#Then the sherlock pub just happened to come to mind when discussing things we could do together

[im-traumatised]

Seem to accidentally be having a Sherlock themed birthday this year. This was not planned I'll have you know

[simplyshelbs16xoxo]

‘wreck my plans’ chapter 6: your heart was glass...

FFN | Ao3 | Buy Me a Coffee?

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               They took the night train into Sheffield. Tom sat across from her, a science fiction novel open in his hands. It was only a two hour ride, but Molly wished she had brought something to distract her from everything. Instead she sat there, her heart hurting, wishing she had the courage to bring up what she needed to speak to him about. There had been a lack of that lately, courage. The first weekend of the new year, she had a symposium to attend where she’d be giving a talk about her most recent published article.

               Curious, she decided to at least say something. “Did you ever read my paper? The one that was published a few weeks back?”

               Without looking up from his book, Tom furrowed his brows. “What paper?”

               “It was the one about the unusual cases of tandem bullets and how to spot the findings of such an injury,” Molly reminded him.  

               “Uh, no, sorry, Molls, can’t say I have,” he replied, still not looking at her. “You know it’s not my cup of tea.”

               Not his cup of tea, indeed. She rolled her eyes. Of course he hadn’t. But Sherlock had. And without prompting. A small smile bloomed on her face at the memory. He had told her it was brilliant. “My clever Molly,” he called her.

               Molly turned her head toward the window, watching as more stars dotted the sky the further from London they got. She blinked her eyes slowly, fighting the exhaustion she felt. It wasn’t long before everything went black, dreams of Sherlock in her head. This time, she didn’t fight them. They were lovely dreams of Sherlock kissing her, holding her, touching her, making her his. It was more than she could bear. Then they were dancing, the song playing in the background tugging at her heart.

                                     Goodbye, my almost lover

                                   Goodbye, my hopeless dream

               Tears stained her face as she slept. She’d cry an ocean for him, the water’s colour matching his eyes. He was calling out to her, her name like a prayer on his lips. What followed were the words she had longed to hear him say: I love you. And damn it, she could no longer deny that she loved him too.

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               Arrived in Sheffield safe and sound. It probably won’t be long until I’m dead to the world. Happy Christmas to you too, Sherlock. And thanks for thinking of me.

                -Mx

                Sherlock read over her words several times before finally setting his phone down to look over the sheet music in front of him, adding the final notes to his composition for her. Reaching for his violin, he put the bow to the strings, allowing the first sorrowful notes to overcome him. The music coursed through his veins as it poured out from his heart. The tone shifted into something tender, romantic. He thought of her eyes, her laugh, her smile; the way she lingered long enough to drive him crazy when she kissed his cheek.

                Downstairs, Mrs. Hudson listened to the music—she loved it when he played—with tears in her eyes. “You poor dear…” she blubbered, using a tissue to blow her nose. She so wished he would just tell Molly how he felt. There was no doubt in her mind that the girl loved him back. They were both so damn stubborn.

                 As Sherlock brought the music to a close, he let out a ragged breath. Setting the violin back in its case, he thought of how much he wished he could have her here for Christmas. He wasn’t overly fond of the holiday, but it sparked joy in her. They could spend it together—just the two of them by the fire, he in his chair and her, legs curled up on his lap. It was a nice little dream. Sherlock so desperately wanted her to know he loved her. He wasn’t giving up without a fight this time.

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                  Molly looked around at all the once-familiar faces. The house was crowded with Tom’s family—people she met only a small handful of times—but she never felt so alone in her life. When she thought of family, images of John and Mary showed up, Greg, Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson, and, of course, Sherlock. They were the ones she should be spending Christmas with. It wasn’t that Tom’s family was awful—quite the opposite. It had been so long since she had a parent-like figure in her life.

                   “Have you two set a date yet?” his mother asked. She threw a stealthy wink at her son.

                   Tom shook his head, amused by the question. “We discussed April in the beginning, didn’t we, Molls?”

                   “Hmm?” she said sleepily. “Oh, uh, yeah.” They only discussed it, never officially choosing anything yet. Or, at least, she never did. “Sorry, just a bit tired from the ride over. Thomas, do you know if my phone is done charging yet?”

                   He headed over to the small charging table across the room and retrieved it for her. “All charged up,” he smiled, leaning down to kiss her cheek.

                   “Thanks,” she replied, a sad smile on her face. Tom did love her, she had no doubt about that, but it wasn’t the way she had always imagined. Then again, life wasn’t a fairytale. But it could be, Mary’s voice rang clear in her head. Molly unlocked her phone finding another text from Sherlock.

                   Glad you made it safely. Have a good night, Molly. Sleep well and have pleasant dreams.

                   -SHx

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                   She had no idea how long she sat there staring at the little ‘x’ he added beside his initials just for her. Needing to be alone with her thoughts, Molly headed upstairs. A few people—his mum, aunt, and grandmother—bid her goodnight. She acknowledged them briefly, happy when she was able to turn the corner at the top of the steps. It was another hour or so before Tom joined her. He slipped in beneath the duvet, oblivious to the fact she had been crying. Not that she knew what for. She wanted to start a fight with him if only just to feel something other than the pain that had been eating her up for weeks.

