#starting what i assume is the last case of sherlock holmes chapter one

[meanderfall]

this guy is creepy af i hope he’s the killer just so i can lock him up

[imonthinice]

The Criminal Psychology Majors, Jason Todd x Fem!Reader Part 16/?

Word Count: 4.2k

Author’s Note: Y/N - Your name

I put two days into this chapter<3  I guess the timeline may speedup a bit<3

Warnings: Jail discussion, Victim Shaming, Fighting, Mentions of Injury, Disassociation, Disconnect, Trauma, Swearing, Mentions of alcoholism and drug use, No beta bitch we die like Jason Todd

(Part 1) (Part 2) (Part 3) (Part 4) (Part 5) (Part 6) (Part 7) (Part 8) (Part 9) (Part 10) (Part 11) (Part 12) (Part 13) (Part 14) (Part 15) (Part 16) (Part 17) (Part 18) (Part 19) (Part 20)

Family game night was well underway in the Wayne Manor when Y/N got a phone call from the prison that Justine Wong, her high school friend who went to jail protecting her, was incarcerated in until her trial or the man who attempted to assault Y/N dropped the charges. 

She excused herself and went outside in the Autumn weather to take the call.

“Hello.”

“This is an automated call from Gotham County Prison from Inmate ‘Justine Wong’, to accept this call please press 1.”

She did as such.

“Thank you for your cooperation. All inmate calls are recorded. Your account balance is $50.69.”

“Hello?” Justine asked into the phone.

“Hey, it’s me. Why are you calling? Are you alright?” Y/N asked.

“I need you to come here and get me a lawyer.”

“You’re up my ass right now, aren’t you? I thought he was dropping the charges?”

“He isn’t. Christopher, Thomas, Kaitlin and I seriously need your help now.”

“Are you all in the same prison?”

“Yes, they transferred over the boys yesterday because of this. We can all meet in a recorded room while you get us a lawyer.”

“Fuck, dude. Uh,” she thought about game night, but decided this was more important, “Do you need me now?”

“Yes, we can all get into the room and then you can meet us, I think the jail is 10-20 minutes of a walk away from the Manor?”

“Fuck. Okay. I’ll be there.”

Click. She thought about going back inside and asking someone to drive her to the jail, but she was also just not prepared to answer anyone’s questions about it. It was cold outside, but if she ran she could get there in 10 minutes. But that’s when Bruce joined her outside, she assumed Jason sent him because he was crushing his siblings in Monopoly at the moment.

“So, I’m friends with the commissioner of the county, Jim Gordon,” Bruce said, “And I know what your friends are dealing with.”

“Well, it’s not like it’s plastered all over the news or anything,” she said to Bruce, with a slight [massive] amount of sarcasm tinged in her voice.

“Do your parents know?”

“If they did I wouldn’t be in Gotham anymore.”

“Do you need a ride to the jail?”

“Yes.”

“I can do that, no issue.”

“Thank you, Bruce.”

“Anytime,” he said before leading her to one of his cars.

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

In the car, Y/N tried to keep up conversation with Bruce, it was a short drive but the time seemed to slow and he could tell she wasn’t talkative. This was, what he thought was likely, very, very stressful for her. He was used to this, the court dates, the police station, but he knew that her attackers’ court dates were coming up and she was going to need emotional support, since her parents weren’t in the city.

He didn’t know how to support her as the dad of her boyfriend, he’d probably just mention it in passing to Jason and Jason would deal with her. ‘Deal with’ probably was not the way to describe the girl that his son was dating, especially when she’s in as much emotional distress as Y/N clearly was in that moment, but Bruce was terrible with wording. 

She didn’t even want him to bother with her emotions about it all, because she didn't know how she felt. She didn’t know anything about the situation and how it made her feel, she just froze in the sight of this confrontation and hid from it all behind a mask of seeming to know what she was doing.

They pulled up to the prison, and she got out of the car and waved off Bruce before walking to the front desk and saying who she was and why she was there, providing her ID if need be. They led her into the backrooms, and told her that the room was being recorded and that she couldn’t touch them before letting her in the room.

She looked at the 4 of her friends who were all being charged with assault and battery.

“Y/N?” Thomas asked.

“This... this is surreal. Didn’t think we’d ever end up like this,” she said, looking at the floor before crossing her arms.

“What do we do now?” Kaitlin asked.

“Do any of your parents have enough money to pay for a lawyer? I can call them for you,” Y/N said.

“You didn’t already call them?” Christopher asked.

“No, I didn’t. I’ve been pretending this entire thing doesn’t exist, I don’t want it to exist.”

“But we need a lawyer,” Justine snapped.

“No fucking shit, Sherlock Holmes.”

“Well you should have gotten us a lawyer!” Justine snapped again, raising her voice.

“Now is not the time to yell at her, Justine,” Thomas interrupted.

“Shut up, Thomas! You,” she turned to Y/N, “Look at me! Look what you made us do and you can’t even look us in the eyes!”

“I didn’t make you do anything, Justine.”

“You’re the one who’s a fucking alcoholic and can’t handle her drinks so she almost got raped! You’re pathetic.”

“Now is not the time to victim shame me, Justine” Y/N sighed, “What you’re saying is very hurtful and makes me not wish to help you anymore, understood? You can lash out at me to get the anger out, but this isn’t my fault and you know it,” she said, finally locking eyes with Justine.

“I’m sorry.”

“You should be.”

They continued talking about what to do for hours, with Y/N ignoring most advances Justine made to prove the point that yes, she was pissed at Justine about what she had said to Y/N.

Y/N wasn’t taking anyone’s shit anymore. Ever since she met Jason, and pissed off the press, she stopped letting people get away with everyone, she stopped telling people what they wanted to hear.

And people were noticing, especially her 4 friends in that room. She was trying to get better, to recover so she wouldn't relapse, and it was obvious. 

“Y/N?” Justine said.

“Justine?”

“I’m sorry.”

“I am aware. I’ll be calling your parents when we’re done here.”

“So do you forgive me?”

“I’ll consider forgiving you.”

“You’ve changed.”

“Good,” she turned to the other 3, “Anything you 3 want before I leave?”

“Nope, that’s it,” Thomas said, “Thank you, Y/N.”

“That’s everything yeah,” Kaitlin said, “Thanks, man.”

“What they said,” Christopher joked, “Thanks.”

“Alright, I love you 3, I’ll try to arrange phone calls with you 3,” she said putting emphasis on the word 3. Oh yeah, she was pissed.

She would leave the room without even saying ‘goodbye’ to Justine. She would tell the police she was done with the meeting. They asked who would be handling getting lawyers to the 4 kids, she said she would call their parents. Commissioner Gordon walked up to her and held out his hand, “You must be Jason’s girlfriend. I’ve know that kid all his life basically, I’m Commissioner Jim Gordon,” he said.

“Y/N,” she said, shaking his hand.

“I know these last 2 weeks have been extremely stressful for you, Y/N,” he said.

“I think everyone’s caught onto that.”

“I called Bruce to come get you.”

“Thank you, sir.”

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

Meeting new people filled her with a lot of life after the hell she was pulled through. From stabbing, to head injuries, to friendships crumbling, to court, Y/N was being strewn through the wringer.

She knew it would calm down eventually, she was just being put through a few bad weeks for a lifetime of happiness, and she hoped that happiness was with Jason.

She couldn’t think much longer when Bruce pulled up and she got to the car.

“How was it?” he asked.

“Do you really want to know, Bruce?”

“I do. The justice system can be draining.”

“You could say that again,” she joked, “So, where do I start? Well, I get in there and tensions are high, obviously. I’m sure prison sucks when they shouldn’t really be there, they did the job the vigilantes here do, and we all let them do it. Anyway... my friend I guess, she comes at my throat about my attack,” she paused, trying to swallow her pain, “Starts blaming me for it, uses my alcoholic past against me, you know, the stuff you shouldn’t do. I don’t care if she’s right and I shouldn’t have drank, but she fucking led me to the bar.”

She fumbled with her hands a bit, still trying to not cry, “Anyway, I told her that she can’t talk to me like that, that I won’t let her talk to me like that and she apologized. Guess what? I said ‘You should be.’ and I know that might not mean much to you, Bruce, but I would have never stood up for myself like that had I not met your son, you did something right with that boy, Bruce, I swear,” she joked, “But that was about it, I have to call everyone’s parents to get them lawyers, but that’s it.”

“I figured you had a backbone from the start, kid,” Bruce said in response.

“You kidding? I had to ask Jason if you would hate me for flipping off the press? I’ve never, ever had a backbone.”

“Well maybe, besides the lack of protection,” he joked, “Maybe Jason and you are a good couple.”

“You think so?”

“I think so.”

“Thanks, Bruce. Really. Your kids are a hoot to hang out with and you’re not half-bad yourself, old man.”

“Are you going to start calling me that, too?”

“Maybe jokingly.”

“I’m not that old, kiddo.”

“You just called me kiddo and you think I don’t deserve to say you’re old? Really? Bruce, c’mon, you’re smarter than that.”

“You don’t deserve it. You’re just going to do it.”

She laughed, “About the protection lecture, I wouldn't have done it if I wasn’t on the pill, Bruce. I appreciate the concern, but you were so wrong about us ‘not being prepared’.”

He laughed, “Maybe you should have said something.”

“You never asked me, Bruce.”

“I wouldn't make a good detective, then.”

“That’s why Commissioner Gordon is on the cases I’m involved in, and not you.”

He paused, “Isn’t your head-butting buddy’s trial starting tomorrow?”

“It is.”

“Are you going to watch it?” he asked, off-handedly, “I think Dick might, just to see what the ‘sicko’ looks like.”

“I’m definitely going to watch it,” she laughed, “Might even make it an essay for school.”

“Well that’s one way to handle it.”

“Might as well turn the sick fuck who tried to turn me into a ransom note be turned into a 100% in my classes. Call it; Classy Revenge.”

They pulled into the driveway together, while Bruce was laughing at the comment Y/N made. She laughed, too. It helped heal some of the wounds she experienced over the 2 weeks of knowing Jason, even some of the prior wounds. Bruce told her that the kids were still playing Monopoly, none of them had apparently gone bankrupt yet, it was 12:00am.

To say she was impressed with Jason and his siblings would be an understatement, she remembered playing Monopoly with her family, and they’d all always declare bankruptcy within an hour or so, and thee was never a back-to-back winner when they all played.

Maybe they were bad at managing money, maybe thee Wanes just were too stubborn to declare bankruptcy and they bent the rules of Monopoly a little bit to suit their family, she didn’t know.

They walked into the house and sat back down, Y/N at Jason’s side where she had been the 4, or-so, hours before. Everyone seemed to acknowledge her presence and wished to ask her what happened, but no one knew how to bring it up to her. They knew she wasn’t used to the life of court and trials, the needing to talk to police, it was really one the Waynes and the kids of police officers that were used to tat stuff.

She pretended to not notice them wanting to ask her and opened her phone while Jason tried to negotiate for the 4th railroad from Tim, to see her mother texted her.

How are you, sweetheart? Her mum had asked.

I’m fine, mum. Shouldn’t you be sleeping?

I should, but I can’t sleep thinking about the trial of your attacker

Same. It’s such a stressful situation.

I can’t even imagine how you’re feeling through all of this.

She couldn’t put how she felt into words. How the way that the moments she was in the alleyway made her feel. the way that man’s face was burned into her memory to be a constant reminder tat she wasn’t safe wherever she went. It was something she had never experienced before.

Maybe it was fear. Maybe it was pain.

I don’t know how I’m feeling either, Mum.

How’s your nose?

It’s healed basically. No more nosebleeds at random intervals.

You didn’t tell me about the nosebleeds.

I didn’t tell anyone about the nosebleeds, Mum.

Why not?

I don’t need people to worry about me, to feel for me, to make their times and schedules molded to fit me. Good intentions or not, I don’t need charity hand outs.

Then do we stop paying your rent?

Well, I mean you could. I wouldn’t stop you from stopping paying my rent, but the difference is that you giving me money is to keep me at the top of the school, to make myself the best I can be.

How badly would your studies be impacted if we stopped paying your bills?

Probably massively. Don’t worry, mum. It’s a two-year program and then I can get my own job and make enough money. I’ll get you a little house on a hill and you can be the Queen of the Hill.

That’s nice of you honey. We should both try to sleep if we’re trying ot catch the trial today.

Goodnight, Mum.

they were all still glued to the game, when Barbara chose she would  take the risk and ask Y/N about the meeting.

“So, how was it?” she asked, innocently.

“How much time do you have?”

“We have pretty much all night, the others can go at this till the trial tomorrow,” she joked.

“I mean, challenge accepted,” Y/N laughed, “So, we pull up to the county jail, right. I wave off Bruce, no big deal, everything was going to plan, which should have honestly been my first sign that things were going to be fucked, but I digress,” she paused, “I walk in, give the lady my ID and she looks at m funny, like she knew that I had been drinking underage in that moment and was disappointed in me, as she should be.”

She fiddled with her hands, “So they lead me to the back and before they do they tell me the usual, I can’t touch any of them and my conversation with them will be recorded, then they let me in. I greet everyone like the good friend I am but tensions are high and everyone’s on edge, which is understandable, but.”

Jason perked up when she put emphasis on but, knowing the story was about to get real, really quickly.

“My friend Justine, she called me to get me there, she starts going at me about how this is my fault for being an ex-alcoholic and drinking, which, yes, i should not have been drinking. But she lead me to the bar,” she paused, “She starts blaming me for how I almost got raped and putting them all in there, whatever,” she paused again, “I basically told her that if she wanted my help she was going to have to behave and be nice to me, to which, she apologized,” she paused.

“You didn’t accept that apology, right?” Stephanie asked.

“God, no. I said I’d consider forgiving her. Everyone else was fine though. anyway, I have to call their parents and get them in contact with a lawyer soon.”

“You’re still doing that even after that whore victim-shamed you?” Jason said, he seemed in awe that Y/N would be so kind to someone who did her so wrong.

“Jay, I’m borderline legally obligated to do that,” Y/N said, “I wouldn’t do it if she hadn’t saved me.”

“I think you still shouldn’t do it,” Damien said.

“And you seem very vengeful, Damien. But that’s only sometimes me.”

“Look, thou shalt not sin or whatever, love thy neighbor or whatever, but that girl wronged you in that conversation, do you really owe it to her to call her parents?” Tim asked.

“You know, for a family who’s known for being the ‘Nice Billionaires’ you all tend to really hate my choices,” she joked.

“Don’t make dumb ones, and we wouldn’t judge,” Tim retorted.

”Okay, smartass. I hope you go bankrupt.”

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

Waking up next to Jason on the day of her attacker’s trial was something to her. The comforting aura of the room seemed to be stripped away because the sun hadn’t risen, the blinds didn’t need to be closed, and Jason wasn’t cuddled up next to her.

She would find him already dressed, pacing back and forth in his room. For her 3 back-to-back days of being in Jason’s house without going home, she never saw him this actively distressed about anything. But given the situation they found themselves in, it was understandable.

Someone actively threatened her life for an attempt at a ransom on her name, because she was now tied to Bruce Wayne, and Bruce had money. Of course, for the Wayne household, the kids and Bruce were used to ransom attempts on themselves, with some of them actually being taken hostage before, but Y/N wasn’t.

She defended herself, and since it was, thankfully, caught on camera unlike the attack on her attempted-rapist, she didn’t have to appear in court, she didn’t even need to video her side of the story, she wrote it in a letter and sent it to the District Attorney's office. The District Attorney, being the prosecutor, was obligated to give her statement to the defense, so she was curious as to how her words would be spun to fit their narrative.

Jason and Y/N were both in the criminal psychology major at their college, they both knew what they were in store for, and they both had the ability to tear the defendant into pieces the minute he spoke. If, he spoke, that is.

Jason didn’t seem to notice that she was awake. He was really lost in his own thoughts, his own concerns. He stopped pacing though, and he was just staring at his laptop, possibly zoned out from the situation.

She got up as quietly as she could and went to hug him from, she could hear him let out a little chuckle, so she greeted him, “Good morning, Jay.”

“I thought you were still sleeping,” he turned to look at her.

“I was, but I woke up, that’s how that works,” she joked.

“That’s insane I would have never thought people wake up after they sleep,” he said with heavy sarcasm, “The more you know.”

“Insane, I know,” she said, “I still don’t even have clothes here,” she laughed, “I really need to go home eventually.”

“No you don’t, what?” he said with more sarcasm, “You can just wear my clothes, baby.”

“I don’t think they’ll fit, Jay, I think you forget you are literally massive.”

He laughed, “Listen, being massive is not my fault.”

“How is it not your fault?”

“Don’t ask questions.”

“I am asking questions, I am curious now.”

“Shhh,” he joked, “No need to worry.”

“Billionaire, playboy, philanthropist and he’s got rippling abs? But zero cause for concern? Where do you even find the time?”

“Well, when you’re not over it’s during my downtime.”

“Can’t believe you won’t work out in front of me,” she laughed, “That’s just rude.”

“You already have free entertainment here,” he joked.

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

Somehow she found clothes that somewhat fit her so she could go downstairs and watch the start of the trial. She didn’t know if she could sit through the entire trial, she was victim. No one expected her to be able to sit through the entire thing. It was a lot different from studying trials to actually being a part of the trial.

There was more of an all-seeing-eye presence in the living room of the Wayne Manor that morning before the trial began. The sounds of reporters through the television while everyone sat and waited for it to begin, it was not something many would enjoy.

There would be an ending to this story, to this court case, whether it was a month from that moment on that couch or a year from that moment. There would be justice for that bullshit. 

Part of her didn’t even want the trial. She wanted the man to take a plea deal. She didn’t want to be in the spotlight when murders were happening. But no one would let it go, a beautiful woman being hurt in an attack against her? It was the kind of stuff that the news sources wanted, craved, from every court case.

And that was the thing about it. She didn’t want to be the tabloids newest escapade into being more and more corrupt, broken, deceitful. 

She looked to the television as Jason put his arm around her, bracing for any sort of reaction to the news. No one really knew how she was going to react. And then it started.

Cameras were being let into the courtroom and panning over to him. The man who had attacked her in the alleyway. She subconsciously brought her hand up to her nose and felt it. For a moment, it was like she was back in that alleyway, head-butting that man and then running to the Manor. But she wasn’t there and she knew that, trying to snap herself out o that state brought nothing, though. It took the Judge having to shush the entirety of the courtroom to get her attention back to the real world.

The Judge would introduce himself to the press, but mainly to the court, and then request opening statement. Or at least, Y/N thought that was what he was doing. She didn’t really know what was going on, something pulled her away from the court trial she was witnessing for the man who attacked her.

To the outside, the people surveying her to make sure she was okay, her eyes seemed to glaze over and she seemed to just disconnect from the situation. But they didn’t realize she had disconnected. She just looked to be in thought.

She saw colours fade in and out of her sight, people showing up in front of her, him showing up in her sights, the images dancing in her mind as if she was there in that courtroom.

The time began to slur in her mind. Hours became minutes to her. And before she knew it, court had ceased fro the day. She was snapped out of it by Jason letting her go. He offered to drive her home, she agreed.

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

“Y/N?” Jason asked while they were in the car.

“Uh huh?”

“Are you alright?”

“Good question,” she answered, flatly.

“Are you?” he asked, seeming more concerned.

“Probably not.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Uh-uh.”

“Is that a no?”

“Mhm.”

He reached to place a hand on her thigh, attempting to comfort her, “That’s okay,” he said, “You don’t need to talk about it.”

“Mhm.”

He sighed, “I’ve decided something,” he said, “I’m going to spend the night at yours, just to make sure you’re okay.”

“Okay.”

“You still don’t have to talk about it.”

“I know.”

“Okay, here,” he smiled, “Have I told you the full story about the time that we did chair-racing in the halls of Wayne Manor?” he asked.

“No, you haven’t.”

“Well, what happened was we ended up flying down the halls at like 4 in the morning, right? Well,” he paused, “Dick used to be an acrobat, so when he almost went flying off the stairs, he actually caught himself on a handstand on the rails. Chair still went flying,” he said.

She smiled a little bit. He knew he was doing something right.

“We ended up breaking a vase. Bruce was okay with it because it wasn’t his parents, but Alfred was pissed at us for it. Grounded us all for weeks about it.”

“As he should.”

“Look at me go, getting multiple word answers out of you, and I even got you to crack a smile,” he laughed and grabbed her hand to hold it, “I’m just so good at this boyfriend thing.”

She smiled again. The smiles wouldn’t last for long, but they did happen. He knew the trial was traumatic for her. He could tell. Just from the way she drooped after the trial ended, she could normally not shut up when it came to Jason, so this was out of character.

When they got to her house, he would walk, basically lead her, to her house. She was so far disconnected from everything, that he even just let her rest in her bed with his clothes on and her shoes still on, because she wasn’t functioning. 

He would crawl into bed with her and let her rest her head on his chest. 

[henryholmesacademia]

Predilection Chapter One

A/N: ahhhhh....I’m so nervous and excited! This isn’t my first time writing and publishing something on tumblr, but it is the first time I write for this guy. Hope you like it, and hope you stick around but please don’t feel obligated too. I don’t like doing synopsis or previews because I feel like it gives the story away, so you’ll just have to feel this one out. Enjoy! Or not, I can’t tell you how to live your life <3

beta reader, co-writer, motivator, and all around love of my life: @lost-aesthetic-of-past​ 

This isn’t a special story.

Might not even be a story at all.

But rather a telling of events that happened in a certain order and have been strung together to create a tale that could cure the boredom of the mind and indulge the land of fantasy.

We won’t start from the beginning. I’ll spare you the boring details and let you come to your own conclusions.

We’ll start our telling of tales in a humble tearoom.

The famous detective Sherlock Holmes had just finished having a somewhat futile conversation with Edith in the search for his younger sister. Come to think of it, it was not much of a conversation as much as it was a reprimanding of sorts. It might even be considered educating him on a subject he knew nothing of and needed a good slap into reality.

“You said she was traveling with a boy?” Sherlock inquired as she was making her exit from the room.

She stops at the doorway. “A useless boy, she called him. I couldn’t help but be reminded of a woman who traveled through here yesterday. We were about to close when she came in. She was wet from rain, but she didn’t seem to mind it at all.” She turns to look at him. “She said you would be here today, and it seems her assumption was correct. She told me that she would be waiting for you at 6 o'clock, Mr. Holmes, and that you had better dress nicely.”

“She left no name?” He raises an eyebrow.

Edith shrugged. “She was very certain that you would know who she was and that you would know exactly where she wanted you.”

Sherlock Holmes has always been talented at keeping his cool. Demonstrating no emotion. His face, some compared it to the likeness of a statue with how unmoved he was in situations.

This would be no different. It had been years since he had last seen the woman who was beckoning him.

And yet, she was always able to pique his curiosity.

“I see you received my message, Mr. Holmes.” Her voice was only accompanied by the sound of her heels. It had seemed that all sound in the bustle of society had come to a stop. No clinking of glass. No servers rushing passed them. It was just her. “And you dressed for the occasion.” Her eyes zero in on his attire. “I do love a man in a tie, as I’m sure you are aware." Oh, how she loved to tease him.

The detective knew basic manners, he was taught right from wrong, how to be respectful toward women, not to mention he had observed enough of the body language and cues of people. Yet, he couldn’t bring himself to stand up and pull out a chair for her.

"I thought sending you a message would better prepare you for this, but I see it made no difference.” She sets her bag on the table and sits down on her own accord. She both loved and hated etiquette. There were so many rules and guidelines to follow. However, it did work to her advantage at times. “Tell me, Mr. Holmes, what adventure are you on right at this moment?”

