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anonymousewrites · 2 months

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A Study of the Heart and Brain (Book 3) Chapter One

Father Figure! Sherlock x Teen! Reader

Chapter One: Surprise Return

Summary: Sherlock returns to London and sees John once more.

In Serbia…

A man, long-haired and straggled, ran through the forest. A helicopter searched for him from above, and it shone its giant beam of light down onto the trees in search of the man. Infrared cameras caught his position, and gunshots rang out. The man was forced to stop and panted in exhaustion as the ache in his bones caught up to him at the same time as the men. Unable to go on any longer, he slumped to the ground.

The man’s body swayed from chains embedded in the ceiling. His wrists were twisted above his head at an uncomfortable angle. His shirt was gone, and his skin was bruised by repeated blows from his captors.

One of the men struck the captive again, and he gritted his teeth. The other man in the room remained at a desk with his feet up, simply watching the proceedings closely.

“You broke in here for a reason. Just tell us why and you can sleep. Remember sleep?” sneered the torturer, pulling his captive’s hair back. He drew his hand back to strike with his metal pipe again, but he paused as the prisoner spoke quietly. “What?” he said in confusion, leaning in. The man whispered again.

“Well? What did he say?” asked the other soldier.

“He said that I used to work in the navy where I had an unhappy love affair,” said the torturer in bewilderment. The man continued to whisper.

“What?” said the other soldier.

“…The electricity isn’t working in my bathroom, and my wife is sleeping with our next-door neighbor,” exclaimed the torturer, but the captive was still going.

“And?” asked the other.

“The coffee maker! And? And? If I go home now, I’ll catch them at it! I knew there was something going on!” shouted the torturer angrily, abandoning his charge to storm out of the room as his rage took over his rational thought.

The prisoner was left hanging from the chains.

The other soldier stood. “So, my friend. Now it’s just you and me.” He tutted. “You have no idea the trouble it took to find you.” He pulled the captive’s head up and whispered to him in English. “Now listen to me: there’s an underground terrorist network active in London and attack is imminent. Sorry, but the holiday is over, brother dear.” Mycroft let the man’s head fall back. “Back to Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes.”

In London, in Mycroft’s office…

Sherlock leaned back in the barber’s chair as his hair was cut and his scraggy beard was shaved. He held the paper open before him, but he wasn’t paying attention to it. It had taken a glance to get any information he needed, anyways.

“You have been busy, haven’t you?” remarked Mycroft. “Quite the busy little bee.”

“Moriarty’s network—took me two years to dismantle it,” said Sherlock. “You know I couldn’t leave anything still going.” Not when (Y/N) could be threatened by any remnant of Moriarty and his influence.

“And you’re confident you have?” said Mycroft.

“The Serbian side was the last piece of the puzzle,” said Sherlock. He glanced back at Mycroft. “And you know I wouldn’t leave this to chance. I made sure I took care of everything.”

“Yes, yes, for (Y/N)’s sake,” said Mycroft, but despite his disdain for sentimentality, they were part of the Holmes family, so he understood what Sherlock meant. “And by doing so, you got yourself in deep there with Baron Maupertuis. Quite a scheme.”

“Colossal. But worth it,” said Sherlock simply.

“Anyway, you’re safe now.” Mycroft folded his hands together. “A small ‘thank you’ wouldn’t go amiss.”

“What for?” said Sherlock casually.

“For wading in,” said Mycroft. He wouldn’t ask for thanks for looking out for (Y/N) over the last two years. That was family. But going into Serbia personally? Mycroft would hold that over Sherlock until he figured out this terrorist business (and a bit after). “In case you’d forgotten, fieldwork is not my natural milieu.”

The barber, having finished, left the room. Sherlock stood and faced Mycroft angrily.

“Wading in?” he said sharply. “You sat there and watched me being beaten to a pulp!”

“I got you out,” said Mycroft indignantly.

“No, I got me out,” said Sherlock. “Why didn’t you intervene sooner?”

“Well, I couldn’t risk giving myself away, could I? It would have ruined everything,” said Mycroft as if it was obvious.

Sherlock glowered. “You were enjoying it.”

“Nonsense,” said Mycroft.

