#should he have done that to watson? no

[okapiandpaste]

So Letters from Watson sent out “The Dying Detective” a few weeks ago, and since it’s a favorite of mine I thought I’d talk about why I think it’s one of the most crucial stories for understanding Holmes and Watson as a characters. (This is late because I hesitated on posting and then promptly forgot about it. Whoops.)

What most people take away from “Dying Detective”, I assume, is that Holmes is a master of deception. While this is partially true, I don’t think Holmes’ illness being faked should be used to dismiss the vulnerability of the situation: that Holmes had starved himself for 3 days and needed Watson’s complete faith in him if he was to succeed in catching a murderer.

Holmes’ deception of Watson in this story is regarded by many as coldblooded. There’s a moment in his false delirium where, in a last ditch effort to keep Watson from realizing his illness is fake, he calls Watson a “general practitioner with very limited experience and mediocre qualifications”. At this, Watson describes being “bitterly hurt”.

After the reveal of the sickness being faked, Holmes could’ve easily excused himself of this cruel remark due to it being a part of his act (even Watson himself believed this to be the case), but chooses not to. Rather, after he makes the comment, he immediately backpedals for the rest of the story, complimenting Watson profusely even while still pretending to be delirious (“Don’t forget, Watson. You won’t fail me. You never did fail me.”). At the end, he openly admits that the reason for keeping Watson at a distance was that, contrary to his harsh remark, he actually believed him too astute a doctor to fool if he drew any closer.

Like with Holmes’ false death and disguise in “The Empty House”, the events of “Dying Detective” naturally add speculative elements of distrust and tension to the public interpretation of Holmes and Watson’s dynamic. Why should Watson trust Holmes after he upsets him like that? Despite all this, the actual text frames these moments as faith-restoring.

Although most of Watson’s narration in “Dying Detective” is punctuated with his distress, there’s a deep undercurrent of faith in his behavior. He expresses fear and doubt over Holmes’ ability to make decisions in such a state, but he decides to believe Holmes knows what’s best for himself and follows his instructions perfectly. This isn’t just blind trust on Watson’s part, it’s mutual, because if Holmes did not believe Watson would follow his instructions to a tee, the entire plan would’ve failed.

And this is all without mentioning the scene where Holmes shouts in terror when Watson reaches for the box, clearly fearing for Watson’s safety when we finally learn the context. They clearly care a lot about each other in this story, and even though it’s just from Watson’s perspective, it’s obvious Holmes is trying to be considerate despite the strange situation. (So, anyways, it kinda sucks that this story is read shallowly and used as proof towards the idea that Sherlock is a complete asshole.)

[bronzewool]

Book: Irene Adler “The Woman” is a famous opera singer and actress, and one of four people to ever beat Sherlock Holmes in a battle of wits. Adler loves her husband dearly and only keeps hold of the blackmail she has over the Duke in order to keep herself safe, and will never reveal the photo to the public as long as he leaves them alone. Holmes never shows any romantic interest in Adler, or anyone for that matter, and only ever admires her for her wit and cunning.

Every adaption after: Irene Adler is a femme fatale, hopelessly in love with Sherlock Holmes, and some combination of a wanted criminal and dominatrix. Adler is allowed to beat Holmes ONCE, in order to teach him humility, but after that he needs to beat/save her in order to adhere to the status quo, and undo the lesson Book!Holmes learnt in the first place. This is somehow more feminist.

[grinchwrapsupreme]

House MD was so smart to make Wilson a specialist in something House wasn’t, other Sherlock Holmes adaptations take notes

[contact-guy]

Part 7, the final comic in my SIGN OF THE FOUR chapter. (Part one), (part two), (part three), (part four), (part five), (part six).

The context for this conversation is: Holmes has had no work from Scotland Yard due to rumors about his and Watson's relationship. He responded to this with excessive cocaine use and then working himself unhealthy on the one case that came along; Mary Morstan's. Meanwhile, Watson befriended Mary, who is also gay, and realized that a lavender marriage with her could make him and Holmes safe, as well as granting her more freedom. Watson has not yet told Holmes of his decision.

(This is part of the Watsons sketchbook series!)

canon scene under the cut, which is achingly poignant in its own right:

“Well, and there is the end of our little drama,” I remarked, after we had set some time smoking in silence. “I fear that it may be the last investigation in which I shall have the chance of studying your methods. Miss Morstan has done me the honour to accept me as a husband in prospective.”

He gave a most dismal groan. “I feared as much,” said he. “I really cannot congratulate you.”

I was a little hurt. “Have you any reason to be dissatisfied with my choice?” I asked.

“Not at all. I think she is one of the most charming young ladies I ever met, and might have been most useful in such work as we have been doing. She had a decided genius that way: witness the way in which she preserved that Agra plan from all the other papers of her father. But love is an emotional thing, and whatever is emotional is opposed to that true cold reason which I place above all things. I should never marry myself, lest I bias my judgment.”

“I trust,” said I, laughing, “that my judgment may survive the ordeal. But you look weary.”

“Yes, the reaction is already upon me. I shall be as limp as a rag for a week.”

“Strange,” said I, “how terms of what in another man I should call laziness alternate with your fits of splendid energy and vigour.”

“Yes,” he answered, “there are in me the makings of a very fine loafer and also of a pretty spry sort of fellow. I often think of those lines of old Goethe,—

Schade dass die Natur nur einen Mensch aus Dir schuf, Denn zum würdigen Mann war und zum Schelmen der Stoff.

“By the way, à propos of this Norwood business, you see that they had, as I surmised, a confederate in the house, who could be none other than Lal Rao, the butler: so Jones actually has the undivided honour of having caught one fish in his great haul.”

“The division seems rather unfair,” I remarked. “You have done all the work in this business. I get a wife out of it, Jones gets the credit, pray what remains for you?”

“For me,” said Sherlock Holmes, “there still remains the cocaine-bottle.” And he stretched his long white hand up for it.

[calaisreno]

Classified

It’s Schrödinger’s wedding. 

1952 Words / Prompt: Jealousy

We’re sitting among the boxes of invitations, the venue’s brochures, and several dozen napkins folded into Sydney Opera Houses. John looks exhausted, and now that Mary’s gone home, I’ve suggested a break. 

I pour John a glass of scotch and hand it to him, struggling for the right words to open this discussion. If I’m not careful, it could end badly.

Sinking into my chair, I simply say, “Don’t.” 

John swallows a mouthful of whisky. “Don’t what?”

He looks confused. Of course. I’m terrible at this. Sentiment, feelings, honesty.

“Don’t… marry her.”

John sighs. “Sherlock.”

“Please, John. Just don’t.”

Confusion has given way to stubbornness, and of all people, John Watson is the most stubborn person I’ve ever known. It’s hopeless, ridiculous that I even brought this up. But it has to be said.

That night at the Landmark, when John was trying to strangle me, I promised myself that I would stop lying to him. Stop shading the truth. Just be honest. Who deserves the truth more than John, who grieved for two years, thinking his best friend was dead?

Best friend. More than I ever expected to have from this stubborn, loyal, surprising man who has always followed me, even after I broke his heart. He deserves the truth. 

And I deserve nothing. But I can’t let the man I love be hurt again, even if it means… well, I hope this won’t be our last conversation.

“What is this about?” John’s face wears that dogged expression. 

“I love you,” I begin. “And I’ve hurt you too much to pretend this is fine.”

John’s eyes widen, then narrow. “You love me. What am I supposed to do with that?”

“You called me your best friend. I don’t care what you make of it—“

“You don’t do feelings. Married to your work, grit on the lens—“

“You’re not the only one who’s grieved, John. Yes, I do have feelings. And I would be prepared to set them aside, to accept that I do not deserve your love, but I owe you the truth.”

“You love me.”

It’s bad enough that John seems to be stuck on you love me. That isn’t even the point right now. (Note to self: next time, lead with your wife-to-be is probably an assassin.) 

“Yes. Which is why I’m about to tell you the last thing you want to hear right now.”

“I’m about to get married, Sherlock! Why are you doing this now— you’ve never given me the tiniest clue that you even considered me a friend. I don’t have friends. Remember that? What is this— are you jealous? Is that what this is about?” 

I’m terrible at this. I’ve vowed to be honest, not to keep John in the dark all the time, and all John is taking from this is that I’m jealous. 

I try again. “You’re about to marry a woman you don’t know. A woman who is lying to you.”

Now John’s wearing his isn’t this ironic face. “Oh, well, I suppose I should be used to people who love me lying to me! You’ve given me plenty of practice, you know.”

“I realise my apology for that is inadequate. I understand that you will never return my feelings, and I will live with that. I’m not jealous. Marry whomever you want, John— just not her. She’s not who she claims to be. I’m telling you this because I believe you’re in danger.”

“All right, then.” Still angry, but also curious. “Tell me. Who is she?”

