mind, now you have to swoop in and be her big saviour, too?”

“Sherlock!” Molly exclaimed, pulling away from Mycroft and walking towards him, reaching out a hand in placation.

“I think you’ll find Molly came to me for some answers,” Mycroft supplied.

“I think you’d best be calling her Doctor Hooper, brother” Sherlock growled through gritted teeth. His transformation into a feral monster almost fully complete. “And what answers do you think you could possibly give her without endangering her?”

A barb from Sherlock.

“And what have you done, Brother? Other than cause her to doubt the nature of her reality?”

A riposte from Mycroft.

“And whose fault is it that her reality got so messed up?”

Sherlock’s return volley.

“And who coopted a civilian into an Mi5 operation in the first place?”

Mycroft’s back-hand.

“And who blabbed my whole life story to Moriarty, giving me no other choice?”

Sherlock’s turn, taking a step back into adolescence.

Molly had had enough with their childish games.

“Stop it, both of you, stop it!” She yelled, placing herself firmly between the brothers. One hand on each of the men’s chests – holding them apart.

“See,” Sherlock mocked his brother, “She’s had enough of you, Mycroft.”

He placed a hand on hers, “Time to go, Molly.”

He started leading her away by the hand. Molly didn’t move.

“I’m not going anywhere with you.”

Sherlock was hurt. He had been hurting for almost a week now. Ever since he realised his Molly was gone. But there was no excuse for what he said next.

“Oh, I see.” He said, “Serves me right for trying to take on a Goldfish.”

He spat the term at his brother.

What he didn’t realise was how much it hurt Molly, not until-

One slap. Two slaps. A third.

His cheeks stung the familiar sting of Molly’s full ire.

“I’ve done that before,” Molly said, her eyes meeting his, moments before she fell to the floor, unconscious.

---

The lab disappeared. All that Molly could see was a white, formless void and a circle of women.

“Where am I?” She asked the circle of faces that looked like her, but weren’t.

“Wrong question,” said the stoic face of a woman who wore all the hurts of her past around her like an invisible armour, and matched said hurts with a black dress of mourning.

“What?” Molly asked again.

“I think she means, there’s a better question to be asking,” came the innocent, smiling face of a woman who had a naive crush on the mysterious and sexy detective who had just started frequenting Barts.

“What’s the question then?” Molly turned to face yet another version of herself.

“Who are you?” the in-control, efficient doctor clad in white lab coat supplied.

“Fine,” Molly said, playing along. “Who am I?”

“Are you a pathologist so good at your job that you’ve had offers from all the best hospitals in the country, but you turn them down because…” The doctor trailed off.

“Because of me,” the idealistic, young Molly supplied. “Because of how much I love him. Do you love him like I love him?” She asked.

“Or are you me?” came the black-clad mourner. “Because he’s hurt me – hurt us,” she gestured to the other women. “He’s used us, disparaged us, discarded us. And we let him.”

The mourner gestured to the other two women.

“Because I love the work,” Doctor-Molly explained.

“Because I love him,” Moonstruck-Molly added.

“And I’m the one who gets to slap him when we’re fed up with his shit. So, which one are you?” Asked the mourner.

“You’ve forgotten one,” Molly said to the three women.

They looked at each other in confusion.

“Me. What about me?” Molly explained.

“You don’t exist,” said the doctor, pity in her tone.

“But I do!” Molly persisted. “I just met a man. I think I like him. I know he likes me. He’s flawed and fascinating and the whole situation is completely fucked. But don’t I get a say about what I get to do next?”

That silenced them – for a time.

---

He wouldn’t leave her side, not while they attached her to the monitors, not while they ran all the tests they could in emergency.

Brainwaves normal. Bloodwork normal. Heartrate and blood pressure, all normal.

But Molly wouldn’t wake up.

The sting stayed in Sherlock’s cheeks, a feeling too familiar, a reminder of his failures – past and present.

Misreading her invitation to coffee.

Manipulating her for morgue access.

Complementing her if it would help him solve cases.

Sabotaging every chance of success for every date she went on through a series of stinging observations.

Humiliating her on Christmas, his misplaced hatred at a man she had dressed up for, wholly overlooking the possibility it could have been him.

Placing her life in peril when he convinced her to help him fake his death.

Then the drugs, the disappointment writ large on her face as she declared how dare he throw away the beautiful gifts he had been born with.

She slapped him then. She slapped him now. She had remembered. She said she’d done it before.

What did it mean?

John joined him after a time, although Sherlock couldn’t tell how long it had been, lost as he was in contemplation of their past and how it had led to this present moment at Molly’s bedside.

Later, Sherlock would realise that Mycroft was the one who had sent for John, wanting his brother to have the emotional support that he himself couldn’t possibly provide.

“How’s she doing?” John asked.

“No idea.” He didn’t dare glance up at his friend, afraid to miss any sign that Molly was on her way back to him.

“What happened?” John asked as he sat down on the vinyl visitor’s chair next to Sherlock.

“She remembered something,” Sherlock said, idly rubbing his cheek. Hours may have passed, but it still felt raw, fresh.

“That’s brilliant!” John’s beaming smile froze when he saw it wasn’t matched by his friend’s expression. “Isn’t it?” John asked.

“She remembered slapping me.”

“Oh.” John’s face fell.

They’d both been there that morning in the lab. They’d both witnessed the intensity of Molly’s fury when Sherlock failed his first drug test in more than 5 years.

“What does it mean?” John asked.

“The treatment, it can be reversed if the patient finds their core memory, the one key event that unlocks all others.” Sherlock explained.

