#Baker Street Essays

[esther-dot]

I mean it's worth mentioning that Mirri exploited the grief of a fourteen-year-old girl, one who attempted to save and protect her, taking both her husband and her child (and therefore her security and stability in the society she was still pretty new to, as well as getting a lot of the slaves Dany saved from worse fates killed) in the process. I'd probably kill someone for that too. And if I knew I'd get a dragon out of it? Fuck that bitch if I can't have my son I'm having a dragon.

Like yeah it's not great but per the moral standards of this series Dany is pretty good

I've already explained, Mirri didn't kill Drogo, and Dany knows Mirri didn't kill Rhaego.

As for Dany's age meaning she isn't responsible for her actions:

"Unsullied!" Dany galloped before them, her silver-gold braid flying behind her, her bell chiming with every stride. "Slay the Good Masters, slay the soldiers, slay every man who wears a tokar or holds a whip, but harm no child under twelve, and strike the chains off every slave you see." She raised the harpy's fingers in the air . . . and then she flung the scourge aside. "Freedom!" she sang out. "Dracarys! Dracarys!" (ASOS, Daenerys III)

Dany ordered her men to kill kids younger than that.

And Dany "saved" Mirri? They burned and murdered and pillaged and raped throughout her village. Dany thinks of it all as the cost of the throne ie Dany's ambition demands it. You don't have to agree with each POV, every thought they have. Sometimes you are meant to judge them. Listen to Mirri's perspective on being saved:

"I spoke for you," she said, anguished. "I saved you." "Saved me?" The Lhazareen woman spat. "Three riders had taken me, not as a man takes a woman but from behind, as a dog takes a bitch. The fourth was in me when you rode past. How then did you save me? I saw my god's house burn, where I had healed good men beyond counting. My home they burned as well, and in the street I saw piles of heads. I saw the head of a baker who made my bread. I saw the head of a boy I had saved from deadeye fever, only three moons past. I heard children crying as the riders drove them off with their whips. Tell me again what you saved." "Your life." Mirri Maz Duur laughed cruelly. "Look to your khal and see what life is worth, when all the rest is gone."(AGOT, Daenerys IX)

And then what does Dany do? She takes Mirri's life.

"You will not hear me scream," Mirri responded as the oil dripped from her hair and soaked her clothing. "I will," Dany said, "but it is not your screams I want, only your life. (AGOT, Daenerys X)

Dany didn't save anything. She took. She repeatedly benefits from other people's suffering.

You can convince yourself to be cool with this, but the author isn't. He didn’t intend for audiences to work themselves into moral pretzels to avoid condemning Dany or realize where her story is going.

Here is what he said of some famous Dany essays:

And here are some quotes about Dany from those essays:

(link)

This is not a hero.

#anti daenerys #anti daenerys targaryen #dot chat

[ohwhataniight]

"Oh what a night" – The case of the BBC Sherlock transmasc aesthetics: Relating to problematic masculinities in search for identity

So I sat down and rewrote this silly essay I wrote one day after returning from my trip to the US. Flaneurism at its best (or at its worst, idk). Please bear with me but definitely send in your feedback if you read and feel like it, it means the world to me and it will definitely help me unpack some of my problematicness! Thank you <3

I take a deep drag of my American Spirit cigarette whilst the tail ofmy long black coat swishes behind me dramatically. Dusk-time Boston is lit up. The skyscrapers towering over my tiny figure are glittering against the dark through the blurry lens of my camera phone.

I am consciously imitating the aesthetic of the modern but also always Victorian BBC Sherlock, in the scene following John and Mary’s wedding, in which the world’s only consulting detective surrenders to his noble, quiet pining for his not-gay best friend.

What even is masculinity, anyway? What would I like it to be?