“I don’t know yet. I do know that she’s not Mary Morstan, who was stillborn in 1972 and buried in Chiswick Cemetery. The night I met her, I deduced that she’s hiding something, so I went to Mycroft. While I was gone, he was supposed to keep an eye on you because we believed Moriarty’s organisation might still take action against you. When I realised that she was not who she said she was, I gave him an earful for letting an unknown close to you.”

“And what did he say?”

“Nothing. He wouldn’t tell me anything about her. Classified. Which tells me most of what I needed to know. He knows exactly who she is, which suggests that she’s an agent of some sort, probably freelance. She may have done work for the British government, which would be how he knew her.”

He rolls his eyes. “You’re an agent of the government, I believe. Don’t even try telling me you weren’t working for your brother these past two years. Maybe she doesn’t have clearance to tell me what kind of work she did.”

“But she hasn’t even mentioned it, has she? She told you she’s a nurse. And she’s using a name that’s not her own. You’re marrying her, John— the fact that she’s assumed a false identity—“

“—means that she’s in some sort of witness protection. That she doesn’t have clearance to tell anyone.“ Annoyed, but not in denial. Uncomfortable now that he’s thinking about it. 

“Mycroft would have said if that were the case. And he would have threatened me to keep my hands off. The fact that he’s said nothing means that she’s part of an active investigation. And most likely not currently working for the British government. If she were, he would have said.”

John is silent. 

“Ignorance is not bliss, John. You made that point quite forcefully the night I returned.”

“She’s active?” He looks dazed. 

“Mycroft wouldn’t say. But it’s not the kind of work anyone actually leaves behind.” 

“And you’re telling me this now? You couldn’t have said sooner? Christ, we’ve started planning the wedding!” Angry again.

“I wasn’t sure. I’m more certain now, though.”

John has reached his limit. “I… I’ve got to go. I can’t deal with this now. Just… I’m going.” He grabs his coat, stuffs his arms in the sleeves, and marches out the door.

… (Continues below cut)

I return from buying milk (I really must be losing my mind if I’m going to the shops, but tea requires milk and sugar and Mrs Hudson is still showing her displeasure at my inexplicable return by not running errands for me) and find Mycroft sitting in my chair. He knows, of course, which chair is mine and which is John’s, and is making a statement whose meaning I can guess. Power dynamics: my chair. 

Considering who’s paid the rent for the last two years, it actually is Mycroft’s chair. I make tea, hand a mug to Mycroft, and sit in John’s chair. 

“Well, brother.” He gives me an appraising look. 

I’m used to the evaluation; it happens every time I see my brother, that once-over to determine if (a) I’ve relapsed, (b) I’ve done something else Mycroft will regret, or c) I’m about to lie about something not covered under (a) or (b). The best way to side-track this is to get on his nerves.

“This is about John, isn’t it?” I blow on my tea. “Otherwise you would have called.”

“He came to see me yesterday, directly from seeing you. Asking what I knew about Mary Morstan. Now, where did he get the idea that she’d been lying to him, if not from you?”

“You didn’t swear me to silence.”

Mycroft sips his tea, but says nothing. He’s very good at keeping his own counsel. 

“I asked him not to marry her,” I say. “I don’t have any real proof, other than what I told him, but reasoned that it would be better not to leave it until the last moment. I’m wondering, though, why you were willing to let it happen. You let her close to John, when it’s obvious she was planted in his surgery because of me.”

Mycroft smirks. “You don’t think it was Dr Watson’s charms that drew her to him?”

“Mary Morstan isn’t like the others. Who is she working for?”

“I don’t know.”

“But you can guess.”

“I’m not giving you an unfounded hypothesis, Sherlock. The matter is still classified.” He shifts in his seat, watching me, then relents a bit. “You’re not wrong about her. But we cannot afford to tip her off yet. The marriage will be invalid, of course.”

(Note to self: Kill Mycroft.)

“This should never have happened. John is not a chess piece, a thing to be sacrificed for your game. Now, go away. I don’t want to talk to you until you can give me some answers.”

Without a word, Mycroft stands, tucks his umbrella under his arm, glares at me, and leaves. 

…

It’s night, and I’m walking. No particular destination, just around the park until I’m too tired to walk further. 

When I finally open the door of 221B, John is sitting on the stairs. 

He looks up at me, but doesn’t speak. And for once, I can’t read his look. Either he’s said something to Mary, or he hasn’t. She’s lied to him, or she’s told him the truth. He’s forgiven her or he’s broken it off. 

It’s Schrödinger’s wedding. 

I hang my coat by the door. He still hasn’t spoken, but budges over to make room for me.

“You said you love me.”

“Yes.”

“You promised not to lie.”

“I’m not lying. I do love you.”

“I mean, about Mary.”

“I spoke with Mycroft. She’s part of an active investigation, as I guessed. He wouldn’t give me details.”

“Jesus. And you love me.” 

I feel his eyes on me, but say nothing. Either he accepts it, or he doesn’t.

“You told me you were married to your work. That’s a pretty clear signal you weren’t interested. Why did you say that?”

“Because I was a coward. And soon you were dating women, which was also a clear signal, and there wasn’t any point in bringing it up again.”

“When you say love, what do you mean?”

“I want you to be happy. If that’s with someone other than me, fine. But someone who’s lying to you cannot make you happy.”

He leans closer, his shoulder against mine. “And what would make you happy? If you could have anything you want?”

“A locked room triple homicide, no murder weapon.”

He gives a low chuckle. “Idiot. I mean, what do you want from me?”

“Whatever you’ll give me. I’m prepared to be your friend for life, if that’s what you want.”

“Nothing more? Just friends? Not romantic?”

No lies, not now. “Yes, I want more. I want you to live here, to sleep in my bed, yes— with all that entails. To never leave me. But I will take what I can—”

“Yes. All of it.”

It’s my turn to be silent. 

He rubs his eyes. Sleepless night. “I told her I couldn’t marry her. You’d best let Mycroft know if he’s trying to suss her out. She’s already packing her bags.”

“Did she tell you what she is?”

“I didn’t ask. I just told her I was in love with you.”

I feel as if I’ve been punched in the gut. No, I feel like what I imagine when I think of kissing John. Breathless, heart-pounding. 

“Are you in love with me?”

“I thought you knew.” He smiles, takes my hand in his own. “Yes, I am.”

My voice shakes. “And what did she say?”

“She already knew.” His smile broadening, John leans in. 

The kiss is better than any I could imagine. 

He doesn’t let go when it ends. “So, if I’d decided to marry her anyway…” He grins. “What was your plan for that?”

The truth. I promised. “I was going to kidnap you.”

He gives me a smouldering look. “You could still do that.”

(Note to self: I’m going to have to get used to John Watson’s love language.)

...

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[2stepadmiral]

Been listening to the Thrawn trilogy again recently, and it brings to mind some of the shortcomings of how Thrawn has been portrayed in the Disney Canon.

To be clear, I’m not saying that Thrawn in the Disney Canon has been badly done, or that his character is out of whack, or even that he hasn’t been portrayed as intelligent, let alone, strategically, brilliant. The real problem with his portrayal narrows down to two specific aspects. Number one: his lack of competent subordinates, and number two: his lack of situations where his strategic genius can really be displayed.

On the first problem, Thrawn was introduced in Heir to the Empire with his second in command being Captain Pellaeon. Throughout the trilogy, they are given a clear Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson dynamic. This works on many levels, offering the reader Pellaeon as a stand-in for the reader, having him ask questions about and work out for himself the admiral’s actions and thought process. This provides an organic way to explain Thrawn’s plans, his analysis of problems, and demonstrate his character and brilliance without relying on monologue or use forced exposition. The dynamic is sort of re-created with Jorj Car’dass and Kinman Doriana in the novel outbound flight, with both characters filling the Watson role to some degree.

In rebels, Thrawn has no competent subordinate to do this with. He either has some random, incompetent officer of the week who we don’t see again for a while, a recurring incompetent officer who we’ve seen before, and will likely see again, Ruhk, in very brief instances which gives no means of understanding Thrawn’s character or intellect, or Governor Price, who is decidedly not a military officer and has a very distinctive flavor of incompetence related to her political nature. With most of these characters, the grand Admiral doesn’t waste time breaking down his analysis of the rebel plan or gives a few hints that go completely over their heads. There is one occasion where this dynamic works in his favor, specifically when the idiot captain wasn’t picking up on the fact that they had captured Hera while Thrawn dropped increasingly obvious hints as to who she was. this made for a dramatic and pretty well done revelation as to how intelligent he was, but it only worked the one time. Moving forward, he continued having a deal with these idiots subordinates, which gave no opportunity for him to really stretch his strategic muscles in that same Sherlock/Watson dynamic. The one episode featuring Colonel Yularen was an exception, as the Colonel’s competence gave Thrawn a good partner to work with and demonstrate this dynamic with, but very briefly and only this one time. The rest of the time, he’s working with idiots that don’t provide this kind of competence for him to play off of.