“How do you know?”

“Redbeard,” Sherlock supplied.

It was one word, but John knew precisely what it meant.

“Jesus! They did it to you, too?”

Sherlock nodded. John lapsed into silence while the new facts sunk in, yet another puzzle piece to explain the brokenness of his friend.

The monitors’ rhythmic beeps punctuated the passing of time between the men as they kept their vigil for Molly.

After a time, Sherlock spoke again.

“Can I ask you a question, John?”

“Anything.” John, always faithful to a fault, Sherlock reflected with thankfulness.

“When you remember Mary, what image comes to mind first?” Sherlock asked.

John closed his eyes, willing his wife back through image and recollection. “She’s singing to Rosie, holding our daughter in her arms. She didn’t know I was there, stood in the doorway, but I was, I’m so glad I was. She was so happy.”

If he believed in the supernatural, if wishes could be granted by some unseeing power, Sherlock would have given everything he had in that moment to bring Mary back.

The love between his friend and his departed wife brought the flaws in his fledgling relationship with Molly into stark contrast.

“Molly’s first memory is of slapping me. Her first impression is of a relapsed junkie. What could I possibly offer her if all she remembers is the pain I’ve caused her?”

John put a hand on his friend’s shoulder, steeling him.

“You can offer her the one thing that Mary and I don’t have.”

Sherlock met John’s eyes in silent question.

“Time. You can give her all the time you have.”

John left soon after.

It gave Sherlock more time to think.

John and Mary only had a past.

He and Molly could have a future, if she was willing.

Sherlock didn’t know how much later it was when he started talking.

“I don’t know if you can hear me Molly, but I’d like to tell you a story. It’s not your usual story. I’m going to start at the ending. Because in the end there’s only me, sitting here, hoping you’ll wake up.

But here’s the problem with endings, Molly. If you knew the ending before the story began, would you listen to it again?

I don’t want our story to end, Molly. Not yet.

When you took that pill, I think you thought we were finished. I think you thought the story was done. What you didn’t realise, what you couldn’t have known, was that for me, it was just beginning.

I wish you were awake right now, so I could tell you I meant what I said in that phone call.

I love you, Molly Hooper.”

He left then, walking the streets for hours and hours until arriving at the empty shell of his Baker Street flat.

Sherlock walked upstairs and sat among the ruins.

Soon sleep took him and he let it.

---

Molly was arguing with herself again when she heard him, his voice echoing through the void, filling every fiber of her being.

“Molly remembers slapping me,” he said.

“Do you?” the other three Mollys turned towards her in shock.

“I can see me slapping him,” she began, “but I don’t know why.”

His voice returned. “What could I possibly offer her if all she remembers is the pain I’ve caused?”

“He’s got a point there,” the mourner said.

“Shut up,” Molly, and her other two doppelgangers snapped.

“He’s still talking!” Exclaimed the love-sick Molly.

Doctor-Molly nodded. “It’s something about stories.”

“But here’s the problem with endings, Molly. If you knew the ending before the story began, would you listen to it again?” He asked.

“Yes!” Molly cried out into the silence.

“I want to know why I deleted you! Please, tell me,” she screamed so loud her throat ached with the effort of it.

His voice continued. “When you took that pill, I think you thought we were finished. I think you thought the story was done.”

Molly could feel the pain, the hurt, the red-hot rage from his latest manipulation as the phone line went dead.

Sherlock kept speaking. “What you didn’t realise, what you couldn’t have known, was that for me, it was just beginning. I meant what I said in that phone call.”

The phone call. The last memory. Fitting that in their new story it would be her first memory, too.

At that thought all versions of Molly disappeared, leaving her alone. But of course, they’d never really disappear. All of them were her.

And she could remember the call, could remember how emotionally raw she was already that day, the tenth anniversary of her father’s death. She had only just stopped crying, stifling a sniffle as she made her tea and ignored his name on the screen when it rang the first time.

But he persisted, his name appearing again.

And so the game started.

And if he wanted a game, she’d give him one. “Say it like you mean it,” she goaded.

And he did.

And now, as it all came back, she heard those words again, although not on the phone line.

“I love you, Molly Hooper.” Sherlock said and in the depths of her dream-like state, she knew it was true.

---

It was early afternoon when Sherlock woke to John, shaking him to consciousness.

“Not a good place to sleep, Mate.”

“Eurus blew up my bed,” he said in his not yet fully awoken state, neck and back aching from his night spent on the floor.

“Still, a kip among the ashes won’t help things. I’ll get you a coffee.” John headed downstairs to the miraculously-unscathed kitchen in Mrs Hudson’s flat.

Sherlock stood, surveying the wreckage. It would take months to rebuild, and years to replicate his collection, if that is, the collected treasures and discoveries of his former life could ever be replicated.

He reached into the ashes and found a small red box, a Christmas gift from another time, one he’d spectacularly mis-read by assuming wouldn’t be for him.

Inside was a bee preserved in amber. The red box had kept it safe in the blast.

She was the only one he’d ever told about his love for bees.

His fingers traced the smooth, cold surface of the stone.

“I can’t believe you kept it,” came a voice from behind him.

“Molly,” was all he could manage. Molly, awake. Molly, out of hospital. Molly, with a memory.

“Fancy some chips?” She asked, gesturing to the chips in her hand.

The food soon dropped to the ground forgotten as he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into an embrace.

“How?” he asked, eyes raking over her to see if it was real.

“I heard you,” she explained.

“Say it again,” she asked.

“I love you,” he complied.

“You mean it,” she said. And there was no doubt from either of them that it was true.