“Definitely enjoying it,” muttered Sherlock.

“Listen, do you have any idea what it was like, Sherlock, going undercover and smuggling my way into their ranks like that?” Mycroft tsked. “The noise, the people…” He had a clear disgust for it all.

Sherlock just crossed his arms and decided to let that part slide since Mycroft wasn’t going to apologize (Sherlock would be shocked if his brother did). “I didn’t know you spoke Serbian.”

“I didn’t, but the language has a Slavic root with frequent Turkish and German loan words. Took me a couple hours,” said Mycroft.

“You’re slipping,” said Sherlock, happy to have something to poke Mycroft with.

“Middle age, brother mine. It comes to us all,” said Mycroft, turning around so Sherlock could change into fresh clothes. “Now, I need you to give this matter your full attention, Sherlock. Is that quite clear?”

Sherlock turned around and let Mycroft look at him. Pointedly, all he said was: “What do you think of this shirt?”

“Sherlock,” said Mycroft in exasperation, and Anthea walked in beside him.

“I will find your terrorist cell,” said Sherlock. “Just put me back in London.” Let me go back to (Y/N). “I need to get to know the place again, breathe it in, feel every quiver of its beating heart.”

“One of our men died getting this information,” said Anthea, pulling out a folder. “All the chatter, all the traffic, concurs there’s going to be a terror strike on London—a big one.”

“And what about John and (Y/N)?” said Sherlock, finally asking the question on his mind.

“I’ve kept an eye on them, of course,” said Mycroft, gesturing to Anthea. She procured two more folders and handed them to Sherlock.

Too nervous to open (Y/N)’s, Sherlock opted to look at John’s first. He found that John had gone greyer and grown a mustache. Sherlock disapproved. “Well, we’ll have to get rid of that.”

“We?” said Mycroft.

“He looks ancient. I can’t be seen wandering around with an old man,” said Sherlock, tossing John’s file to the side. He held (Y/N)’s and gazed at the name printed on it. (Y/N) (L/N). Not (Y/N) Moriarty. Good. Sherlock summoned his courage and flipped open the file.

He looked at a picture of (Y/N)’s face dated the previous week. They were older. They’d been fifteen when he’d left, and now he was looking at a seventeen-year-old. (Y/N) was almost an adult. But there was something wrong about the picture. Sherlock recognized it immediately—their expression.

It was the same as his when he relapsed and lost himself to drugs before he pulled himself out of addiction and properly took care of himself and his boredom. (Y/N) had an empty look in their eyes.

Sherlock’s gaze snapped up to Mycroft’s. “I thought you were going to take care of them.”

Mycroft didn’t respond and just looked at Anthea. She took her cue and left to leave the brothers to discuss family matters.

“(Y/N) did not take your…absence well,” said Mycroft.

“I saw them at the grave after my funeral,” said Sherlock. “I know.”

“They have not moved on at all,” said Mycroft. He sighed, and though his sighs were usually those of exasperation, this was one of worry and tiredness. “Sherlock, after your ‘death,’ they wouldn’t eat. They barely slept. It took Dr. Watson and I quite some time to get them to do so. And even then, they often forget.”

Sherlock’s heart clenched. (Y/N) wasn’t alright. They were suffering, and it was his fault. Even if he’d left to deal with Moriarty’s network—to protect them—it had still hurt them. “It’s been two years.”

“They’ve improved somewhat, but they relapse into dangerous bouts of depression frequently,” admitted Mycroft. He laced his fingers. “I even ensure they had cases—safe, of course—to work on, but it didn’t seem to help.” He looked at Sherlock. “I’m sorry, Sherlock.” He wouldn’t apologize for anything he did to Sherlock, but (Y/N) was younger family, and just as he was protective of Sherlock from behind the curtain, he was the same way with (Y/N). He was sorry he couldn’t help them. “The doctor and I did the best we could.”

“Then it’s good that I’m coming back,” said Sherlock, trying to keep his usual pragmatism, but he was worried now.