In Ahsoka, Thrawn gets captain Enoch and Morgan Elsbeth, and both characters have an air of competence that should have translated to the Sherlock/Watson dynamic, but Enoch literally never questions anything Thrawn orders him to do, making him completely useless for this dynamic, and Morgan has the dynamic only in a few brief scenes, scenes where the situation makes it difficult for Thrawn to really stretch his chops.

The second problem stems from the situations that Dave is putting him in. Thrawn is a military and strategic genius, who thrives in situations where it is straight up one fleet fighting another fleet, both in large scale campaigns unfolding over a period of months as well as individual battles. He can identify an enemies likely tactics through understanding of his enemies psyche, and understanding he gains through careful study of artwork, artwork that can be created by or simply enjoyed by individuals or entire cultures/species. He can use this understanding to carefully craft strategies against enemy factions and commanders, and he can do this in the heat of an impromptu battle, or in the context of carefully laid out campaigns put together in whatever time frame he required. The entire Thrawn trilogy puts both of these abilities on display, introducing him by immediately crafting the perfect battle plan against a suddenly appearing New Republic task force in the first chapter of the first book, and then later consistently crafting one brilliant plan after another that builds on each other like a series of chess moves.

Now, the thing is, it’s pretty easy for a strategist to show his competence in a theater of war against affection of close to equal strength, such as the Empire and the New Republic in this timeframe of five years after Endor. It’s difficult to show the same kind of cunning and brilliance when the context is in all powerful galaxy spanning Empire trying to track down and eliminate a number of small rebel cells instead of going toe to toe with an enemy fraction of equal strength. As such, it makes sense that Thrawn was sort of out of his element in rebels. Even so, he was never really given an opportunity to demonstrate his strategic brilliance, simply because the circumstances of this timeframe made that impossible. They could show him being just barely one step ahead of the rebels as they try to escape his ship, or the factory he was inspecting, or a trap he had laid the plans for and entrusted to a less competent officer, but the effect of this makes him seem simply competent instead of brilliant. When they could show him engage in a proper battle, the sheer volume of resources, personnel, and fire power at his disposal, makes his victory pretty much certain when his enemies are a ragtag group of rebels, with significantly fewer fighters, warships that are significantly weaker and older, and transports that are completely unarmed. This lineup makes any real strategy to defeat the enemy, excessive, and unnecessary, and really difficult to show. That’s why the only two real battles he engages in (Atollon and the attack on the Lothal factory) do nothing to display the grand admirals intelligence. He wins by default based on his overwhelming firepower and resources, not based on a specifically tailored strategy for that particular situation with that particular commander.

In Ahsoka, they touch on his strategic brilliance and tendency to read his opponents, but because his overall goal here was simply to escape, and buying time rather than actually destroying his opponent was all he really needed, it doesn’t come off as brilliant and it doesn’t give him an opportunity to really show off his intelligence. In the final episode of Ahsoka, they could have had a five minute scene when Thrawn returns to the galaxy and meets a new Republic task force, and then proceeds to utterly annihilate the force, despite having only a single damaged Star Destroyer at his disposal.

I remember reading recently that when adding Thrawn to rebels, the biggest challenge was creating situations where he would be involved, but it wouldn’t be his fault that the empire lost. My response to that is simply, then why not have the rebels lose every now and then? Why not have them barely fail to acquire their goal simply because the Grand Admiral was distantly involved, or have them fail outright every now and then because he outthought them at every turn? Maybe have an episode or an arc where they try to help Senator Garm Bel Iblis (who I am very sore about his exclusion from rebel specifically and Disney Canon in general) defect from the Empire and escape Corellia, but due to Thrawn intervening at the last second, the senator’s family is killed.

Point being, I believe that Canon Thrawn is just as intelligent and strategically brilliant as expanded universe Thrawn, he just hasn’t been given situations where he can thrive and truly demonstrate that ability.

[helloliriels]

One More Time (With Feeling)

"Are you sure?" Sherlock eyed the familiar street with wonder.

"Completely sure." The man behind him in the big blue box smiled. He was leaning over Sherlock's shoulder, trying to get a peek ... "This the moment?" he asked, grinning wider.

"This was ... this was it," Sherlock stammered. His feet betrayed him, already eagerly stepping out of the box and onto the cobblestone pavement.

He made it two steps towards Angelo's before the thought struck him. "What if he doesnt-?"

"-Want you?!" The man mocked incredulity, shaking his head, "trust me ... you're irresistible." Then he shut the doors of the Tardis, and Sherlock had to move or risk being seen.

He took a deep breath, then heard the whir of the machine disappearing behind him.

This was it.

.

Sherlock straightened his suit jacket, running his fingers through his messy curls and ... decided to take the jacket off and make himself appear as much like his younger self as possible.

Next ... he shot a text to himself. Waiting until that Sherlock was out of the way in the loos, he stole into the same seat beside John.

"So ... you have a girlfriend?" John was just asking.

Perfect timing.

. ... God, how much he had missed this John!

. eager, and open, and .... waiting ... ?

.

"Not really my area." he answered, swallowing his fears.

He feigned interest out the window, keeping his minds-eye firmly fixed on John. Trying to capture and record every minute detail of this precious moment.

"Oh," John took a bite, and then looked up again quickly, "Oh? You ... have a boyfriend, then?"

Sherlock's eyes flitted towards John's despite his best efforts.

"Which is fine, of course!" John hurried to add.

"Of course it's fine," Sherlock answered, suddenly needing water. He took a deep drink and caught his eyes drifting back to meet John's.

"So you have a boyfriend?" John asked.

Hurried pulse. Short breaths.

John had even licked at his lips when he spoke, like he was nervous ... afraid to ask? ... how had he not noticed before ... ?

"Nope," Sherlock replied, deepening his voice to a purr. The effect was not lost on John ...

Dilated eyes.

. Cheeks turning rosy.

. Slight shift in his seat ...

"Not unless ... you are applying for the job?" Sherlock asked unconcerned, unbuttoning the top button of his shirt.

John was watching his neck ... his pulse. Licking his lips again. His breathing hitched. Heavy.

This was hardly a fair game.

.

"Maybe we should go?" he asked, extending his hand.

Suddenly John rose with him.

Then hesitated.

"Did we need to-" John looked out the window, "... your murderer?" he asked, genuinely concerned they would let a criminal roam free if they left? It was adorable.

"Oh ... just passing the time," Sherlock reassured him with a dismissing wave of his hand, "it was a long-shot he would appear." Then ... as much as he wanted to stay and enjoy what followed ...

. Decided ...

He'd better go tell his younger, idiotic self .... the chances he was throwing away if he did not continue.

He would be understanding.

"Let me settle the bill," he lied, excusing himself to see John eagerly already out the door pacing back and forth with a smile on his face.

(psst! ... more is beneath cut!) - Liri

"You made it home, love?" John was smiling at him in a knowingly ... achingly ... more-than familiar way ... ?

"Did you ... miss me?" Sherlock asked cautiously, entering 221B. He closed the door behind him and stood with his back pressed against it.

Present Day.

Safely returned from his time-travel adventures.

He hoped.

"Did I miss you ...?!" John laughed. He was already taking Sherlock's hands in his, and sweeping him into the room.

Deftly, he danced them both around to the fireplace ... like this was just something they did, and had done ... a million times before?

Sherlock lost himself in the movement. Closing his eyes and enjoying the sensation that was John Watson, held in his arms.

He had only once before been able to steal that pleasure; Beneath the pretense of 'teaching John to dance'.

When at last, dazed, and more than pleasantly bewildered, they stopped swaying ... Sherlock dared to open his eyes.

A happy sigh escaped John's lips. Making him look even more ... irresistible?

"I take it you missed me too?" John teased. Pulling Sherlock down for a soft, delicious kiss. Sherlock melted into his arms. Giving John everything he had pent up inside of him, since leaving his younger self to carry on with the night before them ...

John's eyes opened wide as Sherlock finally released him.

"Where did that come from?" he asked, awed.

His fingers were on Sherlock's lips ... memorizing his face ... and then ... wiping a tear from where it traced down Sherlock's pale cheek.

"You have no idea ... how much I've missed," Sherlock replied at long last. His breath hitching against the words he struggled to free.

John kissed him again. More languid ... more painstaking possessive this time ... and Sherlock felt his knees weaken.

"Take me to bed, John?" he asked.

Genuinely wanting to know ... and to feel ...

. What their first time was like ... for himself ... ?

"Oh God, yes," John whispered.

. Leading the way.

..........................................................................................