---

In a flat in Kensington, the man lives the same day every day. Although he created the technology, he has no idea that it now enslaves him.

But today is going to be different. Today, one man is going to set him free.

The detective had snuck in, changed the Wagner LP for something else, something that once heard will bring back the man’s homeland forever.

The clue was there all along, in the small white flours that decorated the man’s window frames.

Edelweiss.

His keystone memory.

And the moment the voice of the captain broke into song, the man broke back into the world.

Across the street, the detective watched, knowing that soon a tranche of long-awaited documents would be set free online. State secrets revealed, ensuring never again would an innocent fall afoul of Elosia.

But a greater freedom was won for the man who unlocked something more precious for the detective. Although London was Sherlock’s homeland, Molly was his home.

And without Blevins she would have been lost to him forever.

---

Weeks had passed since Molly had returned to him. They had begun rebuilding from the rubble, clearing out the detritus of the past, and making all things new, together.

She kissed him by way of greeting when he came home, a domesticity he knew he’d never tire of.

“Is it done?” she asked, knowing what mission he’d been tasked with.

“It’s done,” he nodded.

Her hand gently traced the contours of his cheek.

“You did a great thing today, Sherlock,” she said.

“No,” he said. “Only a good one.”

She smiled, taking his hand and leading him into their bedroom.

“Let’s make some new memories,” she said.

#sherlolly fic #sherlolly #missmollybloom writes sometimes

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inevitably-johnlocked · 3 years

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Five Fics Friday: August 27/21 *40th B-DAY EDITION*

Happy Five Fics Friday, everyone, and a special one because it’s my 40th birthday! Today I’m choosing to feature five of my favourite comfort fics for you all to read! <3 These are just fics that make me happy; it’s not a normal 5FF, but I hope y’all will indulge me all the same.

PLUS

I want to share with you guys five of MY OWN FICS, and I would really love a Kudos or comment on my own work, if you can spare a mo’ for my b-day <3

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FIVE OF MY OWN FICS

I Knew You Loved Me by inevitably_johnlocked (T, 743 w., 1 Ch. || Morning Cuddles, Fluff, Clingy Sherlock, Idiots in Love, Slice of Life, Morning After, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Declarations of Love, Pet Name, Bed Sharing, Snuggles) – John and Sherlock share a lie-in the morning after their first time. So fluffy and gross your teeth will fall out. Part 4 of I-J's Tumblr Ficlet Collection

The Healing Touch by inevitably_johnlocked (G, 2,307 w., 1 Ch. || Caretaking, Domestic Fluff, Stroppy Sherlock, John Loves Sherlock, Love Confessions, Sofa Cuddles, Insecure Sherlock) – Sherlock's broken his foot and he's becoming unbearably stroppy. Good thing John has the healer's touch... ;) Part 3 of I-J's Tumblr Ficlet Collection

Corn Dog Daddy by inevitably_johnlocked (M, 2,719 w., 1 Ch. || Sherlock POV, Fluff and Crack, Corn Dogs, Fairgrounds, Coming In Pants, Euphemisms, Military Kink, Flirting, Sexy John, BAMF John, Smol Sherlock, Pining Sherlock, Humour) – Sherlock and John wind down after a case in a small town at a county fair. Sherlock's imagination goes awry as John's sexiness drives him crazy. Also: John knows how to handle a meat stick. Part 2 of I-J's Tumblr Ficlet Collection

Date Night by inevitably_johnlocked (G, 4,451 w., 1 Ch. || Anxious / Worried Sherlock, Caring John, Schmoopy Fluff, Fidget Cube, Baking / Cooking, Date Night, Established Relationship, POV Sherlock Holmes, Understanding John, Grumpy Sherlock, John’s Bum, Kisses, Hugs, Domestic Fluff, Touching, Hair Petting, Light Humour) – It's John and Sherlock's first Date Night as an official couple and Sherlock needs it to be PERFECT. Mrs Hudson helps. Part 7 of I-J's Tumblr Ficlet Collection

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FIVE FAVE FICS

Trapped and Upside Down on the M6 by BootsnBlossoms (E, 4,256 w., 1 Ch. || Whump, Car Accident, Hurt / Comfort) – Everything felt wrong. His hair was going the wrong way. His arms were bent in ways he wouldn’t choose to bend them. His neck hurt and he couldn’t really feel his toes. Something was dripping on his face – and rolling up. A car crash. He had been in a car crash.

A Week is Just Seven Days Isn't It? by scifigrl47 (T, 39,906 w., 4 Ch. || Humour, Friendship/Bromance, Stroppy/Bored Sherlock, Undercover/Army John, Texting, Pining-ish Sherlock, John Whump) – When John heads overseas for a week, Sherlock's forced to fend for himself. It goes about as well as anyone could have anticipated. Which is to say, very, very poorly. Don't worry, things'll be fine in just seven days.

Triage by scullyseviltwin (E, 51,612 w., 14 Ch. || Character Injury, Introspection, Pining Sherlock, Falling in Love, Slow Burn, Sherlock POV, Toplock) – Sherlock’s mind goes exceedingly, devastatingly quiet and gray-blank. When he speaks it’s through a thick haze, it’s through molasses, he’s so disconnected from the words that it may as well be the unconscious shooter speaking.