“When did you return from overseas?” He manages to find his voice, though he never meant to lose it.

“I’ve been told that you are looking for someone. Could it be that marquee from the papers?” She stirs the spoon of the tea that a server had set down in front of her.

“You are avoiding my question. Mycroft is not aware that you are back, is he?” He lets out a deep breath. There was never a chance of getting a straight answer from her. She only knew how to respond in teasing and quick wit. Every smile devious, and every word was calculated.

“And you are very rudely avoiding mine.” Her smile, that teasing smile of hers. “Would you like help with the case of the marquee? If you ask nicely, I’ll go with you. Finding people who don’t want to be found is a specialty of mine.” She lifts the teacup from the saucer to her mouth innocently enough, but he knew better.

“But dealing with the damage you leave in your wake isn’t?” His words stop her drink and she places the cup back on the saucer.

“What a pity.” Her face forms a small pout. “I was rather liking our game.”

“You always think of things as some kind of game. There is going to be a day when you will find not everyone wants to join in. Not everyone is a toy who is vying for your attention in hope that you will play with them.”

“I will learn that the day you learn that people are more than answers to riddles.” She challenges. “Indulge me for a moment, why did you come here? You knew it was me who sent for you. You remembered my favorite restaurant, my favorite tea, and if they did not give you this table, I will forever assume that you were the one who asked for the table that was in the farthest corner of the room.”

“You do not want Mycroft to know you are here.” He tries to gauge her reaction and steer the conversation. Like always, she gives a grin. A true Cheshire cat smile.

“No. And you forget, Mr. Holmes, nobody knows anything until I want them to know.” She gathers her purse and stands up from the chair. “Here I was, hoping that we would have a nice dinner. It’s been…” she trails off as she looks for the right word. “Refreshing to see you, Mr. Holmes.”

“Why waste your time having dinner with me?” He can’t help but ask her. Just from observing her, he remembered how she would do nothing if it did not have a motive that she would find useful.

She pauses for a moment as she considers his question and gives him a genuine smile. A rare, but beautiful sight. “Is it so hard to believe that your company might be missed?” As she walks past him, she leans down close to his ear. “As for earlier, this isn’t a game to me, Mr. Holmes. But if it was…you were always my favorite player.” She whispers and leaves him to dwell with the aroma of sugar and spice in the air.

The great detective takes to his pipe that night as he stares into the fire. If you were to see him, you would think that he would be calculating his next move or contemplating his own life. That he would be entirely concerned for the welfare of his sister or mother that has vanished into thin air.

No.

He was thinking about his encounter with that woman. Not even the one from this evening, but all the previous ones he had with her. Each one is more memorable than the last. But none shall ever haunt his memory as much as when he first met her.

He never expected such a woman of high society to be standing in the same room with Lestrade right next to a crime scene. Her voice floated melodiously through the room as he walked through the front door. The smell of spice and sugar leads him to where a woman had her back turned to him while answering the Scotland Yard inspector’s questions.

“Ah, Mr. Holmes this is-” Lestrade begins.

The woman turns to see him, the ensemble on her hat was grand and elegant, but her striking eyes that hide the mischief behind them and her smile, which seemed to match the sentiment, was not hidden or dimmed. They were…quite beautifully complemented by it, as he recalled the words his mother said to him once as a child. She extends her gloved hand. “Miss Harrison.” She finishes for Lestrade with a pearly white smile. “And you are?” She inquires.

He was shocked for a moment as her hand was extended toward him. Society would not have allowed it to happen as a young woman should never extend her hand, and she did not seem to be married. Her glove did not have an outdent from a wedding ring.

“This is Sherlock Holmes, we ask him for consultation, and he comes when he’s bothered to read a telegram from us,” Lestrade adds when Sherlock remains stoic and silent.

The corners of her mouth seemed to turn up even higher at that. “My oh my, Mr. Holmes, the papers do not do you justice.” She looks straight at his eyes when she speaks again. “Tell me, has anybody ever told you how incredibly blue your eyes are? Why, I keep finding myself stopping to admire them.”

“No, miss, I can not say that I have.” He releases her hand and clears his throat while stepping forward to examine what Lestrade had originally summoned him for a routine theft. But from what he could tell, the jewelry stolen was not the woman’s jewelry. For she seemed to not wear any. Women who could afford such jewelry never left their households without displaying a few pieces and any fortune she might have clearly was being spent and invested in their extravagant garments and perfumes.

“I apologize. He’s not - well he does tend to act like that sometimes.” Lestrade finds himself in a very awkward position at the moment.

She turns to see him examining a table, observing his side profile. “There is no need for an apology, inspector Lestrade. He’s exactly as I imagined him to be. He’ll do nicely for this case. My employer would be pleased.”

“Who is your employer again? I never caught the name.”

“Oh, I didn’t say. They would prefer it if they were not associated with what happened at all.” She pauses for a moment. “Is that any problem, Mr. Holmes?” Her voice is a little louder to get his attention.

He ignores her question.

Just as the inspector is about to apologize again, she gives him a grin. “I quite like him, Lestrade. I might just keep him on.”

And keep him she did.

Sherlock takes out her handkerchief that she had slipped into his pocket when she was whispering in his ear, embroidered with her initials and the outline of her lipstick. A color that was almost as bold as she was. He held it up to his nose and, sure enough, it was the scent of sugar and spice.

[khadij-al-kubra]

Worst Impressions are the First (ch 7)

Main Characters: Logan, Patton, Roman, Virgil (Human AU)

Pairings: Romantic LAMP

Word Count: 5036

AO3

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Author’s (longer than usual but it’s for good reason) Note: *The Apocalypse—2020. Zoom in on a plague rat turned writer. She has survived thesis projects, getting a Master’s degree, burnout, writing and illustrating a children’s book, being a slave for the U.S. census bureau, months of overthinking anxiety spirals, and one or two incidents involving an asshole skunk. But now, battle weary yet unwavering in her love of art and love for her loyal readers, this onesie-clad tea slurping book dragon....has finally arisen from the ashes*

I LIVE BITCHES!!!!!!! And I am SO SORRY for taking so long!!! I’ve been hard at work, been editing like a mad woman, and I even have a beta now! The gorgeous and talented @humbletortoise So I  am OFFICIALLY off hiatus!!! *cue confetti canon* 

Also, one of the biggest reasons I’ve taken so long to update is because I’ve spent the past month or so essentially retconning the fuck outta this fic. I realized looking back at earlier chapters in this story that, although I was proud of them at the time and greatly appreciate the positive reactions, they were...not my best work. (shitty first drafts if I’m being honest) That’s because, at the time, I was trying to split my attention between writing this fic and working on grad school stuff, which resulted in my writing for this not being as best of quality as it could have been upon first posting. This story deserves my best, and so do all of you. So now I hope to give you that. 

I encourage you to go back and re-read the previous chapters up till now (trust me, they’re near unrecognizable to the first drafts, but in the best way). Or if you don’t feel like doing that, you can just continue on from here. totally cool. For the sake of convenience and my own sanity, I’ll attach the AO3 Link to this fic from the start. I may also start just posting chapter updates on tumblr but only have the link to the chapter and add my reader tags. Again, for the sake of my sanity because Tumblr is a bastard when it comes to posting fics. (Also PLEASE let me know if there are any tagging issues if anyone’s on my tags list; yet another reason i’m considering just linking my fics in the future)

Anywho, without further ado, at LOOOOOONG last, here is the next chapter!

Chapter 7 - (POV Roman)

When Roman had offered to walk with Logan to class, it was only partly out of an innate sense of chivalry; a side of himself that he rarely got to show on account of being a socially awkward gay disaster. Though mainly, he saw it as a chance to get to know his second soulmate better.

He certainly hadn’t expected two long minutes of civil but silent walking. Well, as silent as a stroll through their school could be with its usual racket buzzing around them. With a vocabulary as big as the continents of Africa and Eurasia combined, you’d think Logan would be more of a conversationalist. Alas. He merely walked in step with Roman. They glanced over at each other every so often, but Logan stayed tight lipped and seemingly impassive; fiddling with his bumblebee hair pin every now and again. Damn. Looked like he was going to have to make the first move.

Roman was bad at this. How did people usually…Oh yeah, common interest. That’s a thing. He wracked his brain for some sort of ice breaker. One that’d make him look cool and calm or, something, in front of Logan. He was a fairly decent student though not quite mathletes level. He could compliment his outfit maybe? Was that too forward? Too shallow? Maybe he could find common ground? That was as good a place to start as any.

“So! So uhh…What kind of music do you like?” Roman asked. Yeah, that’s good. Everybody likes music.

Logan glanced at him. “Can you be more specific?”

Roman’s brow furrowed. “I mean, like, your favorite genre of music to listen to?”

“Classical,” said Logan in a clipped tone.

“That’s cool. I don’t really listen to classical myself.”

Logan only hummed, his face neutral. Roman was really hoping for more than that. A few awkward seconds passed, then Logan spoke up.

“Are you perhaps a fan of the classic Sherlock Holmes novels?” He inquired.

“Um, I haven’t gotten around to the books yet, actually,” Roman said, scratching his earlobe. “I mean, I’ve heard great things about them. And I’m a big fan of the Robert Downey Jr. movies.”

“Ah. I see.” Logan said, giving him the judgiest side eye.

Come on, Roman thought. Give me something to work with. “Oh! What about theater?”

“What a frustratingly vague inquiry.”

“Well, excuse me for trying to get to know my soulmate a little better.” Ay come jode, work with me here, man!

Logan sighed. “While I understand and appreciate your intention, I believe ‘getting to know someone’ as you put it, requires a certain level of specificity. Anything less indicates a somewhat shallow level of sincere interest, and I greatly despise shallow conversation. That said, if you’re inquiring as to whether or not I enjoy theater, no. I don’t understand the concept of professional make believe, though I appreciate it as an art form. I assume you’re a fan?”

Is he seriously implying I’m shallow? Roman groused, pushing his red frames up the bridge of his nose. Ugh, forget it Roman. He’s throwing you a bone here. Take it.

“Obviously,” said Roman, gesturing dramatically. “I mean I’m no actor—Eesh. No. Yikes—but everything about the artform enthralls me. And I like all kinds of genres and eras of plays, from Shakespear to Ruhl, but musicals are by far my favorite, because like, there’s so much you can do with them design wise. I mean just look at how groundbreaking Hamilton was.”

For a second, Logan’s face actually softened, his eyes lighting up. But just as Roman thought they were finally about to make some progress, his stony companion was back to wearing that platinum puss.

“Ah. How… original.”

Roman blinked. “Are you saying my tastes are basic?”

“Well, yes.”

Augh! Okay. Yep. I don’t like him. Patton was going to be so disappointed, and Roman was too. He’d wanted so badly to get along with all his soulmates, but Logan was a snob! Way less intimidating than Virgil and his ilk, but still a jerk. I wonder if soulmarks can make typos or something? Thank the stars they’d already arrived.

Roman and Logan filed in with the rest of the class for seventh period. Somebody had the liberty of opening a window– the AC was still busted in this classroom– so for once there was actually a decent breeze cutting through the usual mucky Florida humidity. Still smelled like it would probably rain later. Good thing Roman had packed an umbrella just in case, Mom’s orders. His hair looked too good today to be wrecked by frizz.

Roman took a seat at his desk, running distracted fingers over the carved letters in the wood while he mulled over his predicament. Just look at him over there, thought Roman as he glared at Logan, not two rows away from him. Sitting with his hands clasped on the desk all smug—of course he’d be near the front—and with such disturbingly good posture. What is he, a robot? Who is he to call my interests basic, the NERVE! And okay, sure, like Hamilton, sometimes I get over excited and shoot off at the mouth. But great Zeus, does that guy show passion for ANYTHING besides academics? Roman blew a raspberry, plopping his head in his hands.

He always thought soulmates were supposed to get along, even as just friends for life. Balancing each other out, bringing out the best in you and forming a deep connection—that was the whole point. He sighed to himself. Cymbals clashed less than he and Logan did.

He was stirred from his brooding by the bell. Apparently Mr. ‘Call-me-Terrence’ Williams had materialized without him noticing. Okay fine, he should probably pay more attention, but he was having a crisis here.

“Afternoon everyone,” Terrence greeted in that measured, upbeat tone of his.  

He draped his navy blue blazer over the back of his desk chair and rolled his shirt sleeves to the elbows. Roman pitied the poor guy;  he had to teach sauna of a classroom all day. He could see the glisten of sweat on his teacher's smooth forehead as he wrote things on the board. Yet he still kept a pleasant attitude towards his students.

“Alright class!” Terrence started, “Today we’re covering the next section on the American Revolution. Specifically, the Battle of Yorktown...”

Roman mentally punched the air. My time has come. He opened his textbook to the right page but didn’t bother looking at it. He already knew most everything about Yorktown. Not just because he’d listened to the Hamilton soundtrack fifteen and a half million times, but also because he’d done actual research on the event and time period that the musical took place; There was always the off chance he’d get to stage crew or, heck, even dramaturg the show. He liked to be prepared.

“So the battle of Yorktown took place in 1781, but a great deal of its success was thanks to the French Allies. Many especially aided in fighting the British Troops surrounding New York. Now who can tell me where the French Soldiers first landed?”

Roman half raised his hand. He was pretty sure he knew the answer.

“Logan.” Terrence called.

Roman turned to Logan desk, where his hand was held high and mighty.

“The French Ally ships first landed in Rhode Island, then made their way to Chesapeake Bay,” said Logan, adjusting his glasses. Not even a hint of second guessing in his voice.

“That’s right!”

He almost missed the quick smirk on Logan’s frustratingly pretty face. Look at that smug—thinks he’s so smart...Okay yes, he is smart, but he doesn’t have to be a show off about it. Terrence continued through the passages, calling on a student every now and again to review. Of course, Logan got called on most and he got every answer right. Roman didn’t feel like raising his hand anymore.

“Of course there were many turning points in the revolution, but Hamilton’s return to the field for Yorktown was a key point.” Terrence continued on. “And keep in mind- this was a man who up till now had never been in a position of command before. Not to mention the mental strains he must’ve been under, especially having had to miss the birth of his son Philip, the first of three children he had.”

Wait a sec. “Well, that’s not right.”

Even though he’d muttered, apparently Mr. Terrence still heard him. “Come again, Roman?”

Shoot. “Um, I said,” Stop sounding timid, you know you’re right. “I said that was, um, wrong.”

The whole class turned to him. Oh great, history class has its eyes on me. Roman cleared his throat and tried to look taller.

“What I mean is: Hamilton had eight kids, not three. And on top of that, Phillip was born a few months after they won the Revolution, not during, so Hamilton didn’t miss the birth of his son. I mean sure, it’s a small thing, but the devil’s in the details as they say. Heh.”

Terrence gave the most insultingly bemused look. And Roman definitely heard a few kids snickering behind him. He glanced quickly at the culprits and felt his ears go hot. This is what he got for putting himself in the spotlight.

“Roman, I applaud you for participating in the class discussion,” Their teacher started gently, “but I’m afraid you’re wrong on this one. If you read your textbook close you’d see in the fifth paragraph where it mentions from one of his later letters—“

“Actually Mr. Williams, if I may, Roman is correct.”

Roman saw Logan at his desk, one hand raised while the other adjusted his neck scarf. Was the teacher’s pet actually… backing him up?

“It is a common misconception that Alexander Hamilton only had two children, even more so modernly, what with the musical having only named two of them. However Roman has clearly done his research on the plays historical accuracies, which is more than I can say for some.”

Logan shot a cool but scathing look at their recently snickering classmates and they withered. Roman fought the urge to point and laugh aloud. He did however stick his tongue out real quick. What? He could be shy and petty at the same time.

“My guess,” Logan continued, “is that this textbook edition is also either misprinted or outdated, judging by the publication date in the copyright section.”

Brows furrowed, Terrence looked at the textbook laid open on his desk. He flipped back to the front, before pulling out his cellphone—“I’m the teacher, I’m allowed to do this. You guys aren’t.”—and after what Roman guessed was a quick Google search, their teacher looked up. His eyebrows drawn in a ‘hm, well damn’ expression.

“Looks like you’re right, Roman. And thank you Logan for bringing to my attention about the textbooks. I’ll have to talk to the principal about hopefully getting some updated materials. But we’ll see how that goes,” Terrence, muttered the last part, though Roman was close enough to catch it. Terrence cleared his throat and moved back to the board. “Maybe if we call on assistance from the inside. Much like how the Sons of Liberty sent in Hercules Mulligan to spy on the British...”

“Perhaps if we knew of an immigrant who was unafraid to step in,” Logan said just under his breath.

No one else seemed to notice the reference, but when Roman did, he felt like a mini volcano about to burst rainbow lava. Apparently there was a lot more to his soulmate than first meets the eye; and now that he knew, Roman was determined to see more of it. The rest of class passed quickly and everyone filed out to the halls as the first bell for the last class period of the day rang. Roman made sure to catch up to Logan on the way out and staccato tapped him on the shoulder.

“Hey, Logan?” He said.

When Logan turned, he swore time slowed down for a moment. The brilliant boy’s skirt flared around his waist, and somehow his skin glowed even under the dull, inconsistent school lights. His posture was erect yet natural, he could have been raised among nobility. Amidst the stench and clamor of loud sweaty students, Logan was as poised and striking as the goddess Athena. Oh...

“Yes, Roman?” Logan asked.

Roman gulped. “I uh, just wanted to thank you for backing me up in there.”

“Thanks are unnecessary,” Logan said. “I detest when someone is shamed by other students for speaking up in class, regardless of whether or not they have the correct information.”

“Well regardless, thanks for coming to my aid in the face of academic danger.”

“Dramatic, but my pleas—oof!”

A hurried passerby bumped into Logan from behind, rushing off with a half-assed ‘sorry’. Logan, caught off guard, stumbled right into Roman’s arms. The two looked at each other, cheeks filling with heat. Roman caught a whiff of something faintly floral on Logan, something natural– a lavender and honeysuckle perfume, perhaps. It was heavenly. They were still in the middle of foot traffic though, so he maneuvered them to the side. Which was tricky since Logan was still so close to him and also a good two inches taller with the heels.

“Well,” Roman flashed his pearly whites. “Seems you’ve fallen for me.”

Logan pulled away, but his lips quirked upwards in a teasing smirk. “Oh please, I merely stumbled into you.”

“Ah, but stumbling is the first step towards being swept off your feet.”

“Bold words from an abashedly charming homunculus in such an… eye catching ensemble.”

Did he call me charming!? He composed himself, “Hey, don’t let the sweater vest fool you. I may be short but I’ve got guns.”

“Aaah. But mind over muscle, as they say. Do you find yourself up to the task?”

“Only if it’s you, my brainy blossom.”

Roman’s class was in the other direction, but Logan didn’t need to know that. They walked through the halls, conversing. class was still in the next ten or so minutes, but Roman was having fun. Banter with Logan felt surprisingly easy. Natural like they’d been at it all their lives.

“By the way, was that a ‘Guns n’ Ships’ reference I overheard, pastel poindexter?” Roman asked.

Logan cleared his throat. “It… may have been, yes. I found myself unable to resist toppling the figurative dominos.”

“In other words, you seized the opportunity you saw,” Roman said, matching his own reference to the source’s cadence, which got a chuckle out of Logan.

“Precisely. Under more casual circumstances, I may have even recited Lafayette’s part.”

“You can rap? You can rap Guns n’ Ships? Like, the whole thing, no tongue twists?”

Logan stopped for a moment, turned to Roman. The taller boy cleared his throat, and after a moment wherein he seemed to mentally restrain himself, he simply adjusted his glasses.  “I have an appreciation for poetry.”

Roman blinked rapidly. Holy shit, he’s an even bigger nerd than I am. He definitely needed to see that at some point.

They turned a corner, stopping just outside of the science room. Some students were going in to take their seats, and the teacher was already making notes on the board. Logan pulled an AP Physics book from his backpack, but made no move to leave, much to Roman’s delight.

“So then,” Roman leaned against the eggshell wall, “How come you acted so indifferent earlier and called my tastes basic? Oh, and I think I remember you also implied I was shallow?”

Okay, yeah, he was still kind of salty about that. But then he saw the shamed look on the nerd’s face, and Roman wished he could have taken it back. Logan looked at his shoes then back at him.

“To be candid I was… hesitant to show the full extent of my enthusiasm. In case you thought I’d be—I believe ‘being the most’ is the term— it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve caused someone to lose interest in conversing with me due to informational overload. I nearly bored my Aunt Patricia to sleep once talking about a fascinating article on jellyfish. And considering how I blundered our initial meeting—“

“Pfft, ya think?” He mentally slapped himself again when Logan went tight-lipped and turned to go. “No, no, wait. I—I’m sorry. Truly. ...Truth is, I was no gentleman either. I’m not always great at thinking before I speak. It’s why I’m so awkward around people. Takes a while for my true charming nature to shine through.”

“Clearly. Still, you show a level of interpersonal aptitude that I, well, lack.” Logan fiddled with his hair pin again and a stray hair came loose. “Reading people and expressing emotions has never really been—It’s something I struggle with.”

Much as Logan tried to maintain his cool composed posturing, Roman could tell that this was something that really bothered him. He tried so hard to seem put together and confident and serious, but really he was just as awkward and insecure as anyone. Roman smiled softly and stepped closer to Logan, reaching up to tuck the loose ebony strand behind his ear.

“Hey, everyone’s got things about themselves they can work on. Including me,” Roman smiled. “And believe me when I say that I will never judge you for being passionate about something you like. So if you ever want someone to ramble about jellyfish or Sweeney Todd to or—I dunno, calculators or something?—I’m all ears.”

Logan’s cheeks went pink and he gave a hesitant yet sincere smile. “That’s...very kind of you, Roman. And coincidentally, I also greatly enjoy Sweeney Todd. The use of iambic pentameter and alliteration to give a succinct synopsis to the story in just the first sentence alone is pure brilliance.”

“Right!? I mean the man’s a mad genius. I’m dying to design sets for one of his musicals someday. Like last year? I came up with the concept of having the Sweeney Todd sets done in a way that highlights the class differences with the characters.” Roman went into a small three minute ramble regarding the specifics before he cut himself off abruptly. Logan was blinking rapidly, a look of mild shock crossing his feature. Roman nearly started sweating; Had he messed this up again?

“That… that’s ingenious”

Roman’s ears were burning. Ohmygosh!Ohmygosh!Ohmygosh!

“Hey, Logan!” They both startled and turned to an impatient cheerleader with a ginger undercut and they/them pronoun pin shaped like a coffin. “What’re you doing just standing out in the hall, ya dork? Oh, hey Roman.”

“Uh. Hey, October,” Roman said, waving awkwardly to them.

“I told ya, Red, you only get to call me that when we’re working on a show.”

“Wait, October? Red? You two know each other?” Logan asked, brow arching.

“Kind of. They sometimes help out with costumes for the drama club,” said Roman. And they have terrible timing. I mean seriously Tobes, we were having a moment.

“Come on Lo, class is about to start, and you promised to go over my homework with me real quick beforehand. See ya ‘round, Ro.” Toby grabbed Logan’s hand and pulled him into the classroom. “You can fill me in on what you were doing with Red later.”

Logan followed his—apparently—friend into their classroom, but he shot Roman an apologetic look over his shoulder. Roman bounced a bit on the balls of his feet before following halfway into the room. Logan was in his seat with Toby showing him an open notebook. A teacher in a tight grey hair bun was writing on the board. Students at their seats were chatting, and some looked up at the short dork in red who burst in. For once Roman ignored them, his mind set on one last attempt at wooing his green skirted genius while he still had the nerve.