For @totallysilvergirl request for the Angelo scene and @calaisreno prompt: Do-Over. Plus tossing in one more Doctor: (couldn't resist, mate)

@johnlocky @chinike @rhasima @raina-at @lisbeth-kk @jrow @khorazir @fluffbyday-smutbynight @topsyturvy-turtely @gaylilsherlock @a-victorian-girl @solarmama-plantsareneat @impalaparkedat221b @chriscalledmesweetie @friday411 @ghostofnuggetspast @sgam76 @janetm74 @peanitbear @masterofhounds @missdeliadili @loki-lock @meetinginsamarra @bs2sjh @gomielka @thetimemoves @thegildedbee @iwlyanmw @jobooksncoffee @amyreadsandstresses @kittenmadnessandtea @naefelldaurk @dragonnan @jolieblack @notjustamumj @jawnn-watson @dinner--starving @safedistancefrombeingsmart @weeesi @gregorovitch-adler @inevitably-johnlocked @dapetty @bewitched-bullet @theofficialinternetloner @keirgreeneyes @dontfuckmylifewtf @strawberrywinter4 @thalialunacy

[raina-at]

Calm

This is a sequel of sorts to a ficlet I wrote last year, to be found here, but this stands well on its own as well.

---------

Sherlock paces. And paces. And paces.

His shoes squeak on the linoleum floor. The lights flicker.

He stops, glares. “How can you be so calm?”

John raises his eyes from his book and looks at Sherlock over the rim of his reading glasses. “I’m not, really.”

“You’re reading a bloody novel!”

John sighs and puts the book down. “Was reading, from the looks of it,” he mutters, then gets up and catches both of Sherlock’s hands in his. “Look. I know you’re nervous, but you have to pace yourself a bit. These things usually take hours, and working yourself into a nervous frenzy ten minutes in won’t help anyone.”

Sherlock snorts. Nervous. He’s not nervous. 

He’s bloody terrified out of his wits. And John should be too, damn him.

“John. Our daughter is having a baby. How can you be so nonchalant?”

“Because she’s young and healthy and in the care of people who deliver babies every day,” John says, steering Sherlock towards the snack machine. 

“But none of those mothers are Rosie, and none of those babies are ours!”

“I am fully aware of that, love,” John says, calmly and efficiently frisking Sherlock’s various pockets for his chip and pin card. “Here, have some Cadbury’s.” He presses the chocolate bar into Sherlock’s hands, then gets a Mars bar for himself.

“How can you eat at this moment?”

“Because I’m hungry, and like I said, this might take hours yet. I won’t spare Rosie one single contraction if I go hungry until she’s done,” John says mildly and returns to his seat.

Sherlock follows, sitting down heavily next to John. “But what if our little girl takes after her mother? Rosie’s birth was so quick we didn’t even get Mary to the hospital in time.”

John smiles, looking at Sherlock fondly. “I think she did that on purpose. She wanted you to deliver her, not some doctor.”

Sherlock shudders as he remembers that night. How scared he was. How ambivalent he felt helping a person he hated so much through something so intimate. How miraculous it was, to hold his little baby Watson for the first time. 

It’s odd, to think back on that moment now. To a time before she was his daughter. That there was a time in her life when she wasn’t his. That there was a time in his life when he wasn’t anyone’s. 

John nudges him. “What?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “Nothing.” But he takes John’s hand and laces their fingers together, feeling the reassuring click as their wedding rings bump against each other. 

John just gives him a look. After twenty years of marriage, John is very good at telling when Sherlock is bullshitting, and he’s even better at calling him on it.

Sherlock looks in the direction of the delivery room, where his little girl is having a little girl of her very own. Where his daughter is becoming a mother, when she never had one.

“Do you sometimes wonder, what might have been?” he asks quietly, without looking at John. “If our girl had ever had a mother?”

John says nothing for a moment, but he’s rubbing his thumb over Sherlock’s wedding ring, probably an unconscious gesture, but a welcome one. “I… don’t think that was ever an option,” John finally says, obviously picking his words very carefully. “I think Mary gave her all she had to give. She carried her, gave birth to her, loved her for a bit. But Mary wasn’t the type to go the distance. To be there for her, no matter what. To be there for us, no matter what.” John gives Sherlock a significant look. “You don’t become a parent by contributing to the gene pool. You know this. You become a parent by showing up for them and sticking around, even when they barf on your shoes and blame you for every pimple on their face.”

Sherlock swallows, still after so many years unsure how he got so lucky. 

“Not lucky,” John says quietly, and Sherlock wonders if he said the thought aloud, but maybe John just knows him really well. “This,” he holds up their joined hands, “has nothing to do with luck. This is commitment, and effort, and force of will, and sometimes, sheer bloody-minded stubbornness.”

“God knows we’ve got that in spades,” Sherlock says, giving John a small smile, squeezing John’s hand in silent gratitude. 

“That little girl will be the most thick-headed human being ever to walk the Earth,” John answers, grinning now, a proud grandfather to be. “Imagine, your stubbornness, mine, and Rosie’s combined.”

“No wonder this is taking so long,” Sherlock says.

John laughs, and whatever melancholy came over Sherlock dissolves with the familiar, soothing sound of John’s happiness. 

It’s difficult to imagine, now. That it was ever any different. That there was a time when Sherlock was unsure of his place, at John’s side, in Rosie’s life. But John is right. They didn’t get here by luck. They put in the work, all three of them. They’re a family not by blood, but by choice. By vow. By force of will. 

John is eating his Mars bar with relish. “Relax,” he says, leaning his head against Sherlock’s shoulder as they settle in to wait. “Everything will be fine. You’ll see.”

Sherlock rests his cheek against John’s hair and inhales the soothing scent of his husband’s shampoo and caramel. “Can I have a bite of your Mars bar?”

John’s laughter is as sweet as the caramel. 

Sherlock closes his eyes and smiles as he feels calm finally return. Soon they’ll have another little girl to spoil, to protect, to be there for, to argue with. A new life, a new journey. 

And Sherlock can’t wait to begin.

----------------

Tags under the cut as usual, as always please let me know if you want to be tagged or untagged.

@calaisreno @keirgreeneyes @jrow @peanitbear @totallysilvergirl @lisbeth-kk @meetinginsamarra @jolieblack @weesi @helloliriels @salmonsown @riversong912 @givemesherbet-blog-blog

[bs2sjh]

My first @flashfictionfridayofficial! Thanks for the great prompt!

Fandom: Sherlock (Johnlock, Mystrade)

I'm also posting it on Ao3. It's over 1000 words, so feel free to go here to read it!

cw: implied drug use, implied suicide attempt, implied torture

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

There had been a number of times where Mycroft Holmes had been made very aware that he did, in fact, have a heart beating in his chest after all.

The first was when a small, red-faced infant had been brought home. As Mycroft looked down at the crying, screaming thing, he didn't expect the sudden jolt in his chest. A stab of sudden overwhelming emotion. What was equally unexpected was that when he stroked his new baby brother's face and told him to quieten, that everything was going to be okay, that he would always be protected by his big brother, the infant had listened. William Sherlock Scott Holmes simply looked at his older brother, and Mycroft felt that deeply. 

The second time was sheer pain at finding his younger brother in a drug den, surrounded by needles, barely breathing. It wasn't the first time he'd found him in a place like this. But on this occasion, it felt different. Mycroft knew that this time, Sherlock had not meant to survive the encounter. Scooping up the younger man in his arms, his heart ached at how thin the boy was, at how little life remained in him. He took him straight to the nearest hospital, where they whisked him away, leaving Mycroft with his aching heart to sit and wait. It wasn't until many days later that Sherlock opened his eyes to see the concerned expressions of his family around him. In his heart, Mycroft knew that this wouldn't be the last time his brother would be in this situation. The pain was indescribable. 

The third time was seeing Sherlock chained up in a filthy cell in Serbia. His brother had spent two years moving around the globe, destroying pockets of Moriarty's empire single-handedly. That the criminal mastermind hadn't targeted Sherlock's family should have hurt, but strangely it didn't. Knowing that Sherlock had people he cared about enough to keep them safe meant that he valued at least some people in his life to prevent their suffering. It was a pity that John Watson didn't know the lengths to which Sherlock would go to protect him. It might have saved his heart some of the ache he was currently feeling. But seeing Sherlock beaten, tortured, at the edge of his sanity. Anger filled his heart this time. That someone could do this to his baby brother. Infiltration successful, Sherlock finally cut down from his bonds, too weak to stand, bleeding and barely conscious. Mycroft hardened his heart and made sure no one who had laid a hand on his brother was left to tell the tale. 

The fourth time was the hardest to bear. To know that Sherlock had once again sacrificed his life for a love that would never be acknowledged. By now, Mycroft was angry at John Watson. He had Sherlock's undying love but was so blindingly stupid not to realise that fact. So here they were, in a prison cell, Sherlock about to be sent away on a one-way mission to the place he had been rescued from not long before. All so that John Watson could be happy. And there was nothing Mycroft could do. His heart ached at how easily Sherlock would throw his life away for someone who merely considered him a friend. But nothing Mycroft could say would make Sherlock change his mind; he refused to tell John the truth, and that was that. The relief when Moriarty appeared on the screen, the phone call that followed, the pardon that he had hoped for arriving almost too late. His heart skipped with happiness only to sink again when he realised his brother had fallen back on old habits. No one who had seen that list could think otherwise. Sherlock had not meant to land in Serbia alive. Telling John Watson to look after his brother was the hardest thing he had ever done, but at that point, Mycroft knew he had to let go. His heart couldn't take any more. One day, Sherlock would succeed, and his heart would break. 