The creators of the series, Gatiss and Moffat, spent 10 years religiously denying the possibility of a romantic or sexual relationship between the two protagonists, while driving the hordes of fans into delirium every time that Sherlock (Benedict Cumberbatch) and John (Martin Freeman) made love with their eyes or confessed their devotion to one another. Despite the queerbaiting, the homophobia and the sexism in the Moftis series, despite the 4th season fiasco, despite the actors denying the possibility of their characters ever running together into the sunset, Sherlock himself never denied being queer. Gay, asexual, demisexual, the interpretations are many, a breath of representation in the relative democracy of fandom. And as if that wasn’t enough, Sherlock and John end up canonically raising John’s daughter together at their 221B Baker Street apartment.

The modernized urban Victorian aesthetic, the provocatively coded dialogues, the deep homosociality, and the simple, pure bitterness towards the creators, renders the community of Johnlock fans more alive than ever almost 10 years after the series’ finale. In some hidden, bright corners of the internet, like fanfiction.net and archiveofourown.com, women and queers publish analyses and fanfiction in which they explore the endless galaxy of human genders, sexualities, and forms of kinship, writing the insufferably British male characters as women, non-binary, FTM, Alpha and Omega, pregnant, high, and always together - two human animals exploring bodies and experiences that belong to us in the shelter of Baker Street, with their landlady, Mrs. Hudson, being their most ardent shipper. We write entire full-length novels for free, with our sole motive being the exploration, the practice in writing, and the communication with other queers, other women, other people who feel like us and live in different sides of the earth which, despite Sherlock not remembering, keeps on orbiting the sun with the certainty born by a Johnlocker for their OTP being endgame.

Back to Boston now, which looks like Glasgow on steroids, with its red brick buildings and the glass towers that pierce the skies - it doesn’t feel as cozy and familiar to me as European cities, but it is big enough to swallow and hide me, safely, away from the suffocating and often murderous, homotransphobic gaze of my motherland, Greece. Boston feels big enough to make me feel free, invisible, and at the same time more visible than ever.

Here’s how I made it happen: in the name of an egotistical but seductive flaneurism, in the idea that here I can be non-binary and roaming the streets while smoking without thinking that, at any given moment, I might be spotted by the people from whom I’m hiding both facts, I end up romanticizing a stroll on stolen land, as well as the tar in my lungs. I feel the need to wander around, heavily perfumed, with a hanful of product in my hair, dressed androgynously in a way that my mother only accepts because she doesn’t understand the meaning of it, smoking as the soundtrack of Frankie Valli & The Four Seasons’ December 1963 (Oh What a Night) blasts through my old headphones. As a queer person living in Greece, I never felt that the streets belonged to me. I’ve always felt like a pariah looking for somewhere to belong to, and the irony of going after that feeling in America as a white European tourist brings a certain sourness to my mouth. Is that how Columbus felt? Was he a sissy who didn’t feel accepted by his mum in their suffocating mediterranean society? No, fuck that thought. Fuck that circle, fuck everything I've been taught by the writers of history. I decide to leave these streets to their people, without it meaning that I’ve suddenly found the courage to reclaim my own back in motherland.

Exhaustion, flight, cowardice? Survival.

Later I will learn that the American Spirits with the Native American on their turquoise box are anything but native-owned. What’s certain is that, in this trip, I found solace while smoking stolen land.

What does that make me? A citizen of the world?

After all, in the entire trip, I pretend I’m Sherlock, the whitest man to ever white man. It’s not as if I don’t have my own personality - at least I hope that I do. It is that through relating (to fictional characters, actors, role models who remind me of an aesthetic I had to build from scratch for my trans self, with the help of other queer people who created fanart or fanfiction, moulding new arhetypes) I find a vehicle for the exploration of my existence more easily, I see my reflection (or the one I’d like to have) in the mirror. In the fandom nobody tells you how to imagine your favourite characters and how not to. Nobody tells you how to write yourself, and nobody blames you for doing it. You create with self-indulgence, and you’re applauded for it. And that saved my life.

For years I related to a genderfluid Tonks, a trans Remus Lupin, a fanon Jean Prouvaire from Les Mis. Through all those experimentations and games, the changing of clothes in the dark, the opening and closing of the closet door, I found a name for myself: Sam. And Sam, like every other trans masculinity with the name Sam, Skye, Noah, and Eliott, contains multitudes. 