“Hey, Logan,” he said. “I’ve also got some great layout designs for an Into the Woods set. If you’re interested, maybe we can meet up after school and I can show them to you? Maybe we talk a bit more over iced lattes or something?”

“Excuse me, Mr. Prince, seventh period starts in five minutes,” said the teacher. “Unless you’ve suddenly transferred to my class, I suggest you stop distracting my favorite student and get going.”

“I’ll be gone in just a second,” he said. “Well?”

Logan smoothed the silky fabric of his pink scarf and said, “That sounds optimal, Roman. I’ll meet with you. By the first floor water fountain perhaps?”

Roman grinned. “I shall be counting the minutes.”

“Mr. Prince,” said the teacher with a warning glare.

Roman blew a kiss at Logan and then ducked out of the doorway. Was he embarrassed of himself? Oh definitely. Did he regret it? Absolutely not. He felt ten inches tall.

Now to complete the quest of making it to class in time. He slid off a shoulder strap to unzip his classic Mickey backpack, getting out the notebook and the relevant homework. He found them amidst the mess of spiral notebooks, granola bar wrappers, two textbooks and rainbow sticky notes. But something was missing from his folder.

“Where are those– it should be here.” He could’ve sworn he had his stapled the blocking notes in his folder. No, wait, the last place he saw them was— “Ah shoot! I left them in the tech closet again.”

Under normal circumstances, Roman would’ve grabbed them after school, but the auditorium was locked on weekends. He’d have to wait till Monday to get them and that just wouldn't do! he wanted to show Logan his notes today! I’ll bet David Korins never has these kinds of problems. Okay, okay. Still got four minutes. He could rush to the auditorium, grab the notes, and then head straight to class. I should have enough time, right? Right. Besides it was only Spanish Class, he was already pretty fluent after all those summers visiting his grandparent in Nicaragua. He spent most of class time dreaming up blocking notes anyway.

Despite not being totally convinced by his own argument, Roman immediately turned on his heel and started running in the opposite direction. After a teacher told him no running in the halls, Roman power walked through the halls with a skip in his step and a song in his heart, feeling absolutely gay in both senses of the word. Logan had actually called his idea ingenious! And the way those sharp eyes softened just for him- he would squeal if not for the fact that it would draw too many eyes to him. The halls were still filled with a few stragglers rushing to the last class of the day, and he was already trying not to get caught being late for class.

Now he knew how Maria felt in West Side Story. Y’know, before Act 2. Oh sure, they’d gotten off to a shaky start, but as the Bard’s adage on the course of true love said; and Roman felt it in his gut that this was certainly the start of true love. Not just with brilliant Logan but also with soulful Patton as well. He didn’t know how an awkward geek like him ever got so lucky in the soulmate department…Then again, there was still the matter of Virgil. So maybe not so lucky.

Roman touched his arm, remembered flustered yet flattering purple words. I know they both said Virgil is secretly sweet and I can sympathize with the terrors of closet town, but COME ON! Virgil? Really? That gloomy gladiator? There had to be a mistake in that. After all, Patton liked to see the good in everyone. Logan was much more of a skeptic, but he does seem to have a blind spot with sarcasm. Maybe Virgil was messing with them somehow. Even if he’s not a jerk jock, the guy’s still kind of a creepazoid; with his dark eyes and cheeta-esq gait and those probably huge muscles hidden under that bulky jacket and big hands...

His gay disaster train of thought came to a merciful halt as he reached the auditorium. Roman pushed open the doors, took a pause to breathe in the quiet comfort of this chapel of the arts. Okay yeah, chapel was maybe a little kind for the school’s auditorium which doubled as the drama Club’s rehearsal space/prop closet backstage/Mx Joan’s unofficial office because the school didn’t fund the arts programs enough. Even so this space was Roman’s sanctuary. The place where he could help create magic from the shadows, bring stories of those gone and living to life. Here, Roman found something of a community with his fellow backstagers, glee club losers, and budding thespians (the nice ones). So he loved every squeaky stage plank, every duck taped seat cushion and every speck of dust that floated in the spot lit air like fairies.

Mx. Joan wasn’t around for once, thankfully. Probably in the teacher’s lounge or rendezvousing with the school nurse or something. They were pretty chill and Roman knew he was their favorite student, but the choir director/drama club moderator/music teacher (this school really needs to fix its funding habits) wouldn’t have been too keen on Roman being deliberately late for class.

Roman walked down the aisle and to the side room by the stage. It was originally a janitor’s closet, but their club moderator transformed it into a ‘Crew Only’ Storage Unit… Okay it was still a closet, but with less bleach and more coils. This was where they kept important equipment for semester shows, like the lighting and sound boards, along with other supplies. Roman made a quick mental note to get more gaffer tape later, seeing their supply was low.

He looked through the small pile of scribbled and highlighted sheets with the lighting cues for the spring show. I’ve really gotta get a binder for these…Ah-Ha! Here you are! Roman pulled out the stapled sheets titled ‘Into the Woods Dream Set’ and carefully shoved them into his bag. Perfect timing too. He might just be able to make it to class after—

RIIIIIIIIIIING

“GAH!”

What the heck? He could’ve sworn he was alone in there, but that yelp just now said otherwise. Up close, Roman saw that the curtains were rustling, accompanied by sounds of heavy breathing and moaning, yet not a footstep to be seen or heard.

Holy SHIT, this place IS haunted! I KNEW that backdrop fiasco last semester wasn’t caused by cheap slit plywood. My supplies are the best quality allowance money can buy. Great Macbeth’s bloody knife, I TOLD Kai we should've sprung for a ghost light! Remus always teased him for being superstitious but look who’s laughing now.

He dashed back into the crew closet and grabbed the heavy push broom leaning in the corner. Roman Prince was NOT about to be caught unawares and possessed by the ghost of a disgruntled student without a fight. He would defend his domain of imagination!

Roman slowly climbed the stage steps, wielding his broom like a bow staff, turned the curtain corner where the noises were coming from and was about to release a war cry on the—

“Virgil?”

Roman nearly dropped his weapon at the sight of Virgil Alighieri—star athlete, object of his fears and supposed soulmate—curled in on himself trembling and crying.

His jacket was pulled over his head like a hood, yet Roman could see the tear stained face peeking out from underneath. Virgil’s eyes were squeezed tight, making the dark circles he’d never noticed before more prominent. There was no denying the athlete had muscle but he was more lithe—thin enough for Roman to wonder if the guy ate enough. Virgil’s trembling could rival a chihuahua, shaky hands clutching his knees, and he was clearly in the midst of a bad panic attack.

Roman had built Virgil up in his mind as being like some odd combination of Hades and Ares. The strong silent wolf within his pack of jocks, a surging thunderstorm just waiting for the right nerd to come along and piss him off enough to strike down like the bolt of Zeus.

Someone to be afraid of.

But now? Seeing him in this state, all alone and whimpering like a wounded animal...it broke Roman’s heart.

He set the broom down gently and carefully crouched down in front of Virgil. “Virgil,” he said softly. “Virgil, can you hear me?”

Virgil let out a breathy sob but otherwise didn’t seem to register him. Just how long had he been sitting here like this?

Roman was at a loss for what to do. Sure he knew plenty of people with anxiety but never saw someone having an actual panic attack before. He did know that if he didn’t help the other calm down soon, Virgil was liable to pass out. He’d never wanted to hug someone so badly in his life. Roman tentatively reached out a hand but stopped. What if touching him makes it worse? What if I startle him so badly he actually has a heart attack!? Maybe I should get the nurse. But I can’t just leave him like this.

He caught sight of the colorful soulmarks written on Virgil’s arm. Saw his own harsh thoughts: ’Dios mio, he’s staring right at me—like he wants to punch my face!’ 

Roman took his shame and forged it into steel. I won’t abandon you...my soulmate.

Virgirl’s let out a hiccuped cry, and this gave Roman an idea. Something from back when he was a child. It was probably stupid and a long stretch, but it was all he could think of. He readjusted himself so that he was now sitting right next to Virgil, making sure not to startle him. Roman cleared his throat, then as softly as he could, he began to sing.

“Come stop your crying, it’ll be alright.

Just take my hand, hold it tight.”

Roman one and carefully gentled his hand over Virgil’s. After a moment, he felt a light squeeze, and that encouraged him to keep going.

“I will protect you from all around you.

I will be here, don’t you cry…”

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[thewatsonbeekeepers]

Chapter 4 – It is always 1895 [TAB 1/1]

TAB is my favourite episode of Sherlock. It is a masterpiece that investigates queerness, the canon and the psyche all within an hour and a half. Huge amounts of work has been done on this episode, however, so I’m not going to do a line by line breakdown – that could fill a small book. A great starting point for understanding the myriad of references in TAB is Rebekah’s three part video series on the episode, of which the first instalment can be found here X. I broadly agree with this analysis; what I’m going to do here, though, is place that analysis within the framework of EMP theory. As a result, as much as it pains me, this chapter won’t give a breakdown of carnation wallpaper or glass houses or any of those quietly woven references – we’re simply going in to how it plays into EMP theory.

Before digging into the episode, I want to take a brief diversion to talk about one of my favourite films, Mulholland Drive (2001).

If you haven’t seen Mulholland Drive, I really recommend it – it’s often cited as the best film of the last 20 years, and watching it really helps to see where TAB came from and the genre it’s operating in. David Lynch is one of the only directors to do the dream-exploration-of-the-psyche well, and I maintain that a lot of the fuckiness in the fourth series draws on Lynch. However, what I actually want to point out about Mulholland Drive is the structure of it, because I think it will help us understand TAB a little better. [If you don’t want spoilers for Mulholland Drive, skip the next paragraph.]

The similarities between these two are pretty straightforward; the most common reading of Mulholland Drive is that an actress commits suicide by overdose after causing the death of her ex-girlfriend, who has left her for a man, and that the first two-thirds of the film are her dream of an alternate scenario in which her girlfriend is saved. The last third of the film zooms in and out of ‘real life’, but at the end we see a surreal version of the actual overdose which suggests that this ‘real life’, too, has just been in her psyche. Sherlock dying and recognising that this may kill John is an integral part of TAB, and the relationships have clear parallels, but what is most interesting here is the structural similarity; two-thirds of the way through TAB, give or take, we have the jolt into reality, zoom in and out of it for a while and then have a fucky scene to finish with that suggests that everything is, in fact, still in our dying protagonist’s brain. Mulholland Drive’s ending is a lot sadder than TAB’s – the fact that, unlike Sherlock, there is no sequel can lead us to assume that Diane dies – and it’s also a lot more confusing; it’s often cited as one of the most complicated films ever made even just in terms of surface level plot, before getting into anything else, and it certainly took me a huge amount of time on Google before I could approach anything like a resolution on it!

Mulholland Drive is the defining film in terms of the navigating-the-surreal-psyche subgenre, and so the structural parallels between the two are significant – and definitely point to the idea that Sherlock hasn’t woken up at the end of TAB, which is important. But we don’t need to take this parallel as evidence; there’s plenty of that in the episode itself. Let’s jump in.

Emelia as Eurus

When we first meet Eurus in TST, she calls herself E; this initialism is a link to Moriarty, but it’s also a convenient link to other ‘E’ names. Lots of people have already commented on the aural echo of ‘Eros’ in ‘Eurus’, which is undeniable; the idea that there is something sexual hidden inside her name chimes beautifully with her representation of a sexual repression. The other important character to begin with E, however, is Emelia Ricoletti. The name ‘Emelia’ doesn’t come from ACD canon, and it’s an unorthodox spelling (Amelia would be far more common), suggesting that starting with an ‘E’ is a considered choice.

When TAB aired, we were preoccupied with Emelia as a Sherlock mirror, and it’s easy to see why; the visual parallels (curly black hair, pale skin) plus the parallel faked death down to the replacement body, which Mofftiss explicitly acknowledge in the episode. However, I don’t think that this reading is complete; rather, she foreshadows the Eurus that we meet in s4. The theme of ghosts links TAB with s4 very cleanly; TAB is about Emelia, but there is also a suggestion of the ghosts of one’s past with Sir Eustace as well as Sherlock’s own claims (‘the shadows that define our every sunny day’). Compare this to s4 – ‘ghosts from the past’ appears on pretty much every promotional blurb, and the word is used several times in relation to Eurus. If Eurus is the ghost from Sherlock’s past, the repressive part of his psyche that keeps popping back, Emelia is a lovely metaphor for this; she is quite literally the ghost version of Sherlock who won’t die.

What does it mean, then, when Jim and Emelia become one and the same in the scene where Jim wears the bride’s dress? We initially read this as Jim being the foil to Sherlock, his dark side, but I think it’s more complicated than this. Sherlock’s brain is using Emelia as a means of understanding Jim, but when we watch the episode it seems that they’ve actually merged. Jim wearing the veil of the bride is a good example of this, but I also invite you to rewatch the moment when John is spooked by the bride the night that Eustace dies; the do not forget me song has an undeniable South Dublin accent.* This is quite possibly Yasmine Akram [Janine] rather than Andrew Scott, of course, but let’s not forget that these characters are resolutely similar, and hearing Jim’s accent in a genderless whisper is a pretty clear way of inflecting him into the image of the bride. In addition to this, Eustace then has ‘Miss Me?’ written on his corpse, cementing the link to Moriarty.

[*the South Dublin accent is my accent, so although we hear a half-whispered song for all of five seconds, I’m pretty certain about this]

Jim’s merging with Emelia calls to mind for me what I think might be the most important visual of all of series 4 – Eurus and Jim’s Christmas meeting, where they dance in circles with the glass between them and seem to merge into each other. I do talk about this in a later chapter, but TLDR – if Jim represents John being in danger and Eurus represents decades of repressed gay trauma, this merging is what draws the trauma to the surface just as Jim’s help is what suddenly makes Eurus a problem. It is John’s being in danger which makes Sherlock’s trauma suddenly spike and rise – he has to confront this for the first time – just like Emelia Ricoletti’s case from 1895 only needs solving for the first time now that Jim is back.

At some point I want to do a drag in Sherlock meta, because I think there’s a lot more to it than meets the eye, but Jim in a bride’s dress does draw one obvious drag parallel for me.

If you haven’t seen the music video for I Want to Break Free, it’s 3 minutes long and glorious – and also, I think, reaps dividends when seen in terms of Sherlock. You can watch it here: X

Not only is it a great video, but for British people of Mofftiss’s age, it’s culturally iconic and not something that would be forgotten when choosing that song for Jim. Queen were intending to lampoon Coronation Street, a British soap, and already on the wrong side of America for Freddie Mercury’s unapologetic queerness, found themselves under fire from the American censors. Brian May says that no matter how many times he tried to explain Coronation Street to the Americans, they just didn’t get it. This was huge controversy at the time, but the video and the controversy around it also managed to cement I Want to Break Free as Queen’s most iconic queer number – despite not even being one of Mercury’s songs. There is no way that Steven Moffat, and even more so Mark Gatiss would not have an awareness of this in choosing this song for Moriarty. Applying any visual to this song is going to invite comparisons to the video – and inflecting a sense of drag here is far from inappropriate. Moriarty has been subsumed into Eurus in Sherlock’s brain – the male and the female are fused into an androgynous and implicitly therefore all-encompassing being. I’m not necessarily comfortable with the gendered aspect of this – genderbending is something we really only see in our villains here – but given this is about queer trauma, deliberately queering its form in this way is making what we’re seeing much more explicit.

Nothing new under the sun

“The thing that hath been, it is that which shall be; and that which is done is that which shall be done: and there is no new thing under the sun” (Ecclesiastes)

"Read it up -- you really should. There is nothing new under the sun. It has all been done before." (A Study in Scarlet, Sherlock Holmes)

“Hasn’t this all happened before? There’s nothing new under the sun.” (The Abominable Bride, Jim Moriarty)

This is arguably the key to spotting that TAB is a dream long before they tell us – when TAB’s case is early revealed to be a mixture between TRF (Emelia’s suicide) and TGG (the five pips), and we see the opening of ASiP repeated, we should be questioning what on earth is going on. This can also help us to recognise s4 as being EMP as well though – old motifs from the previous series keep repeating through the cases, like alarm bells ringing. Moriarty telling Sherlock that there is nothing new under the sun is his key to understanding that the Emelia case is meant to help him understand what happened to Jim, that it’s a mental allegory or mirror to help him parse it. This doesn’t go away when TAB ends! Moving into TST, one of the striking things is that cases are still repeating! The Six Thatchers appeared on John’s blog way back, before the fall – you can read it here: X. It’s about a gay love affair that ends in one participant killing the other. Take from that what you will, when John’s extramarital affection is making him suicidal and Sherlock comatose. Meanwhile, the title of The Final Problem refers to the story that was already covered in TRF and the phone situation with the girl on the plane references both ASiB and TGG, and the ending of TST is close to a rerun of HLV. It’s pretty much impossible to escape echoes of previous series in a way that is almost creepy, but we’ve already had this explained to us in TAB – none of this is real. It’s supposed to be explaining what is happening in the real world – and Mofftiss realised that this was going to be difficult to stomach, and so they included TAB as a kind of key to the rest of the EMP, which becomes much more complex.

However, if we want to go deeper we should look at where that quote comes from. I’ve given a few epigraphs to this section to show where the quote comes from – first the book of Ecclesiastes, then A Study in Scarlet. It’s one of the first things Holmes says and it is during his first deduction in Lauriston Gardens. This is where I’m going to dive pretty deep into the metatextual side of things, so bear with the weirdness.

[we’re going deeper]

Holmes’s first deduction from A Study in Scarlet shows that he’s no great innovator – he simply notices things and spots patterns from things he has seen before. This is highlighted by the fact that he even makes this claim by quoting someone before him. If our Sherlock also makes deductions based on patterns from the past, extensive dream sequences where he works through past cases as mirrors for present ones makes perfect sense and draws very cleverly on canon. However, I think his spotting of patterns goes deeper than that. Sherlock Holmes has been repressed since the publication of A Study in Scarlet, through countless adaptations in literature and film. Plenty of these adaptations as well as the original stories are referenced in the EMP, not least by going back to 1895, the year that symbolises the era in which most of these adaptations are set. (If you don’t already know it, check out the poem 221B by Vincent Starrett, one of the myriad of reasons why the year 1895 is so significant.) My feeling is that these adaptations, which have layered on top of each other in the public consciousness to cement the image of Sherlock Holmes the deductive machine [which he’s not, sorry Conan Doyle estate] come to symbolise the 100+ years of repression that Sherlock himself has to fight through to come out of the EMP as his queer self.

This is one of the reasons that the year 1895 is so important; it was the year of Oscar Wilde’s trial and imprisonment for gross indecency, and this is clearly a preoccupation of Sherlock’s consciousness in TFP with its constant Wilde references, suggesting that his MP’s choice of 1895 wasn’t coincidental. Much was made during TAB setlock of a newspaper that said ‘Heimish The Ideal Husband’, Hamish being John’s middle name and An Ideal Husband being one of Wilde’s plays. But the Vincent Starrett poem, although nostalgic and ostensibly lovely, for tjlcers and it seems for Sherlock himself symbolises something much more troubling. Do search up the full poem, but for now let’s look at the final couplet.

Here, though the world explode, these two survive

And it is always 1895

‘Though the world explode’ is a reference to WW1, which is coming in the final Sherlock Holmes story, and which is symbolised by Eurus – in other chapters, I explain why Eurus and WW1 are united under the concept of ‘winds of change’ in this show. Sherlock and John survive the winds of change – except they don’t move with them. Instead, they stay stuck in 1895, the year of ultimate repression. 2014!Sherlock going back in his head to 1895 and repeating how he met John suggests exactly that, that nothing has changed but the superficial, and that emotionally, he is still stuck in 1895.

Others have pulled out similar references to Holmes adaptations he has to push through in TAB – look at the way he talks in sign language to Wilder, which can only be a reference to Billy Wilder, director of TPLoSH, the only queer Holmes film, and a film which was forced to speak through coding because of the Conan Doyle estate. That film is also referenced by Eurus giving Sherlock a Stradivarius, which is a gift given to him in TPLoSH in exchange for feigning heterosexuality. Eurus is coded as Sherlock’s repression, and citing a repressive moment in a queer film as her first action when she meets Sherlock is another engagement by Sherlock’s psyche with his own cinematic history. My favourite metatextual moment of this nature, however, is the final scene of TFP which sees John and Sherlock running out of a building called Rathbone Place.

Basil Rathbone is one of the most iconic Sherlock Holmes actors on film, and Benedict’s costume in TAB and in particular the big overcoat look are very reminiscent of Rathbone.

Others have discussed (X) how the Victorian costume and the continued use of the deerstalker in the present day are images of Sherlock’s public façade and exclusion of queerness from his identity. It’s true that pretty much every Holmes adaptation has used the deerstalker, but the strong Rathbone vibes that come from Ben’s TAB costume ties the 1895 vibe very strongly into Rathbone. To have the final scene – and hopefully exit from the EMP – tie in with Sherlock and John running out of Rathbone Place tells us that, just as Sherlock cast off the deerstalker at the end of TAB (!), he has also cast off the iconic filmic Holmes persona which has never been true to his actual identity.

Waterfall scene

The symbol of water runs through TAB as well as s4 – others have written fantastic meta on why water represents Sherlock’s subconscious (X), but I want to give a brief outline. It first appears with the word ‘deeper’ which keeps reappearing, which then reaches a climax in the waterfall scene. The idea that Sherlock could drown in the waters of his mind is something that Moriarty explicitly references, suggesting that Sherlock could be ‘buried in his own Mind Palace’. The ‘deep waters’ line keeps repeating through series 4, and I just want to give the notorious promo photo from s4 which confirms the significance of the motif.

This is purely symbolic – it never happens in the show. Water increases in significance throughout – think of Sherlock thinking he’s going mad in his mind as he is suspended over the Thames, or the utterly nonsensical placement of Sherrinford in the middle of the ocean – the deepest waters of Sherlock’s mind. Much like the repetition of cases hinting that EMP continues, the use of water is something that appears in the MP, and it sticks around from TAB onwards, a real sign that we’re going deeper and deeper. I talk about this more in the bit on TFP, but the good news is that Sherrinford is the most remote place they could find in the ocean – that’s the deepest we’re going. After that, we’re coming out (of the mind).

Shortly after TAB aired, I wrote a meta about the waterfall scene, some of which I now disagree with, but the core framework still stands – it did not, of course, bank on EMP theory. You can find it here (X), but I want to reiterate the basic framework, because it still makes a lot of sense. Jim represents the fear of John’s suicide, and Jim can only be defeated by Sherlock and John together, not one alone – and crucially, calling each other by first names, which would have been very intimate in the Victorian era. After Jim is “killed”, we have Sherlock’s fall. The concept of a fall (as in IOU a fall) has long been linked with falling in love in tjlc. Sherlock tells John that it’s not the fall that kills you, it’s the landing, something that Jim has been suggesting to him for a while. What is the landing, then? Well, Sherlock Holmes fell in love back in the Victorian era, symbolised by the ultra repressive 1895, and that’s where he jumps from – but he lands in the 21st century. Falling in love won’t kill him in the modern day. What I missed that time around, of course, was that despite breaking through the initial Victorian layers of repression, he still dives into more water, and when the plane lands, it still lands in his MP, just in a mental state where the punishment his psyche deals him for homosexuality is less severe. This also sets up s4 as specifically dealing with the problem of the fall – Sherlock jumps to the 21st century specifically to deal with the consequences of his romantic and sexual feelings. There’s a parallel here with Mofftiss time jumping; back when they made A Study in Twink in 2009, there was a reason they made the time jump. Having Sherlock’s psyche have that touch of self-awareness helps to illustrate why they made a similar jump, also dealing with the weight of previous adaptations.