                   “I don’t think I’m who you think I am,” she muttered to him.

                   Tom turned toward her. “Where’s this coming from?”

                   Molly sighed. “From a long overdue conversation, and please don’t just shut me down like you always do. It’s getting old. I think when you met me, I was a shell of the person I am. You fell in love with the wrong girl.”

                   “Come, now, Molls, I know who you are,” Tom tried to assure her. “This is just wed—well, engagement jitters. Is that why we haven’t done much of anything to plan? I know it can be overwhelming.”

                   She shook her head. He really didn’t know her at all. “What’s my favourite colour?”

                   “I—what’s that got to do with anything?” he asked. “It’s green.”

                   Molly smiled sadly. “No, it’s not. It’s yellow.”

                   “It’s just a colour, Molls,” he told her, yawning.

                   “It’s your favourite colour,” she told him.

                   “What is?”

                   “Green,” she replied. “That’s the colour you like.”

                   “Actually…it’s not,” he admitted.

                   Molly scrunched her face in confusion. “Then why do you wear green so much?”

                   Tom ran a hand through his hair. “You said you really liked green on me when we were first dating.”

                    She tried so hard, but couldn’t control the laughter that came out. Tom joined in, knowing how ridiculous they’d been. Sharing a laugh helped lessen the tension, but he couldn’t deny she had a point. Like most things though, he let it roll off his shoulders, chalking it up to nerves or pressure. Maybe if he could make things easier on her. Wedding planning was a bit contrived. Perhaps she’d prefer spontaneity? The cogs were turning in his head, though it wasn’t long before they both drifted to sleep, facing away from one another.

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A Little Over a Year Ago

                “Molly! You made it!” Meena shrieked in excitement. The pub was crowded, music from the house band thumping through the speakers around her. She dragged Molly over to the bar. “I’d like you to meet Tom! He’s a friend of my brother’s!”

                “Hi,” Tom greeted her somewhat awkwardly. He held out his hand to her and Molly shook it.

                “Hello,” she replied, forcing a smile, unable to ignore how he dressed similarly to a certain consulting detective. Some days were still difficult since Sherlock had gone. It had been nearly a year since he left. Molly knew he was alive, but she grieved him just the same. She felt his absence in everything she did, searching for him in the lab or expecting him to come sweeping in the morgue like he did before. Mike had caught her once in the lab, heaving sobs wracking her body.

                “It’ll be alright, Molly,” he had told her, silently asking permission to hug her. She nodded and let him comfort her. He knew how much Sherlock meant to her. “We all miss him.”

                Needless to say, it wasn’t difficult for her to convince everyone of her own grief. She prayed for his safety every single night. And, Meena, bless her soul, was trying to help Molly move on.

                “Would you mind if I bought you a drink?” Tom asked.

               Determined to enjoy herself, Molly replied, “Not at all. Thank you.”

               Meena’s brother joined them moments later, and the four of them traded stories from Uni, laughing at all the shit they got into. It was the first time Sherlock hadn’t lingered in her mind since his departure, and Molly felt lighter than she had in months. Tom was lovely, treated her kindly. They bonded over their love of BBC’s Miranda and Doctor Who. She learned that he liked to go to the pub on weekends to watch football with his mates.

               Molly was hesitant to share anything about her. She certainly didn’t want to tell him she was still grieving the loss of her closest friend, though it would eventually come out later thanks to Meena. She listened to him talk about his family, growing up in Sheffield. When he asked about hers, all she could muster was, “There’s no one left. Just me.” The emptiness left inside her made itself known once more at the reminder that she really had next to no one left in her life. She had Meena, and of course that should be enough, but somehow it wasn’t.

               “Hey…you okay?” Tom asked, breaking her free from the depressing thoughts in her head.

                “Hmm? Sorry.” She laughed nervously. “I tend to get lost in my head sometimes—it’s been happening a lot more often lately.”

                “Nice to see you joining the land of the living,” Meena joked.    

                Molly rolled her eyes playfully. The rest of the night eased her troubled mind. They had gone and played darts, girls against guys. Only by two points, the girls had lost, but it was because of Tom’s insanely accurate throws. She felt flirty with the alcohol in her system, and decided to present a proposition to Tom. “Take one more shot, and if you hit the bullseye—“

                “And what?” he asked, teasing her, his eyes practically undressing her. “Do I get a snog out of this?”

                Meena’s brother whistled loudly.

               Feeling bold, she nodded. “You better not miss.” Surprising her, Tom took a moment to line up the shot and hit it right in the center. Meena and her brother cheered and started shouting in excitement when Molly pulled Tom in for a searing kiss. From that alone, she could feel the void that had been left in her life from Sherlock’s absence start to close up bit by bit. And it left her wanting more.

 Nine Months Ago

               It had been a bit of whirlwind. Molly had dated Tom for a month before they made it official. Now, two months in an actual relationship, she felt content. His gentle demeanor was exactly what she needed in her life at the moment, and she was thankful for it. They were to have dinner tonight over at his place. She was excited mostly to see his dog, Milo, who always looked put out every time he took a whiff of her, smelling her cat’s scent on her clothes.