The fifth was a surprise. As Mycroft stood blinking at his brother, who was sitting at the kitchen table in Baker Street bouncing a three-year-old Rosie Watson on his knee, his heart gave the biggest lurch he'd ever felt. He felt for the chair he knew must be there and sank into it like his strings had been cut. 

"Best man?" His brother rolled his eyes and set Rosie on the floor, watching as she toddled off into the living room.

"Yes."

"But..."

"But what? You've been there every day, meddling, since I was born. For once, and once only, I'm asking you to be there. With me." Mycroft's heartfelt three sizes bigger; a lump appeared in his throat, and his eyes started to fill. Choking down the emotion, Mycroft coughed and turned away. 

"Don't tell me it broke him too. You two are ridiculous." John laughed as he walked into the kitchen. So a few weeks later, Mycroft stood next to his brother as he married his best friend, finally. 

If the fifth was a surprise, nothing shook Mycroft more than the sixth. He was standing on the edge of the dancefloor as he watched Sherlock waltz with his new husband, besotted expressions on their faces. It happened when the other best man approached. 

"So, normally, I guess I would be asking the maid of honour to dance. But seeing as that would either be you or me in this case, would you do me the honour of this dance?" Gregory Lestrade held out his hand for Mycroft, and at once, something like a bolt hit him straight in the heart. 

"I'd be delighted, Gregory." He accepted the proffered hand, and they waltzed onto the dancefloor. As they moved in time to the music, Mycroft felt his heart change. He continued to feel its presence long after the dance, the night, the week. Mycroft spent the rest of his life knowing full well he had a heart. It was a joyful feeling most of the time, and, on occasion, it ached. It got larger as their families grew and settled. And he never once said again that caring was not an advantage. Because he had learned that it most definitely was. 

@totallysilvergirl @lisbeth-kk @helloliriels @dapetty @calaisreno

If you'd like to be tagged when I post a new story, let me know!

[weast-of-eden]

Victorian Holmes/Watson Murder Mysteries Fic Rec

aka people are DYING and you two are making out??? actually i just noticed that all of these have the explicit rating so not only are they making out they're getting busy while people are, again, DYING.

enjoy <3

The False and True by Rhuia 9k | Rated E Summary: Dead men tell no lies. The living do it for them. Based on a real murder. And just plain based.

Witness and Testimony by Violsva 11k | Rated E Summary: Men of certain dispositions should not take up residence with consulting detectives. Having done so anyway, Watson is finally forced to face the consequences. Not quite the consequences he expected, however. TFW your best friend’s boyfriend is framed for murder so you prove his innocence then take his man

The Case of the Kidnapped Corpses by Ferryman 10k | Rated E (No Summary) Holmes can you please stop almost killing yourself for the sake of a case you’re going to give your doctor a heart attack.

To see ourselves by Citrine (orphan_account) 9k | Rated E Summary: Victorian London - Odd notions of sexuality, Holmes' fetish and some unsolved murders. And men falling in love, even if they won't admit it. Me *opening this fic*: what is it finna play-- WOAH

[mrsmaudieholmesteapot]

I've seen this Granada Holmes picture of "two proud dads and their ten adopted children" quite a few times now, thinking this is the way it should be done.

To me Holmes is generally kind man. He helps women who can't pay him. He works wih the Irregulars, who are poor children (SIGN). He takes stories seriously that wouldn't be taken seriously by anyone else (REDH).

But the greatest impression left the adaptations on me. Howard Holmes and Whitehead Holmes (both adaptations by Sheldon Reynolds) have episodes where they just babysit or have children as clients. Richardson Holmes didn't do the best job when adapting Watson, but Holmes is in character.

I really wish there was an adaptation where an openly gay Holmes and his openly bi Watson raise children. Bonus points if Holmes is also portrayed as trans and they have trans children. Victorian setting welcomed.

And yes, Holmes is strange and crazy and nerdy. And yes, Watson is penniless and depressed and womanizing. But in the end and since Watson is an unreliable narrator, I see the potential.

[aziraphales-library]

You have no idea how happy I am rn- your blog is an absolute treasure trove. Thank you for doing God's work, lol.

Anyway, I was wondering if you knew any fics where there's a crossover with sherlock holmes?

Preferably the Victorian Arthur Conan Doyle version, but the newer incarnations will do, too

Thanks again, have a great day!

Here are some Sherlock Holmes crossover fics for you...

The Adventure Of The Bereft Bookseller by CopperBeech (G)

Established in his career, Sherlock Holmes accepts a client who's more than he seems, and who presents him with a very cold case.

Occult Forces by BarbaraKaterina (T)

Sherlock Holmes remembers a mystery from his younger years, and takes Watson to investigate a bookshop in Soho. Just a little something for Halloween.

On the revolutions of the heavenly spheres by HolRose (G)

The year is 1890, and Aziraphale has been accused of stealing a book from the British Museum Library. Fearing censure from both the human and Heavenly authorities, he goes to seek help from London’s most famous consulting detective at 221b Baker Street.

The Case of Immortal Identity by MissLauraBarrow (T)

When Holmes first moved to London, he met a curious Mr. Fell. After almost twenty years, he and his beloved companion should solve a mystery surrounding the unusual collector of the books.

Wings in the Window by Sonnet23 (G)

Crowley and Aziraphale are the suspects in a Sherlock Holmes-esque criminal case. A detective story set in the 19th century. Written by Dr John Watson, who promised not to publish it.

The angel, the demon and the detective by Musyque (G)

In 6000 of living on Earth, the angel Aziraphale and the demon Crowley have met quite a few people. But when Aziraphale became friend with Charles Dickens in the 1850s, he couldn't know that it would change his life in a way no other friendships had ever done. The only souvenir he has kept of that time is a book, Dickens' most personal one: David Copperfield. In another part of London, a famous detective is struggling to find a present for his best friend's birthay. Hopefully, Mrs Hudson is here to save the day.

- Mod D

[strangesthirdeye]

ᴇxᴘᴇʀɪᴍᴇɴᴛs? ( sʜᴇʀʟᴏᴄᴋ x ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴʟᴇss ғᴇᴍ! ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ)

Summary: When an experiment becomes a non-experiment

Warning: IT'S SHERLOCK HOLMES! HE'S OUR FAVOURITE POOKIE. Mention about car crash and accident, minor injuries, light angst but ending fluff and sweet. Lack of reaction from the reader, Sherlock being Sherlock, Burned, Lack of John Watson but there is still John Watson, serial killer, knife, cliche confessions. Brain injuries, medical thingy, Mrs Hudson is reader's grandma.

As usual, I'm sorry if there are any wrong sentences or typos or grammatical mistakes, please forgive me and again English is not my first language, so I try to improve my language and writing in this way.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

"Y/n?!"

You jerked from your reverie and glanced to the side to see Mrs. Hudson whose expression changed to concerned. She gushed over you and approached your side with her signature mumbling with the hint of worries in her tone.

She then touched your hand which was red due to burns with hot water over to the sink and opened the tap water to cold to help your burned hands.

You emotionlessly looked at your burnt hand with blank eyes.

"Blimey, Y/n. Luckily I saw you, dear. Otherwise, your hands would have been badly burned" she gushed with worry as she splashed cold water on your burned hands.

You just stay silent. It's not like you have feelings or emotions to show off but really, you don't know what emotions you should show whether it's smiling or sad. Your brain is just.. blank.

It all started when you were involved in an accident that caused your head to suffer serious internal injuries which meant you had to be operated on immediately, leaving you with a shaved head and lost emotions which doctors explained were due to damaged which cannot be avoided when operating on your head. Just your limbic system seems to have a problem.

So here you are, with blank face watching your hands get treated by your grandma who is still mumbling about your whereabouts. She's the one who is always with you so she understands your conditions since you were involved in an accident. She's the one who offered you to live with her claimed that she's just missed her granddaughter even though in reality she just worries about you.

You sometimes don't understand why she wants to take care of you so much when you can take care of yourself but well, it's Mrs Hudson we're talking about.

Mrs. Hudson clipped the stapler for the bandage on the side of your hand with satisfaction. She sighed before turning her gaze to you who stared at your bandaged hands with a deadpan.

"Now, you need to be careful next time, dear. If you want to do work, make sure you concentrate on it for a while so that nothing happens, okay?" she gently rubbed your bandaged hands.

You turned your gaze to your grandmother blankly and nodded in understanding. "thanks, nana" you muttered flatly.

Mrs Hudson shook her head dismissively. "no need, dear. At least you're okay."

You stared at her blankly before nodding. "Right"

Mrs Hudson looked concerned at you. "is your head still sore?"