Women

I preface this by saying how incredibly uncomfortable I find the positioning of women as the KKK in TAB. It’s a parallel which is unforgivable; frankly, invoking the KKK without interrogating the whiteness of the show or even mentioning race is unacceptable. Steven Moffat’s ability to write women has consistently been proven to be nil, but this is a new low. However, the presence of women in TAB is vital, so on we go.

TAB specifically deals with the question of those excluded from a Victorian narrative. This is specifically tied into to those who are excluded from the stories, such as Jane and Mrs. Hudson. Mrs. Hudson’s complaint is in the same scene as John telling her and Sherlock to blame the problems on the illustrator. This ties back to the deerstalker metaphor which is so prevalent in this episode; something that’s not in the stories at all, but a façade by which Holmes is universally recognised and which as previously referenced masks his queerness. Women, then, are not the only people being excluded from the narrative. When Mycroft tells us that the women have to win, he’s also talking about queer people. This is a war that we must lose.

I don’t think the importance of Molly in particular here has been mentioned before, but forgive me if I’m retreading old ground. However, Molly always has importance in Sherlock as a John mirror, and just because she is dressed as a man here doesn’t mean we should disregard this. If anything, her ridiculous moustache is as silly as John’s here! Molly, although really a member of the resistance, is able to pass in the world she moves in in 1895, but only by masking her own identity. This is exactly what happens to John in the Victorian era – as a bisexual man married to a woman, he is able to pass, but it is not his true identity. More than that, Molly is a member of the resistance, suggesting not just that John is queer but that he’s aware of it and actively looking for it to change.

I know I was joking about Molly and John’s moustaches, but putting such a silly moustache on Molly links to the silliness of John’s moustaches, which only appear when he’s engaged to a woman and in the Victorian era. He has also grown the moustache just so the illustrator will recognise him, and Molly has grown her moustache so that she will be recognised as a man. In this case, Molly is here to demonstrate the fact that John is passing, but only ever passing. Furthermore, Molly, who is normally the kindest person in the whole show, is bitter and angry throughout TAB – it’s not difficult to see then how hiding one’s identity can affect one’s mental health. I really do think that John is a lot more abrasive in TAB than he is in the rest of the show, but that’s not the whole story. Showing how repression can completely impair one’s personality also points to the suicidal impulses that are lurking just out of sight throughout TAB – this is what Sherlock is terrified of, and again his brain is warning him just what it is that is causing John this much pain and uncharacteristic distress.

This is just about the loosest sketch of TAB that could exist! But TAB meta has been so extensive that going over it seems futile, or else too grand a project within a short chapter. Certain theories are still formulating, and may appear at a later date! But what this chapter (I hope) has achieved has set up the patterns that we’re going to see play out in s4 – between the metatextuality, the waters of the mind and the role of Moriarty in the psyche, we can use TAB as a key with which to read s4. I like to think of it as a gift from Mofftiss, knowing just how cryptic s4 would be – and these are the basic clues with which to solve it.

That’s it for TAB, at least in this series – next up we’re going ever deeper, to find out exactly who is Eurus. See you then?

[simplyshelbs16xoxo]

'Falling Through the Cracks' Chapter 2: Two Worlds Collide

Ao3 | Buy Me a Coffee?

.

.

As she slept in his bed, Sherlock remained in the sitting room, turning over her words in his head. ‘You’ll be lost like the others,’ she had said. It sounded so eerily similar to what his landlady warned him of. ‘You’ll soon be lost to us all.’ He shook his head, berating himself for actually considering there was some credibility to the old woman’s ‘visions.’ But what had Molly meant, calling this place ‘London Above?’

‘I’ve not seen London like this.’

Mrs. Hudson’s words continued to play on repeat in his head. It was only a coincidence, he decided. Lost in his mind palace, he found his brother cocking a brow up at him. “And what do we say about coincidences, brother mine?”

“The universe is rarely so lazy,” Sherlock answered automatically; in his head or aloud, he didn’t know. All he knew is that it was already too late. He was determined to take Molly’s case regardless of her protests. It seemed too important to pass up. Or perhaps, he was simply drawn to her—a thought he dared not think too much about. The real danger, he realised, wasn’t the unknown journey that lie ahead, but the mysterious woman sleeping in his bed.

.

.

Morning had arrived; the sunlight streaming through the window in the bedroom woke her. She frowned, keeping her eyes shut tighter. Molly knew she’d have to get a move on, hoping Sherlock wouldn’t mind if she kept his shirt. Slipping out of bed, she decided to search for a pair of trousers that might be able to fit her if adjusted right. There was a pair of grey sweatpants with drawstrings. It was the best she could find and she’d make it work.

The door creaked open and she whirled around, ready to fight, but relaxed when she realised it was Sherlock. He held in his hands a pair of jeans and a jumper with a pair of new flats on top. “I took the liberty to purchase these for you, but I see you’ve found an alternate choice.”

She felt her face flush and she laughed nervously. “Thank you,” she smiled, approaching him to retrieve the clothes. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to at least keep this shirt.”

“It’s yours,” he replied rather quickly. “So, I suppose we should—“

“We? No. Sorry. You’ve done so much for me already. I couldn’t possibly keep you involved. Trust me, you don’t want to be,” she assured him. “You already seem to be too attached.”

He laughed in disbelief. “Attached? I’m not attached. I don’t attach myself to anyone.”

Molly raised a brow at him, challenging him. “Believe what you want, but I know attachment when I see it. Sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side. You’re better off without it.”

His eyes widened, taken aback by her words. No, not her words, but his brother’s words. “Where did you hear that? Who told you that?”

“Just somebody I’m acquainted with back home,” she told him, worried about where this was going.

Sherlock shook his head, not quite believing this. “What’s his name?”

She shrugged, her eyes searching his for answers in a panic. “I dunno his name. He just goes by The Ice Man. That’s all I know. I plan to contact him for help through the rest of this mess.”

“I’m coming with you,” he insisted, putting his foot down on the matter. He didn’t give a damn if he disappeared out of existence. It’s what happened to his brother, and no one was going to stop him from finding out the truth.

Molly opened her mouth to protest, but she stopped herself. “You’ve lost someone. Who is it then?”

“My brother,” he answered. “Those words you spoke—he’d tell me that all the time when I was dangerously close to forming any sort of close relation with someone. It was a warning not to get involved. He disappeared nearly two years ago.”

She roughly dragged a hand through her hair. “You shouldn’t be involved in this. I’m sorry he disappeared, but the same will happen to you if I don’t leave right now. I know I can’t stop you from coming along, so here’s your warning: if you decide to come with me, there is no going back. You will not be able to resume your life here. People will start to forget you, and soon, no one here will notice you ever again. Is that clear?”

He set his jaw firmly. “Crystal,” he replied. “Let me pack a few things.”

Tears formed in her eyes, the sadness she felt for his life clear on her face. He had lost his brother, and she understood his need to find him. What she didn’t understand was how he was still able to remember him after all this time. It was impossible. Sherlock Holmes was an enigma and he fed her too curious mind.

.

.

A firm knock on the door startled Mrs. Hudson. She opened it a crack to find two sketchy men standing before her. “May I help you?”

“Yes,” Moriarty smiled in an attempt to appear trustworthy. “We’re looking for this woman.” He held up a photograph, one he had stolen from her family’s home just before he burnt it to the ground. “She’s in danger and we’re trying to bring her home safe.”

Martha Hudson definitely had seen her. The woman was with Sherlock just last night, and this morning, she wagered, but the two had left in quite a hurry. Her face remained blank. “I’m afraid I’ve never seen her before. I could keep an eye out for you.”

Moriarty eyed her suspiciously. “That won’t be necessary.” He turned to his associate. “Well, Seb, we’ve got more ground to cover, it seems. We’ll take our leave now. Thank you.”

When they reached the other side of the street, Seb stopped in his tracks. “I could smell her, James. She was there.”

“I know,” he snarled. “Try to see if you can’t pick up on her scent. Remember, if we fail, we’ll both be dead.”

Seb sighed. “Are you sure we can’t just kill her?”

“No!” Moriarty shouted. “We must bring her back alive. The job must be done properly. Only then will we be free to do as we please.”

Both of their faces blanched at the thought of the carnage from a couple of years back. Seb nodded in understanding, knowing that James was right. This had to be dealt with in a delicate matter, or they’d never see the light of day again.

.

.

“It’s…a wall,” Sherlock needlessly pointed out. He was beginning to wonder if Molly was clinically insane.

She rolled her eyes. “Yes, very good, detective. Take my hand.” Satisfied when he complied, she placed her free hand against the bricks, picturing the streets of her home in her mind.

His brows furrowed, unsure of what he had gotten himself into. Soon enough, the wall gave way and it felt as if he was trying to run underwater, needing to force himself through. And then they were falling—at least, that’s what it felt like. When he opened his eyes, they were in the middle of a mostly deserted cobblestone street. It was evening, the air cool. But yet, it had been noon just a moment ago. “Where…are we?”

She slipped her hand from his. “Welcome to London Below,” Molly told him, trepidation lacing her tone.

A carriage swiftly passed by, the clopping of the horses’ hooves echoing through the street. A light fog settled over the city, reminding Sherlock of his London in Victorian times. “Impossible,” he marveled, gripping the strap of his bag slung over his shoulder. “It’s as if we’ve traveled through time.” It was all so illogical to him, but the proof was right in front of his eyes. He hadn’t been on the sweeties for a long time, so he knew it wasn’t a hallucination. “We haven’t, right?”

Molly laughed softly. “No time travel,” she assured him. “It’s just how London Below has always been. I’m from here, but people from London Above will sometimes appear, having fallen through the cracks of their world. Those who do can never go back. ”

He nodded slowly, processing this information. Everything he thought he knew was a lie. There was so much more to discover in the world. It wasn’t so boring and mundane after all. This case went far beyond a ten in his mind. Nothing would ever top it. “And what are we to do now?”

She sighed. “Well, I need to get in contact with The Ice Man. If he repeated the words of your brother, then maybe he knows where he is. Plus, he can help me get to the bottom of why I’m being sought after by two mad men. But first, we need to head to the Temple and Arch—it’s a safe haven for those who want to get away either for pleasure or safety. I have a friend who runs the place, Meena. She’s glamoured it to appear as an old run down shack, but if you’re in dire need, it’ll appear to you.” Molly reached out and laced her fingers through his. “Come along, then.”

.

.

It was practically rubble. Sherlock gazed upon the supposed ‘safe haven.’ “Are you sure it’s still standing?”

“I see it perfectly fine, but then again, I’m in more dire need than you,” she replied. “Trust me, it’s the safest place for us right now.” She led him inside, glancing over to see his reaction as the inn appeared to him. His eyes went wide, almost childlike with wonder.

“Dor?” The woman behind the counter spoke in surprise, standing from her seat. “Oh, my dear friend, what could bring you here?”

Dor? Sherlock frowned. Mrs. Hudson had warned him against doors—to be careful of them. Never did he imagine the warning would apply to a person.

Willing herself not to cry, Molly explained all she knew, including information she had not yet given Sherlock. “Oh, Meena, it’s been horrible. As you know, I was away doing an apprenticeship with Doctor Stamford, and when I returned, my home was in tatters, my parents dead. And now I’m being targeted by who I can only assume are assassins—most likely the very ones who murdered my family.”

“I’m so sorry, Dor. And…who is this fine man you’ve brought with you?” Meena asked, eyeing Sherlock lustfully.

“Meena, this is Sherlock. He’s a detective from London Above, and he has been quite helpful. And before you say anything, I warned him, but he insisted on coming along,” she informed her friend.

Sherlock shrugged. “You clearly need all the assistance you can get. Also, I’m searching for my brother. He disappeared a couple years ago. I’m beginning to think this is where he ended up.”

Meena held out a key. “I’ve only got the one room.”

“We’ll take what we can get,” Molly replied, accepting it. “Thank you.”

.

.

As he and Molly went in search of the room, he couldn’t help but ask what had been bothering him. Mrs. Hudson’s words once again arose in his mind, warning him to be cautious of doors. ‘It will be the beginning of the beginning; the new merging with the old.’ Whatever could she have meant? “Why did Meena call you ‘Door?’”

Molly grimaced. “It’s short for Doreen, my middle name. She knows how much I hate it, but I just grin and bear it. It is a bit funny though; I can open doors of all kinds, and even create doors where there aren’t any. It’s a family ability, but I suppose I’m the last one now.”

They had reached the room, but before she could slip the key in, Sherlock reached out, his fingers trailing softly down her cheek, wiping away a tear that she had fought valiantly against. “I lost my parents too, many years ago. I am sorry you’re going through all of this. I know it isn’t easy.”

She gazed up into his sparkling eyes, feeling as if she could drown in his sea-coloured irises. “Thank you.” It came out as a whisper. “I’m sorry you’ve been through it, yourself. And now your brother. I’ll help you find him.”

Molly unlocked the door, pushing it open. An oil lamp on the nightstand emitted a warm glow. An understanding had come to pass between them, two lost souls left to run and hide from the dangers in their orbit. Their mission was probably a lost cause, but they had to try. At least they had each other…and the one bed they would end up having to share. Molly gritted her teeth. This was going to be a long night.

[missmollybloom]

Forget Me Not - Final Chapter!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mycroft’s eyes bore into her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mycroft nodded, but he didn’t entirely agree.

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

It worked.

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

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

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

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

Molly closed her eyes, concentrating.

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

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

It could only mean one thing.

“It erases memories.”

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

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

“I can’t tell you that, Molly.”

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

“But, you do know?” Molly checked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Which was precisely when Sherlock arrived.

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A barb from Sherlock.

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

A riposte from Mycroft.

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

Sherlock’s return volley.

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

Mycroft’s back-hand.

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

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

Molly had had enough with their childish games.

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

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

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

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

“I’m not going anywhere with you.”

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

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

He spat the term at his brother.

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

One slap. Two slaps. A third.

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

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

 ---

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

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

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

“What?” Molly asked again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The mourner gestured to the other two women.

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

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

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

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

They looked at each other in confusion.

“Me. What about me?” Molly explained.

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

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

That silenced them – for a time.

---

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

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

But Molly wouldn’t wake up.

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

Misreading her invitation to coffee.

Manipulating her for morgue access.

Complementing her if it would help him solve cases.

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

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

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

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

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

What did it mean?

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

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

“How’s she doing?” John asked.

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

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

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

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

“She remembered slapping me.”

“Oh.” John’s face fell.

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

“What does it mean?” John asked.

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

“How do you know?”

“Redbeard,” Sherlock supplied.

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

“Jesus! They did it to you, too?”

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

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

After a time, Sherlock spoke again.

“Can I ask you a question, John?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sherlock met John’s eyes in silent question.

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

John left soon after.

It gave Sherlock more time to think.

John and Mary only had a past.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I love you, Molly Hooper.”

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

Sherlock walked upstairs and sat among the ruins.

Soon sleep took him and he let it.

---

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

“Molly remembers slapping me,” he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes!” Molly cried out into the silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he persisted, his name appearing again.

And so the game started.

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

And he did.

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

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

---

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

“Not a good place to sleep, Mate.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I heard you,” she explained.

“Say it again,” she asked.

“I love you,” he complied.

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

---

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

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

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

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

Edelweiss.

His keystone memory.

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

“It’s done,” he nodded.

Her hand gently traced the contours of his cheek.

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

“No,” he said. “Only a good one.”

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

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

[somegirl29]

Sherlock X reader- a romance to killing it (second chapter)

Synopsis: Sherlock falls in love with a girl, but what he didn't know was that she was a murderer sent by moriarty to kill him

Author's notes: this is a continuation of the first fanfic I wrote

initially it was to have a single chapter but my friends insisted that I continue

there will probably be 2 more chapters after this

I made a pun for the title because I couldn't think of anything better

I may have a spelling mistake because I am Brazilian and my English is not very good

if you haven't read the first chapter here is the link: chapter 1 

Feeling a little relieved, Sherlock can actually stop and think for the first time in the past few hours.

he couldn't tell if he was impressed, hurt or had admired the girl even more

sentiment was really something dangerous, that was the final proof he needed.

And he doesn't really understand who that girl who accompanied him for months was, and now he needed answers. 

he needed the truth

‘’ Tea? ’'The girl returns to the room where he sat and holds out his cup‘' I can assure you that I didn’t put anything unusual this time ’’

he takes the cup and (y / n) sits next to him, both keep silent for long minutes without much courage to start the matter but they both knew that an hour would be necessary.

‘‘How?’ 'He asks and she stares at him without understanding what he meant ’’ I need to know how I didn’t notice you’re a murderer, this is the kind of thing I would never let go of , and you know ‘'

'' Aren't you the amazing detective Sherlock Holmes? Solve my incredible crime '' she smiles at him defiantly '' Watch it coldly as if it were a game''She explains '' You don't pay enough attention to anything that doesn't benefit your work, or rather, anything that you don't think it benefits, that's your biggest flaw ‘'

‘’ I didn’t notice the game starting for the first time in my life ’’ he completes

‘‘Exactly, I think from that you can gather the information in your mind palace and decipher how it all happened’’

‘’ I could ..’’ he starts ‘‘but I want you to tell me, this between us is not a game, at least not for me ’’

She takes a deep breath and gives up thinking about what words to use to explain everything in a sincere way but without hurting him using then in the wrong way. One thing she and sherlock were very much in common was not understanding human emotions very well and ending up saying things that hurt others accidentally.

‘‘Ok I’ll tell you the truth, since you seem serious about it. It all starts with that murder that you unveiled when we first met, the clue that I presented that you had not seen before was the key to everything, for this not to be a boring monologue and to kill me with boredom say your guesses ’’

'' You came up with a clue, a hair that went unnoticed, it makes me think that you already had it and implanted it at the crime scene ‘'

'‘Once I heard the phrase ‘ Perfect crimes don’t make suspects ’ I have a different point of view about it, I think perfect crimes are those where there’s a suspect but not the real one‘'

‘’ Who is the man who was arrested after all? ’'

‘'An incompetent, I got evidence of his other crimes, the real ones that were much worse’'

‘’ You threatened him to take up his crime, he would be arrested in any case but assuming that crime the penalty would be less ’'

‘'And in the meantime your attention was diverted, you began to doubt yourself and at the same time to be instigated about me that I treated you as someone with average intelligence unlike everyone who idolizes you as a genius’’

‘‘ I look so predictable with you saying it like that ’'

'' This is how most people who speak to you feel every day, my dear ''

‘'So that must be the defeat feeling of being a normal person’'

‘‘ Don’t worry you don’t match other ordinary beings, playing with you was fun ’'

'' So much fun that it made you fall in love with me '' he plays with the cup watching the liquid spin in the glass

she looks at him with pity

'‘I don’t want you to feel used’

‘‘ You called it a game yourself ’” he points out

‘'And it was, in the beginning’’

‘’ And when did it stop being a game? ’’

'' In the moment I started to see you as a human being and not as something that I should destroy, that afternoon when you were so bored that you almost overdosed and I finded you almost dead, in for a moment I thought I was only concerned with losing the fun that would be killing you, but then I realized it was more than that, sentiment is  a funny thing isnt it ? ‘’ She laughs at herself

He sure remembered the overdose, they dated for two months, she had an appointment and he had no case to solve and John was working. She found him out on the floor when she got home and it was a matter of seconds before she called for help and he was put in an ambulance, he came very close to death that time.

He wondered if John had missed him in the past few hours, but he remembered that his best friend had finally made peace with his sister and went to visit her for the rest of the week.

Sherlock analyzes the place around him, it was a mansion decorated with dark furniture, everything had black and red colors, as windows were made of a material that made it almost impossible that you opened it from the outside by someone without the key and the door too, could be seeing dust everywhere and some cobwebs, it shouldn't come here very often.

‘'This is the house where I grew up‘

'' What? ‘'

‘'I saw that you were analyzing the place, everything is dirty and kind of old because I haven’t come here in the last five years‘

''And your family ?''

'' Dead '' she says without giving much importance

It was the first time they had talked about her past, and he wanted as much information as possible.

‘'If it isn’t too impolite, could you talk more about that?’’

"It is just a boring story, but if you insist on knowing I will tell you" he pays attention in detail to every word she says, it is rare that she talks about such things and it cannot be a missed opportunity "" at 17 I ran away I ended up meeting dangerous people, great criminals with incredible murderous skills '' she gets up from the sofa, placing the farm on a nearby table and starts walking around the room, standing still for a long time was something that bothered her '' I was tired of an ordinary life, I was about to go to college and just thinking about ending my days as a social ornament like my mother, or being an ordinary worker, made me anxious'' she takes a knife and analyzes it “With this knife I killed one of the men in that gang, it was a thoughtless and miscalculated act by a rebellious teenager, but it attracted their attention to me, and to my surprise they thought I had the skills, they trained me as a murderer and sent to kill other criminals ’’

'' What does this have to do with your family? ‘

'' Enemies found them and they were killed, the house and all my family's assets were given to me as an inheritance, I was practically rich, but it seemed like a futile and boring life and I, like you, run away from boredom, in some moment the group that trained me was dissolved and i followed the path of hired killer, but killing only big criminals, after a while you notice that these types of people have a lot of information about other dangerous people and with that information I had power, it was a matter of time before I met Moriarty ''

‘’ About Moriarty, what do you think about doing now? What's your plan ’’

‘'Killing Moriarty, getting a copy of his contacts if we have Moriarty’s data, we can serve terms in jail, and whoever comes along midway I’ll kill’’

‘'You talk about kill as if it were something common’’ (y / n) approaches him and looks him in the eye with an air of guilt

‘’ I’ve always believed that everyone I was sent to murder committed crimes as ruined as the ones who hired me committed, that’s until I met you and now I’ve started to question everything .. ’’

‘’ After your plan to kill Moriarty, what will happen? You are a murderer and I am a detective '' he stands up slightly by the wrist and looks into her eyes

‘‘ Mycroft ’’

''My brother? ’’

"Negotiate my freedom in exchange for all the information I have collected over the years and the information we are going to steal from Moriarty,we can also negotiate your freedom since at this hour they must have found a body in your house and due to his suspicious disappearance you may think that you killed him and ran away ‘'

‘'I hadn’t thought about that last part’'

"I kind of didn't give you much time to think today, it's a lot of information and you have emotional involvement, it's normal to be a little stunned, anyway the point I want to get to is ..." she holds his face affectionately and smiled '' even though part of a disguise solving crimes with you was one of the best things in my life, not everything was false, after the first crime the rest were not outlined by me, and maybe you still need my help ''

And he hugs her around the waist, pulling her closer and she kisses him deeply.

When they separate his foreheads lean against him and he says:

‘’ Your help will be helpful in getting my plan right ’’

‘'What plan?’'

‘’ The plan to keep you with me for the rest of my life ’'and upon hearing that she kisses you again

Perhaps that was the end of the life she had for all those years, but she would have him and a completely new life to explore.

And he would have a lifetime to discover everything about her that was now tired of games and disguises. She would never pretend again, at least not for him.

[a-real-ackerman]

Perfect Scenario

Sherlock Fanfic

summary: You, a super human, an excellent actor and a liar with debatable ethics; are having a hard time overcoming feelings  no one new you were capable of. On top of it, you have to deal with your “arch enemy” who has dedicated himself on the way of ruining your chances at your new life.

pairing: Sherlock x superhuman!Reader 

warnings: Mentions of abuse, mentions of suicide, violence, language and horrible mistakes... I dunno, I will write a current warning in red on every chapter.