(Y/N)’s mental health had always been fragile—the curse of being a genius in a world of idiots. They had been wary of people in the orphanage, pushed aside by adults who wanted to ignore their mind looking through them. Then, of course, the cases they and Sherlock had ended up on were…traumatizing, to put it lightly. But (Y/N) had always had Sherlock. He had watched for any serious signs of danger and taken care of them. But he hadn’t been there this time. It had been his absence that caused them this pain.

“Have you done anything to prepare (Y/N) or John for your return?” said Mycroft.

He sincerely hoped that (Y/N) found some stability again now that Sherlock was coming back, but he also knew that Sherlock coming back after so long being dead could also cause problems (and Mycroft didn’t want (Y/N)’s mental health to be any worse than it was).

“Where’s John going to be tonight?” said Sherlock, ignoring Mycroft. His brother knew Sherlock had kept silent on his status being alive and not dead. It had been for John and (Y/N)’s safety.

Mycroft looked at Sherlock disapprovingly. He knew Sherlock was going to go to John first because he was scared to see (Y/N) unwell because it was partly his fault. But he also knew he couldn’t stop his brother form doing what he wanted (and it wasn’t as if he wouldn’t go to (Y/N). Sherlock cared too much to leave them like this for long now knowing how they were.)

“How would I know?” said Mycroft, deciding to be obtuse as ever.

“You always know,” said Sherlock, knowing Mycroft as well as his brother knew him.

“He has a dinner reservation in Marylebone Road. Nice little spot. They have a few bottles of the 2000 Saint-Emilion, though I prefer the 2001,” said Mycroft. “And there is also a sweets shop that sells lollipops there.”

“I know,” said Sherlock. He had bought (Y/N) their favorite lollipops from there many times.

Anthea reentered and held out Sherlock’s Belstaff coat. He took it and slid it on.

“Welcome back, Mr. Holmes,” she said.

“Thank you,” said Sherlock sarcastically, facing his brother. “Marylebone Road, was it? I trust you can spare a car for me?”

Mycroft tutted. “Anthea will escort you there. But then you’re on your own.”

His brother could face John and (Y/N)’s reactions on his own. John’s reaction was easy enough to guess—anger. But Mycroft knew Sherlock could take a punch. However, he wanted (Y/N) and Sherlock to be alright soon. Neither was quite right without the other. Mycroft wasn’t one for guessing or hoping, but he did wish for everything to return to being as it should be.

Sherlock followed Anthea to the car. And while he watched the streets go by to take him to John, all he could think of was (Y/N). His kid. Soon, everything would be as it should be. Him, John, and (Y/N)—family.

“If you’ll have me, Mary, could you see your way, um…” John cleared his throat nervously. Trying to propose to the woman he loved was scarier than anything he’d ever done. “If you could see your way to—”

“Sit, I think you’ll this vintage exceptionally to your liking,” said Sherlock, disguised with just a drawn-on mustache. He expertly interrupted John and Mary. “It has all of the qualities of the old with some of the color of the new.”

John didn’t even look at Sherlock the Waiter and gritted his teeth. “No, sorry, not now, please.”

“Like a gaze from a crowd of strangers, suddenly one is aware of staring into the face of an old friend,” said Sherlock, trying to prompt John to see him.

“No, look, seriously, could you just…” John looked up, and his face fell.

“Interesting thing, a tuxedo,” said Sherlock nonchalantly as if he wasn’t suddenly back from the dead. “Lends distinction to friends and anonymity to waiters.” John stood silently.

“John?” said Mary in confusion as John tried to take deeps breaths. “John, what is it?”

Sherlock cleared his throat and intelligently tried to defuse John. “Well, the short version is…not dead.” Or maybe not try to defuse anything. He coughed. “Bit mean springing it on you like that, I know. Could have given you a heart attack, probably still will. But in my defense, it was very funny.” John stared angrily. “Okay, not a great defense.”

Mary’s eyes widened. “Oh, no, you’re—”

“Oh, yeah,” said Sherlock.

“Oh, my god,” said Mary.

“Not quite,” said Sherlock.

“You died, you jumped off a roof,” said Mary.

“No,” said Sherlock.

“You’re dead,” said Mary.

“No, I’m quite sure, I checked,” said Sherlock. “Excuse me.” He dipped a napkin in their wine glasses and wiped away his mustache as John glowered. “Does yours rub off, too?”