               “Molly,” he smiled brightly when he opened his door to his flat. “Come on in. Milo’s missed you.” He shut the door behind her after she stepped inside, and kissed her lips firmly. “I’ve missed you too.”

               She laughed, feeling her face flush. “You know I’m only with you for your dog, right?” she joked, bending down to scratch beneath Milo’s chin. He sniffed her, letting out a disapproving growl. “You’ll have to just get used to it, Milo.”

               “I knew you were too good to be true,” Tom joked back from the kitchen. “Milo gets all the love.”

               They eventually sat down to eat the delicious dinner Tom had cooked up for them. There wasn’t a lot he was good at making, but Molly didn’t care much, for she wasn’t one for cooking, herself. “There was this tumor I found during my autopsy today; it was so small, but intricately woven throughout the tissue. So sad for the poor man, of course, but it was fascinating!”

               Tom blanched, fighting the urge to vomit. “Is that so?”

               “Oh! Sorry, I forget I can’t just talk about that stuff with anyone.” Molly wanted to slink beneath the table, embarrassed of her enthusiasm.

               He smiled weakly. “No worries, just maybe no autopsy talk tonight?”

               “Right, of course, sorry.” It was the fifth or sixth time she felt she had to apologise for her more…odd interests.

               They finished up dinner and settled on the sofa for a movie that, about halfway in, was ignored in favor of a little snogging. Molly tried to get herself to relax, matching his enthusiasm in an effort to clear her head.

               “I think I love you,” Tom had spoken against her lips.

               Molly paused, unsure at first, and then spoke slowly, “I think I do too.”

[eliminatedtheimpossible]

His Interpreter

Readers, you might be disappointed to know I’m not Sherlock Holmes. This is John. As you lot have been pestering me on my own blog in the aftermath of Sherlock’s last post and he refuses to address the fact he wrote something ‘sentimental’, I thought I would write an update so everyone would leave us be. In short, yes- we had a row. 

Sherlock is in the midst of a case so I doubt he realises how much you lot have been begging for more information. Honestly, you’re worse than Mrs. Hudson. At first, I didn’t want to address the issue because if I’m honest I didn’t know how to do so without feeling like a parent talking to a child. Yes, mum and dad had a fight. No this doesn’t mean they’re breaking up. Sherlock and I are still perfectly happy living together, working together, and griping at one another when the occasion calls for it. I’m already hating myself for using that analogy but really, as I’ve stated many times on my own blog, I’m not a writer. 

You already know his side of the story. He was a bit of a thoughtless git. He sodded off to god knows where for five days. When I came home from my conference the flat was the same as I left it. I waited for him to come back. As he’s said, it’s not unusual for him to disappear for hours at a time but by the second day, my mind went to places I’d rather not discuss. 

I’m not Sherlock. I’m not going to air his dirty laundry for the world to read, though he might deserve it after some of the stuff he’s put on here. However, it’s no secret Sherlock has his vices and his enemies. I can’t believe there was a time when I thought people didn’t have enemies. Yes, Sherlock Holmes has enemies. I think it’s well within my rights to be pissed off when I couldn’t contact him and his watchdog brother was too busy messing about with government issues to answer my calls. 

When Sherlock came back to the flat acting like nothing was wrong and rambling like I was the one being ridiculous it was just the icing on the cake. I left, called Mike Stanford, and went to the pub. I spent several hours venting my frustrations to Mike. He’s the best kind of mate you can have. He’s good at just showing up and listening. When I get fed up with Sherlock’s antics, and monologues, Mike is always a welcome change. If I’m being honest I think he takes all of Sherlock and myself’s misgivings to heart as he was the one to introduce us. The only time he interrupted me was to tell me Sherlock had posted on his blog. 

Bit not good, Sherlock. You could have called, or texted. 

Anyway, I came home and we had what Mrs. Hudson. would call ‘a little domestic’. I’m sure she heard us as the next morning there had been a knock on our door and a tray of Sherlock’s favourite biscuits and tea set on our landing. We must have been louder than I first assumed because nestled beside Mrs. Hudson’s gifts was a couple’s therapy novel, likely from our neighbours. Which was very presumptuous of them, but it’s not as though they were the first people to assume such things. At some point, it just seems useless to correct people. 

The funny thing was, I’m almost certain Sherlock flicked through it. When I told him I was going to bed yesterday night he had looked up from his case file and gave his best attempt at an apology. Of course, he never actually said sorry but you learn to read between the lines with him. I believe his exact words were, 

‘Next time I’ll text you and I’m not mad at you anymore, so I don’t think you should be mad at me.’ 

When I decided to flick through the book for myself, one of the tips for conflict resolution was assuring ‘you and your partner’ (or in this case, you and your best mate) never go to bed angry with one another. it’s a pretty common tip, nothing groundbreaking but I think it’s the first time Sherlock’s ever considered something so ‘trivial’. 

I forgave him because of course I did. He can be charming when he wants to be. Plus, he promised to keep his collection of severed digits out of the crisper for the next month. So I count it as a small victory. 