For the timebeing, my persona of choice is that of Sherlock, perhaps the most insufferable (and one of the most privileged) characters in the history of British TV (which says a lot). “What do you have in common with that emotionally constipated man?” you ask me because you know that my own sentiments are constantly dancing naked before me. I wonder why that is. Indeed, what do I have in common with that guy and end up projecting so much on him? Me, who hesitates to even cancel a doctor’s appointment in pursuit of constant politeness and people-pleasing (AFAB, you see).

When Sherlock’s landlady, Mrs. Hudson, disapproves of his manners and threatens him with a tete-a-tete with his mother, Sherlock gives her his blessing, saying: “You can if you like, she understands very little”.

Sherlock and his turbulent relationship to his parents. Sherlock who always observes everything while staying outside, because he doesn’t know how to get in. Sherlock, always so different that he’s used to people laughing at him, gaping at him with awe, or wanting to punch him in the face. Sherlock who always attracts attention simply because he functions the way he functions, constantly failing to be a normal human being. Neurodivergent Sherlock, camp Sherlock, forgotten-in-another-era, flaneur Sherlock, who even in the Gatiss series (especially in the Gatiss series) is desperate to love, but he never manages to get it right. And finally, Sherlock the logical, the detached, the cynic: masculine elements that I never managed - and was never allowed to - acquire, and which I desperately, problematically craved, because in society and inside me they have been coded as masc.

I am the opposite Sherlock, and that makes me even more of a Sherlock, I decide, and if that helps me sleep at night, then so be it, for now. 

As Hil Malatino writes in the chapter Fall Out Boy is Trans Culture of his essay Surviving Trans Antagonism: “The boy at the center of a [Fall Out Boy track, brackets mine] is [...] being eminently braggadocious and narcissistic [...]. He’s stationed directly at the center of a completely solipsistic universe. No matter how insufferable this kind of guy is in reality, I would have killed for a fraction of his swaggering self-confidence as a kid” (Malatino 2020, 17).

What even is masculinity, anyway? What would I like it to be?

“Do I look like Sherlock?” I ask you, hopeful and doe-eyed as I prance around in my black suit inside the house while packing for the trip. “Sherlock is gender, you know.”

“Do you really want to know how I see your gender? 100% honest-to-God?” you ask mischievously.

“Yes, I do,” I’m hanging from your lips.

“You are, deep inside your soul, in this tartan robe of yours, Bananas in Pyjamas.”

I think about it. Not exactly Sherlock. I smile though. I see my gender in your words. Goofy, boyish, vintage, loud, sleepy, badly dressed: Me. Headcanon accepted.

If headcanon and fanon - that is, reclaimed - Holmes played by (problematic) Cumberbatch teaches me how to be a boy or a man, then so be it, because I hope that my performance will be filtered, as much as possible, through my “girlish” (though still white) sensibilities. That, and the fact that there is a child inside me who never got to live as an openly, unashamedly neurodivergent, inquisitive little boy. Because there is a masculine side inside me that I must hide every day when I go to work. So I put together a playlist, I put on my scruffy headphones, and I tar my lungs, just a little more, a little longer until I’m able to finally leave my country for good and feel ready to love myself as I am. My coat swishes behind me as I dance alone on the street, invisible among the crowd, yet feeling more visible than ever before.

CITATIONS: Malatino, H. (2020). Trans care, University of Minnesota Press. https://doi.org/10.5749/j.ctv17mrv14

#sherlock holmes #johnlock #bbc sherlock #sherlock #queer #trans #transmasc #greece #sherlock essay #sherlock meta #fan essay #fan meta #autotheory #self indulgent writing #translock #trans sherlock #tw: smoking #hil malatino #queer theory #trans theory #queer studies #trans studies #fandom studies #fan studies

[queerholmcs]

okay. you know the drill. i do need to elaborate on some of these, moreso than is allowed within the character limit of the polls; see the read more at the bottom of the post. yes it gets a bit long, i'm sorry, i'm not normal about this show, we've established this.

stop making me watch this. this is indecent. this is not suitable for public television. please get a room.

they all know sherlock and they know that he's insane. where they go wrong is in assuming that john must then be the sane one of the pair of them. (save mycroft; see number five.)