"no" you shook your head.

She nodded with understanding. "If you say so, don't forget to take your medicine, dear. If your head still hurts, feel free to seek me out. Nana is at the kitchen okay?" she kissed your head gently before retreating to the kitchen probably cleaning all those things you're done earlier.

You stared at her back with no emotion running inside your head nor did your face show any emotions. It's like you are a robot. But why does your inside feel warm and comfortable? Why do you feel like you are being hugged with a period heater all over your body? like someone just hugs you from the inside. Why do you feel this way?

You shrugged. 'this is new.. might search about it later'

You bring your attention to your bandaged hands with a deadpan look. Should you feel something about this or should you just leave it alone? Most people react when they're injured whether they cry or yelp in pain. But you don't. you just shut up and stared at your hands with empty eyes. Is like something you normally do but not always. Your hands feel stretched under the bandages it's like your hands are full of chewing gum and you try to pull it out but to no avail it doesn't come off.

You frowned. It's probably taken a few weeks to heal which you don't mind as long as you wash the burn. You looked around your flat trying to figure out what to do next but then you came out with nothing. You leaned against your sofa with a sigh and stared at the ceiling. Your mind is empty and just staring into space.

But your peace didn't last long when you heard footsteps rushing from outside your flat to the flat above.

221B. You are neighbors with the infamous Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson.

Honestly, you don't know them at all, you just know them from your grandmother. She always complained about them. Always. And you think you can memorize her 'not your housekeeper' speeches by heart as long as you live with her.

You ignored all the rushing above. Eyes closed trying to take a nap for a while but then a voice of shouting from upstairs was heard causing you to open your eyes and stare at the ceiling directly to the floor of the flat above.

Mrs Hudson came out of the kitchen and peeked her head from the edge of the kitchen and into the living room with frustration. "Oh, that young man will be the cause of my heart attack soon if he shouts like that all the time" Mrs Hudson complained before she went back into the kitchen.

But the shouting was still heard again but this time Mrs Hudson's name was shouted from the man on the upper floor. Mrs Hudson stopped everything she was doing.

"Y/n, why don't you go up to the top flat and find out what does that man need?" Mrs. Hudson suggested.

"me?" you cocked your head to the side.

"yes, dear. At least he is quiet, so that there is a bit of peace in this flat" Mrs Hudson said, waving her hands towards you as of shooing you out of the flat.

You got up and went out on your grandmother's orders without any thought. The steps are arranged up the flat stairs leading to the upper flat.

There you see a flat that is a little messy from the stairs. The flat door was wide open showing the contents of the flat. Files and papers scattered on the floor and table and empty cups on the table. In fact everything in the flat is out of place. You didn't make any comments instead you just continued your steps until you reached the door of the flat.

You peek your head out of the door. There Sherlock was sitting on his chair with his hands in prayer and his eyes closed.

For a moment you thought that you interrupted his peace but then Sherlock opened his eyes and glanced at you with confusion written on his face.

oh, i forgot to mention that Sherlock never once met face to face or got to know you while you were sitting with your grandmother. So, obviously he is a bit confused about who you are. Sherlock narrowed his eyes before he got up and strode towards you dramatically.

You didn't show any reaction. In fact, you're not sure how to react to that. You try to feel intimidated by him but you can't. You just can't. Sherlock is now standing in front of you and looking at your face trying to deduce all the information related to you. You stared at his face with no reaction show on your face. You know about him even if you have never met him. Mostly from your grandmother who always talks about it. Complaining about his rather strange behavior or anything unusual he did.

Now you wonder what your grandmother complained about Sherlock now that you are in front of him. Sherlock parted his gaze on you and turned around walking towards his chair and anchored his back to the chair. He leaned back on the chair with his eyes focused on you.

"You are not clients" he said bluntly.

"I'm not clients" you replied flatly.

"You are Mrs Hudson's granddaughter" Sherlock exclaimed.

"Yes" you replied simply.

Sherlock cocked his heqd slightly to the side. Confused with the lack of reaction to every reply you reply to him. Not to mention your face is very natural with no reaction plastered on your face. This irked something in him.

"You recently lived with Mrs Hudson after the car crash and now you live with her permanently. You work at a bookstore judging by how close off your personality is. Introverted, obviously. Now you are still looking for a job which has not been accepted after just sending the form application which probably they won't send a response" Sherlock made his deduction.

You stared at him with a pointless look. Nothing to show on your face. Sherlock narrowed his eyes after he finds that you didn't respond with any snarky remarks to him that people always say to him.

"anything to say?" Sherlock stared at you intently.

"Should I say anything?" You replied.

"People always respond with inappropriate responses" Sherlock clasped his hands together in front of his mouth as his eyes focused on you.

"Car crash, it's true. Living with my grandma permanently is true. Only the last one was a bit true. The one who wants to hire me as an employee has sent me feedback and I'll start next week. I am introvert and also used to work at the bookstore" you replied bluntly.

Sherlock grunted not satisfied with what you said. He leaned the back of his head on the chair he was sitting on while closing his eyes. You cocked your head to the side a little.

"Do people always do that?" you asked him

"do what?" Sherlock responded without looking at you.

"saying something that is not inappropriate to you" You continued.

"Always" Sherlock replied.

"Aren't you mad at them?" you asked

"Not if it has happened many times." Sherlock said. "If you become me, you must be used to it"

"Same as me now. I used to be angry when people said that to me like that now that I lost the feeling of anger. Not only anger but other feelings too" You said before deciding to sit in the seat in front of him.

Sherlock opened his eyes and stared at you for a moment. "You lost other feelings"

You nodded. "yeah, anger, happiness, sadness, fear, nervous. I don't feel all that anymore due to car crash. The doctor said that I have a damaged limbic system, all my emotions and feelings are gone, leaving me acting like a robot" you said without showing any reaction.

Sherlock looked at you solemnly. "so you don't feel pain? Bored?"

You nodded. "that too"

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Three months later, you and Sherlock started getting along well. Well, not until Mrs Hudson tries to let you socialize with other people so that other people is John. At first John was a bit confused because he never saw you nor did you ever see him because during those 3 months he spent a lot of time at his house with his wife and daughter leaving Sherlock alone in the flat. But then when he knew you and knew your conditions he started to be friendly with you and treat you like family.

You as usual only say yes and get along well with him because you don't know how to react so you are just friends with him like you are friends with Sherlock.

Sherlock well, he always experimented with you with various things just for you to show any emotions and feelings. He always said that he can trigger you to show your emotions and feelings even if it's just a little. But not all become.

There was a time he's trying to say something hurtful to you just to make you feel angry or sad but he ended up getting slapped by you with your usual blank face. He smirked at that because he knows that in your neutral face, you must be feeling anger from the inside. But for some reason the feeling of your hand made him feel something in himself.

There was a time when he offered you to join him in solving a case. Which is a serial killer case. Of course. He introduced you to Lestrade and Lestrade as usual treated you kindly without feeling disturbed by your emotionless face. He already went through everything on Sherlock so he's used to it. But the real part is the serial killer managed to attack you with his knife which you dodged but your arm didn't. Not major but only minor. You only need stitches.

Lestrade is obviously concerned with you while Sherlock.. well Sherlock with his still going observation about your feelings and emotions determined to observe you who is still being stitched, trying to find any kind reaction you bring out. Like pain.

You winced faintly while your face still remained neutral. But Sherlock saw the look on your face. It seems like you don't show any kind of emotion and feelings externally but internally. And then without hesitation, Sherlock held your injured hand gently, hoping to ease the pain.

That was two weeks ago, your arm still has stitches that will leave a scar. Today, Sherlock tries to do an experiment different from the others. He wants to know if you are capable of feeling affection. Which is not sure but he wanted to try.

So right now, he, John and you are chilling in the flat while flipping through all the files regarding the current case. Thanks to Lestrade who was willing to bring all the files to their flat.

John sighed tiredness and boredom. He put the files he was holding on the table next to his chair and rubbed his tired eyes. He glanced at you and Sherlock who were sitting facing each other on the floor still flipping through the files solemnly.

He sighed for the second time. "I'm going home now, Mary must be waiting for me"

Sherlock hummed while you bid him goodnight but eyes still on the files in both hands. John shook his head and got up from the chair and walked out of the flat to his house.

Now that John is gone, Sherlock can start his observation (Experiment). He turned his gaze from the file and stared at your face who was so neutral while you were flipping through the files unaware of everything but tasks in your hands. Sherlock placed the files from his hands on the floor before slowly he moved himself to sit next to you.

You didn't realize that Sherlock had changed his position from facing you to next to you because you were still busy with the files in your hands. Sherlock sat next to you and thought for a moment about his next move.

Now he needs to do something to make you flustered. As someone who has never done anything romantic, Sherlock sure knows how to do something romantic after half a day of searching about romance on Google. Now, what he needs to do is he needs your attention on him so that he can think next moves.

Sherlock took a deep breath before he spoke. "Aren't you tired?"