As for everyone commenting about my love-life or lack thereof, kindly bugger off (That includes you, Harry). Just because Sherlock mentioned it to piss me off doesn’t mean other people get to have an opinion on the matter. I’m just not in the mood. With my work as a doctor and assistant to a madman, I don’t have much time for dating, particularly when I spent days running about London looking for Sherlock. At this point in my life, running about after Sherlock is a full-time commitment. 

So, as a summary. Sherlock and I are fine. We’re currently working on a case for Scotland Yard and as always, everything else is quite forgotten. My dating life is none of anyone’s business but my own and anyone else directly involved. For now, I’m taking a page out of Sherlock’s book and saying I’m married to my work, which just so happens to be chasing after Sherlock Holmes. 

Feel free to read into that what you will, I’ve told Sherlock as much and he, as always, is utterly clueless. 

[possiblyimbiassed]

John’s wedding is a crime scene - Part III

I’m sure I’m far from the first one to suggest this; I know a lot of people have discussed it years ago, but it hit me so hard now while re-watching the stag night scenes in TSoT, that I just can’t get it out of my mind: This is not some random apartment of a dead man; the crime scene of the Mayfly Man is actually 221B!  If you like, this can be seen as Part III of my earlier meta series called “John’s wedding is a crime scene and Sherlock is the victim”. You can find the first two parts here (1) and here (2).

You don’t believe me? OK, let’s do a crime scene investigation à la Sherlock and sample the different clues here:

Hmm, well, I do see a wallpaper with a pattern of large flowers on it...

...and I also do see a leather sofa with Sherlock on it:

Yes - nice, isn’t it? John really seems to appreciate it. ;) But this meta is going to hurt, so if you’re not up for it, please don’t read further.

We also have a buffalo skull...

...not very unlike the bison skull on the wall of 221B:

In several cultures, this is the symbol of someone being cheated on. But judging by the headphones, this guy apparently tries to turn a deaf ear to it.

Sherlock’s chair is square-ish, with seats of leather...

...while John’s chair is more well-rounded:

And they both seemed very comfortable in them, just a little while ago...

But, back to the crime scene: Why would the land lord let some random drunk people into his dead tenant’s apartment late at night, just because a woman claimed she had been dating another person there? It’s not exactly a murder case we’re talking about. And the thing is, we never even see them leave their own flat! It doesn’t make sense. 

And, even before that: Why would Mrs Hudson let a client in late at night at Baker Street, when she knew that both John and Sherlock were too drunk to even stand on their feet? And how could the client be so stupid to rely on a detective who was very obviously drunk? It doesn’t make sense.

But what is Sherlock actually doing here? Well, John tells us:

He’s trying to find out where it all went wrong, isn’t he?

To continue ‘clueing’, we also have a soft rug, just like we have in 221B. Many people have pointed out - since long ago - the sexual nature of this scene, and many fics have been written about the whole stag night:

Or what about this innuendo?

People have also pointed out long ago that the stuff on Sherlock’s mouth doesn’t really look like vomit:

And why on earth are we suddenly two centimeters from John’s mouth directly after this? Who is looking so closely at it, while John is sighing?

So, my hypothesis here is that these two guys indeed did got intimate on John’s stag night, inside 221B. But what we see is Sherlock setting up his repressed memories of this in his Mind Palace/Mind Theatre. After reading John’s blog and reminiscing their life together (as I have suggested before X).

Why is the ‘crime scene’ supposed to be a dead man’s apartment? Well, probably because Sherlock felt completely dead inside while setting this scenario up in his Mind Theatre. And hey; they were interrupted by a nurse. Who else do we know that is a nurse, and who has definitely come between John and Sherlock?

As for John Watson as an unreliable narrator, what does the blog say? We know that Sherlock was indeed organising John’s stag do, because John himself says so in the post about the Bloody Guardsman (June 29th):

And yet, John’s description of this whole stag event afterwards on the blog was simply this:

A “quiet, civilised evening in the pub”. John never mentions that it was his stag do! I do believe John is hiding something here, and the timeline might also be altered. And neither does he mention that they went to the dead man’s apartment to investigate traces from the Mayfly Man; indeed it seems like Sherlock investigated merely by the info he got from the client. And this is John’s last post on the blog. John never wrote up Sherlock’s solutions of both the Mayfly man case and the Bloody Guardsman case, when he elegantly saved John’s wedding from ending in disaster - why? Because John was busy preparing his own honey moon? Didn’t he appreciate what his friend did for him? Or was it because these solutions didn’t actually happen? When Sherlock hacks the blog and starts talking jealously about their ‘sex holiday’ after the wedding, John (and Mary) just tell him to shut up and stop posting. And when Sherlock explains his solution to the Mayfly Man and the Bloody Guardsman as two back-stabbing cases, he’s only met with complete silence from John.