'here, use mine' as the obvious opener. but then we also get the bit where john returns to baker street and sherlock's like 'oh haha yeah i called you across town to ask you to send a text' and john gives him the most exasperated, reluctant look before giving sherlock his phone (heart). because at this point, there is no other option. (i won't say more. essays have already been written on the matter.)

the way a point is made to demonstrate sherlock's deliberate ignorance of molly's attempts at flirting. and john's painfully awkward attempts to hit on mycroft's PA. contrasted with their every moment on screen together. 'we can't giggle, it's a crime scene!' SHUT UP.

where do i start with this one. (mycroft is my favourite. i'm not sorry.) he puts so much effort into this stupid little trick and john completely holds his own against him. he's also the only one to see that john is also not sane and that as much as sherlock is going to be some sort of influence on john, john is going to do the same to sherlock. 'might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?' → 'i can see from your left hand that's not going to happen' → 'time to choose a side.' hello??????? thank goodness mark gatiss mycroft holmes is here to spell things out for us.

it all starts when john says 'i looked you up on the internet last night' (weird move, it has to be said) and then doesn't immediately praise sherlock's blog. but then he also doesn't tell sherlock to piss off for deducing him and airing his family secrets like that? and from that point on, every remotely clever thing sherlock says, he looks to john for his response. ('do you know you do that out loud?' 'sorry, i'll shut up.' 'no, it's... fine.') i maintain that he only points out anderson and donovan's little affair to show off for john.

look. do i even have to say anything here. we establish that everyone sherlock interacts with thinks he's gay. we establish that john and sherlock are both unattached and that girlfriends definitely aren't sherlock's area and that it's fine to have a boyfriend, by the way, john thinks this is fine, just if you wondered, he's also unattached and it's fine if girls aren't your cup of tea and have we mentioned they're both unattached? and they have what is about the most intimate eye contact ever for far too long while doing so.

chance or chess? play the game. engage with the story. read between the lines. is it a bluff? or a double bluff? or a triple bluff? play the game. (mention the game one more time. i dare you. shut up.)

this is in both the physical and the metaphorical sense. they have no concept of personal space, either of them, and it is a bit awkward for everyone else in the room who's forced to watch them make bedroom eyes at each other. on the metaphorical side—john is the first to say 'actually, it's not obvious, so get on with it and share your thoughts with the class, would you?' and '...bit not good, yeah. maybe be slightly more sensitive to people's emotions, there.' and 'you're so full of it. you absolutely do guess, admit it, i can tell when you're lying.' lestrade watches them interact for all of ten minutes and then declares that, though he's known sherlock for five years, he still doesn't know sherlock nearly as well as john does.

who is he? well, he's with sherlock. it's sherlock holmes and doctor watson. they're a set. (do not separate!) they go together, they are defined by each other, they balance each other far too perfectly to ever be removed again. welcome to The Dynamic. you'll never know peace again. (or is that just me?)

#bbc sherlock #asip #sherlock #i know which one is going to win and i am SO tempted to not even offer it as an option. nevertheless.

[im-no-jedi]

What's your favorite thing(s) about Hunter?

ANON

A N O N

DO YOU REALIZE THE BOX YOU'VE JUST OPENED????

hope you're ready for an essay cause here it comes LOL *cracks knuckles*

let's start with his relatability. I've been extremely vocal about how much I personally relate to Hunter, in pretty much every way aside from being a man and a soldier haha. I always enjoy characters I can relate to the most, and there's no competition when it comes to me and Hunter. he and I are one and the same 💙

in that same vein, I like that we get to see a good portrayal not just of a leader, but an oldest sibling. we oldest siblings are often the natural "leaders" to our younger siblings, and I like that we see that in Hunter. this is where the "dad" side of him comes out cause that's an unfortunate side effect of being an oldest sibling; you become the surrogate parent 😬