Perdition's Flames by i_ship_an_armada (E, 63,435 w., 21 Ch. || Treklock AU, Est. Rel, Genetic Engineering, Angst & Fluff, BAMF!John) – Sherlock would do anything to save him. Risk anything. Give anything. His money, his life. His soul. What he does, though, is change both of their destinies forever. Genetic re-engineering is the only option left. It turns out researchers underestimated the life expectancy and potential abilities of genetically re-engineered subjects. The British government and what would eventually become the United Federation of Planets, however, had not. Part 1 of PF Universe

#johnlock fic recs #five fics friday #my fic recs

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magicalthoughtsendinterriblefics · 4 years

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Baghdad gone wrong - Request

Request: @green-spotlight I was wondering if you could do a Sherlock x wife! reader one? Where, instead of Mary jumping in front of Sherlock, Reader does, but she survives

Word count: No idea, but it’s long.

Warnings: (Y/N) gets shot.

A/N: HI! Long time no see. I know I always say I’ll come back and then I disappear but it’s just because I need a job and I have to look for it and bla bla bla. Anyway, here it is. This one is fresh, it’s the first fics I’ve written in months (the past ones were kept in my drafts) so I hope you like it and I hope I’m not too rusty for this.

Enjoy!

The London aquarium was quite a flabbergasting experience to anyone who visited. The big tanks filled with different fish, the blue illumination, and the distinctive smell of chlorine made it a rather peaceful place to meditate.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the Aquarium will be closing in five minutes. Please make your way to the exit. Thank you.” The voice from the tannoy announced.

Sherlock ignored it and kept going onward along the blue-lit corridors, through the glass tunnels, up until an area with benches for people to sit. There, a lonely woman sat tranquilly.

“Your office said I’d find you here,” he said.

“This was always my favourite spot for agents to meet,” the woman replied. “We’re like them; ghostly, living in the shadows.”

She finally looked at him.

“Predatory,” Sherlock granted.

“Well, it depends which side you’re on.” She turned away to look into the shark thank again. “Also, we have to keep moving or we die.”

“Nice location for the final act. Couldn’t have chosen it better myself. But then I never could resist a touch of the dramatic.” Sherlock cocked his eyebrow, rejoicing in his own skin.

“I just come here to look at the fish,” the secretary said.

How dull she was, how boring. Sherlock was starting to get sick just by the mere existence of that woman. It was obvious to him what was going on, and yet there was no one else to show it off to. Where were his companions? He had texted them not longer than five minutes ago the exact location and they weren’t there just yet.

“I knew this would happen one day,” the secretary continued. She stood up and took a few steps closer to the tank. “It’s like that old story,” she said. She turned to face him.

She was small, just small. She was not a beautiful woman and evidently never had been, she was poorly-dressed, and her whole body expressed how small she was and felt.

It was no wonder to Sherlock why she had done it. She was a nobody, always had been and always would be. She worked for a powerful, beautiful woman who was a constant reminder of how insignificant she was. Of course, she had done it.

“I am a very busy man. Would you mind cutting to the chase?” Sherlock insisted. A rush inside of him needed the whole thing to end quickly.

“You’re very sure of yourself, aren’t you?”

“With good reason,” Sherlock said precisely. “Unlike you,” he thought.

“There was once a merchant in fa famous market in Baghdad…” The woman started.

Sherlock closed his eyes and lowered his head. It was that bloody story again. What was it with people liking it? Perhaps it was the fact that nobody wants to be entirely responsible for their acts and decide to call them upon fate, or just that dumb believing of superior power. In any case, Sherlock was sick of it.

“I really have never liked this story” he sentenced.

“I’m just like the merchant in the story. I thought I could outrun the inevitable. I’ve always been looking over my shoulder; always expecting to see the grim figure of…”

“Death.” A third voice completed.

(Y/N).

The rush inside Sherlock increased its intensity. She wasn’t supposed to be there, John and Mary were but not her.

She entered the room and stopped a couple of feet away from Sherlock’s side.

“Hello, love,” Sherlock greeted without looking at her.

“Hey,” she greeted back.

“John?”

“On his way,” (Y/N) replied.

“Mary?”

“On her way.” Sherlock shrugged and attempted no to look scattered. She was not supposed to be there. “Who am I looking at?”

“Let me introduce Amo.”

(Y/N) opened her eyes widely. She knew all about that time, Mary had told her just before escaping to try and fix things.

“I can’t say I’m impressed,” (Y/N) said. Sherlock chuckled at the thought of how obvious it was, feeling good that his partner had caught it too. “So you were Amo? You were that voice on the phone?”

“Using AGRA as her private assassination unit,” Sherlock completed.

“Why did you betray them?” (Y/N) grunted. She could be too emotional sometimes. “Do you know what you caused? The people you hurt? Do you know how that ended? WHY DID YOU BETRAY THEM?”

“Why does anyone do anything?” The secretary asked, knowing well what she had done. She didn’t seem to regret a single thing.

(Y/N) was fuming, Sherlock could hear her breathing and was getting ready to stop her in case she tried to punch the secretary.

“Let me guess,” he said in an attempt to control the room. “Selling secrets?”

“Well, it would be churlish to refuse,” the secretary admitted and Sherlock couldn’t blame her. “Worked very well for a few years. I bought a nice cottage in Cornwall on the back of it. But the ambassador in Tbilisi found out. I thought I’d had it.” She looked towards (Y/N) before returning her gaze to Sherlock. “Then she was taken hostage in that coup,” she laughed. “I couldn’t believe my luck! That bought me a little time.”

“But then you found out your boss had sent AGRA in,” Sherlock stated. He finally had an audience to show off with.

“Very handy,” the woman replied in a bitter tone. “They were always such reliable killers.”