Additionally, Sherlock here claims that the attempted murder happened “today”, when the wedding must have been at least a couple of days ago, because on August 11th he told us that John and Mary were already on their ‘sex holiday’. I’ve said before that I find the idea of a mere uniform belt (which mustn’t be worn uncomfortably tight, because it would render both the uniform and the soldier in it inefficient) stopping the blood flow from a stabbing utterly unlikely. And I’ve actually asked a guy I know who works as a royal guardsman in my town, if he ever has lost the feeling in his back muscles while standing guard for hours. His answer was no; he rather gets to feel an increasing pain in his back. And if the Mayfly Man failed to kill Bainbridge with this method, why did he proceed to try the same inefficient method on Sholto?

So no; I don’t believe this actually happened in the show’s reality. And John’s silence on the blog might be a confirmation of this. (And/or possibly a sign that at this point John stopped reading the blog and instead tried to get someone to check on Sherlock, since the guy clearly was using again).

OK, just a couple of clues more: When John wakes up after the stag night, he feels like he’s imprisoned:

And Sherlock is sleeping beside him.

So, what’s the actual ‘crime’ here? Why are Sherlock and John imprisoned? I’m not sure about what the law says in UK, but I somehow doubt it would be a criminal offense to be accidentally sick on someone’s rug (it’s not a public place), and the landlord had actually let them in. So if this is a symbolic arrest happening inside Sherlock’s head, what’s the actual reason? Is it a) John cheating on Mary, or b) John breaking Sherlock’s heart? Or is it c) that these two guys actually had sex with each other (Internalized homophobia)?

If this actually happened (as I tend to believe it did - look at all the clues!); if they did end up having sex at 221B on the stag night, while drunk, and John then woke up, with closet angst and terrible guilt over what he had done, and then he - in desperation - left Sherlock there and decided to get married anyway, that must have been the final blow, the most painful heartbreak possible for Sherlock. Because then he was treated like just one more of John’s one-night stands or never-to-be-serious girlfriends. Hence the back-stabbing metaphor repeated twice in TSoT (the wedding only sealed the deal). Hence the Mayfly Man mirroring John. Hence Culverton Smith the Coagulation of Human Evil in TLD. Probably even the Serial Killer Jeff Hope outliving several people in ASiP. And hence John’s devastating guilt in TLD over cheating on Mary in TST by mere text messages (which looked innocent enough). OMG; if this turns out to be the truth, it really, really hurts. Because that’s burning someone’s heart out, indeed.

Tagging some people, just in case they’re interested:@sarahthecoat @tjlcisthenewsexy @ebaeschnbliah @fellshish @gosherlocked @loveismyrevolution @sagestreet @sherlockshadow @darlingtonsubstitution @devoursjohnlock @tendergingergirl @kateis-cakeis @csi-baker-street-babes @88thparallel @timilina @dieseldrakilis @sherlock-overflow-error @elldotsee

[johnwatsonblog-co-uk]

The Hounds of Baskerville

16th March

I've never been happier to see anyone than I was to see Henry Knight. Sherlock had been bored. And trust me, you don't want to be around him when he's bored. He's hyperactive, rude, arrogant and a real pain in the behind.

Yeah I know, same old Sherlock.

Henry, a normal-looking bloke in his late 20s, was clearly very anxious when he arrived at Baker Street. He told us about how, twenty years before, his dad had died. He told us how his Dad had been ripped apart by the Devil.

They'd been out for a walk on Dartmoor when they'd been attacked. Some kind of monster - big, black with red glowing eyes - had killed his father in front of him. Apparently it had taken place near the Government's Baskerville research facility. Sherlock worked out that something must have happened the previous night to make Henry suddenly ask for help that morning. Henry said that his therapist, Doctor Louise Mortimer, had suggested he revisit the location of the attack in order to put old ghosts to rest. Henry had done this and, to his horror, had discovered some footprints. Footprints that appeared to have been made by, what he called, a 'gigantic hound'. There'd been rumours that experiments on animals had been taking place at the Baskerville facility since WWII. And so, Sherlock took the case and off we went into deepest, darkest Devon.

Our first port of call was the local pub. There we found a guy who ran walks on the moors etc. He claimed to know a man from the MOD who'd once said he'd seen giant animals at a government research facility - rats as big as dogs and dogs as big as horses. It wasn't exactly irrefutable evidence but all signs did seem to be pointing at the Baskerville facility. Sherlock had some ID he'd appropriated so we were able to bluff our way in. Again, because of the Official Secrets Act, I can't talk too much about what I saw in there but, as well as seeing some of what they go up to, we met Doctor Jacqui Stapleton and the annoyingly-cheerful Doctor Bob Frankland. Stapleton, Sherlock realised, was the mother of a little girl who'd written to him recently  (in regards to Kirsty’s comments).

We then went to see Henry at his home where he told us that something else had come back to him about the night his father died - two words: Liberty and In. Sherlock then announced his next move - we'd take Henry up to the moors that night and see if anything else attacked him. I'm not sure who was more worried about this, me or Henry.

Turns out we were both right to be worried. That night, I heard the hound. Well, I heard something. The place was so bleak and desolate but I was sure it wasn't my mind playing tricks on me. But it got worse - Sherlock and Henry saw it. Sherlock denied it at first, but back at the pub he finally admitted to me that he'd seen it. I've never seen him so shaken, so scared. He was actually terrified. We parted company and I went to interview Louise Mortimer, Henry's therapist. She was starting to open up to me when Frankland arrived, interrupting us. Things weren't going well.