“Oh my god, oh my god,” exclaimed Mary. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

Sherlock cleared his throat. “Okay, John, I’m suddenly realizing I probably owe you some sort of an apology.” John slammed his hand down on the table.

Mary tried to soothe John. “Alright, John, just keep—”

“Two years,” snapped John. He took a deep breath, but he didn’t calm down. “Two years! Hm? I thought—Mm…I thought you were dead. Now, you let me grieve. You let (Y/N) grieve. How could you do that?” Sherlock winced at the mention of (Y/N). “How?!”

Sherlock coughed and tried to collect himself. “Wait, before you do anything that you might regret, one question, just let me ask one question.” He pointed to John’s mustache. “Are you really going to keep that?”

John took a deep breath and chose violence. He grabbed Sherlock’s collar and pushed him to the ground roughly. Onlookers gasped, and Mary shot up from her seat. John didn’t care and just continued to throttle Sherlock.

In a dingy little diner (they had gotten kicked out of the fancier restaurant for fighting), Sherlock attempted to explain himself to John without getting punched again. “I calculated—”

“You know, for a genius, you can be remarkably thick,” snapped John, just cutting him off.

“What?” said Sherlock.

“No one cares how you faked it, Sherlock. I want to know why. For God’s sake, why?!” snapped John.

“Because Moriarty had to be stopped. I had to protect (Y/N),” said Sherlock simply. “I needed to get rid of his network to protect them.”

John relaxed slightly. “Fine, fine. Did anyone know?”

“My brother, of course. And then Molly Hooper had to fake the documents for my death…and maybe a few people in my homeless network,” said Sherlock.

“So just your bother, Molly Hooper, and a hundred tramps,” snapped John, back to being angry since he suspected Mycroft would know, but others knew before him and (Y/N)?

“No, twenty-five at most,” said Sherlock, thinking he was fixing something.

John launched across the table and grabbed Sherlock’s throat.

In a shabby ice cream parlor, Mary crossed her arms and tapped her foot as John just glared at Sherlock as he dabbed a napkin on his broken lip. The night was just getting worse and worse.

“Seriously, it’s not a joke? You’re keeping that?” said Sherlock, glancing at John’s mustache.

John cleared his throat. “Yeah.”

“Sure?” said Sherlock, questioning John.

“Mary likes it,” said John.

“Mmm…no she doesn’t,” said Sherlock.

“She does,” said John.

“She doesn’t.”

John glanced at Mary, and she coughed.

“Oh, don’t,” she said.

“Oh, brilliant,” sighed John.

“Look, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t know how to tell you,” said Mary.

“Right, no, no, this is charming. I’ve really missed this!” snapped John. He groaned. “I’m surprised it’s not you and (Y/N) back at this.” He glanced at Sherlock. “Actually, I’m surprised (Y/N) isn’t here at all.” He frowned. “Where are they?”

Sherlock was silent.

“Sherlock,” said John. “Where’s (Y/N)?”

“I haven’t seen them yet,” said Sherlock slowly.

“What!” shouted John.

“I haven’t told them yet,” said Sherlock guiltily.

John reared back and punched Sherlock.

Taglist:

@stilesstilinskiforlife-blog

@im-making-an-effort

@ilse235

@schrodingers-intelligence

@awsedrftgyhujikol

@lxserthxngzzz

@forever1313

@mentallyunstablemanlover

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bdslab · 1 year

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Best BD Character Tournament

Nominations are closed and the bracket is set! It's time to see who comes on top! Polls will open on Feb 24 at 6AM EST and will run for 1 day each. I'll include links to each poll here after it goes live.

Honorable mention: Weekly (Blacksad) also received a nomination but unfortunately was randomly chosen of the nominees with one vote to sit out of the contest.