“What you didn’t know, (Y/N), was that this one also tipped off the hostage-takers,” Sherlock explained to (Y/N). “Actually,” he said, “I don’t think Mary knows that either.”

The secretary sat back down and rested her handbag on her lap.

“Lady Smallwood gave the order, but I sent another one to the terrorists with a nice little clue about her code name should anyone have an enquiring mind.” She was proud of her doings. “Seemed to do the trick!”

“And you thought your troubles were over.” (Y/N) was furious.

“I was tired; tired of the mess of it all,” she sighed. “I just wanted some peace, some clarity.”

(Y/N) was about to go on and punch the light out of her, but Sherlock stopped her before she had even given two steps forward.

“The hostages were killed, AGRA too…” She looked across to (Y/N), “or so I thought. My secret was safe. But apparently not. Just a little peace. That’s all your friend wanted too, wasn’t it? A family, home. Really, I understand.”

(Y/N) glanced across to Sherlock, but his gaze was fixed on the secretary who lifted her handbag as if in preparation to stand, and rests one hand on the open top of it.

“So just let me get out of here, right? Let me just walk away. I’ll vanish. I’ll go forever. What d’you say?”

“After what you did?!” (Y/N) roared furiously. She once again started walking towards the woman.

“(Y/N), no!” Sherlock yelled. That’s why he didn’t take her to her cases.

In a fluid moment, the secretary stood up, pulling a pistol from her handbag and aiming it at (Y/N), who stopped and backed away.

(Y/N) considered her options for a second before obliging. “Okay.” She moved back to stand at the other side of Sherlock.

The secretary stopped pointing with her pistol and looked at it as if it was a toy.

“I was never a field agent. I always thought I’d be rather good.”

(Y/N) scoffed. She was upset and she knew they were wasting their time by trying to reason with her. She never understood why Sherlock insisted on talking to the criminals first.

“Well, you handled the operation in Tbilisi very well,” Sherlock complimented and (Y/N) rolled her eyes.

“Thanks.”

“For a secretary.”

(Y/N) and the secretary looked at him with wide eyes.

“What?” The woman frowned.

“Can’t have been easy all those years, sitting in the back, keeping your mouth shut when you knew you were cleverer than most of the people in the room,” he blurted out.

“I didn’t do this out of jealousy!” She defended herself.

“No?” Sherlock smirked. “Same old drudge, day in day out, never getting out there where all the excitement was. Just back to your little flat on Wigmore Street.”

The secretary gaped.

“They’ve taken up the pavement outside the Post Office there. The local clay on your shoes is very distinctive.”

The woman looked down to her dusty shoes. She looked like a rag, no wonder why he thought she was jealous.

“Yes, your little flat.”

“How do you know?”

Sherlock was ready for a quickfire session to kill time and show off to the woman he married. He cocked his head and smirked as if he had already won.

“Well, on your salary it would have to be modest and you spent all the money on that cottage, didn’t you? And what are you? Widowed or divorced?” He focused in on a plain gold band on the index finger of her left hand. “Wedding ring’s at least thirty years old and you’ve moved it to another finger. That means you’re sentimentally attached to it but you’re not still married. I favour widowed, given the number of cats you shared your life with.”

(Y/N) watched the woman closely. She knew that look, that void of fear, that confidence. The woman wasn’t shaking, nor she was feeling vulnerable. No, she was starting to burn in anger. She was a crazy woman who thought she was better than anyone else, of course, she would burn if anyone told her she was anything less than that.

She hadn’t done it out of jealousy, she had done it because she could.

“Sherlock…” (Y/N) warned.

“Two Burmese and a tortoiseshell, judging by the cat hairs on your cardigan,” Sherlock continued. “A divorcee’s more likely to look for a new partner; a widow to fill the void left by her dead husband.”

“Sherlock, don’t,” (Y/N) insisted with a louder tone.

But instead of listening, Sherlock rose his voice ad he got fully into his stride. “Pets do that, or so I’m told, and there’s clearly no-one new in your life, otherwise you wouldn’t be spending your Friday nights in an aquarium. That probably accounts for the drinking problem too: the slight tremor in your hand… The red wine stain ghosting your top lip. So yes. I say jealousy was your motive after all - to prove how good you are...”

The secretary turned to gaze at the entrance as Mycroft walked in.

“... To make up for the inadequacies of your little life.”

The secretary was still looking at the entrance. Inspector Lestrade came in followed by three uniformed police officers.

“Well, Mrs Norbury. I must admit this is unexpected,” Mycroft said, hiding away his true feelings.

“Vivian Norbury, who outsmarted them all,” Sherlock slurred, dripping in sarcasm. “All except Sherlock Holmes.”

He took a step forward, holding out his left hand. (Y/N) and the police officers behind her also stepped forward.

“There’s no way out,” he whispered.

“So it would seem,” Mrs Norbury smiled. “You’ve seen right through me, Mr Holmes.”

“It’s what I do.”

She tilted her head to one side. “Maybe I can still surprise you.”

Swiftly, she brought up the gun and aimed it at Sherlock. Everyone got defensive instantly.

“C’mon,” Lestrade pointed at her, “be sensible.”

Sherlock held his hands out to the side. Mrs Norbury shook her head.

“No, I don’t think so.”

She fired. The bullet headed towards Sherlock who stood there unmoving. (Y/N), who had no doubt anticipated that this was going to happen, hurled herself sideways in front of him and the bullet impacted her lower chest. Blood sprayed outward and immediately there was a large bloodstain on her shirt. Crying out, she fell to the floor against a nearby bench.

“Surprise,” Mrs Norbury said, filled with spite.