The next morning, I met up with Sherlock and we discussed the previous evening. He admitted that as well as fear, the worst thing he'd felt was doubt. He'd never doubted himself before and he simply couldn't understand how he'd seen what he'd seen. Luckily, I'd already spotted a clue. A receipt for meat at the vegetarian hotel and restaurant we were staying at. When confronted, the owners admitted that they'd bought a dog to help cash in on the rising tourist trade but that they'd had it put down some time before. It certainly hadn't been what Sherlock had seen the previous night.

And therefore it certainly wasn't what I was about to see.

We returned to the base to talk to Doctor Stapleton. Before meeting up with her, though, Sherlock sent me off to look for any sign of this 'monster' , so i started in the main lab. And I was trapped when it came for me it. I could hear it... And then I saw it... I've been through some terrifying experiences in my life but that was one of the worst. Something that just seemed so unbelievable and so unstoppable... Those eyes...

And then Sherlock rescued me and revealed that I'd been drugged. I saw the hound because that's what I'd expected to see. Obviously, as a doctor, I've seen the effects of a number of different drugs but this... I hadn't just seen the hound. I'd heard it. I'd felt it getting closer. I'd felt the fear inside me...

We met up with Stapleton again and, in her lab, Sherlock examined some sugar from Henry's house. He'd noticed that both and he and Henry took sugar in their coffee which would explain why they'd seen the hound the previous night and I hadn't. It also explained why Sherlock had made me coffee that morning and put sugar in it. He'd used me as an experiment. One day, I will kill him.

There was one thing that had bothered Sherlock from the start and that was Henry's use of the word 'hound'. It was an odd word, old-fashioned. He wondered whether it was another piece of his memory trying to break through and whether it was actually an acronym he'd seen. Using the facility's computers, we managed to discover the existence of an old scientific project, indeed known as H.O.U.N.D. The project had been to design and develop a weapon that could create fear in the enemy. It had been closed down when they'd realised that prolonged exposure had caused people to lose their sanity. And where had the project been developed? Liberty, Indiana. Liberty. In. Henry had been remembering things!

Then his therapist, Louise, called. Henry had lost it. He'd turned a gun on her and fled. She was all right but she was scared about what he might do to himself. We returned to the moors, to the place where Henry's dad had been killed and there he was. He was close to killing himself. His mind just couldn't cope with all the conflicting information - what he remembered, what he thought he remembered, everything. Sherlock knew that he'd started to remember that it had actually been a man who had killed his father and not a monster. Witnessing this as a kid, he'd tried to rationalise it into something different. He'd created the hound out of the various images he'd seen - the crazed man and the acronym which his father's murderer had been wearing on a sweatshirt. H.O.U.N.D.

And then we all saw the hound again. It was coming for us. I knew, I rationalised that it wasn't real, that I was just seeing things but it was there... Coming for us...

And so was the man behind it all. Doctor Frankland. He was wearing a gasmask which told Sherlock what he needed to know - the poison, the weapon that H.O.U.N.D. had created hadn't been in the sugar. It was in the fog! We were in a chemical minefield. As the hound prepared to attack, we shot it and we saw that it was just a dog. And then Sherlock did one of the most human things I think I've ever seen him do - he made Henry look at the dog's body. He didn't need to, he'd solved the case but it was as if he knew that the truly important thing was showing Henry what was real and what wasn't. Maybe the fear and doubt he'd felt, and maybe his experiences with Irene Adler, had humanised him?

Of course, he immediately started raving on in front of Henry about what a fantastic case it had been and I realised he hadn't changed that much.

And later, I realised something else. Sherlock had thought that the poison was in the sugar at first. He'd been convinced . Sherlock had made a mistake.

He is only human, after all.

9 comments

Henry was a "normal-looking bloke"? Really, John, you should become a professional author!

Sherlock Holmes 16 March 12:22

Sounds terrifying!!

Harry Watson 16 March 12:36

It sounds as if the dog's bark was worse than its bite!

Bill Murray 16 March 12:38

LOL!

Jacob Sowersby 16 March 12:40

It's certainly given me paws for thought.

Mike Stamford 16 March 13:32

LOL!

Jacob Sowersby 16 March 13:34

Stop now.

Sherlock Holmes 16 March 13:36

Surely this is just a shaggy dog story.

Bill Murray 16 March 13:47

John, fetch me my revolver.

Sherlock Holmes 16 March 13:50

[oneblueumbrella]

The Silver Stud pt. 2

For @savvyblunders, who was the most enthusiastic about the continuation of this story. Soon to be on AO3.

{1}

Bloody hell, he was meeting Mycroft for a drink. The thought had dogged Greg all day Friday and a considerable part of the preceding day, too. He’d never thought Mycroft would be interested in him, and then one night the man himself just walks into Greg’s office and announces he’s gay, and by the way he’d quite like a date. Well, more or less.

Either way, Greg would be meeting Mycroft at a pub he’d never heard of, in a part of town he only frequented if someone had managed to get themselves stabbed.