A/N: Even tho I think Sherlock as an asexual character or not interested etc, I find working with well-known characters and less OC’s quite useful. Also, I see a lot of me in him so I will be writing about him more. Also, the reader is female. Also, gifs are never mine, all credits for those talented people. By the way, in case you see my mistakes don’t be shy, let me know! I am trying to improve my English.

Chapter One: “Trembling Hands.”

      “You don’t know who you are, unlike me.” was written on the card  you  recently received. Menacing words written in an elegant handwriting, appeared by your window, every morning since last Friday. there you stood by your counter, your e/c eyes wandering over the same simple words again and again, in a hopeless struggle to find any clues. You did not know what they wanted or cared about; what part of you they assumed they knew? Your super powers? Your business? Your therapist? Your past? Your parents’ death? All the lies you have been telling whole the time? 

      What you could analyse from each of these notes were the fact that they actually new about you. The words they choose were written in a friendly manner which told you that even tho you have never met them, they knew enough to consider themselves close to you. 

      You had a few assumptions on who they could be:

A secret admirer, in a sense, stalker

A conspiracy theorist who have witnessed your... condition?

One of the investigator who had researched you in your teens

Jimmy

     No matter which one they were,(more likely to be a he), he was a stalker. You did not like stalkers. But you were interested in this one’s motive. You wanted to beat their game before they could put their filthy obsessive hands on your very new and clean life.

     Hopping off the counter, you rushed into the living room and put the card on the brown coffee stand in the middle of the room, right next to others. Walking trough cold blue walls of you flat, you kept mentally checking the places you usually control, in case there were cameras. You were going to take a shower after all.

          “I have to ask him first,” said the man on the line, Holmes’ face shot a fake kind smile as he was face to face with the doctor. “ tell my brother I said hi.”

         Doctor threw a look at the phone in disbelief as Holmes hang up the phone. Sherlock was not in his mood for a new case. Especially not a case from his brother, which involves scammers, government, some mafia and a class action lawsuit that could bring them a big amount of money. The detective was too busy in his mind palace.

        John entered the flat and found his flatmate already waiting for him, sat on his chair with hands in praying position, eyes boring into him like he’s trying to ask something.

       Uncomfortable under the gaze, “Yes, Sherlock ask away.” sighed John.

       “John,” said Sherlock, “I have a suggestion.”

        John looked at him in suspicion, his eyes narrowing.

        “How about going out to see a play tonight?”

         John exhaled out of surprise to his friend’s suggestion, was he asking him on a date? For a case (of course)? 

          “Don’t worry John, about whatever you thought of-I don’t’ prefer to vocalise it. I think we may have a new case, which includes the leading actor. She seems to play a big part in this case as much as the play. I also want to witness myself if she was as good as they talked about.”

         “It’s okay, Sherlock, just for once.”

         Sherlock baffled,” What do you mean by ‘just once’? This is a case just like the others, you don’t want to solve cases anymore?”

         “No,” insisted John, “All I’m saying is: it’s okay to be a human just for once.It’s okay to take interest in a play, film or a person-”

         “-I AM NOT INTERESTED,JOHN,”

         It was too late to deny, John was already going upstairs, with a smug smirk of a self-proud mother who has just embarrassed their teenager.

         You have once again saluted the audience, holding hands with your teammates. A little stronger than usual maybe, you didn’t want to throw the decors and people off the stage. Your hands were trembling more since you couldn’t stop the seconds passing; and your head got dizzier every movement, with the help of flashing stage lights. Mavis, your co-actor since high school, leaned over your ear; “You always get so excited when it ends!” she whispered without knowing anything.

       You shot your perfect, warmest smile as your eyes wandered around the place in case anyone was suspicious. You locked your eyes with an awfully familiar man around your age, with curly hair falling on his forehead and eyes piercing onto you. He knew, he knew something and made it clear. He knew you.

”There she is,” you saw him whispering to his friend. You could listen to them is you focused enough, thanks to not being so human.

         But you choose to not hear anything.Thanks to your instincts being quite active this afternoon, every word had felt no different than a knife stabbing her ears. All of this pain was because you couldn’t use your power today. You were a bomb waiting to explode, your hands itching to throw people to the walls and your screams desired to ruin every window in the city. 

     The torture soon ends, but always leaves you shaken up. You turned from the left corner of the entrance of the theatre and entered the cafe where you have tea every night after performance. You didn’t die to drink it every night actually, yet the calming mix thing of this cafe could put an angry elephant down. Naturally, you could calm down too. It eased your nerves and relaxed your muscles which helped you overcoming your power. I you didn’t bother to control your powers, let’s say, no one nearby could survive.

    Whatever, you took your usual seat and smiled at the kind young waiter. You knew each other now, so you didn’t have to talk.(dreamy isn’t it? not having to talk?) You looked out of the window, watching the shiny cars passing by and colourful lights dancing. You slowly turned to the man who just sat in front of you, his arms crossed on the table and eyes gazing you in a weird expression between curious and astonished. Admiring and contemptuous. Familiar and hateful. Friendly and strange.

    “I have to say I am totally astonished by your acting,” he started. You were right about astonished. You smiled firmly, just because this one was choosing his words firmly. If he is one of those creeps you would send him off. But you had to be careful these days, anyone could lead you to the stalker.

    “You come here often.”

    “Yes, it’s not new. Everyone who has taken interest in stalking me knows.”

     He let out a chuckle which you didn’t expect to be this natural.”Sorry if I made you uncomfortable. Ironic, since I have come to apologise for making you uncomfortable.”

    His gaze took a lovely, apologising, soft form, which could melt your heart if you didn’t realise him checking for your expressions in between seconds. He was trying to impress you, for what?

    “It’s not very comforting of you when you follow me to a cafe.”

    “So it did,” he said, paying too much attention on your hands while you reached out to your tea.

    “Is he bothering you miss?” asked the waiter protectively, his voice a few octave deeper than usual.

    “I am fine, thank you Oscar.” you watched him walking away with a nod.”So what did what?”

    “Me. Looking at you. You noticed me in hundreds of people. You saw us talking about you.”

    “Please don’t start with that ‘love-at-first-sight-soulmate’ shit.” 

    “I was actually going to start with ‘you-somehow-know-you-are-in-danger’ shit.”

     Your mouth dropped with his super sassy mic drop. You had to be clueless, oblivious and self centred now. You were a normal person now.

     “Is this a threat? I am amused.” you smirked, don’t let them him the fear.

     “No,” he rolled his eyes, “This is an offer.”

      “I am Sherlock Holmes.”

      “OH!” you relaxed, “I know you, (y/n)(s/n).” you answered shaking his hand.

"Come on, drink it. You seem to be dying for it."

   You reached to the cuppa, not being able to hide your hands. As soon as this herbal smell filled your nose and followed it's way to your heart, a soft needy smile appeared on your lips. You felt your muscles getting back to normal.You opened your eyes.

"Now look," you threatened suddenly," if you are here to investigate my parents' death and sue me for it..."

He was more focused now, his gaze melted down to a more intense, even a curious one.

"I am tired. I am tired of this. For all my teenage years, my past, people defined me as a liar. So keep going, keep evoking my traumas. You won’t find what you’re looking for."

"There is a huge misunderstanding, "

He comforted you, leaning more onto the table, you almost loved this caring facade, a pair of eyes; signing no danger, no threat but just a simple caring feeling, were more than enough to let your guard down and believing someone. Just this once.

"I don't want to sue you. I offer you my help. Someone has opened your case again."

This was too much for you, with all energy trapped in your body your heart started to ache, your hands trembling in a way no one could stop.

"Trembling hands."

"What?"

"Show them."

You obeyed, held them up in front of him.

"I thought tea would help you."

"It does. When no one triggers me."

"Everything could trigger you. You live alone in the house your very own parents committed suicide. You don't even have pets which is surprising because you love animals, judging by a different cat and dog fur on your pants, coat, jumper, pretty much everywhere. You also have been avoiding your therapist, judging by the notification sound that you didn't answer after seeing the name. And no, it can not be your lover because you are alone live alone and have no attempt on your physical self-care, in addition, the cafe you go nearly every day or your friend group doesn't look for someone else after you arrive on your own. But those are not clear assumptions, knowing what your parents like is enough to assume you prefer to be single. You are alone for a reason. You think you’re dangerous.

So you live alone, have no one, and Scotland Yard is investigating you. You get stalked and for a reason, you always stay sharp and have a very defensive observant personality.

You are interesting enough for me. I will take your case."

"Is this a nerd way of asking for my number? If it is I will say yes."

"No, it's better, it is a smart way to interest you."

" What for? Why will you help me?"

" Because there is a game waiting for me,” he sighed, “and I am bored."

"Fine, this is my number here-"

"I already have it!"

Then he rushed out, putting his collars up, ruffling his hair.

A/N: I want to thank @fanfictionislovefanfictioni-blog​ for the request! 

[ao3porcelainstorm]

poison ivy & stinging nettles 1

'A Case of Poison Ivy and Stinging Nettles'

“Very original title, John,” Sherlock snorted. John glared up at his friend, his fingers hovering over the keyboard.

"The whole case was about betrayal, plants, and pharmaceuticals," he shot back. "It's a clever title." "What about chemistry? There was plenty of chemistry." "Our client was a botanist," John rolled his eyes and continued typing at the laptop. "Don't worry, there's plenty of mention of your glorious prowess with chemical reactions."

On Ao3 

Pairing: Sherlock/OFC 

Rated: M

Warnings: eventual violence, torture, swears, adult themes (no explicit smut)

Chapter 2

Chapter 1- Amelia 

~~~

Unlike most cases on this blog, Sherlock and I stumbled into this one quite accidentally.

Sherlock had made Mrs. Hudson upset, and when I revealed that it was her birthday, I quickly ushered him to the nearest florist.

That was where we met Amelia Brenner, the first person I'd ever known that spoke the language of the flowers fluently.

~~~

Amelia Brenner disliked the rain that so often plagued London. If she had a choice in the matter, she would have been back home, probably sunbathing on the rooftop of her Brooklyn apartment. Unfortunately, life had a cruel sense of humor, and that led to Amelia's present circumstances.

She often lamented that she was the one being punished for having done right by society, but the brief periods of sunshine that occasionally peaked through the London skyline, reminded her that this wasn't the all terrible exile she'd convinced herself it was.

Today, was one of those rare, beautiful, days.

And there were two grown men in the front of her flower shop bickering over which flowers they needed to purchase to appease their landlady.

“Roses are safe,” she suggested, eyes trailing to the clear sky outside longingly. “Red and yellow are happiness and excitement. Just yellow mean friendship.”

“I didn't realize flowers had their own language,” the shorter gentleman turned around with a nervous chuckle. He looked out of place, and clearly overwhelmed, but no so much as the dark-hair man beside him.

“Perfect, that'll do,” the second man shot in, visibly annoyed at the entire situation.

Amelia was just as eager to get the men out of her shop, and quickly moved to the side of the shop where she stored her roses in a refrigerator.

“Shouldn't we get her something more meaningful?” the shorter man asked, as Amelia's fingers nearly touch the stem of the yellow roses. She froze, throwing on a bright smile and turning around.

“Do you know what her favorite flowers are? We could add them to the rose bouquet,” she suggested, a passing child and their laughing friends running by with ice cream reminded her of her urgency to close up early for the day.

“God if I know,” the brunette shrugged impatiently. “John, you remember pointless things like that. Why don't you know?”

“You've known her longer, Sherlock,” the blonde, John, shot back. “Not once, have you gotten her a birthday present?”

“It didn't seem important,” he muttered, turning his attention to the numerous displays sitting in the shop window.

“I'm sorry, my friend is a bit difficult when it comes to any semblance of intimacy or emotional attachment,” John shot his turned away friend a scowl before approaching Amelia. “Are there any flowers that mean, 'beloved friend', or something similar?”

Amelia paused, half-tempted to just grab the yellow roses, but John seemed earnest in his request, despite the difficult behavior his friend was displaying.

“You know what...” Amelia moved toward a different section of the store where she had various flowers set in plastic vases for “do-it-yourself” bouquets. “Tell me about your landlady.”

“She's an older woman,” John started, hesitating slightly. “Very kind. Always has a cup of tea ready for you on a bad day.”

“Nosy, likes invading your personal space,” Sherlock chimed in.

“It's because you do things like shoot bullets through walls,” John reminded him tersely. “She gets concerned.”

Amelia plucked a few coreopsis, orange geraniums, and a large sunflower. Grabbing a few sprigs of sage and some Queen Anne's lace for accents, she moved to the main counter and dug through her drawers for a crystal vase she'd seen laying around.

It didn't take long for her to take the random assortment of flowers and turn them into a gorgeous display of yellows and orange. The white accents of the lace, pulled the whole thing together in a practical, tasteful way.

“What do they all mean?” John asked, glancing up from the card Amelia had given him to fill out and attach to the bouquet.

“Queen Anne's lace means sanctuary,” Amelia lightly touched the small white flowers. “A short sunflower means adoration, geraniums mean true friendship, sage means wisdom, and corepsis mean always cheerful.”

“That's perfect,” John practically beamed up at her, signing both his and Sherlock's name to the bottom of the card.

Amelia rang up his purchase, giving the men a small discount because she felt a little bad about their circumstances. Especially, once John went into more detail about exactly what it was his friend had done (something about a snippy comment about the woman's sweater).

“You said a short sunflower means adoration, what does a tall one mean?” Sherlock spoke up, looking quite uncomfortable as John shoved the vase into his hands.

Amelia had to bite her bottom lip to keep down the giggle that wanted to erupt with her response. She swallowed it down, turning it into a cough before coolly responding.

“Haughtiness.”

John snorted a laugh and ushered Sherlock out of the store before the taller man could make a comment. He thanked Amelia again over his shoulder and was gone in a flash.

Amelia quickly ran to the front door, flipping over the open sign to “closed”, and locked it in place. She looked at her watch and calculated she had about three hours until the sun began to set, giving her plenty of time to sit in the green house she'd constructed on the roof, and take in a bit of the sunshine with her plants.

She tided up the shop, humming an excited tune under her breath while she cashed out the register and wiped down the counters. All was going smoothly until a very urgent visitor began pounding at her front door.

Thinking she'd forgotten an order, or perhaps John or Sherlock had dropped something, she unlocked the door and swung it open.

What Amelia hadn't anticipated was the front end of a pistol to bed shoved into her chest and a group of three men to storm into her tiny space.

The last man in quickly closed the door behind him, while the other two started pulling down blinds, the gun still trained on a stunned Amelia.

“Can I help you?” she stammered, her hands up in defense, trying to think of an escape plan through the fear and adrenaline coursing through her veins. The backdoor was too far. There weren't any nearby windows.

She was stuck.

One of the men kicked down a display. Gerbera daisies scattered across the floor in a splash of color that the man quickly stepped on, and twisted his foot. He chuckled at Amelia's face, distorted in distress at the careless handling of the flowers she'd dedicated her free time to.

“The data set,” the man with the gun snarled. Amelia noticed he was missing a front tooth, and that had distracted her considerably. He fired a bullet near her feet, repeating his question.

“I have no idea what that means,” she whimpered in response. The men were working their way around the shop, kicking over display, stomping on flowers, and pouring lighter fluid over their destroyed remains.

“Don't play dumb sweetheart, it's not a good look,” he stepped closer, pressing the tip of the weapon into her cheek. “The data set with the clinical trial results. A mutual friend wants it back.”

Amelia continued feigning ignorance, despite knowing precisely what data set he was referring to. It was safely tucked away in a deposit box, across town, under an assumed name.

“I just deal in flowers,” she insisted, a small sob pulling from her chest as they continued to demolished her little shop. “If you look to the bottom of your boots, that's the pretty stuff you're destroying.”

“Don't get cheeky with me,” the man with the gun snapped back. "An American in London, setting up shop just after the biggest data breach in Chemco's history..."

“And what are you going to do about it? Shoot me?” Amelia regretted the words the instant they left her mouth. The small wave of confidence immediately fading while he moved forward. He pulled his hand back and hit her across the face with the end of his weapon.

“Am I interrupting something?” a voice asked, just familiar enough where Amelia caught her breath when she identified the source.

The king of sunflowers himself, standing in the doorway with his arms folded over his chest.

Sherlock Holmes.

“You'd be wise to turn around and pretend you haven't seen a thing,” the man with the gun aimed it toward Sherlock with a wicked grin. “This doesn't have to involve you.”

“I see,” he hummed, his eyes trailing over the scene, falling on Amelia and what she assumed was a large bruise forming under her eye. “Unfortunately, I left my mobile at the register, so if someone would be so inclined?”

The man closest to Amelia threw an elbow in her side, shoving her toward the register.

“Go on then,” he hissed, his weapon still aimed at the newcomer.

Amelia practically jumped at the touch, slowly edging her way toward the register. There was no cell phone left behind. No one had time to ask questions, because during the lull in the room, Sherlock moved.

With a crack, he smashed a large vase over the man with the gun. The goon collapsed on the floor with a grunt, the other two men moving into action with swinging fists.

Sherlock dodged the attacks, throwing one man into the counter top and knocking the other to the floor unconscious with a swift punch.

He looked up at Amelia, brow arched in question.

“Why does it smell like petrol?” he asked, an instant before one of the men tossed a lighter across the floor to Amelia's destroyed daisies.

Amelia bounded across the space in a flurry, catching him by the waist, and tackling him through the shop's open door to the busy street outside. She rolled across the ground, only being caught by the shoulder before hitting the curb.

It didn't take long for the shop to erupt into flames, the lighter fluid speeding up the consumption which the plants happily provided.

Dazed, Amelia and Sherlock gaped from outside as smoke billowed from the building.

Pedestrians screamed or stopped to get a better look. Somewhere in her muddled mind, Amelia heard someone calling the fire department.

“There's a green house on the roof,” Sherlock murmured. “Do you have fertilizer in the building?”

She sure did. Right by the register and tucked away in the workroom. She was going to bring it up that day.

Amelia's eyes widened at the realization, and it didn't take her new companion long to determine the answer.

Practically lifting her from their position, he dragged her stumbling across the street just as the first explosion sounded through the block, sending glass shattering across the area.

Dropping to the ground, covered in soot, small cuts, and dirt, Amelia looked to him and sighed.

“Thanks,” she said, resting her head against the brick building they ended on, and watching what little happiness she'd obtained burn to the ground. Go figure.

Fire sirens wailed through the block, firemen ushered passerby's out of the way, and before long, Sherlock and Amelia were scooped up by EMTs.

When she was patched up, an officer took her to Scotland Yard for a statement.

Amelia told the officers investigating that it had been a robbery gone wrong. No, she didn't know why they wanted to destroy her shop. She grew daisies and wrapped roses, why would she understand why they threw lighter fluid around the place? Of course it was reasonable that fertilizer was in a flower shop. She grew her own flowers after all.

Eventually, she was released from Scotland Yard, exhausted from the day, but with no where to go, considering her apartment was above the shop.

She had money in the bank, but her debit card and ID had been under the register when the shop caught fire. It was going to take some time before she could get what she needed to book out a hotel room. One of the officers had given her an address to a hostel they recommended to fire victims until things were settled, but the idea of something so public made Amelia nervous. She already wasn't thrilled that the news had covered the fire.

“Why lie to the police?” a baritone voice asked over her shoulder. Amelia nearly jumped out of her skin at the presence, whipping her head around and finding Sherlock standing a few meters away.

“Excuse me?” Amelia wasn't sure if she'd heard him correctly, her mind numb and tired from the days events. She just wanted a shower and a fresh change of clothes, not the second degree from this vigilante ninja detective.

“You lied to the police, you said it was a robbery,” he repeated, taking a few steps toward her, his blue eyes skimming over her face. “You're a bad liar, and that obviously wasn't a normal robbery. They were looking for something specific.”

Amelia had over heard some of the officers at the station talking about Sherlock when she revealed he had been the one who had saved her. When she asked the officer taking her statement, he just shrugged and said that he was a consultant to the Yard, but others certainly had stronger feelings about the subject.

Amelia looked around the street, largely empty aside from a few taxis and a couple walking along the sidewalk across the road.

“Fine, I'll bite,” she replied. “I'm in possession of some important research regarding a drug that's about to be finalized by the FDA and the NHS.”

“I'd venture to guess this research isn't beneficial to the company?” he asked.

“They blew up my shop and pistol whipped me,” Amelia laughed bitterly, her hand moving to touch the swollen spot on her face. “It certainly isn't rainbows and sunshine cures.”

He paused, considering her words before speaking again.

“Do you know who sent the men?” he asked, and Amelia shrugged, exhaustion continuing to creep over her. She still smelled like smoke and gasoline, her arms and clothes still ripped and black. Not that she could do anything about it.

“I'm assuming the CEO,” Amelia replied, a hint of irritation was rising in her voice as she realized how hopeless her night was going to be.

“And why would a CEO become personally involved in a bad publicity matter?” he inquired. It was a reasonable question, and Amelia might have avoided specifics but she was in no mood to play games, and it seemed this guy was going to get his answers eventually. Besides, she owed him some explanation for saving her life.

“Because she's my mother.”

Chapter 2

[mamthew]

Thoughts on Great Ace Attorney: Adventures

I finished the first of the Great Ace Attorney games last night and have some thoughts I want to write out. I'll be mostly avoiding spoilers, and I mark the ones I do have.