The Favorites (most likely to make it to semifinals): Gaston Lagaffe (Gaston) - 12 nominations Astérix (Astérix) - 7 nominations Blutch (Les Tuniques Bleues) - 7 nominations Fantasio (Spirou & Fantasio) - 6 nominations

Round 1

Gaston Lagaffe/Gomer Goof (Gaston) vs Gretchen Webb (Zombillénium)

Lady d'Olfine/d'Olphine (Benoît Brisefer) vs Billy the Cat (Billy the Cat)

Corto Maltese (Corto Maltese) vs Timber Smurf (The Smurfs)

Léon Prunelle (Gaston) vs Brainy Smurf/Schtroumpf à Lunettes (The Smurfs)

Haddock (Tintin) vs Navee/Nävis (Sillage)

Zorglub (Spirou & Fantasio) vs Ian/Yves Lebrac (Gaston)

Getafix/Panoramix (Astérix) vs Dodji (Seuls)

Mélusine (Mélusine) vs Guilhem de Landrey (La Rose Écarlate)

Fantasio (Spirou & Fantasio) vs Calculus/Tournesol (Tintin)

Cacofonix/Assurancetourix (Asterix) vs Clifton (Clifton)

Lucky Luke (Lucky Luke) vs Joe Dalton (Lucky Luke)

Léonard (Léonard) vs Vicky (Les Nombrils)

Obélix (Asterix) vs Seccotine (Spirou & Fantasio)

Dogmatix/Idéfix (Astérix) vs Rasputin (Corto Maltese)

Jérôme K. Jérôme Bloche (Jérôme K. Jérôme Bloche) vs Rubine (Rubine)

Chesterfield (Les Tuniques Bleues) vs Shimy (Les Légendaires)

Astérix (Astérix) vs Valérian (Valérian)

Benny Breakiron/Benoît Brisefer (Benoît Brisefer) vs Philip Mortimer (Blake & Mortimer)

Jimmy Mc Clure (Blueberry) vs Grouchy Smurf/Schtroumpf Grognon (The Smurfs)

Mister Invincible/Imbattable (Imbattable) vs Jokey Smurf/Schtroumpf Farceur (The Smurfs)

Tintin (Tintin) vs Spip (Spirou & Fantasio)

Snowy/Milou (Tintin) vs Eusèbe (De Cape et De Crocs)

Blacksad (Blacksad) vs Sammy (Sammy)

Averell Dalton (Lucky Luke) vs Le Scrameustache (Le Scrameustache)

Blutch (Les Tuniques Bleues) vs Tootuff/Titeuf (Titeuf)

Julius Caesar (Astérix) vs Sonny Tuckson (Buck Danny)

Blueberry (Blueberry) vs Lili (Lili)

Peewit/Pirlouit (Johan & Pirlouit) vs Régis Renaud (Les Petits Hommes)

Spirou (Spirou & Fantasio) vs Zantafio (Spirou & Fantasio)

Yoko Tsuno (Yoko Tsuno) vs Armand de Maupertuis (De Cape et De Crocs)

Gil Jourdan (Gil Jourdan) vs La coccinelle de Gotlib (Rubrique-à-brac)

Lou (Lou!) vs Jadina (Les Légendaires)

#i still don't think the other tags are active so I'll leave it there #I'll tag the series when it's the individual polls though #Good luck!#text #Best of BDs contest

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your-disobedient-servant · 2 years

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I will admit, I am not very knowledgeable on the enlightenment era stuff, besides getting some giggles at the posts of my friends and was never really interested in it aside from the stuff with Catherine the Great that was going on around the time. But now after scrolling your blog and actually witnessing the sheer amount of DRAMA QUEENS, I've gotten somewhat curious 🤭

If you don't mind me asking, can you please describe the relationship of the "two toxic old men" to a person like me, who doesn't know much, but is willing to learn?

Fritz and Voltaire? With pleasure!

So, in 1736, Frederick, then the crown prince of Prussia, sent some fanmail to Voltaire. Being the attention whore he was, especially when it came to royalty, V responded with great enthusiasm and the two struck up a correspondence full of mutual flattery. At one point V enlisted his friend Thieriot to help send literary news (he was supposed to be paid: he wasn't, ever) and he...sent a lot of gossip about Voltaire. Another important thing is also that Émilie du Châtelet, V's long-term lover, and Fritz HATED each other. And it's also generally agreed that Fritz was gay.