Assuming that would not be the case, Greg was quietly panicking all day. At first he was doing a general ‘I have a date’ panic, which quickly morphed into ‘we’d better not pick up a murder’ panic as the day wore on. He might not get another shot at this, and if Mycroft was in the same state as he was, an excuse might be just the thing he was hoping for in order to cancel this whole event.

Just as Greg was worrying that Mycroft might have someone knifed to specifically to avoid their date, Sally stuck her head in his office door.

“Boss?”

“Yeah?” he answered distractedly.

“It’s five o’clock. Get your arse out of here, will you?” She grinned at him and he returned it as he grabbed his things and bolted. More than once a case had appeared between his office and the tube, and he was not going to be that unlucky sod. Not today.

Greg’s mind wandered all the way home and through his shower-and-a-shave routine. Before he knew it, he was standing in his bedroom wondering what to wear. Pants and socks, he’d managed without too much thought – little chance of Mycroft seeing those tonight.

Dressing for a pub was easy. Dressing for a date, also easy. Dressing for a date in a fancy pub was way beyond his comfort zone. The clock ticked inexorably by as he pulled out and considered almost everything in his wardrobe, despairing at his own lack of interest in clothes.

Finally, when the clock told him he had to get moving, Greg went by his old Academy roommates’ maxim – dress so you feel good. He chose his favourite dark blue shirt and navy blazer, with dark blue jeans. The jeans were made to fit his arse, so he’d been told, and the shirt and blazer combo would get him into all but the swankiest of pubs. If he was rejected from the place Mycroft had chosen, he didn’t belong there anyway. A quick spike of his hair – the silver stood out bright against the last of his holiday tan – and he was ready to go.

The place looked exactly as intimidating as Greg had imagined. No grungy side alleyway, no grotty windows plastered with posters advertising bands. No, the front of this pub screamed money and discretion. Greg wondered if anyone ever asked the barkeep to switch the telly to the football, or ordered the cheapest bourbon sight unseen. Unlikely, he thought, shoving his hands in his pockets as he stared at the tasteful gold lettering proclaiming Quirinus. Sounded like some kind of Roman God or something, Greg thought to himself. Not something he was too familiar with.

“Good evening, Greg,” Mycroft’s voice came from behind him.

“Hi,” Greg said, spinning around hastily.

“I see you found the venue easily enough,” Mycroft said.

“Yeah,” Greg replied, feeling dumb as an ox. Could he say nothing more intelligent? It was probably the sight of Mycroft, as dressed down as Greg had ever seen him.

“You’re not wearing a tie,” Greg said, feeling his cheeks redden at the obvious comment.

“No,” Mycroft allowed. He smoothed one hand over his waistcoat, a deep blue with some kind of tiny crosshatched pattern. The white shirt visible above it was crisp and perfect, and Greg wondered with a jolt whether Mycroft had changed from his work attire for their date. It would certainly bolter his confidence to think so, given the hand wringing that had accompanied his own dressing for this evening.

“You’re staring, Greg,” Mycroft’s voice admonished him gently, and Greg’s cheeks flushed even further.

“Sorry,” he murmured. “Never seen you in less than full battle dress.”

Mycroft’s eye brows rose at the description of his usual three piece suit tie and accruements. “I’m usually going into battle,” he replied.

“Not tonight?” Greg asked, a smile tugging at his lips.

“It seems not,” Mycroft replied. “Shall we?” he indicated the door, and Greg turned to enter. There was a bouncer, dressed in a suit worth more than anything Greg owned for sure. He eyed Greg before catching sight of Mycroft.

“Good evening, Mr. Holmes,” he said with a slight bow. Greg stared in astonishment as the door was opened for them. Only the gentle pressure of Mycroft’s hand on his lower back reminded him he was expected to walk through the opening.

The bar was exactly as Greg imagined many pubs looked on the day they were built, and then never again. Gold fixtures, deeply polished woodwork, every surface impeccable. The leather seats of the booths were gleaming, and he knew without checking that the floor would not be sticky with the remnants of some long spilled beer.

“May I buy you a drink, Greg?” Mycroft asked as they approached the bar. They had beer on tap, Greg saw with relief – better the safety of a pint than trying to navigate an intimidatingly long wine or spirits list.

“Pint of bitter, thanks Mycroft,” Greg replied. The barman poured their drinks, passing the beer to Greg and a white wine to Mycroft.

“This place is amazing,” Greg said, turning to survey the room. The room was comfortably full without being crowded, and he noticed quite a lot of well-dressed men. All well-dressed men, come to think of it.

“Mycroft,” Greg asked him casually, “is this pub….”

“Similar, yes,” Mycroft replied, leading the way towards a recently available booth. “The tables here are not as sticky, however,” he added as they slid onto opposite bench seats.

“True,” Greg replied. “It’s all very clean, actually.”

“The clientele at this venue are screened rather closely,” Mycroft admitted. “Anyone is free to join, and there is no cost; however only members and their immediate guests are permitted. As you can see,” he swept one arm around the gently pulsing room, “rowdy behaviour is not tolerated.”