I approached this game with the thought that this - a new AA game with completely new characters, set in an entirely different time period - would be the first entirely functional jumping-on-point the series has had since the original back in 2001. For that reason, I critiqued the game mostly through that lens: how much of this game would show newcomers the best of what the series has to offer without requiring information it doesn't provide? GAA fits the latter wonderfully. There's no Phoenix or Apollo or Athena, only minor references to other games that don't detract from this game's story in any way. Players don't need to understand spirit channeling or magician heredity or Larry Butz. This is a game a newcomer can approach and play without any long exposition on who has what relationship with whom. However, this game simply doesn't show newcomers the best of what the series has to offer. GAA has five cases, and of those five I would consider two of them to have a satisfying resolution. Obviously, that's pretty subjective, but at the very least, Ace Attorney is known for its villains and this game has maybe one. And that one villain...doesn't get a freakout. Two of the cases feel like attempts to redo and fix the two most poorly executed cases in AA2, and they definitely succeed at doing that, but it means that the cases don't have satisfying conclusions by design. The gimmick of this game, too, feels less satisfying than previous gimmicks. The testimonies place multiple characters on the stands at once, and in theory that means the player must be scanning the other characters' faces for reactions to what is being said, but in practice the game simply makes a loud sound and gives you an icon telling you exactly which character made that sound. It's considerably less satisfying than scanning for subtle body language hints as Apollo or using your evidence to break through people's walls as Phoenix. It's too simple, and that, combined with the mostly uninteresting solutions to the cases, makes finishing each case not feel like an achievement. This is also the first game in the series to spend a lot of time setting up plot points for future games. Every other Ace Attorney game is self-contained; it's useful to know the previous games, but every mystery brought up in a game will be solved by the end of that game. I can think of at least ten questions off the top of my head that are introduced in this game but aren't given any resolution specifically so that those mysteries can carry forward into the sequel. This probably is less of an issue in this format, where both games are in one collection, so I can just move on to the next one as soon as I'm done with this one, but it makes GAA feel like a less cohesive title. I've played five cases of this game and could tell you almost nothing about the prosecutor. There isn't a single other AA game where that's the case. Obviously, this is just a different storytelling philosophy than the series has had in the past, but it's one at odds with the game's own theming. The character of Sherlock Holmes is very important to the plot of this game, which is delightful, and makes sense given just how much influence Holmes mysteries have had on the series as a whole. But each of Doyle's stories about Holmes was self-contained, which was why the character held such mass appeal. The writers of this game are laying claim to a pedigree from which they are simultaneously distancing themselves. Hell, in the past I've turned on old AA games on a whim and replayed old chapters out of order because generally each mystery stands on its own. I would not do that with this game. There's no reason to replay case 3, for instance, without just replaying the entire game. Case 4 spends more time dealing with the fallout of cases 2 and 3 than it does investigating its own mystery. And it looks like this trend will be continuing. I watched the opening cutscene of the second game, and its first case seems to be about answering the questions left unanswered from the first case of the previous game. That

leaves me excited to play the case and learn the answers to those questions, but it also means the tutorial case for GAA isn't resolved by the end of the game. That's ludicrous when compared to any other game in the series. The closest comparison I have is the first case of AA4, in which the victim's identity, the murderer's motive, and both their relationships to the defendant are left hanging, but that's all resolved in case 4, and the act of solving the murder itself was satisfying enough that I didn't find myself worrying about those answers until I was meant to. By the end of GAA, I only know one of those details about the first case, and I spent most of the game waiting for those answers to come. Hell, in case 4, two characters I'd never seen before or since stage a conversation in front of the protagonist, and I can only assume they'll be important again in the second game. Their character models honestly shouldn't even have been in this game. The pacing is also oddly quick, even with an extra case. We only see the prosecutor's gimmick in action once, another character out-mia-fey's mia fey with the level of disrespect in their death, and while the main themes of the series get a lot of lip-service in this game, it mostly doesn't feel earned, except in the last case. To dip my toe into spoilers for the next paragraph:

-

-

Every AA game deals heavily with the theme of belief in one's client. The Japanese justice system is pretty fucked, so the games talk a lot about how a defense attorney must fully trust in their client's innocence, because literally no one else will. It's a pretty powerful motif, especially when you consider the real-world implications. In Ace Attorney, trusting in your client's innocence includes being willing to take risks by pointing out evidence that seems to hurt your client's case, because getting a fuller understanding of the truth is the only way to find the real culprit, in the end. In GAA, the protagonist's ability to trust in his clients is dashed with his very first case, so early he never had a chance to understand the importance of that trust. So his journey of trying to learn how to trust in his clients feels unearned for returning players and will probably feel entirely confusing and out-of-place for first-time players.

-

-

Okay, that's the end of those spoilers

None of this is to say this is a bad game. It's much better than 5 or 6, and it's still probably the best jumping-on point since 1. If anyone asked me where to start the series, I'd still tell them to play the original trilogy, but this isn't a terrible place to start either. I love the characters a lot, their take on Sherlock Holmes is delightful, and the use of the turn-of-the-century time period is great. You even defend an actual historical Japanese novelist from the time, which is really a treat.

But I worry that unless the second game is a considerable jump in quality, that this side story simply won't have the staying power of the original trilogy, 4, or investigations. I've been mad for a really long time that we only got this game 6 years after the first one released and 4 years after the second, but after having played this I'm at least glad it released packed in with the sequel, or I'd've probably been considerably more disappointed with it than I already am. Then there are other issues that come with the collection format meaning we essentially have a second tutorial halfway through the game.

In any case, once I've finished the second game I'll probably write some thoughts on that, too, and possibly rank the series.

[feistypaants-archived]

Between The Pipes [Chapter 31]

Rating: M Words: 2511 Pairing: Kristanna Summary: When a new owner takes over the Arendelle Ice Breakers, Kristoff isn’t sure about his future with the team. That is, until a PR nightmare throws the newest member of the media team, who also just so happens to be the daughter of the new owner, right into his arms. Kristoff and Anna can’t even stand the interviews they have to do together… how on earth are they going to fix this mess? Hockey!AU.

[Chapter Index]

Where To Read: [AO3]

Notes: They’re soft n smushy and cuddlebugs, apparently.

Also I've never had a concussion so I did some research but don't come at me if I've gotten something wrong hhahahah.

Enjoy!

Anna was sprinting down the hall, faster than she had ever thought imaginable in heels. They had counted the goal as good even though they gave Westergaard a minor penalty, and the whole arena had booed at the decision. It only took Honeymaren a few minutes to get down to the ice, and she immediately waved Anna off with a look of remorse. 

In the end, he had gotten up, but only with the assistance of Sven and two medics, and skated himself off of the ice very slowly, but at least he was moving. Sven had only managed to come back for the last few minutes, but the rest of the team put their best foot forward to play even harder and shut down the Stallions. When she left, she could’ve sworn she heard a screaming match starting between the coaches.

The arena was going wild as she ran into the locker room, and she could only assume the Ice Breakers had scored again, almost guaranteeing the win. Good. The Stallions would not have deserved this game.

“Kristoff?” Anna called, making her way back to the training room. She peered around the corner, knocking lightly on the opened door. He smiled the second he saw her, but she could tell something wasn’t right.

“Hi baby,” he hummed, but his words were just a touch slurred. “Did we win?”

She shook her head and looked up at the medic who was frowning just slightly as he examined Kristoff for other injuries. Anna tried her best to ignore the bandages on his eyebrow and cheek. “Game’s not over yet, honey.”

“Oh, I should probably get back out --”

The medic sighed, rolling his shoulders. “No, Bjorgman, you’ve got a concussion. You’re not going back out there.”

“I have a what?”

Anna frowned deeper and stepped into the room. “Is this normal?” She watched Kristoff’s nose scrunch as he looked around for a moment, as if trying to make sense of what was going on around him. 

“I wouldn’t say normal.” He definitely had no interest in humoring her. “But standard for a concussion. It’s fresh so the disorientation is… not too concerning, at least.” He finished scribbling some notes and turned to face her. “I’m assuming you’re his girlfriend?”

“Um, yes,” she nodded, her attention spacing for a moment as Kristoff grabbed her hand gently and squeezed at her fingers. “Is it… should we go to the hospital?”

“Ah, I wouldn’t…” He tapped his pen against his chin. “It doesn’t seem that bad. He said he has a headache and he’s definitely a little confused about what happened…” The medic moved to scratch at the back of his head and shrugged. “But his recall otherwise is fine, and he’s not nauseated and he’s conscious so…” 

He handed her a notepad and explained everything on it. “These are the things I did and his scores, if you want to run through it with him again every four to six hours or so for the first twenty-four, make sure it’s not getting worse… If it does, then yeah, go to the hospital.”

“Can… can he sleep? Or… I’ve heard you shouldn’t sleep right away --”

“That’s been debunked, luckily.” He dropped the clipboard he had been holding on the table and turned to face her. “Look, ah, just… monitor him. Don’t let him sleep if it’s getting worse, and if you’re really concerned, wake him up every three hours or so to check in. Before you let him sleep, make sure his pupils aren’t dilated, that he can walk and talk fine, and you should be okay.”

Anna felt her heart finally starting to calm.

“But, honestly, it doesn’t seem too bad. I know Bjorgman’s had a concussion before worse than this so, just monitor it.”

Anna nodded and thanked him, waiting for the man to leave before she turned to face Kristoff. A small smile stretched at her lips as he gazed down at her from the exam table. 

“Hi, baby,” he tried again, clearly a little annoyed that he hadn’t been getting her undivided attention as he lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed her knuckles. “You okay?”

“Are you okay?” She reached up to stroke his face, avoiding the cut on his cheekbone. “You got hit pretty bad.”

He nodded. “Feels like it.”

“Do you remember?” She watched his eyes dart back and forth, doing his best to recall the actual event, but his furrowed brows gave him away. “That’s okay, sweetheart.” She leaned up to place a small kiss on the side of his mouth. “You’ll remember after some sleep.”

The medics had managed to remove most of his gear, but they still took a moment to carefully get him into sweats and a t-shirt before heading out. Anna left his stuff in his cubby, figuring she could enlist Sven to help her come get it tomorrow, and led Kristoff out towards the car.

His voice came from above her, weak and sad and clearly still a little confused. “Can you stay with me?”

“Of course, honey,” she sighed, pressing her forehead against his arm that had been draped across her shoulders. “As long as you want me to.”

He nodded and she helped him into the passenger seat of her car, doing their best not to jostle him around too much. She knew the drive to his house was smooth, and had never been more grateful to drive down more private roads. 

—

When they got to his house, Anna had drawn him a warm bath, told him to relax, and ordered some food in case he came out hungry. He hadn’t said anything about nausea, so she had her fingers crossed and was hoping for the best as she set the hefty burrito bowls down on the kitchen counter.

“Babe?” She asked, thirty minutes later when he still hadn’t emerged. “Are you okay?”

She opened the door and sighed with relief. He had just fallen asleep, his cheek resting against his arm propped up over the side of the tub. But she knew this wouldn’t be comfortable for long. 

Anna stepped into the bathroom slowly, knelt down beside the tub, and stroked gently at his damp hair. “Kristoff,” she tried, softly as his eyebrows twitched below her fingers. “Baby…” A little louder, and one of his eyes cracked open just slightly. “Hello, honey,” she hummed, laying her palm against his cheek as he lifted his head. “Did the nap help?”

He rolled his shoulders and sighed, but nodded his head just a little. “Concussions suck.” His voice was hardly a whisper, and Anna pressed a kiss against his bare shoulder.

“I can imagine.” Then, a twisting of her lips. “Can you remember anything?”

A small shrug. “A little, I think.” 

“That’s okay, that’s good.” Anna let her hand drop from his cheek to rest flat on his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart. “I got some food if you’re hungry.”

Kristoff nodded and moved to stand, wincing just a little as he moved. Anna could see a large bruise forming on his ribs, no doubt where Hans’s knees had hit, and felt ready to strangle the asshole herself. “What’d you get?”

His eyes were soft and exhausted as he looked down at her, smiling when she offered him a hand to step out of the tub. “Burrito bowls. I figured they keep pretty well if you weren’t --” His stomach let out a large growl, and Anna chuckled. “Guess I got the right thing.”

“Hey,” his hand holding hers squeezed just a little and she looked back up at him, smiling as he brought his arms up around her neck for a hug. She pressed her cheek against his chest, not even concerned about his still-wet skin soaking her clothing as she wrapped her arms around his waist, and just took a moment to be grateful things weren’t worse. “Thank you.” 

She wanted to tell him. God she wanted to tell him. 

But it didn’t feel right. Not yet. Not when there was a chance he might forget.

“Of course,” Anna smiled, pulling back just a little. “Now get dressed and come get some food.”

Kristoff nodded and moved to grab his towel, grinning. “Yes ma’am.”

When he came out of the bathroom, Kristoff had realized how much the short hug had soaked her clothing, and immediately offered her something more comfortable. So he was in clean sweatpants and a loose t-shirt, and she was in a pair of shorts she had happened to leave here, and one of his smaller tees that still managed to hang well past her hips. 

The paperwork she had been given had a whole list of things to avoid, and it included all electronics. So they sat in relative silence as they ate, and Anna promised to run out and get some games that didn’t involve screens in the morning. Kristoff complained that he’d normally be reading, but Anna pointed to the list and sighed, telling him it was on the what not to do list. 

He rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. “I did it last time and it was fine.”

“Well, I’m saying no. Because the doctor says no.”

Anna was smiling though, even as he put up a front of annoyance, because with every passing hour she could see more clarity in him, as if just having someone to talk to was enough to help things start to come together for him. “But, if you want, I can read to you?”

Kristoff looked like he was holding back a smile. “I guess.”

But he hopped up quickly, insisting she leave the plates for tomorrow, and picked out a clearly well-loved copy of The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. Somehow, him being a fan of the great detective surprised her. “Really?”

He snorted and led her to the couch, sitting on one end, waiting patiently for her to settle beside him. “It was my dad’s - not that one, my adoptive one - favorite and he read these stories to us every night. So…” He smiled and leaned forward, an almost childish glee on his face as he laid his head into her lap. “They’re comforting.”

Anna smiled and began to stroke her fingers through his hair, smiling as he closed his eyes and clasped his hands together on his chest. “I like them all,” he mumbled, shrugging. “Pick whichever one you’d like.”

She flipped delicately through the pages and couldn’t help but chuckle. “Ah, how about…” She propped the book up on the armchair to make sure her one hand stayed free to continue their path across his scalp. “The Red-Headed League.”

Kristoff didn’t quite find her little joke funny, but rolled his eyes and let a smile stretch his lips. “Sure, perfect.”

A soft throat-clear and she began. 

“I had called upon my friend, Mr Sherlock Holmes, one day in the autumn of last year…”

—

Anna woke up to a soft ringing by her head. She slid her hand around the armrest in a quiet attempt to find the offending device without jostling the man sleeping on her top of her too much. Finally getting it between her fingers, she silenced it before even looking at the caller ID.

She sighed with relief. “Hi, Sven,” she whispered, letting her free hand fall back to scratch lightly at Kristoff’s skull. 

“Hey. How’s he doing?”

A sense of guilt suddenly filled her throat at not even having thought to reach out to Sven earlier. “Oh, god I’m sorry. He’s…” she looked down and couldn’t help but smile. He had turned to his stomach, his whole body wrapped around hers as his cheek rested right right over her heart. “He’s sleeping. Seems all right.”

“Not too much disorientation? Memory okay?”

Anna chuckled, and decided it best to help lighten the weight on his shoulders. “He still remembers all the love and adoration he has for you, don’t you worry.”

Sven sighed, a small laugh echoing hers. “Well, good. I wouldn’t even let amnesia make him forget me.” There was a short lull, and he let out another heavy breath. “Hey, Anna… Thank you for taking care of him.”

She hadn’t even considered not taking care of him. “I… it’s really nothing I --”

“I don’t just mean right now… I mean…” He laughed, as if he was hesitating for a moment. “I’ve never seen him so happy. You…” He sighed, and Anna’s hand stilled in Kristoff’s hair. “You’re perfect for him, and I’m so happy you’ve come into our lives. And like,” he groaned, and she tried to ignore the tears she felt brimming her eyelashes. “I love you, and I know… how he feels. Even if he hasn’t said it yet.”

Anna’s mouth was contorted as she tried to hold back the sob she felt in her throat. “Well what the hell, Pederson. I’ve done so well at not crying today.”

“Well now it’s time, baby girl!”

They laughed together, and Anna couldn’t help but hum out a soft “Love you, too, Reindeer boy.”

“Ah, I’m never going to live that one down am I?”

“No way.” Kristoff started to move, his fingers flexing against her ribs. “Ah, sorry, I gotta go, he’s waking up --”

“Yeah, of course. Tell him I love him.”

“Absolutely.”

Before Anna had even finished hanging up, she felt Kristoff’s head lift from her chest, felt his whole body slide across hers, and felt his breath ghosting over her lips. “Who was that?” he hummed, his eyes slowly coming back into focus.

“Oh, just Sven. Making sure you still loved him.”

Kristoff chuckled and leaned forward, pressing a chaste kiss to her mouth. Well, at least it started out innocently enough. With a heavy sigh and deep regret, Anna pushed his shoulders back just slightly. “I think all of that would qualify as unnecessary physical exertion. And that’s --”

“Not allowed, I know,” he groaned, dropping his head into the crook of her neck. 

She laughed and careded her fingers through his hair. “Just for forty eight hours. Then we can give it a go.” When he let out a noise of annoyance against her, Anna tsked and rolled her eyes. “Didn’t you go without for like… years? Don’t be such a baby about two days.”

“Well, It wasn’t on the table for those years.”

“Please.”  She knew he had women throwing themselves at him. She’d heard plenty of stories.

“Fine. I didn’t have you on the table. Or the bed. Or the truck.”

Anna snorted. “Let’s go to bed, yeah?” She probably shouldn’t humor this because she was not confident she’d be able to say no for too long. “You clearly need some rest.”

Kristoff sighed and gave up the fight before climbing off of her and moving back towards the bedroom, immediately lowering himself onto the plush mattress. Anna followed, gave him a quick kiss, and promised she would join him after she cleaned up the kitchen.

He was out before she even shut off the light.

[henryholmesacademia]

Predilection Chapter Two

A/N: I just wanted to thank you all real quick for all the notes on the last chapter. It means so much to me! Here is chapter two I really hope you enjoy! I also think I will TRY to update every Friday. 

The woman sighs as she presses a hand to the windowpane to admire the moon. Glass cold under her touch from the bitter air of the night. The city of London is displayed out in front of her. Street lamps were being turned off for the night, as were the lights that shone through the other windows. Even cities had to retire at some point. 

She revels in the small rush of adrenaline this afternoon gave her. Seeing him again, made what one could have considered flutters in her stomach if she ever had those in the first place. Unlike her acquaintance, she did on occasion show her emotions. One could even say that she “wore her heart on her sleeve” as it was. But she’s learned how to keep up a face. Only let others see what she allows them. It makes her job easier, it helps appeal her skills to potential employers. This employer, especially. 

She heard the creak of the floorboard from in front of her room that she rented. The sound of the paper scraping the bottom of the door as it moves from the hallway into the room. While it was not a calling card from her “favorite player”, she was not any less disappointed with the simple words written on the page. 

Limehouse. Tomorrow. 

Well then, this should be fun. 

—— 

Miss Harrison was a lady by no means delicate, but still, the utter stench of the alleyway had her gagging as soon as she crossed. She covered her nose and mouth with a hand as she had given her handkerchief to Sherlock last night. Well…she slipped it in his pocket in hopes of toying with him. Her favorite sport. 

The lock of the door catches her eye, as there was no lock and the rest of the wooden place looked to be hanging by a single beam. 

“Good gracious!” She exclaims looking at the damage. “This is well above my pay grade.” She mumbles as she squeezes in between two fallen pieces of wall. 

Getting dirty was a daily occurrence in her job, she was not immune to it. But she refuses to believe that in only a minute of walking through the door she is expected to get her new white gloves, courtesy of a recently widowed Lord, covered in soot. 

The half-burned book is one that she does need to properly dispose of, the wooden crates need to be broken apart further than they already were, and the science equipment out in the open truly needs to be made scarce. These ladies were attracting too much attention to a cause that needed the element of surprise. 

Her cleaning expedition takes her longer than she thought, and given the sound of the creaking floorboard getting louder, she wasn’t the only one sent here. She makes her way to what was left of the back of the location and fixes her appearance in the reflection of a broken mirror. Using a piece of mirror that was on the floor, she uses it to look behind the doorway to see who her soon-to-disappear guest is. 

She would recognize those broad shoulders anywhere, so what business does Sherlock have with this? She takes a moment to fix her lipstick as well as dab some of the sweat that accumulated on her brow, and after she checks her pocket watch, she concludes she has a few minutes to torment him. 

“Well, well, well, Mr. Sherlock.” She moves from behind the barely-there wall. “If I didn’t know any better, I would say you were following me.” Her smile can only be painted as smug while she clasps her hands in front of her figure, having made sure to remove her scoot-covered gloves. 

“Did you do this?” He gestures around to the nearly empty room, oblivious to her flirtation as always. How typical of men. 

“No ‘hello’?” Her eyebrow quirks up, but she catches his stern look and decides to tell him the truth. “This is not my work, Mr. Holmes. This was the state I greeted it in.” Well, some truth. The walls are still in the same condition she found them in. 

“I find that hard to believe.” He states. “This is very different from the way I left it when I came earlier.“ 

"Returning to the scene of the crime, were you?” She walks closer to him. “Believe me, Mr. Holmes-" 

"I have a hard time doing so.” He cooly responds as his hand drags against the wooden table. 

“And he comes with a bite!” She feigns shock at his response. “Mr. Holmes, I can assure you that this is the state I found it in. I was just as shocked as you when I first found it." 

"What are you doing here?” He inquires while looking at the now empty table. 

“I was looking for someone if you must know. I assume you are doing the same." 

"Who are you looking for?" 

"I could ask you the same question.” She counters. “You can’t help but ask what a missing marquee would be doing here. Unless it’s not the marquee you are after." 

"Good day, Miss Harrison.” He tips her hat. It seems she had hit a sore subject. 

“I can help you.” She offers. “It is what I am doing for my employer. Whoever it is you are looking for, judging by their connection to this location, has to have some relationship with the person I am looking for."  

He stops on his way out. "Thank you for your generosity, but I must decline. Excuse me." 

"Mr. Holmes, with all due respect, your talent lies in solving mysteries and I specialize in finding people.” Not to mention putting an end to them. “You work alone with nothing besides very few inquiries, while I have endless contacts and acquaintances.” She reasons. “The person you are looking for, are they worth the time that could have been avoided if you would have accepted my help?" 

"Stubborn woman.” He mutters under his breath. 

“What is stubborn about knowing what you want? I know that this is a case that I want to help you with.” She walks over to him and straightens his tie. “Mr. Holmes, tell me you have not forgotten what a great team we make." 

He gently removes her hand from his tie. "I try to forget." 

"Oh, how your words of indifference wound me.” Her teasing voice contrasting with the faux look of sadness on her face. She makes her way to the door. “Are you coming or not, Mr. Holmes?" 

——

"You are being awfully quiet.” The young detective looks up at the voice that calls him from across the carriage. “You have always been the quiet sort, but I thought by now you would have been interrogating me." 

"I have no patience for questions that go unanswered.” He answers, honestly. He knows the young woman in front of him to be mysterious, flirty, and too modern for her own good. Or rather his own good. The detective knows of her games. He’s found himself on the receiving end of them plenty of times. 

He observes the countryside passing through the window and thinks to himself how her games have improved if she is now able to pay for carriages instead of stealing train tickets. His train ticket if we want to nitpick. 

He then observes his companion, the closed-lipped smile on her face as she pulls out a pocket watch, his pocket watch. “Quite a pickpocket you are. I nearly had forgotten." 

"I took it as a keepsake, Mr. Holmes. It felt as if you were always with me.” She holds it closer to her figure so that he would not try to take it back. “For the next three minutes, you can ask me any question you would like and I have to answer honestly." 

"You have done this before and you never gave a satisfactory answer. The statements were only truthful because they were broad answers without substance." 

"And you remain aloof as always. Every one of those answers was on a need-to-know basis. You asked me when I was returning, and I replied that you would be aware of when I returned. Were you not aware?" 

"After how many days? How long were you in England before you decided to start your game? Before you sent your inner circle of people to torment? A week? A month?” His voice was getting louder toward the end of his accusation. 

“None of this is a game, Sherlock! I do not know what else I could do to prove that to you!” Her eyes close as she sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose between her thumb and index finger. 

The remained silent for a few moments, her using his first name did not go unnoticed but he did not choose to acknowledge or dwell on it. 

Sherlock breaks the silence first. “When I asked you why you were running away…" 

She looks at him, both sadness and fondness in her face as if she was replaying the moment in her head. "My answer was truthful." 

And there they left the conversation. 

Silence fell upon the carriage with the only noise being the driver’s commands to the horses and the stomping of the hooves. 

——

They arrived later that afternoon to a small, quaint inn. An elderly woman greets them and compliments them on their appearance as a couple, saying that their children would be beautiful. 

Before Sherlock can disagree with her forwardness, his companion links her arm through his, giving a smile and a small ‘thank you’ as she takes the key and gently pulls on his arm with a ‘Don’t stand there all day, my dear.’

Sherlock is surprised at the size of the room. The quality of the bed with all of its pillows and embroidered blanket. No expense seemed to be spared at the cost of decorating the room with high-end lamps, antique furniture, and quite beautiful light fixtures.