(Y/N) rolled over to slump against the back of the bench, gasping in pain. As two of the police officers hurried over to Mrs Norbury to disarm her, Sherlock stared at (Y/N) in shock, then dropped to his knees to press his gloved hand against the wound. She looked up at him, her eyes wide, and whimpered.

“Everything’s fine. It’s gonna be okay,” he whispered. “Get an ambulance!” He commanded, looking round to Mycroft.

“You are such a cock,” (Y/N) whimpered.

“I know,” Sherlock smiled sadly. “But now, dare I say it, it’s not about me.”

“What do I do now, detective?”

Sherlock started checking her frantically just as John ran in. Without asking any questions, he checked her too and laid her down on the floor.

“It’s all right,” Sherlock kept saying, “it’s all right.”

“You can do better than that,” (Y/N) groaned and John kept track of her vitals.

“Like what?”

“Like what about you shut up next time?” Sherlock chuckled and nodded.

“Noted,” he said. “Anything else?”

“If I don’t die…” She started and Sherlock interrupted her.

“Which you won’t.”

“IF I DON’T DIE,” she insisted, “I want you to be more loving towards me.”

“What?” Sherlock frowned and John laughed. “No.”

“Oh, oh, I think I’m losing her,” John joked, “(Y/N), stay with us!”

“Okay, fine,” Sherlock agreed. “But only when we’re alone.”

“That’s not how it works,” John coughed.

“It is how it works!” Sherlock cried.

“It’s not!” Mary laughed and kneeled down next to (Y/N), helping John to keep her stable while the ambulance arrived.

“You two are too nosey,” Sherlock mumbled.

“Loving, you must be loving at all times or I’m going to die,” (Y/N) repeated. She was falling unconscious, so John and Mary urged Sherlock to keep her awake for just a couple of minutes now.

“Okay, what else?” Sherlock asked, “What else, (Y/N)?”

“Breakfast… in bed…” She mumbled.

“I already do that!”

“For me… breakfast in bed… for me,” (Y/N) insisted.

“You are such a cock” John mocked Sherlock.

“Yes, I’ve been told that twice in the last minute.”

Mary laughed and so the paramedics got there.

When (Y/N) woke up, she was surrounded by people. Mrs Hudson, Molly, John, Mary, and obviously Sherlock.

“We’re so glad you’re awake.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Look at you!”

All of them, talking to her nonstop. She only nodded and smiled, not knowing who to reply to first.

Her room was filled with flowers and balloons, and the dim light of midday snuck through the window, making it warm and cosy. She didn’t feel a thing because she was doped, but she faintly knew (by what she could catch hearing at least) that she had gone to surgery.

“I’m glad you’re awake and fine,” Sherlock said after everyone shut up.

“That’s all?” She complained.

John hit Sherlock slightly. The detective rolled his eyes and pulled out little cardboard cards from his pocket. He cleared his throat and started reading in a painfully monotone voice.

“My love, I am delighted for your recovery and I can’t wait for you to come back home to me. I’ve missed having you in my arms, smelling your hair in the morning, and just looking at your… bright, beautiful eyes every day. You are my soulmate, and the thought of losing you was so painful I knew right then and there that I… Nevermind that part, it’s bullshit,” he skipped three cards while everyone else either rolled their eyes or chuckled at him. “You are the love of my life… My best friends… Kiss, kiss, kiss… Er… The message is clear I think.”

“That’s all?” (Y/N) asked again.

Yes, she had technically forced him to date her, and then to marry her, and she had kind of manipulated him to promise her to be more loving, so she couldn’t really complain if he didn’t get it right the first twenty times, but she was the one laying on a hospital bed because he couldn’t get his head out of his own arse!

Sherlock exhaled heavily and looked around. Curious and impatient eyes were all over him, making feel terribly uncomfortable.

“The thought of losing you is unbearable, I was very anxious during your surgery and have been like that up until now that you’ve woken up,” he admitted.

“He also spent the night right here,” Mrs Hudson added. (Y/N) then noticed an unused blanket by the visitor’s sofa.

“Thank you, Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock groaned and gave (Y/N) a cheeky look. “I’m not good with words, but do know that I’d be damned if you, my wife, died.”

“How romantic!” (Y/N) smirked sarcastically. Sherlock eyed her, knowing she was just messing with him.

“I love you, I truly do.”

“And I love you,” (Y/N) said.

Sherlock then walked closer to her and kissed her softly on the lips. “Don’t ever follow me on a case, please.”

“I can’t promise you that.”

“Then don’t jump in front of me if I get shot.”

“Better you stop being a massive cock, ey?”

“I can’t promise that.” Sherlock smiled.

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discordantwords · 4 years

Note

Don’t know if you are still doing prompts but would love one where someone objected at John and Mary’s wedding. Maybe Sherlock or Harry showing up drunk in the middle? Or David, Mary’s ex? Sholto? Or anything where John kisses Sherlock and neither of them was expecting it. Cue Sherlock shock and John worried he ruin everything.

The Interruption

The music had been timed perfectly. The procession had… proceeded. The guests looked appropriately misty-eyed. Mary was resplendent in vintage lace.

And John—

Sherlock swallowed, looked away.

He distanced himself. Not fully—he could not risk vanishing into his mind palace and losing track of time—but just enough that he could stop himself from flinching when Mary and John joined hands.

It was, the best possible outcome. Somehow knowing that did not stop him from occasionally imagining a different outcome entirely.

Foolish. He did not have time to waste on impossibilities.