1740 comes around, Fritz's awful dad finally croaks, and he becomes king and wants to, in his own words, possess Voltaire. He and Voltaire met in person for the first time in September, briefly, then again in November where V spends his birthday in Prussia. Party time. The correspondence from during that visit is amazing, V wants to leave, Fritz begs him to come back and says he'll kiss him on Friday, V tells Fritz he loves him more than Émilie, they call each other mistress, Fritz complains that V is expensive behind his back but he'll win over Émilie because he can pay him more, V says he's not interested in Greek affairs (read: gay stuff) despite the flirting but he is there for Fritz, Émilie begs V to come back saying she's sick and gets V's friend Cideville to send him a poem about how hot she is, etc etc.

At some point, Fritz tried to force Voltaire to come to Prussia by spreading gossip in France that'd force him out of the country and iirc succeeded, but I don't remember which visit was that off the top of my head.

They briefly meet again in 1742. In 1743, Voltaire was sent to Prussia as a spy, at which he was hilariously godawful (Fritz answered most of his diplomatic questionnaire with jokes). After Émilie died in 1749, V moved to Prussia in 1450, which went fine at first, but they slowly started to realise they really can't fucking stand to live with each other. Voltaire got involved in a financial scandal and also royally pissed off Maupertuis (Émilie's former lover, president of the Berlin Academy) and with that Fritz, culminating in Fritz burning all copies of Diatribe du docteur Akakia.

V resigned and left in early 1752, but he was (unlawfully, Fritz had no authority there) detained by an agent of Fritz's in Frankfurt because he took a book of poetry in which Fritz satirised other European leaders. What followed was a very entertaining mess of miscommunication (please do yourself a favour and read the correspondence from that time, google translate does the job fine) and theatrics on Voltaire's part, who kept insisting he was just a sick old man who only wanted to go take the waters. He writes to everyone, his niece and current lover writes to Wilhelmine, V at some point pulls a gun on someone, Freytag writes to Fritz like "he looks like a skeleton, is he really sick or does he always look like that?," eventually V's luggage in which the book was in gets delivered, he coughs it up, but he still isn't let go, eventually Fritz himself has to write to Freytag like "yo, wtf is going on." It's a disaster and it ruins their relationship for good.

Voltaire is so pissed off that he writes a memoir about his experiences in Prussia where he outs Fritz (...and also his brother Henri) as gay in no uncertain terms several times and also edits a few letters to his niece in the vein of Richardson's Pamela, painting himself as a poor victim of the seductive king. Which...lmao, really, V? Really? I translated the first one here, currently working on the second. Though those letters weren't discovered to be edited until 1991, so many older biographies just take them as fact.

Anyway, the two stopped writing to each other for a while. They reconnected at the urging of Fritz's sister Wilhelmine when the Seven Years War was going badly and Fritz was suicidal, and it went well on the surface, but Voltaire kept writing to his friends about how he's totally over Fritz, he hates him, he wishes he was hit by a cannonball, he ridicules his suicide letter behind his back, etc. Fritz also keeps shit-talking Voltaire behind his back the whole time, but is overjoyed when he gets a letter. As an example of later correspondence, here's a translation of an excerpt from the "it's good that you're such a colossal dick or your perfection would embarrass humanity" letter. Either way, they slowly reconciled and kept writing to each other until Voltaire's death.

I know I left a ton out and I wrote it pretty much all from memory so could be that I fucked up the details, but I hope it helps. Wish I could include some more letter excerpts because they're fantastic, but it's long as it is.

Sources

If you want a good intro on these two, read the bios by Nancy Mitford - she has the fatal flaw of not citing shit but they're short and fun and easy to find and she's one of the few who are able to see that both of them were a total mess. For more academic sources, there's Aldridge (pro: cites letter numbers in-text, very balanced when it comes to Fritz, con: impossible to find) or Besterman (pro: most comprehensive, dude compiled his letters so he knows his shit, con: big bias against Fritz) for Voltaire and...hm, I'm trying to think of a Fritz biographer that'd have any info on those two. Blanning hasn't much and I've yet to get around to MacDonogh, so I can't say where that one is good and bad.