While he knew his companion never struggled or wanted for money, this was beyond the price he remembered her being able to afford. He had not heard of a death in her family for her to garner an inheritance. She never spoke much of her employer. Never gave any description or revealed any useful knowledge. 

"It is easier to get around if we pretend to be a happily married couple. No one will try to stick their nose in our business.” She gets her bag from him and places it on the bed. “This brings back so many fond memories. Don’t you think, Mr. Holmes?" 

"That was only one time, it was very long ago, and we agreed to never speak of it again.” He can’t help but feel as if he had forgotten something. A factor of some sort. He can’t quite put his finger on it. 

“I have never forgotten.” She smiles. “Now, let’s talk about dinner." 

——

"This is why I do not travel with companions.” She hears him mutter as he flips his watch out and places it back in his pocket. So much time was being wasted waiting on their dishes. “What information can be gathered here?” She had dragged him out to a very elegant restaurant with a very spacious dining room. Every woman wore an elegant, no doubt imported, evening gown while every man wore a tailored suit and tie. 

“My dear, Mr. Holmes, there is so much knowledge to be obtained here. Once you get some food in your stomach and a glass of alcohol in you, you will see I am right.” She reaches over and pats the back of his hand reassuringly. “I would have thought that you out of all people could have known what information could be gathered here.” She leans closer to him over the table and whispers in his ear. “In a room full of high society’s best. The only people who think their secrets matter when in reality the cook knows more than the husband who is having an affair, the widow who killed, or the child who spent their inheritance for the wiles of the world. These people, Mr. Holmes, have power and leverage as well as their weaknesses. You just need to prey on the right one." 

She returns to her seat when the server comes and places their plates in front of them. The detective looks around, to try to see what she has taken notice of. "Is that why you ran away from this life?" 

"Running away requires fleeing from something that you are afraid of. I am not afraid of a life of pearls, having a maid wait on my hand and foot, or having a husband. I just simply choose not to have it. I would much rather be here having dinner with you. You make for a wonderful companion, unlike the boring businessman I would have sitting in front of me if I did marry." 

"I do not believe he was a business-" 

"By the door, a man just walked in who owes me a favor. Go and give him my name, he will help you find who you are looking for.” Her eyes seemed to dart toward the powder room. “You speak with him while I go and powder my nose." 

"How will he-" 

"Believe what you want, Mr. Holmes, but trust me when I tell you that he will help give you the information that you need to find whoever it is you are looking for. He will not speak to you if I am here, when you finish speaking to him, go and wait for me outside of the powder room. Now get up, and go offer to buy him a drink." 

For once, he seems to follow her orders and he is able to gain some information, but it piqued his curiosity about why the man’s face resembled that of having just seen a ghost when her name was mentioned, and immediately began looking for the woman. After the exchange, he waited for her near the wall of the powder room. One woman passed in front of him and she gave him a glance of indifference out of the corner of her eye. Unusual, but not uncommon. Until his companion arrived and seemed to be placing a paper in her bag. She looks up in shock to see him. "Done so soon? How many drinks did you give him? He never gives information that easily.”

“What are you hiding in your bag?” She had wanted him to not see it. What else is she hiding from him?

“My heart. Which is why it is so small. Shall we finish dining?” She tries to step away from him, but he stands in front of her again. 

“What are you keeping from me?” He blocks her passage. For just one weekend, could she not be honest with him? 

“Both everything and nothing, Mr. Holmes. Now let me through." 

"You said you weren’t playing a game. If we are to be partners, you need to tell me the truth." 

"Let me ask you a question, have you told me who you are looking for?” She raises an eyebrow.

“You haven’t told me who you are looking for either.”

“Then I guess we both are hiding things from each other. We both acknowledge it, now let’s put it past us." 

"Because that went so well-” he is cut off by her hands being placed on the sides of his face and pulling him down to meet her lips. Her hands tangling themselves on the hair that reached his neck. His hand went to her waist to steady himself.

Sherlock heard a scoff and the rustling of fabric before she pulled away. 

She smooths the front of her dress while he is standing there, just mildly confused about what had happened. 

“Well then, shall we go finish eating?” She leaves him there, only calling after him over her shoulder. “Are you going to stand there in shock all night or are you going to come to eat?" 

They are silent during dinner, the only noise being the sound of silverware scraping their plates. The ride back to the inn being as quiet with them looking in opposite directions. 

It wasn’t until the young detective arrived at the room that he finally figured out what was wrong with the situation. 

There was only one bed.

——

A/N: I am a fanfiction writer, I couldn’t not use the “there was only one bed” trope! Until next Friday, lovelies!

@maan24​

[rosecorcoranwrites]

September Reading Roundup

It's time for this month's reading roundup, but first, a little announcement that no one but me will care about: I'm staying off the internet until the election. Well, mostly. I'll still post to Tumblr, Twitter, and Instagram when the mood strikes me or when I have a writing update. I'll still post Rant Rave Reviews on here and Youtube (the theme this month is spooky stories, of course). But I won't be interacting much (ie, I won't be spending hours reading through Twitter and Tumblr and watching random Youtube videos I've already seen). If you @ me or retweet or reblog a post, I'll probably respond in a day or two, but other than that, I'm becoming a recluse.

The reason for this is twofold. First, I'm offering it up. For those of you who aren't Catholic, "offering it up" is sort of like giving up something for Lent. You discipline yourself by enduring some deprivation (either natural, like pain, or of your own choosing, like not watching hours of Youtube). At the same time, you offer up your (albeit, in this case, slight) suffering as a sacrifice for some good. I'm offering it up for America. Not the election, America. Because, not to get political or anything, but no matter who wins the garbage fire that is the 2020 election, America is doomed unless our culture changes. As I said to a friend recently, if this was the 90s, we could weather whatever storm Trump or Biden brings, but people hate each other so much right now that our country is pretty much over. Unless...

I don't know what I'm praying for, but I'm praying, praying that come what may, God in his Providence will drag something good out of all of it, kicking and screaming if need be. I will also be doing a rosary novena with my diocese October 14th through October 22, and then another one with the USCCB October 26th to November 3rd. Join me if you would like.

On a lighter note, I'm a volunteer writer-in-residence again at my hometown library, so I'm obligated to focus on writing this month, and need write, research, and workshop without distraction. I have two Forensics and Fiction books all tabbed and ready to read, plus a book about army nurses in the Vietnam War. The plot of book one in the alternate-history/fantasy/mystery trilogy is fast congealing, and I want to strike while the iron is hot. I need to focus! My ultimate goal is to be ready to write a little each day in November, returning to my heretical NaNoWriMo ways.

I'll let you know how it all turns out in my first Novemebr post, which will be a reading roundup of October. Until then, let's take a look at what I read this month:

Two Six Shooters Beat Four Aces: Stories of a Young Arizona by Barbara Marriott Ph.D

Genre: History - Anecdotes

Why I read it: Arizona book club pic

What I thought of it: While it's clear that Marriott is an excellent researcher, she is either a bad writer or in serious need of an editor. Individual paragraphs proved internally repetitive, and the overall structure of each chapter was slapdash. It needed smoother transitions from anecdote to anecdote or more section breaks and section headers.

Would I recommend it: No, everyone in my book club, including myself, hated it.

7 1/2 Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle by Stuart Turton

Genre: Supernatural Mystery

Why I read it: I'd been wanting to for a while; the premise caught my eye

What I thought of it: The body-hopping time-loop stuff was brilliant, the characters likable, and the story delightfully twisty. The last twist and conclusion were unsatisfying, though.

Would I recommend it: Yes!! Despite it's flaws, it was an exciting, fun, and original book. I will definitely be reading Turton's next book (which involves a closed circle of suspects and, possibly, demons!?).

The Exorcist by William Blatty

Genre: Horror

Why I read it: I'd been meaning to for a while, and writing research gave me an excuse to do so

What I thought of it: I like that it doesn't pull it's punches; I'm kind of shocked that it's only been censored a couple times, actually. It presents demons as they are: hateful, grotesque jerks who get off on picking on humans. I also liked that there was a murder mystery subplot. I'm not sure I approve 100% of the ending, theologically speaking, but that's a pretty minor quibble.

Would I recommend it: Yes, but it is not for the feint of heart. Trigger warnings for child sexual abuse, adult sexual abuse, language, violence, the works.

How to Destroy America in Three Easy Steps by Ben Shapiro

Genre: Nonfiction - politics

Why I read it: It's a long story that I shall tell about in my memoir of library life, but not here. Also the cover is 10/10

What I thought of it: It was ok. I already knew most of what he said. I disagreed with some of it, like seeing the constant moving of people from town to town in 1950s as a positive thing; in actuality, "company men" in the 50s were moved around so they wouldn't have community ties but instead ties to the company, which is anti-human to the extreme. I did think it was interesting that he combatted the idea of America's greatness being built off the backs of slaves by pointing out that slavery was actually terrible for the south, as reliance on slavery retarded their economic system well after the Civil War.

Would I recommend it: If you're into political books, sure.

American Sherlock: Murder, Forensics, and the Birth of American CSI by Kate Winkler Dawson

Genre: True Crime - forensic history

Why I read it: I love historical true crime

What I thought of it: It was ok, but kind of didn't make the case for him being "The American Sherlock Holmes" (even though people really did call him that back in the day), in that a lot of his conclusions ended up being a little dubious. Still, from a research perspective, it did establish when various forensic practices started being used in the USA.

Would I recommend it: Maybe? I personally liked Father of Forensics more. I'd say this book is, like, 3/5 stars, just because it could have been tightened up a bit.

Coraline by Neil Gaiman

Genre: Horror

Why I read it: It's spooky season!

What I thought of it: Having already seen the movie, I knew pretty much what was going to happen, but I love Gaiman's turn of phrase.

Would I recommend it: Yes, especially for children who are too young for scarier fair but still want a creepy story.

The Horror at Red Hook by H.P. Lovecraft

Genre: Horror

Why I read it: It's still spooky season!

What I thought of it: I honestly liked this a lot more than the Cthulhu mythos stuff. Rather than vague demoniac blasphemies or black cyclopean gulfs, there's a real tangible cult that sacrifices (reanimated?) corpses to a pale, dancing, snickering Thing on a golden pedestal. I dig it.

Would I recommend it: Yes. Just... ignore the racism. That goes for all of Lovecraft's stuff, by the by.

Herbert West: Reanimator by H.P. Lovecraft

Genre: Horror

Why I read it: Turns out I like HP Lovecraft. Who knew?

What I thought of it: You gotta love mad scientists who try to reanimate the dead, right? I think this one would make an excellent mini-series.

Would I recommend it: Yes.

Solutions and Other Problems by Allie Brosh

Genre: Essay - illustration/comics

Why I read it: I loved Hyperbole and a Half, and was excited when I saw Brosh was coming out with another book.

What I thought of it: It was okay. Not as good as her first book, but for an understandable reason: medical complications and her sister's suicide (that's not a spoiler, as the book is dedicated to her sister). Thus, the book had a heaviness to it that the first one didn't. Still there were some parts that made me laugh so hard I cried.

Would I recommend it: Maybe? I'd say borrow it from the library, but don't buy it, unless you are also suffering a loss. It might be really relatable and cathartic in that case.

The Rats in the Walls by H.P. Lovecraft

Genre: Horror

Why I read it: I like HP Lovecraft

What I thought of it: Not as scary as I had been led to believe by my brother, but still a good story. I plan on reading Lovecraft Country at some point, which supposedly flips Lovecraft's racism on it's head, and so help me, if it doesn't make reference to this story and chattel slavery, I'll throw a fit.

Would I recommend it: Yes. I like that the cat didn't die. :)

The Shadow Over Innsmouth by H.P. Lovecraft

Genre: Horror

Why I read it: I just... I just really like Lovecraft, okay?

What I thought of it: I find the sea inherently creepy, so when you have a decrepit backwater filled with a fishy stench and secrets, it's gotta be good.

Would I recommend it: Yes, especially if you liked the Fishing Hamlet part of the Bloodborne DLC (which I could not help but think of the whole time reading this novella).

The Thing on the Doorstep by H.P. Lovecraft

Genre: Horror

Why I read it: You know why.

What I thought of it: So if you've read enough Lovecraft, especially Dunwich Horror and Shadow Over Innsmouth, you already know what's coming... or do you? Right away, HP establishes that there is a special knock the guy uses with his friend, so I assumed the twist end would involve the Thing appearing in the guy's body but not using the knock, thus revealing itself to be (redacted for slight spoilers). I was wrong. That's not how it played out, and the way it played out was so much creepier!!!

Would I recommend it: Yeah! I really liked this one!

Haunter of the Dark by H.P. Lovecraft

Genre: Horror

Why I read it: Yup

What I thought of it: Same ol', same ol, but what I thought was cool in this one was that the supposedly superstitious Italian Catholic immigrants totally know what's up and spend their stormy nights keeping the Haunter at bay with nothing but candles and flashlights. What a neat detail!

Would I recommend it: Yup. :)

[thewatsonbeekeepers]

Chapter 12: Three Men in a Boat [TFP 2/3]

[This was completely missing from my tumblr, via every search function and everything! So I’ve reuploaded - thanks anon for letting me know!!]

This section of the meta is going to deal with the events at Sherrinford – I’ve broken TFP up into three sections to try and get the most out of it. This isn’t just a read through like the first part of the meta, it has a specific structure, much like Eurus’s trials for the boys, so it’s really important to take this bit in one chapter. My hypothesis is thus – that each episode of s4 has been a different obstacle to be broken through in Sherlock’s mind, and that each of them is represented by one of the different Sherrinford tasks. It’s essentially an illumination of Sherlock’s progress through his mind – but it’s set up by Eurus, who is Sherlock’s mental barrier, so these are going to represent Sherlock’s darkest fears about each of the obstacles. Ready? Let’s go.

We take up the episode at the pirate hijacking, which is quite BAMF, but also illuminates a couple of things that we should bear in mind going into this episode. The first is that the transition from a blown up Baker Street to Sherlock and John hijacking a boat without a scratch on them is absolutely bizarre and leaves SO many questions – it’s dream-jumping of the most obvious kind. The second is that water has played a long role as a metaphor through the show, particularly in the EMP sequence, and it’s climaxing now – we are in the deepest waters of Sherlock’s mind.

Mycroft and John working together in the disguise sequence is metaphorically lovely – in the Oscar Wilde scene of the last part we saw Sherlock’s brain and heart finally coming together, and here for the first time they’re working together to give Sherlock the ability to go and confront Eurus. This is what makes Mycroft’s line so powerful. He says:

Say thank you to Doctor Watson. […] He talked me out of Lady Bracknell – this could have been very different.

Comic throwaway? Maybe. But given what we know about Lady Bracknell from the first part, this also has a more powerful meaning – heart!John finally stopped brain!Mycroft from being an obstructive force in Sherlock’s psyche, and they started working together instead to save him. This could have been very different is far more loaded than it sounds. All this whilst creating an image of Mark Gatiss as a Victorian aunt – wonderful.

When we first meet Eurus proper, her similarity to Sherlock is striking. She plays the violin – this isn’t a Holmes thing, because Mycroft doesn’t – it’s Sherlock’s motif throughout. Her hair is like a feminine Sherlock, her pallor and cheekbones match Cumberbatch. For reference, this is a picture of Sian Brooke and Benedict Cumberbatch together in real life.

I’ve done a section on why I think Eurus is the most repressed part of Sherlock’s psyche, and his traumatic barrier to love and life – I sometimes glibly refer to this as gay trauma, but that’s its essence. The similarity between Brooke and Cumberbatch in this scene is really compelling, looking the same but lit and dressed in opposite colours. Similarity and difference both highlighted. Even nicer, the white of Sherlock’s shirt is the same notable brightness as Eurus’s uniform, but it’s hidden under his jacket – a visual metaphor for her being hidden inside him.

Eurus gives Sherlock a Stradivarius as a gift. This should set alarm bells ringing for anybody who has seen TPLoSH. If you haven’t seen The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes, please do so immediately because my God you are missing out, but TLDR – a Russian ballerina offers Holmes a Stradivarius to have sex with her so she can have a brainy child, and he declines because he’s gay. (This is not just my interpretation, this is genuinely what happens, just to be clear.) Eurus giving Sherlock a Stradivarius is a deliberate callback to the film which Mofftiss cite as their biggest inspiration; just like the ballerina tempted Holmes to feign heterosexuality, so does Eurus – and both make clear that it’s not without its rewards, which is unfortunately true for real life as well. This moment in Sherlock’s psyche also recalls the desperate unrequitedness of Holmes’s love for Watson in TPLoSH, a reference to our Sherlock’s deepest fear at the moment – he has realised his importance but not John’s romantic/sexual love for him, as we’ll see. So here, trauma!Eurus isn’t just referencing closetedness, but is actively drawing on a history of character repression with which to torment Sherlock – metafictionality at its finest.

The Stradivarius is specifically associated with closetedness, but violins more generally in the show are used to show expressions of love that can’t be voiced out loud – think of John and Mary’s wedding, or the desperate bowing of ASiB. So Eurus, gay trauma that she is, telling Sherlock that she taught him to play is a moment of distinct pain – she is the reason he can’t speak his love aloud, but instead has to speak in signs.

When Sherlock plays ‘him’, rather than Bach, to Eurus (he has a big Bach thing with Moriarty in s2, take from that what you will because I don’t know!), he’s playing Irene Adler’s theme. As a fandom, we’ve generally agreed on associating Irene’s theme with sexual love, which ties in nicely with Eurus’s question – has Sherlock had sex? It’s unanswered. At the end of ASiB, Irene calls Sherlock the virgin, suggesting that he hasn’t.

My favourite moment in s4 without a doubt is Jim dancing to I Want To Break Free. I know it’s the most boring thing to say, but my two greatest loves are Andrew Scott and Freddie Mercury, so it was like Christmas. Here it is also Christmas, but there are two possible timelines. I hypothesise that this refers to Christmas 2010, but it’s absolutely conceivable that it could be Christmas 2009. If we acknowledge that Sherlock is in a coma in 2014, then five years ago is Christmas 2009; however, given that we’ve jumped to 2015 in dream time, I’m going to make the guess that Jim’s visit to Sherrinford is supposed to take place in 2010. This ties up with the idea that this is when Moriarty first started taking an interest in Sherlock, who had never heard of him before ASiP, particularly as this is all in the EMP.

I firmly believe that Jim represents the fear that John is in danger – I highlight this in the chapter on HLV, where you’ll recall we first encounter Jim in the EMP and he sends Sherlock on his journey through the EMP with the words John Watson is definitely in danger – a pretty big sign. Even without this, though, his biggest threat to Sherlock has always been hurting John, whether in TRF or with the idea of burning the heart out of him with Semtex. It’s not unreasonable then to assume that MP!Jim first getting inside Sherlock’s subconscious to represent this fear happens in 2010, when he first meets John. He slips in and stays there, and he melds with Eurus. We see this in the powerful visual of the two of them dancing in front of the glass as Jim’s image slowly becomes Eurus’s reflection – the fear of John dying embeds itself into the gay trauma that Sherlock has stored up, even without him realising it. This ties in nicely with the choice of I Want to Break Free, which is famous for its use of drag in the music video – Jim melding into Eurus is the dark side of queer genderbending that we hate to see. It’s also a pretty fitting song name for an intensifying of repressed gay trauma, even without the association with queer king Mercury.

[A side note to all of this – there were wonderful TEH metas about trains in tunnels being sexual, which isn’t just a tjlc thing but is a well-established idea in cinema – Moriarty’s consistent train noises here seem like a horrifyingly inverted version of that sexual longing.]

Task 1 – The Six Thatchers

The governor is set up as a mirror for John in this task, which provides some helpful context for the episode as a whole. Heart!John makes this comparison himself, by drawing out the similarity between the situation with the governor’s wife and his with Mary, though in this case the governor does kill himself because of his wife – or so it seems. The suicidal instinct matches with everything we’ve learned about John in s4, but I want to hypothesise, perhaps tenuously, that he’s more connected with Eurus than we might think. We know that Eurus has had control of the governor for quite some time, and one of the things we hear her saying to the governor in the background of the interrogations is that he shouldn’t trust his wife. This is an odd thing to pepper into the background when he’s about to commit suicide for her, and perhaps suggests that he’s more of Eurus’s pawn than he lets on, though I grant this may be spurious.

The idea that he distrusts his wife because of Eurus is important, however, because we’ve already seen John engage with Eurus in various forms, but this seems like an extension of E; Eurus, aka Sherlock’s hidden self, has been making John doubt Mary, even before she shoots Sherlock. John cannot know she’s a spy at this point, so it’s unlikely he’s doubting her goodwill; he’s simply doubting her.

Before we look at how the actual task impacts the governor and how that illustrates what’s really going on in TST, it’s worth pointing out that it is the governor’s engagement with Eurus which prompts the entire shutdown of Sherrinford and forces Sherlock (with brain!Mycroft and heart!John ever at his side, of course) to engage once and for all with Eurus. This points to everything that s4 has been telling us – that Sherlock’s understanding of the relationship between him and John, including his power to save him (we’re going to see the governor play the foil here) is what sends his brain into stay-alive-overdrive. Sherrinford is the peak of this.

Summary of the task, for those who hate TFP: Sherlock is given a gun and told he can pick either John or Mycroft to kill the governor, otherwise the governor’s wife will be killed by Eurus. As I’ve written about in its chapters, TST is about Sherlock trying to get to the bottom of Mary and why she tried to kill him – and, of course, the impact this will have on John. In brief, by displacing the shot onto Mary in his mind, he’s discounting his own importance and instead thinking about what it will mean for John to lose Mary. His greatest fear is that losing Mary will break John, and it isn’t until the end of TLD that he recognises that the return of John’s suicidal ideation isn’t over Mary, but over him. TFP presents the horror version, the version of TST that Sherlock’s trauma wants him to believe but which he has to overcome. In this case, Mycroft and John resolve to keep the governor alive in their passivity, but that passivity – Sherlock’s coma – is not enough to keep the governor from killing himself over Mary. This is the most feared outcome from Mary’s death that Sherlock can think of – his fear of losing John combined with John’s love of Mary, which in TST Sherlock is still taking as read.

Double naming in this show should never be neglected, and in this case we learn shortly before the governor dies that his name is David. Again, the dramatic manner in which we learn this (on the moment of execution) draws our attention to it – we know another David in this show.

Yup – Mary's ex who’s still in love with her from TSoT. So even though Sherlock is experiencing the panic of John killing himself for loss of Mary, his subconscious is still pointing out to him that that’s not what’s happening here. This mirror version of John that he has set up, who is broken by the loss of Mary as Sherlock fears in TST, is actually the other man in Mary’s life – even with Eurus forcing the worst possible scenario onto him, this still can’t quite fit John’s character. And so we move onto the second task.

Task 2 – The Lying Detective

This section of the Sherrinford saga is the three Garridebs, the closest thing that the fandom has ever got to a collective trauma. I do think, however, that it’s fully reclaimable for tjlc and means the same as we always wanted it to; I also think that it’s possibly the most gutting part of Eurus’s metatfictional power play.

If you haven’t read The Adventure of the Three Garridebs, it’s quite short and the most johnlocky of the Holmes canon, so I’d thoroughly recommend. For the purposes of mapping bbc!verse onto acd!verse, however, here’s the incredibly short version. A man called Evans wants to burgle Nathan Garrideb, so he calls himself John Garrideb and writes an advertisement from a man called Alexander Hamilton Garrideb (make of that what you will, hamilstans) declaring that he wants to bequeath his fortune to three Garridebs. “John” gets someone to pretend to be a Howard Garrideb to get Nathan out of the house to meet him – he comes to burgle the house but Holmes and Watson are lying in wait. He shoots Watson, and Holmes thinks Watson is seriously injured and so we have this wonderful section:

“You’re not hurt, Watson? For God’s sake, say you are not hurt!”