You hummed. "not really.."

"It's quite late, you know.. It's 2 in the morning.. Aren't you sleepy?" Sherlock said slowly moved his right hand to your back and rested his hand on the floor so that his position was closer to you. (don't know how to describe it)

"I have severe insomnia since the accident so no.. I'm not sleepy" You replied, eyes still observing the files.

Sherlock nodded. "but it's a bit late.. maybe we can continue it tomorrow?"

You frowned. "But you said you need an answer as soon as possible-" your sentence hung in your mouth as you turned your head to Sherlock's face which was close to yours.

Sherlock stared at your eyes that were staring at his eyes. That neutral face of yours that he used to look at his face closely made him forget his next plans.

Too lost for words to be uttered by him when he saw a face that he himself did not see how perfect it was. You were stunned and observed every curve of his face. Starting from his colorful eyes, his pointed nose, his sharp cheek bones and ending with his reddish lips.

It's like seeing an angel in front of your eyes. His face looks like it was made by an experienced artist. Very detailed and too perfect. How can this man who is claimed by the public as rude, psychopathic and robotic have this kind of beauty? Now you see Sherlock's face up close. Noticed his faint wrinkles on his pale skin. Not to mention his thick curly black hair. Gosh, you just want to run your fingers through his hair.

'oh, what are you thinking?' you thought strangely. Never do you think like this. Plus why is your heart beating fast.. Why do you feel like something is about to burst from your stomach. Something that doesn't hurt.

Sherlock stared at your face for a long time before his right hand that was on the floor began to move and gently palmed your cheek.

Your face feels warm in his hands. Your skin is red and yet your face doesn't show any kind of reaction. You still don't say anything but letting him do his next move.

"Y/n?" Sherlock called out.

You looked at his eyes. "yes?"

'fuck off about the experiment I'll do this instead' Sherlock thought before he took a deep breath.

"I've been wanting to say this for a long time, ever since you started accompanying me in every case." Sherlock started.

"what is it?" you put your hand in his hand that palmed your cheek.

"Those things that I did to you during the few months you accompanied me in the cases, were just experiments to get what kind of reaction you had.. Things like saying bad things to you and so on were just experiments. But then, I felt something which I didn't expect.. Something that was like a spark of firework in me when I helped you to express your feelings and emotions" Sherlock said.

You frowned in confusion.

"I did not realize that my experiment would backfire on me for expressing my feelings and emotions. You also know that I am the type that never shows any kind of emotions in public for the sake of my image. But then, when that is you... I feel like I want to express all kinds of feelings and emotions to you and you alone" Sherlock put his other hand on your cheek. Now his two hands palmed your face. Thumbs unconsciously stroke your cheeks.

"It's something I've never done but it doesn't hurt if I try, right? I understand if you find it a bit inappropriate but I'm telling something honest from my heart.. I love you" Sherlock said with a tender plus lovingly.

You stared at his face yet your face didn't show any reaction but your face was red and warm in both his hands. Mouth agape you exhaled a short breath before looking down flustered.

You are flustered. Finally you are flustered with his confession. Sherlock noticed your reaction. His heart was quite happy with your reaction but his face showed concern as he never saw your reaction which was extreme for you to deal. He knows you are still trying to deal with your feelings and emotions but he is still concerned with the amount of emotions and feelings you are calculating now.

"Y/n? are you alright?" Sherlock still palmed your face.

You turned your gaze from the floor to Sherlock's eyes before without hesitation you kissed his lips with force. Showing how much you really want him and how much you really love him. Sherlock's eyes widened before he too reciprocated your kiss. He angled your head up with his hands so that he could kiss you deeply.

You put your left hand on his shoulder while your right hand is on the back of his neck. But as a normal human being which you two don't think you two are normal, parted away from eaxh other faces and stared at one another with affection. For the first time you smiled sweetly making Sherlock's heart beating fast. Both of you brought your foreheads together and leaned against each other with smiles on both of your faces.

"I love you too" you replied with a smile.

Non-experimental results: successful.

[contact-guy]

lol THIS ENDED UP BEING SO LONG but it's such a cute story opening that I had to draw Watson roasting Holmes's messiness for the newspaper and Holmes skillfully maneuvering his way out of having to do chores. It's all canon, even the indoor sharpshooting, except for the bit about the cold bath.

canon text under the cut:

An anomaly which often struck me in the character of my friend Sherlock Holmes was that, although in his methods of thought he was the neatest and most methodical of mankind, and although also he affected a certain quiet primness of dress, he was none the less in his personal habits one of the most untidy men that ever drove a fellow-lodger to distraction. Not that I am in the least conventional in that respect myself. The rough-and-tumble work in Afghanistan, coming on the top of a natural Bohemianism of disposition, has made me rather more lax than befits a medical man. But with me there is a limit, and when I find a man who keeps his cigars in the coal-scuttle, his tobacco in the toe end of a Persian slipper, and his unanswered correspondence transfixed by a jack-knife into the very centre of his wooden mantelpiece, then I begin to give myself virtuous airs. I have always held, too, that pistol practice should be distinctly an open-air pastime; and when Holmes, in one of his queer humors, would sit in an arm-chair with his hair-trigger and a hundred Boxer cartridges, and proceed to adorn the opposite wall with a patriotic V. R. done in bullet-pocks, I felt strongly that neither the atmosphere nor the appearance of our room was improved by it.

Our chambers were always full of chemicals and of criminal relics which had a way of wandering into unlikely positions, and of turning up in the butter-dish or in even less desirable places. But his papers were my great crux. He had a horror of destroying documents, especially those which were connected with his past cases, and yet it was only once in every year or two that he would muster energy to docket and arrange them; for, as I have mentioned somewhere in these incoherent memoirs, the outbursts of passionate energy when he performed the remarkable feats with which his name is associated were followed by reactions of lethargy during which he would lie about with his violin and his books, hardly moving save from the sofa to the table. Thus month after month his papers accumulated, until every corner of the room was stacked with bundles of manuscript which were on no account to be burned, and which could not be put away save by their owner. One winter’s night, as we sat together by the fire, I ventured to suggest to him that, as he had finished pasting extracts into his common-place book, he might employ the next two hours in making our room a little more habitable. He could not deny the justice of my request, so with a rather rueful face he went off to his bedroom, from which he returned presently pulling a large tin box behind him. This he placed in the middle of the floor and, squatting down upon a stool in front of it, he threw back the lid. I could see that it was already a third full of bundles of paper tied up with red tape into separate packages.

“There are cases enough here, Watson,” said he, looking at me with mischievous eyes. “I think that if you knew all that I had in this box you would ask me to pull some out instead of putting others in.”

“These are the records of your early work, then?” I asked. “I have often wished that I had notes of those cases.”

“Yes, my boy, these were all done prematurely before my biographer had come to glorify me.” He lifted bundle after bundle in a tender, caressing sort of way. “They are not all successes, Watson,” said he. “But there are some pretty little problems among them. Here’s the record of the Tarleton murders, and the case of Vamberry, the wine merchant, and the adventure of the old Russian woman, and the singular affair of the aluminium crutch, as well as a full account of Ricoletti of the club-foot, and his abominable wife. And here—ah, now, this really is something a little recherchè.”

He dived his arm down to the bottom of the chest, and brought up a small wooden box with a sliding lid, such as children’s toys are kept in. From within he produced a crumpled piece of paper, and old-fashioned brass key, a peg of wood with a ball of string attached to it, and three rusty old disks of metal.

“Well, my boy, what do you make of this lot?” he asked, smiling at my expression.

“It is a curious collection.”

“Very curious, and the story that hangs round it will strike you as being more curious still.”

“These relics have a history then?”

“So much so that they are history.”

“What do you mean by that?”

Sherlock Holmes picked them up one by one, and laid them along the edge of the table. Then he reseated himself in his chair and looked them over with a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes.

“These,” said he, “are all that I have left to remind me of the adventure of the Musgrave Ritual.”

I had heard him mention the case more than once, though I had never been able to gather the details. “I should be so glad,” said I, “if you would give me an account of it.”

“And leave the litter as it is?” he cried, mischievously. “Your tidiness won’t bear much strain after all, Watson. But I should be glad that you should add this case to your annals, for there are points in it which make it quite unique in the criminal records of this or, I believe, of any other country. A collection of my trifling achievements would certainly be incomplete which contained no account of this very singular business.

-The Memories of Sherlock Holmes: The Musgrave Ritual

[calaisreno]

The Case of the Reluctant Bridegroom

1077 words / Prompt: Awkward

John Watson is not a mystery. 

Thirty seconds after he comes through the door, Sherlock knows that he’s not been sleeping well, probably because he’s drinking every night, thinking that will put him out. Mary has a cat which needs to be groomed so it won’t leave hair all over John’s trousers. She’s not a fastidious housekeeper. John’s shoes tell him this: they’re still wearing last night’s mud. She didn’t mind him wearing them into the house, and he was too absent-minded to notice he’d left them on. And he’s lost almost half a stone since Sherlock returned. A happy husband-to-be doesn’t lose weight. Mary might be an awful cook, but John has never been picky about what he eats. 