“A well behaved gay bar, then,” Greg replied, feeling like the term was a slight oxymoron. His experience had obviously been at the seedy end of the spectrum. He sipped at his beer. “Is this where your group usually meets, then?”

Mycroft flushed at the mention of his social group. “We did initially meet at this bar. I believe it was one of the regulars who proposed it as a way of...”

“Meeting people?” Greg suggested.

“Yes,” Mycroft agreed.

“It can be hard to meet someone,” Greg said. “Anyone, really, around work. Especially when you’re looking to meet another bloke. It always has to be arranged, never seems to just happen.”

“I understand what you mean,” Mycroft said. “Work can be all encompassing.”

Greg wasn’t sure what to say. The last thing he wanted to do was start talking about work. This was meant to be a date, nothing like their previous meetings. Most of them had revolved around Sherlock, another topic he wanted to avoid tonight.

Greg’s mind raced, and he watched Mycroft play with the stem of his wine glass. Those fingers, he thought ruefully. His brain could not possibly find a new topic of conversation while Mycroft’s fingers did such suggestive things to the poor innocent wine glass.

Nope, there was nothing for it. He’d have to respond to the work comment.

“And it’s hardly a topic for conversation,” Greg added, hoping Mycroft would remember what they’d been talking about. “Assuming it’s something I can talk about at all.” He shot an amused glance at Mycroft. “I expect that’s something you can relate to.”

“Indeed,” Mycroft’s response was swift. “Some…men find it hard to accept that it is simply not appropriate for me to discuss my employment.”

“Yeah,” Greg said, his eyes still fixed on the fingers running up and down the slim glass stem. Christ. “I’ve had a few ask for favours. Ever had that happen?”

“Oh yes,” Mycroft agreed. “One odious man asked if I could have his neighbour’s garage demolished so his swimming pool would not be shaded in the summer.”

Greg snorted a laugh, relieved their conversation was moving again. “How charming.”

“Unfortunately this group did not turn out as I had hoped. While there are a few individuals I could potentially enjoy a cordial conversation with, none appealed for a more personal connection.”

“Lucky for me,” Greg said. Mycroft’s blush was adorable, he decided, watching the pale skin flame into a rosy glow.

“My mother remains disappointed,” Mycroft replied.

“As does mine,” Greg told him.

“But you were married.” Mycroft said. Greg could see the slight wince at such a brazen comment slipping out.

“Past tense,” Greg told him. “Clearly my fault for not fulfilling my wife.” The pain of that particular conversation with his mother was still fresh, and their relationship was still strained by her accusations.

An awkward silence fell again, and Greg kicked himself for the bitter words. Neither the time nor the place to start complaining about the ex, you idiot, he berated himself.

“I’m sorry,” Mycroft murmured.

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure she thinks bi men are incapable of settling down with a woman. Or a man,” he added. Fuck. Also a not-so-good comment. He wanted to focus on Mycroft, not his pathetic past.

Shaking off the melancholy this conversation was bringing on him, Greg sat up and smiled at Mycroft.

“So this is more your speed than The Silver Stud?” Greg asked.

“Definitely.” Mycroft replied immediately. “May I ask what you were doing at that bar?”

“Meeting a mate,” Greg said easily. “I knew Rob before I was married and he’s very much into that kind of scene. I told him I’d meet him wherever he wanted and I think he took that as a challenge.”

“So it is not your usual haunt either,” Mycroft said.

“God, no,” Greg replied. “This place does me just fine. I usually go to the pub around the corner from work, or there’s one nearer home. Kind of like this but less clean. Somewhere you can get a bowl of chips and the football on.”

Mycroft nodded. “Somewhere comfortable.”

“Exactly.” Greg said. “The Silver Stud is a lot of things, but comfortable is not one of them.” He drained the last of his pint, wondering if he should order another. Mycroft’s glass was empty, and he had made no effort to replenish it. Glancing over at Mycroft gave him his answer – the man was looking at his pocket watch. Ready to leave, then. Greg ignored the stab of surprised hurt at the realisation.

Am I boring him?

“Well thanks for the drink, Mycroft. I don’t want to keep you.”

“Of course, Greg. Thank you for meeting me.” Mycroft stood immediately, ever polite as Greg slid from the booth.

“No problem, it’s a great place.”

“I can introduce you to David if you’d like to apply for membership. I would endorse you, of course.”

“Really? Thanks, I’ll think about it.” Greg replied. He didn’t want to intrude on Mycroft’s social space. Nothing worse than having to avoid somewhere in order to avoid someone.

They both stood awkwardly beside the booth. Christ, Greg thought, what the hell am I even doing?

“I’ll call you,” Greg said, then realised, “Actually, I don’t have your number.” It was awkward to ask for Mycroft’s number, he thought – presumptuous. “I’ll see you around.” He hesitated, then added, “I had a great time, Mycroft.”

He smiled briefly, the answering lift of Mycroft’s mouth far more automatic than happy. Greg left the pub, bracing for the cold night air. The date had just…ended, and he wasn’t really sure why. 

Wrapping his arms around himself, Greg started walking home, wondering what Mycroft’s deal was.