Mary was clever. She made no effort to dissuade John from the work he did with Sherlock, she at times even seemed to relish joining in. He preferred her to all of the other women that John had wasted time with over the years.

So this was—fine. It was good.

The vicar was speaking. Sherlock filtered out the words, let his gaze wander around the crowded church. No one was looking at him strangely, which meant he’d not missed any important cues.

John was speaking. And Mary. Exchanging sentimental words, no doubt.

Sherlock shut his eyes, then forced them open. He kept his face blank, impassive. He stared at the back of John’s head and thought about sliding his fingers through the short coarse hairs there.

Someone gasped. A murmur ran through the crowd. It was not a happy sound, and Sherlock’s blood ran cold. He’d let his guard down. He’d let his mind wander, had let himself imagine impossible things, and now—

He snapped back to full awareness, fresh data flooding in.

No one was looking at him. Whatever the problem, he hadn’t caused it.

There was a man standing up near the back of the church.

Sherlock looked at him.

(sat near the back to facilitate hasty exit, ex-military, dress uniform, scarred face, all of which pointed to only one possibility: Major James Sholto)

He’d done extensive research, of course, after Mary’s comment. He knew a good deal about the man (It was only prudent, after all—as Best Man he should be familiar with John’s guests). But none of his research would explain why the man seemed dead set on making a scene.

No matter. The man was clearly deranged and would need to be escorted out of the church immediately before he dealt additional damage. He stepped forward to do just that, glancing towards John as he did so, and what he saw brought him up short.

John looked shocked. No, more than shocked. Worse than shocked. He looked anguished. All of the blood had left his face. He’d withdrawn his hand from Mary’s, had clenched it into a tight fist.

Sherlock hesitated, because he’d stood beside John on the brink of death more than once, and he could not recall ever seeing him make a face like that. The only thing that came close was—

He shied away from the memory.

The look on John’s face was not simply the expression of a man irritated at an interruption. It was the stricken look of a man suddenly faced with a ghost from the past, someone significant, possibly a lover.

But that was impossible. That would mean—

The world tilted sideways. Sherlock breathed in, shut his eyes, let the facts rearrange themselves in his mind.

Posh restaurant. Someone else’s bowtie around his neck, a fake moustache drawn crudely over his lip. Clean white shirt dragging stiff against the fresh dressings on his back. John, looking up from a table to finally meet his eyes. And his face—

His face.

He’d missed it. How had he missed it? He’d noted the effect his reappearance had had, of course, he wasn’t blind, and he’d gone ahead and classified that expression as hurt, but hurt was too simple, not nearly enough to cover the breadth of what John’s incredibly expressive face had conveyed with that look.

And now—

He snapped back to himself amidst the frantic muttering and humming of the crowd. John was gone from his side. Mary was gone too.

He was alone at the altar.

He scanned the crowd, but Sholto had disappeared. That told him nothing. Stupid. Stupid. He had no idea if Sholto had left or been escorted out or had disappeared somewhere with John. He’d wasted valuable time thinking about things he could not change and now—

He darted up the aisle towards the doors, tried to deduce the most likely path John would have taken.

The back rooms, of course. Where John put on his suit jacket and donned his hat, where he’d stood staring at himself in the mirror and carefully avoiding meeting Sherlock’s eye.

And—oh—Sherlock had noticed, of course he’d noticed. But he’d thought: nerves, and he’d been preoccupied thinking about all of the ways his life would change and all of the ways that it wouldn’t.

Alone. Always, always alone. And that was how he preferred it.

Wasn’t it?

The door was shut. He opened it, perhaps a bit vigorously—it rebounded against the wall and swung back, almost striking him in the face.

John and Sholto—not Mary, Sholto—snapped their heads up to look at him. They were standing close, very close, clearly they’d been deep in the midst of some serious discussion.

John cleared his throat. His eyes were red-rimmed and a little wild.

"Is everything all right?“ Sherlock asked, his voice flat, level. He shot a pointed look in Sholto’s direction.

"Is everything—” John breathed, and then laughed. It was not a happy sound. “No. Everything is not bloody all right. Not by a mile.”

"I am sorry,“ Sholto said, and to his credit he did look convincingly contrite. "I don’t know what came over me. I never should have come.”

John laughed again, turned away from both of them. His hand clenched and unclenched rhythmically.

"I think it’s best if I go,“ Sholto said to John’s rigid back. He glanced at Sherlock, then away. Then he nodded, a sharp little jerk of his chin (and there was enough of John in that motion that it nearly brought Sherlock to his knees), and left the room.

Sherlock swallowed, waited for John to speak.

Silence fell between them.

"Shall I—tell the vicar you need a few moments?” he tried.

John whirled around, his face contorted. “A few moments. You want to tell the vicar—Sherlock, what the hell is wrong with you?”

That seemed to be a rhetorical question. Sherlock remained silent.

"Where is Mary?“ John asked, finally.

"I don’t know,” Sherlock admitted. He looked down at the ground, then rallied. “Would you like me to find her?”

"No,“ John said, and the anger had bled out of his voice. "Not yet. Just—oh, fuck.”

Sherlock watched him warily.

"This is the sort of thing that happens in films,“ John said. There was a weary humour in his voice now. "Last minute declarations, and all that. It’s not nearly as romantic as they’d have you believe.”

Romantic.

Sherlock swallowed, nodded, though he had absolutely no idea what John was talking about.

"Surely you’ve worked it out by now,“ John said. Bitterness had crept into his voice.

"Your ex commander,” Sherlock said, speaking slowly. “And your… ex.”

"Smartest man in the room, right here,“ John said. His mouth tightened.