Absent-minded, not sleeping, weight loss, drinking more than he used to. John is troubled, and Sherlock would like to know why. 

Naturally, he can’t ask. They’ve never done that kind of probing, not since Sherlock deduced his cane and his phone and his haircut. They hadn’t even been introduced at that point, and Sherlock could see who he really was.

The man standing at the door is easily deduced, but none of those deductions explain what’s wrong. Any questions he asks will be awkwardly deflected.

The night Sherlock returned from the dead, John hit him. That’s something he certainly should have seen coming. John is a devoted man, and didn’t like having his devotion (his grief) mocked. 

Sherlock understands that, and regrets it deeply. His adventures in Serbia left him below par, or he wouldn’t have barged into that restaurant, thinking they would have a good laugh about his funeral. 

He understands the John who poured his heart out in the railway car, thinking they were going to die. And the John who was ready to kill him when he realised Sherlock had found the switch. He even understands why John didn’t hit him and walk away again, why he just shook his head when Sherlock said, killing me— that’s so two years ago. 

And this is the knot Sherlock must unwind: John blames himself. Everyone else has accepted Sherlock’s return, gotten past it, and moved on. It’s too long to be holding a grudge, John thinks, so he forgave Sherlock. But he’s troubled.

What does a man like John do with feelings? In that, he’s not so different from Sherlock. He declares them unimportant, non-existent, and pretends all is well. 

“Anything on?” John asks. 

Sherlock shakes his head. “Sorry, no. Dull as ditches. But I’m glad you’re here.”

John raises his eyebrows, frowns sceptically at his old chair. “Right. I suppose we haven’t seen much of each other. Sorry about that. Flu season, you know.”

“Of course. You’re well, though? And Mary?”

John blinks. He still hasn’t sat down. “Yeah. We’re fine. No problems.”

“I’ll make tea,” he says, “unless you’d like something stronger.”

“What’ve you got?”

He remembers the last time he opened the refrigerator. Better not do that while John’s here. “No beer. A half a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black.”

He pours them each a couple fingers, and watches as John settles into his chair. Settles is the wrong word. He ought to look familiar and comfortable sitting there, across from Sherlock. But he looks uneasy, like a man who is doing something that embarrasses him. 

What would embarrass John Watson? He’s an honourable man. He feels honour-bound to forgive Sherlock, but he’s still angry. He’s ashamed of his grief, of his anger. Sherlock was brilliant, as always, fooling everyone into thinking he was dead. Making a fool of John.

Sherlock has apologised. He did that as soon as he realised that John wasn’t just shocked, he was angry. Tricking John into forgiving him was more than a bit not good— but he knew that there had to be some way to get them beyond what neither of them could say. Talking wasn’t something they did; in their case it was useless. They just needed to get to the part where they were chasing criminals again. Back to before.

John refills his glass. Neither of them has thought of anything to say. He can see John’s eyes losing focus. 

“How are things—“ He breaks off, realising they’ve already covered non-specific pleasantries. “The wedding, I mean. The—“ he waves a hand vaguely, “the plans. I suppose there’s a lot to… erm… plan.”

“Mary’s got it all under control. I’m not sure why it takes nearly a year to plan something that’s twenty minutes of church, and then dinner.” John smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He truly has the most expressive face, but he’s guarded now, uncertain. Troubled. 

“Well, if there’s anything I can do,” Sherlock begins. Again, he waves a hand vaguely.

“You?” John is smiling, but it’s an incredulous smile. “Plan a wedding?”

“I have a very organised mind.”

“And no tolerance for tedium,” John adds. 

“I’ll just… well, let me know if you need to escape. I’ll come up with a case.”

They lapse into silence again, and Sherlock imagines that it’s a slightly more comfortable silence. Not quite like 2010, but fine, in a different way from before. He remembers the silent breakfasts, both of them too sleepy after a late night to say much. Tea, toast, and John half-awake, his hair rumpled…

It’s too bad that a person can’t know in the moment when their lives are perfect.  That’s the tragedy of time, how perspective changes and we don’t realise we’re happy until we’re not. 

The two years he was gone barely seemed like two months. There were nights when he dreamed of Baker Street, wished for John’s company. On the whole, though, he was too busy surviving to think about how long it’d been. Not until he saw John’s picture, the horrible moustache, did it begin to sink in how long it had been. In the mind of John Watson, it must have seemed an eternity.

“I should go.” John stands and walks into the kitchen. Sherlock hears him rinse his glass and place it back in the cupboard. The bottle is empty, and Sherlock still hasn’t finished his first glass.

John stands at the door, looking at him for a moment, then nods and heads out. His feet are slightly unsteady on the stairs, Sherlock thinks. The front door shuts, and he’s alone.

In his mind, he’s opening a new file: The Case of the Reluctant Bridegroom. As always, his mind is already turning over solutions.

---

Maybe this one needs a sequel?

@totallysilvergirl @keirgreeneyes @lisbeth-kk @ninasnakie

[jrow]

May Prompts (12)

Day 11 here. Day 13 here.

Family

It’s funny the degree to which having a real family shifted his priorities.

Maybe not funny, but surprising. At least to him.

His entire life, family had felt like an obligation more than anything else. His mother meant well, but she didn’t really know how to parent. His dad was a drunk arsehole. And the least said about Harry the better.

No wonder he’d ended up fighting in a war across the world.

Obligation was exactly how Mary had felt at the end. But despite his spiral after her death (and the resulting piss poor parenting that took all the worst elements from his own parents style), his love for Rosie had been fierce and unwavering. She hadn’t been an obligation, but a gift he didn’t deserve. She got him through.

Well, her and Sherlock. Once John finally let himself acknowledge that Sherlock had become like family himself, things slowly got easier. John was happier. Suddenly, family was love.

But, that can complicate things at times. Balancing the wants and needs of the two members of his family against each other and his own.

Sherlock has been here with him at the hospital all day. After Sherlock first arrived this morning, they spent about a half hour talking about what happened. The thief, the chase, John’s fall. Not surprising, really, given their choice of profession. Although perhaps a bit of a wake up call. John isn’t as young as he used to be, and now he has a child to consider.

John had also hoped to talk about the intruder and see if Sherlock had any theories. He promptly fell asleep instead. And slept for over six hours. Understandable maybe, but embarrassing all the same.

Sherlock was still there when he woke up. John is fairly certain the man never left his bedside. And for twenty minutes, they have been discussing the intruder—the evidence gathered so far (limited, much to Sherlock’s hilarious annoyance) and theories on motives. It’s wonderful and John hates to cut it short, but he knows he must.

Molly would likely agree to pick up Rosie from nursery. Mrs. Hudson too. But they’ve never done it before and, under the circumstances, that will scare Rosie. Right now her comfort takes precedence over John’s and Sherlock’s wants and needs.

Sherlock is currently ranting about security measures in the hospital. To be honest, John stopped paying attention to the details a couple minutes ago. He opens his mouth to interrupt, but is beaten to the punch when Sherlock stops abruptly and stands up.

“Sorry, John. I need to head to the nursery now. If I pick up Rosie a bit early, there will be time for a short visit here for. The timing will be perfect for her tea.” He puts on his coat. “The cafeteria has cut fruit, goldfish, yogurt, and some rather boring pasta dishes that she’ll probably like. It should be sufficient.”

John finds himself smiling broadly. “You are going to get Rosie.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes and the sight warms John’s insides. “Of course, I am getting Rosie. This will be a very stressful time for little Watson. After our visit here, I will take her home and put her to bed. Molly has agreed to spend the night at your house again so I can leave.”

“Oh yes, of course,” John says. “You’ll be wanting to get back to Baker street.”

Sherlock looks at John like he’s the biggest idiot in the world. It’s ridiculous how much John loves that look. “I’m coming back here, John. Why would I go to Baker Street?” He shakes his head and makes his way to the door. “Do sleep now, so we can continue working tonight. Gerald has managed to finagle his way on to the case, so the Yard may actually prove helpful. He will be coming by at 9 to go over what little evidence they have.” He pauses. “Don’t tell Gerald I said he might be useful.”

John chuckles. “I believe visiting hours end at 8.”

“That doesn’t apply to you,” Sherlock says with a dismissive wave. John doesn’t doubt it.

And with that, Sherlock is gone. But, soon to return with Rosie in tow. John smiles to himself. This family thing is pretty great. He doesn’t deserve her. Doesn’t deserve them.

Despite his injuries, he’s one lucky bastard.

@keirgreeneyes @raina-at @totallysilvergirl @meetinginsamarra @jolieblack @phoenix27884 @friday411 @calaisreno @quimerasyutopias @lisbeth-kk @safedistancefrombeingsmart @momma2boys @helloliriels