It was worth a wound–it was worth many wounds–to know the depth of loyalty and love which lay behind that cold mask. The clear, hard eyes were dimmed for a moment, and the firm lips were shaking. For the one and only time I caught a glimpse of a great heart as well as of a great brain. All my years of humble but single-minded service culminated in that moment of revelation.

“It’s nothing, Holmes. It’s a mere scratch.”

He had ripped up my trousers with his pocket-knife.

“You are right,” he cried with an immense sigh of relief. “It is quite superficial.” His face set like flint as he glared at our prisoner, who was sitting up with a dazed face. “By the Lord, it is as well for you. If you had killed Watson, you would not have got out of this room alive. Now, sir, what have you to say for yourself?”

Mofftiss have referenced this moment as being the greatest in the Holmes canon for them, the moment when we see the depth of Holmes’s affection for Watson, and so it seems odd to waste it on such a tiny moment in TFP. Many fans, myself included, were really upset to see Eurus drop all three Garridebs into the sea, the implication being that tjlc would never be real, and it was that moment that caused many (including me) to walk away. I came back, obviously, but I completely understand why you wouldn’t. However, I want to map one Garridebs story onto the other to show how they might match up.

The Garridebs that Eurus presents us with are not the three Garridebs from the story. In the story, there are three physically present Garridebs – Nathan, John and Howard – although admittedly only Nathan is an actual Garrideb. Alexander was completely invented by John and existed only in a newspaper advertisement. Evans, alias John Garrideb, is the criminal in the Garridebs story; Alexander is an invention.

So – what happens if we substitute John for Alex in bbc!verse, as in canon they are the same person? This is interesting, because double-naming means that John becomes the killer. Whilst it’s true that John Garrideb is known as Killer Evans for his murder of a counterfeiter back in America, in canon he is done for attempted murder – of John Watson, of course. Here we have a situation where a John is set up killing John. This is exacerbated by the victim in bbc!verse being called Evans; Roger Prescott, the counterfeiter, would have been a much more canonical nod to the books, so we can assume that the choice of Evans is therefore significant. It should be noted that Evans and John/Alex Garrideb are the same person in acd!canon - so killing Evans is a representation of suicide. But, in case we weren’t there yet, the reason that Evans took the name ‘John’ is acd!canon is very likely to be because Evan is Welsh for John – so whatever way you look at this situation, you have Sherlock deducing John killing John.

This is, of course, exactly what Sherlock deduces at the end of TLD, far too slow, when we see Eurus shoot John in an exact mirror of the shot from TST – I explained in a previous chapter why this means that John is suicidal without Sherlock. However, much like the passivity of Sherlock, John and Mycroft in the first task, here we see that Sherlock’s act of deduction is good, but can’t actually save anyone; Eurus kills off our Garridebs moment as Sherlock is left to watch, and it’s notable that heart!John is the most distressed about this. Remember, in the first task Eurus left Sherlock with an image of a John who was suicidally devoted to Mary, and although the Garridebs moment is one which metafictionally highlights the relationship between Sherlock and John, she’s still presenting him with a Garridebs moment in which he is fundamentally unable to save John. This is a direct result of the Redbeard trauma that Sherlock has experienced – helplessness is key to that, and this is what Eurus has come to represent in his psyche. But – Eurus isn’t real, Eurus is testing Sherlock, trauma trying to bring him down, and Sherlock’s job in TFP is to break through the walls that his consciousness has set up for him.

The power in Sherlock saying I condemn Alex Garrideb is heartbreaking, then, because it is Sherlock recognising that he is the reason that John is going to die. Eurus is there to make him confront that reality, which she explicitly makes him do. We get the split-second moment where he thinks he’s saved Alex, and then he’s plunged into the sea – but remember, this is Eurus taunting Sherlock, presenting him with worst-possible-scenarios. TFP is set up as a game for a reason – it is a series of hypotheses cast in Sherlock’s mind by his trauma that he has to break through one by one. Remember, although she’s ostensibly trying to hurt Sherlock, Eurus’s ‘extra’ murders in the first two tasks are aimed at hurting John, which wouldn’t make sense if he weren’t the mp version of Sherlock’s heart.

Task 3 – The Final Problem

Pretty much straight after this episode aired, people were pointing out that Molly is a clear John mirror and that pretty much all of the deductions Sherlock makes here could be about John. Again, we’re seeing Sherlock’s emotions being resolved in a heterosexual context – the presence of Eurus means that he’s unable to process them in their real, queer form. However, if we take Molly to be a stand-in for John in this scene, it may tell us what TFP is about – and the scenario that Eurus presents will be the worst one, the thing that is causing Sherlock the most pain.

TLD/the previous task have shown us that John is in imminent danger, so the transition to Molly Hooper’s flat being rigged with bombs is not a difficult one; we must assume this to be the suicidal ideation that we’ve just deduced. The time limit suggests that Sherlock is running out of time to save him (fucking right he fell into a coma SIX YEARS AGO). Putting Molly in a bad mood isn’t really necessary for this scene – they make her seem a lot more depressed than she would necessarily need to be, and they emphasise her aloneness and her ability to push people away, which isn’t something we know Molly to do. These traits are all much more important in the context of a suicidal John – they paint a much clearer picture of someone who is depressed and alone than we really need for this scene, where it’s not relevant to the surface plot.

Sherlock and the audience believe he has won this task, but of course he hasn’t - there were never any explosives rigged up in Molly’s flat, and it was a ruse to destroy his relationship with Molly. This is what he fears then – what if he’s wrong? What if coming back to life because he loves John won’t save him – it will destroy him and their relationship? The problem to be wrestled with is how to save John – according to the symmetry of these tasks, that is the final problem. We know that the scenario Eurus has presented isn’t real, but Sherlock doesn’t; he is being held up by his inability to cope with interpersonal relationships, and to get to the bottom of that we’re going to need to understand what he’s been repressing – part 3 of this meta.

There’s a wonderful shot just as Sherlock is destroying Molly’s coffin which zooms up and out through a ceiling window, all the way above Sherrinford, as though to emphasise not how remote Sherrinford is but just how deep inside it Sherlock is. Given what we know about the height metaphor as well as the water metaphor, this shot is a pretty clear way of telling us – this is as deep inside Sherlock’s mind as we go, this is the nub. But Sherlock smashing up the coffin has another powerful connotation – he's refusing death. In terms of metaphor, he’s refusing John’s death – there will be no small coffin, because he will not let it happen – but the visual of him smashing the coffin also suggests that he is rejecting his own death. The two are, of course, inextricably linked. Our boys’ lives are tied together.

Epilogue: The Hunger Games

I can’t watch this without thinking of The Hunger Games, I just can’t! But regardless of how much Sherlock seems like Katniss in this section, let’s press on. I don’t count this as one of the typical tasks, because this isn’t Eurus presenting a ‘haha I tricked you scenario’ - far from it. This is Sherlock’s way into unlocking his repression. The key takeaway from this scene, as we’ll see is that trauma has hurt Sherlock, and it’s going to try pretty hard here to mutilate him – but it can’t kill him.

We get a great line from Sherlock at the beginning of this, where he tells John that the way Eurus is treating him isn’t torture, it’s vivisection. Because it’s an experiment? Perhaps. But the more logical way to phrase this would be that it isn’t vivisection, it’s torture. Torture is much more emotionally charged than vivisection as a phrase – from a writer’s perspective, this phrasing is strange because it seems to negate rather than intensify the pain our characters are undergoing. Why, then, would vivisection be more important than torture? Well, put simply, vivisection is the act of cutting someone open and seeing what’s inside – and that’s what we’re doing. This isn’t just an analogy for experimenting on people, it’s an analogy for going literally inside somebody. In EMP world, then, these words are well chosen.

Sherlock is offered the choice – John or Mycroft? Heart or brain? We might initially think that this is Eurus pressuring Sherlock into death, but that’s not the case at all – we know from the early series that Sherlock has survived before (although very unhappily) with just one of these two dominating the other. It has taken his EMP journey to unite them into a functioning entity, and Eurus is bent on destroying that, mutilating either his emotional capacity or his reasoning, the two parts that make him human. This is a good sign, as well, that trauma has been acting on Sherlock through the first three series, when his psyche was dominated by brain!Mycroft - Eurus is keen to revert to that state, when trauma had control. It is touching, then, that brain!Mycroft is willing to relinquish that control and leave Sherlock with his heart, perhaps because this new unity allows him to recognise how damaged the Sherlock he created was. We should also note that this diminishing of Sherlock’s heart is compared to his Lady Bracknell, which we know to be his repression of all Sherlock’s romantic/sexual impulses – except this time it’s less convincing, because his brain doesn’t believe it anymore. What is also devastating is heart!John’s lack of self-esteem or knowledge, the sense that he isn’t useful to Sherlock, which of course will be proven wrong.

[if anyone has thoughts on the white rectangle on the floor, do let me know. It’s bugging me!]

Mycroft says that he acknowledges there is a heart somewhere inside of him – again, this is emotionally powerful in the context of the brain/heart wrangling that we’ve seen inside the EMP. Just as Sherlock’s psyche has tried to compartmentalise them all this time and they’re finally working together, now there’s an acknowledgement that the compartmentalisation into personae is maybe inaccurate as well – brain!Mycroft’s pretence to be emotionally detached is not in fact correct, as we’ve been suspecting for a long time.

Brain!Mycroft also states that it’s his fault that this has all happened because he let Eurus converse with Jim. If you spend any time thinking about the Eurus + Jim meeting, like many elements of this show it doesn’t make sense. There isn’t a feasible way this could have been planned, recorded etc in five minutes, and although it’s true that Jim could have come back to shoot the videos under the governor’s supervision, it’s not clear why he’s so important. Unless he takes on the metaphorical significance that we’ve assigned him, letting Jim see Eurus seems pretty unimportant – he is only the garnishing on Eurus’s plan. Instead, Mycroft is at fault for letting John be in danger – not only did Sherlock misdeduce Mary (although we can lay the blame for that at the feet of heart!John - see meta on TST), his reasoning was blinded and so he missed John’s suicidal urges and the danger to his life. Brain!Mycroft holds himself responsible – all of these EMP deductions are way late, comprised of things Sherlock should have noticed when his brain wasn’t letting his heart in.

Five minutes. It took her five minutes to do this to all of us.

The lighting is dramatic, so I can’t properly gauge Ben’s expression at this moment, but his eyes look crinkled in confusion, just like they are at the moments when a sense of unreality starts to set in in TAB. Indeed, these aren’t very appropriate words for when you’re about to kill your brother; it’s like he’s being distracted, like there’s something important that he’s missing. Mofftiss are drawing attention to the sheer impossibility of the situation – and Sherlock’s nearly there. His Katniss Everdeen move, threatening to kill himself, is the recognition that his trauma doesn’t have that power – it can hurt him and deform him by twisting his psyche into unbalance, like it has before and like Eurus is trying to here, but it cannot kill him. We can see that Sherlock has risen above the one-sided dominance that he began the entire show with when Eurus shouts at him that he doesn’t know about Redbeard yet – that’s not going to change his mind today, but it’s a direct throwback to the days when it would have, in ASiP with the cabbie. Character development, folks.

The shot of Sherlock falling backwards into the dark water links to two aspects of the EMP. One is the continued metaphor of water to represent sinking into the depths of his mind. The water is so dark it looks oily – it could be argued that this is the oil that is corrupting the waters of his mind as we finally cut to the repressed memories. I quite like this reading, though I have little other oil imagery to link it to in the show. The other notable point is the slow-motion fall backwards – instead of showing Sherlock, John and Mycroft all falling, we cut to Sherlock falling backwards exactly like he did in HLV when he was shot by Mary. This is a really clear visual callback. Even though we’re going deeper, we’re linking back to the original shooting, back in reality, suggesting that this depth is paradoxically going to lead us back to the start. To go back to the oil imagery, don’t forget that oil floats on water – although it looks like we’re sinking, there’s a real sense that these repressed memories are actually pulling us to the surface of Sherlock’s subconscious, quite unlike the deep zoom out we saw when Sherlock was destroying the coffin.

And that’s it for part 2 of the TFP meta! Part 3/3 will deal with such highlights as John not being able to recognise bones and presumably getting his feet pulled off by chains. Good thing this is just a dream. See you then!

[dragon-kazansky]

A rose in London - Sherlock Holmes

Notes: This is a rewrite of the first ever fic I ever wrote almost 8 years ago. My skills have improved a lot since then, so here it is. The sequel, which I never finished the first time around, but will complete this time, will be written in the New Year. Enjoy!

Chapter 1 - The great detective

Blackwood.

That was a name that came up in nearly every paper. Sherlock Holmes, a man who could quite easily be called the world's greatest detective, had caught him, stopping him from taking another life. Blackwood had created a great fear in London, so when the papers announced he had been stopped, a huge sigh of relief was released over the city. People started to feel safe once again.

You were glad to not find yourself a victim of such a vile man.

You had seen the paper. The photo on the front was that of Lestrade, Watson in the back and Sherlock in front of him hiding his face from the camera. You expected no less from a man like him.

It was of no surprise that you knew who he was. You, just like everyone else in Britain, had heard of the infamous detective. They say he could tell a lot about you just by looking at you. He had a keen eye that picked up even the slightest bit of detail, which more often than not saved lives.

There was a certain bit of relief to know there was a man like him out there, helping people. Whether he chose to help or not.

John Watson, a man you had only come to know recently, was Sherlock's friend. He worked him on many cases, as you knew from the newspaper articles you saw. You often asked him about the detective, but he never knew what exactly to say. John described him as complicated and unusual. There was no one out there like him, perhaps maybe his brother, who John didn't know very well. You never asked John to introduce you to him, unsure on if it was a good idea or not.

Your first time in Baker Street was not a visit to the detective. John had asked you to come and join him for tea, how could you refuse your new found friend? When you got there he was with a patient. He saw you come up the stairs and gestured for you to wait for him just a moment, smiling at you kindly. The patient gave you a smile also, as he finished up his meeting with John. You waited patently by the door of his office while he finished up.

"This new accommodation of yours, when are you moving in?" The man grabbed his coat.

Ah yes, John was moving out. You had offered to help with anything, but he refused and simply invited you over for tea.

"I should be moving within the week." John replied. "Cavendish place, hmm?"

You chuckled from the doorway. John looked up at you amused.

"Moving on up." You walked further into the room, closer to the desk. The man John was seeing chuckled and adjusted his sleeves as he his coat settled on his shoulders.

"And there will be a woman's touch too." John smiled. The smile of a man in love.

"Well, that's marvellous."

"She's a lucky man." You pointed out, giving John a knowing look.

Suddenly there was a loud sound, actually three loud sounds, like a bang. It made you jump in fright as your eyes darted to the ceiling. You knew who it was that was causing such a sound, John had told you he only ever left that apartment if there was a case. Another reason you had never met him in person.

"Good God! That was gunfire." The man gasped.

"No. Hammer and nail, wasn't it?" John tried to suggest. You knew better than that. He had told you stories of the man in the room next door, after all. "My colleague is probably just putting up a paining." He glanced you way, you gave him a deadpan look.

"Sure. Probably." You muttered.

"I'll go and check, You stay here, Y/N." He gave you a serious look as he asked you wait in his office, moving past you and out the door. You walked over to the door and peeked your head out, watching him approach the  door next to his office.

Mrs. Hudson came running up, tired of the detective and his hobbies. You gave her a sorry look as she passed you.

"I won't go in there by myself." She stated. "Not while he's got a gun in his hand."

"You don't have to go in there at all, give me the paper." She handed it over to John.

"Oh, what will I do when you leave, doctor? He'll have the whole house down."

"He just needs another case." John told her. "That's all."

"Can't you have a longer engagement?" She pleaded lightly.

The man in the office pushed past you lightly and made his way out into the hall. John turned as soon as he heard him come out of the office. You just stood by quietly.

"I smell gunpowder. It's not right, you know, not in a domestic environment." He scolded.

Another bang.

You ducked down with John and the other gentleman. Mrs. Hudson jumped out of her skin, the poor woman.

At this point you really were questioning the sanity of this mysterious man in the other room. He was armed and he was firing. What must be going through his head right now? A part of you was glad you hadn't met him in person. You're not sure knowing someone like him was good for your health.

"Thank you, Captain Phillips." Ah, they were friends. You didn't know many of John's associates. "Perhaps a nice cup pf tea. Same time next week."

Mrs. Hudson took the man downstairs. You remained leaning against the door frame of John's office. He turned to look at you.

"You should go and join them."

"No thank you. I came for tea with you, but this is far more exciting. Your friend is armed and freaking everyone out. What are you going to do, doctor?"

"Talk to him. I'll find him a case to work on. Stay here."

"No promises."

John knocked on the door and opened it just enough to stick his head through. You tried to take a peek, but it was useless. You couldn't see anything, but you heard them talk. John requested permission to enter, which Sherlock granted. You remained standing out in the hall, hoping to listen in on what they were saying.

Sherlock's voice was so smooth and deep. It was a sound you were sure could listen to for hours. It was intriguing and quite honestly made you want to go in and introduce yourself, but then you remembered what happened thirty seconds earlier and remembered he was armed. That made you somewhat nervous about the man upstairs.

There was another shot.

This one sounded louder as the door was left open a crack, but you didn't dare go near it after that.

"Watson, I am in the process of inventing a device that suppresses the sound of gunshots."

"It's not working." John told him. "Can I see that?" You heard John moved across the room.

There was a lot of shuffling going on inside, you waited, listening.

"You know, it's been three months since your last case."

"Gentle, Watson. Gently, be gentle with me." There was a small scream of surprise. You had no idea what was going in there, but the room seemed to be a little lighter now. You assumed John had opened the curtains in there. You wondered how long Sherlock had been sitting in the dark for.

"Don't you think it's time to get another one?" You heard John ask.

They continued on to talk about the need of a case to keep Sherlock's mind busy. The voices grew a little more distant, making you assume they had moved to the other side of the room. You had to strain your hearing a little bit in order to continue listening in on them. Your curiosity was growing with each second.

Sherlock Holmes was an interesting man, and the urge to know him was growing strong.

John began to list cases that Sherlock had received, but it appeared Sherlock had solved them all. He had an answer for every single one of them. John wasn't sure if he was impressed or irritated by this.

"I see you're the leading physician for Blackwood's hanging tomorrow."

"Yes. It was out last case together and I wanted to see it through till the end." John replied solemnly.

Sherlock grew quiet for a moment.

Hoping their conversation wasn't over, you drew nearer to the door.

Mrs. Hudson came up the stairs with a tray of tea. She walked past you, smiling at you softly and knocked on the door. You relaxed as she entered the room and made to move away, returning to John's office to wait for him. Before you could even take a step you heard Sherlock's voice again.

"I heard multiple voices earlier."

"I was with a friend of mine, from the army." John replied.

"And the other?"

"Other?"

"A woman's voice. I heard a woman's voice. I believe she's outside, listening in." Sherlock said nonchalantly. You couldn't see the way he looked up at John as if to tell him not to lie. He knew you were there. "Come in, dear!"

You hesitated.

John never wanted you to meet Sherlock. He was a complicated and, quite frankly, irritating too.

"Don't be shy."

"It's alright, Y/N, you can come in." You heard John call.

You shuffled closer to the door and pushed it slightly as you stepped into the room. Your gaze drifted across the stuffy apartment and landed on the three people who were in it. Mrs. Hudson was organising the tea tray by the small table, John was sitting in an armchair in front of the window and, who you could assume to be, Sherlock was sitting on the floor with a newspaper in hand.

"Ah, there she is." Sherlock gave a smile.

John shifted in his seat.

"You come here often, yet I never actually see you."

"I, uh..."

"I only ever see you leave." He gestured to the window, suggesting that on your visits he always listened out for when you would leave the building and return home, watching you walk away from his window.

"I insisted you never meet her." John sighed.

"I never meet any of your friend's John." Sherlock seemed to pout.

"With good reason."

"The only case I care about is the coming and goings of an absent tea lady." Sherlock changed the topic quickly and looked at Mrs. Hudson who was pouring him a cup. "Is it poisoned, nanny?"

"There's enough of that in you already."

You should there awkwardly, concerned by her remark. Was Sherlock slowly poisoning himself in here?

John moved out of the chair and came over to your side.

"Don't pay him any mind." He whispered.

Sherlock turned his attention back to you, a smile on his face once again.

Mrs. Hudson cleaned up some of the mess Sherlock has made and walked past you, glancing to her left. "Oh, he's killed the dog." She continued to walk out of the apartment.

Startled by that statement you glanced down to see a bulldog, not moving, on the floor. He did this? How could he? You were beginning to think John was doing the right thing before by not having you meet this man.

"Oh my goodness!" You knelt down beside it. "The poor thing."

"What have you done to Gladstone now?" John knelt beside you.

"I was simply testing a new anaesthetic. He doesn't mind." Sherlock stood up.

"The poor darling." You placed a hand over his head gently. You always loved animals, so to see the poor dog like this broke your heart a little bit.

"Holmes, as your doctor..." John stood up and faced the other man.

"He'll be fine."

"As your friend, you've been in this room for two weeks, I insist, you have to get out."

"There is nothing of interest for me, out there, on Earth at all." Sherlock glanced at you as you continued to kneel over the dog. His eyes flicked back up to John quickly as you turned around.

"So, you're free this evening?" John asked, sighing.

"Absolutely."

"Dinner?"

"Wonderful."

"The Royale?"

"My favourite."

"Mary's coming."

John made to leave.

Sherlock looked up instantly.

"Not available."

"You're meeting her Holmes!" John shouted. You stood up startled by the shouting.

"Have you proposed yet?" Sherlock asked him curiously.

"No, I haven't found he right ring."

"Ah well, then it's not official."

"It's happening, whether you like it or not." John spoke softly this time around.

"Not." Sherlock muttered.

"Eight thirty, The Royale. Wear a jacket."

"You wear a jacket." Sherlock tried to argue back.

"Y/N?"

"Yes?" You turned to John who smiled at you.

"Will you come?"

"Oh, uh... I don't want to impose..."

"Nonsense. I want you there. Mary will love you."

"Alright then."

John nodded once and left the apartment.

You shuffled awkwardly on the spot again, realising you had been left alone with the detective. You could feel his gaze on you as you stood there like a lemon. You slowly shifted your gaze to him and gave a small smile, deciding to move closer to the door.

"It was nice meeting you." You heard him say.

You halted at the door and peered over to him.

"You too."

You left the apartment.

You closed the door behind you and stood in the hall for a moment, letting your thoughts wander. You weren't certain about your opinion on the man at the moment. There was something curious about him, but he also intimidated you. You had heard so much about him, but couldn't work out who he really was.

Now you were invited to dinner, to which he was invited.

You gave a big sigh as you finally moved towards the staircase, going down and shouting a goodbye to Mrs. Hudson as you left the flat. You didn't even dare look up at the window to see if he was watching. You knew he was. You could feel his gaze on you as you walked down the street, not looking back.

Sherlock leaned against his window and watched you go.

He finally got to meet you. After so long, a year tops, of wondering who you were when you came to visit John, he finally got to meet you. Watson had always made sure before that your path would never cross with his. He was intent on you never meeting Sherlock and the detective was annoyed by that fact.

He was curious about you.

He could put up with dinner with Mary if you were going to be there. He'd do it for you.

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