"And he was—hoping you still felt the same?”

"He swears he didn’t meant to,“ John said. He looked up at the ceiling, shut his eyes. "That he’d fully intended to come and wish me well, but then he just—”

Sherlock swallowed again. His face was hot. He very much wanted to flee. “I’ll go get Mary.”

"Christ,“ John said. "No. Didn’t you hear me? I can't—not right now.”

"She’ll be wondering what’s going on.“

"It’s pretty obvious what’s going on.”

"No,“ Sherlock said, feeling slow and helpless and stupid. "It’s very much not.”

John looked at him. “What do you mean?”

"Well,“ Sherlock said. "It’s your wedding day. An—old flame—” he nearly choked on the words, “—interrupted the ceremony in order to attempt to win back your favour.”

John blinked, shook his head. He looked more amused than horrified, which seemed a step in the right direction.

"As he’s left—" Sherlock said, and he offered an exaggerated glance around the empty little room, “I can only assume that you don’t return his affections. That whatever there was between you has—um—cooled. Naturally what should follow is a reaffirmation of the affections you do feel, for—um—the person you feel them for. In this case, Mary.”

John smiled at him. It was a sad smile, which made very little sense.

"Yeah,“ John said, finally, after far too much time had passed. He held Sherlock’s gaze. "Mary.”

"Then I’ll just—" Sherlock turned towards the door, his heart in his throat.

"Wait,“ John said.

Sherlock stopped. He was trembling. He did not know why. He wished it would stop.

"Did you know?”

"Probably,“ Sherlock said, and then relented. "Did I know what?”

"About him.“

Sherlock’s mouth went dry. "No,” he admitted.

"We were very close,“ John said. "For a while. And it was—yeah—it was wartime, you know? So everything was a bit—erm—”

"Good,“ Sherlock said. He clapped his hands together. "Excellent. There’s no need for additional detail.”

"But it’s over,“ John said. "Has been for—Christ, I haven’t even spoken to him in years. I don’t know why I invited him, seems a bit cruel now in retrospect, but I guess I just wanted to—I just wanted—”

Sherlock waited.

"Look, after things ended—um—I’m not good at this, yeah? You know that. I don't—I don’t talk about this stuff.“

"With good reason.”

John huffed a laugh, shook his head. “After—him. There’s only one person in my life that I’ve ever felt that strongly about,” John said. “And that’s not even—there’s no comparison, really.”

"Mary Morstan,“ Sherlock said, and wasn’t this all getting a bit tedious? John was all set to marry the woman, obviously his feelings for her were stronger than whatever he’d shared with Sholto.

"No,” John said, his voice so soft that it might have been a whisper. “Not exactly.”

Sherlock’s hands shook. He folded them behind him, bounced on the balls of his feet. Frowned. “You’re not making sense. Have you been drugged?”

"What? No,“ John said. He took a step forward, his face terribly earnest.

Sherlock could smell him; cologne and flowers and nervous sweat.

"Look,” John said. He licked his lips, looked away. “I’m not—if I'm—if this is. Um. Not something you want to hear, then I swear I’ll never mention it again. But this wedding is fucked anyway, and I just—”

Sherlock tilted his head, watched him curiously.

"Just—" John said. He clenched his fists, breathed out through his nose. “You,” he said.

"Sorry?“

”You. It’s bloody you, all right? It’s always been you. From the first moment I saw you in that lab, and you just—you were just so—" John made a frustrated sound, looked away. “You were the most amazing thing I’d ever seen. Still are.”

"John,“ Sherlock said, his voice emerging much too thin and shaky. "What, exactly, are you trying to say?”

“Can’t you deduce it?“ John asked. "Do you really have to make me say it?”

"I—"

"Oh for—" John took another deep breath. “Look, I just have to know. Before I—before I do anything else. Do you think—did you ever think—that something might—that we might—”

Sherlock blinked. Blinked again.

John couldn’t be saying what it sounded like he was saying. He couldn’t be—

The look on his face, that night at the Landmark.

Sherlock shut his eyes, sucked in a shuddering breath. “I find the thought occupies a terrifying amount of my mind.”

"Yeah?“ John’s voice had gone soft again. He sounded very close.

Sherlock nodded. He did not open his eyes. "Yes.”

"Okay,“ John said. His breath ghosted over Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock shivered. "Okay. Um. What are we—what, exactly, do you want to do about that?”

Sherlock opened his eyes and froze. John’s face was only a few inches away.

He had no idea what to do. What to say.

“I—” he said. He swallowed, tried again. “I—”

"I’m going to call off the wedding,“ John said. He lifted his hand, pressed his palm against Sherlock’s cheek, just for a moment. His fingers were cool against Sherlock’s heated skin. "All right? And then we’ll talk.”

"Are you sure?“

"Yeah,” John said. There was a smile curving at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, I'm—I’m sure.”

"Oh,“ Sherlock said. He felt a bit breathless. "All right.”

"All right,“ John echoed. He dropped his hand from Sherlock’s cheek, smiled. It was a bright smile, unfettered, joyful. It lifted years from his face. "All right, good.”

"Should I—um—" Sherlock hesitated, looked around the room. His brain had not come back online and he felt sluggish, helpless.

"Go home,“ John said. "This is going to take a while, I think, and, um. I’m going to want—” he paused, shook his head. He was still smiling. “I’ll see you there. At Baker Street.”

"Home,“ Sherlock said.

"Yeah,” John said. “Home.”

#sherlock #johnlock #ficlet #mine #much too late to actually count for #221b-consolation2020 #little contributions

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