There are also letters here and here that you can googletranslate and I really wish Electronic Enlightenment wasn't paywalled (if you know someone who has a NYPL card to lend you their login info…I recommend) cause it has like all of V's letters and an AMAZING search.

#man this got long #and i omitted a fuck ton of good stuff for brevity :(#Frederick the Great #Voltaire #q&a #two toxic old men #long post

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no-side-us · 1 year

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Letters From Watson Liveblog - Feb. 12

The Reigate Squires, Part 1 of 3

What a tease. You just know Conan Doyle was giggling to himself coming up with some outlandish names and titles for a story he knew he would never write. I want to know what Baron Maupertuis and his colossal schemes were about!

"Don't worry Watson, I never rested for a moment! I didn't eat, sleep, or even use the bathroom! My health is secondary, no, tertiary to stopping crime! Isn't that reassuring?"

I'm assuming that this means there were only guys there, no women, which is an odd thing for Holmes to desire, though not entirely surprising considering his opinion of women in the last letters. Unless this means something else in this context, of course.

Holmes is just adorable. How could anyone read these stories and come to the conclusion he is always a cold and emotionless person?

And Watson's adorable too! They've both been very cute and caring in this story so far.

I wonder what the earliest time the murder would've had to have occurred for the Colonel to decide to skip breakfast. Like if the murder happened at 5 a.m. would that be early enough, or just too late in his mind?

Poor Watson. I just realized that this story is the equivalent of a vacation episode in a detective show: the detective and their partner go out of town, the partner just wants to have a good time, but oh wait! There's a murder! And the detective just happens to be there to help solve it!

Just want to say thank you to Watson for transcribing the note. Reading cursive is not my forte.

Getting that compliment from Holmes as an Inspector is high praise, good on Inspector Forrester.

A lot of interesting little mysteries and clues so far. I'm curious to see how it might all fit together in the next letter.

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Clues

#letters from watson #the reigate squires #sherlock holmes #john h watson #colonel hayter #inspector forrester #william kirwan #arthur conan doyle #liveblogging sherlock holmes

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tabellae-rex-in-sui · 2 years

Note

Did Frederick know JJ? Did they get along at all?

Hsnsjsjdb They never met in person, but JJ did write him some short letters and Fritz knew JJ's works. Unsurprisingly, the Philosopher King did not like Jean-Jacques Rousseau's beliefs on life and politics lol. In 1762, JJ needed a country to live in, as he had been exiled from a couple already, and since Fritz advertised Prussia as an Enlightened haven for philosophers, JJ wrote a letter to Fritz (but maybe didn't send it):

"I have said a good deal that is bad about you, and perhaps I will again. However, I have been driven from France, from Geneva, and from the canton of Berne, and I come seeking asylum in your territories."

—July 1762, JJ Rousseau to Frederick

He then met Fritz' friend and confident Lord Marschall Keith and they hit it off. Keith was actually a fan of JJ's and acted as a liaison between JJ and Fritz. He even referred to JJ as his son and JJ called him his father. Fritz granted JJ and Thérèse asylum in Môtiers near Neuchâtel. As for his feelings towards JJ, he makes himself very clear in the letter to Keith where he agrees to help JJ:

"Your letter, my dear my lord, about Rousseau of Geneva gave me much pleasure. I see we think alike; we must relieve this poor wretch, who sins only by having odd opinions, but which he believes to be good. I will send you a hundred crowns, which you will have the kindness to give him for what he requires for his needs. I believe, by giving him things in kind, that he will accept them rather than money. If we didn't have the war, if we weren't ruined, I would have him build a hermitage with a garden, where he could live as he thinks our forefathers lived. I confess that my ideas are as different from his as is the finite from the infinite; he would never persuade me to graze the grass and crawl. It is true that all this Asian luxury, this refinement of good food, voluptuousness and softness, is not essential to our preservation, and that we could live with more simplicity and frugality than we do; but why renounce the pleasures of life, when one can enjoy them? The true philosophy, it seems to me, is that which, without prohibiting use, is content to condemn abuse; you have to know how to do without everything, but not give up anything. I confess to you that many modern philosophers displease me by the paradoxes they announce. They want to tell new truths, and they spout errors that offend common sense. I stick to Locke, my friend Lucretius, my good Emperor Marcus Aurelius; these people have told us everything we can know, apart from Epicurus' physics, and everything that can make us moderate, good and wise. After that, it is pleasant that we are told that we are all equal, and that consequently we must live like savages, without laws, without society and without police, that the fine arts have harmed morals, and other paradoxes so unsustainable. I believe that your Rousseau missed his vocation; he was doubtless born to become a famous cenobite, a Father of the desert, famous for his austerities and his macerations, a Stylite. He would have performed miracles, he would have become a saint, and he would have added to the enormous catalog of Martyrology; but at present he will only be regarded as a singular philosopher, who resurrects after two thousand years the sect of Diogenes. There's no need to graze grass, nor to fall out with all the philosophers of his contemporaries. Defunt Maupertuis told me of him a feature that characterizes him well. On his first trip to France, Rousseau lived in Paris on what he earned from copying music. The Duc d'Orléans learned that he was poor and unhappy, and gave him some music to transcribe in order to have an opportunity of doing him some liberality. He sent him fifty louis; Rousseau took five, and returned the rest, which he never wished to accept, although they pressed him, saying that his work was not worth more, and that the Duc d'Orléans could better employ this sum by giving it to people poorer and lazier than him. This great disinterestedness is unquestionably the essential foundation of virtue; thus I judge that your savage has morals as pure as the inconsistent spirit"

— 1 September 1762, Frederick to Lord Marschall Keith

He and Thérèse were mostly happy there, but the locals didn't like their presence and regarded them as strange foreigners with royal protection (Frederick was not particularly well liked in the region either). This is also where JJ started wearing his long robe and making lace, joking that he had become a woman, which was also not approved of by the locals. Even more than all that, he was living with an unmarried woman, Thérèse. JJ claimed that Thérèse was the daughter of a friend who had entrusted her to him upon his death, but no one bought the lie and rumors spread about them being lovers and even of Thérèse being pregnant (she wasn't, but they obviously were lovers). They also faced religious hostility, JJ was made to reaffirm his Calvinist faith in writing but Thérèse attended Catholic mass across the French boarder every week, the locals tried to pressure JJ to re-reaffirm his Calvinism and JJ refused. JJ of course published some controversial writing, which again pissed off the locals, specifically ones criticizing religion and he was accused of blasphemy. He refused Fritz' offer of largesse, asking him if there weren't more needy subjects under his rule who could make better use of it. He also implored him to end the war.

"You want to give me bread; are there not any of your subjects lacking it? Remove from before my eyes this sword which dazzles and wounds me; she has done her duty only too well, and the scepter is abandoned. [...] May I see Frederick the Just and the Dreaded covering his States with a numerous people of which he is the father, and J.-J. Rousseau, the enemy of kings, will go to die at the foot of his throne."

— 30 October 1762, JJ Rousseau to Frederick

At this point V made it public that JJ had abandoned his 5 children, and spread other rumors about him too, some true (like him abandoning his kids) some false (like him killing Thérèse's mother). Rocks were thrown through JJ's windows in the middle of the night and people even threatened to shoot him. Frederick sent off a reminder to the region, to respect his protection of Rousseau. But eventually, everything became too much, and JJ and Therese were compelled to leave in 1765. After they left, an effigy of JJ was found in the market, attached to it was a satirical document saying that he had disgraced Thérèse, and condemning the "Bavarian castrato" (Frederick) who brought him there. Frederick invited him to Potsdam, but JJ declined.

A year later, Frederick added in a letter to Voltaire:

"P.S. You ask me what I think of Rousseau of Geneva. I think he is unhappy and to be pitied. I don't like his paradoxes or his cynical tone. Those of Neufchâtel used it badly towards him: we must respect the unfortunate one; only perverse souls overwhelm them."

— December 1766, Frederick to Voltaire

#ask #anon ask #i was sitting on this ask for so long sorry jdjsjdjdnd #but i wanted to translate the quoted and never felt in the mood to #anyway right before all this; before JJ asked V if he could come to his territories; V invited JJ to Ferney and said hed treat him as a son #JJ did not respond to that invitation dbdbjsjdnd

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