AND SPEAKING OF BEING A PARENT... I absolutely fell in love with him due to his relationship with Omega. to see an edgy, brooding, frat boy-esque man who's lived his entire life training as a soldier becoming an actual dad???? MORE LIKE MY ACTUAL DREAM MAN 😍😍😍

also, lbr... the man is BEYOND sexy. he has that rugged handsomeness that only compares to iconic legends like Aragorn from LotR. he's absolutely gorgeous. like drop dead in the middle of the street swooning gorgeous. I'm an absolute sucker for a guy who can work long hair, and he works it good. even the face tattoo is sexy to me, idc what anyone else says. also, ALSO. HIS VOICE???? HELLO????? Dee Bradley Baker came for me personally when he came up with Hunter's voice like fr 🥵🥵🥵

another thing I have to mention cause it's apparently a topic of discourse within the fandom is... he's not perfect. he's very much a flawed character, much like the rest of them. and to me, that's what makes him such a good character. it's realistic. it's messy. and it's fun to watch.

I could go on... I seriously could... he's 100% the man of my dreams (literally LOL) and I'll forever love everything about him 🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰

#if I had a better attention span I probably could write an actual essay ROFL #but this will do for now✨ #my dark and broody bandana man #star warz #anonymous #ask

[sandcobangevent]

sea salt and cologne

a miscommunication and some bad wording leads to the obvious. (according to sherlock, at least.)

🐝

“To fifteen-year-old Nadine from Manchester, thank you for your email. I will make sure to give Archie a treat on your behalf. Erm… Oh! To John! Ha! Jonkster, Johnny boy.. No, sorry,” he cleared his throat. “To the listeners, I’m not shouting myself out, obviously, this is another fellow John that listens to the podcast! Isn’t that cool? Well, John-that’s-not-me, thank you very much, and I hope you enjoy your holiday in Brum! It’s.. an interesting place. Ah- no, that’s.. Let’s not say that,” he muttered, pausing the recording with a huff and unconsciously reaching for the mug of tea that was made for him.

He didn’t know how, but on the rare occasions that he decided to, Sherlock consistently made the most impeccable cups of tea. Without fail. John couldn’t even get his own cups of tea right let alone someone else’s.

After taking a large gulp, he leaned back in his swivel chair and gazed at the laptop screen in front of him.

The past forty minutes had consisted of scrolling through fan mail in his bedroom and attempting to complete this week’s shoutouts. There was an overwhelming list of unread emails and he felt awful having to blindly pick out who to respond to. He played the recording back.

“Oh! To John! Ha! Jonkster, Johnny boy.. No, sorry-”

“Ugh,” he scrunched up his face. “Why do I-”

He played it again.

“-John! Ha! Jonkster, Johnny b-”

And again.

“Ha! Jonkster, Johnny boy.. No, sorry–”

“How’s it going?”

He hastily paused the recording and glanced back at the head that had popped in through the gap in the door. “Hey, Mariana,” he dragged, lamely attempting to exit the tab as she peered in.

Having heard the recording, she frowned quizzically.

“Are you.. giving yourself a shoutout?”

“Yeah, that- No, no, I’m..” he shook his head excitedly. “Guess what?”

“What?”

“There’s another John listening to the podcast! Isn’t that awesome? He sent an email. Said he was going to Brum for the summer.”

“Oh, wow,” she stepped into the room, running a hand through her slicked-back curls. She leaned forward and narrowed her eyes at the screen. “I wonder if there’s another Mariana listening somewhere in the world.”

“Yeah, I guess there is! Isn’t that cool?”

Another head of dark curls popped in through the door. “Doubt it.”

“Oi!” he turned to Mariana with an apologetic gaze. “Don’t listen to him, I’m sure there’s loads of Marianas out there.”

“Doubt it.”

He huffed, leaning further back into his chair to see. “And why’s that?”

Sherlock stepped in calmly, bringing his fingers together. His hair was damp against his head, and he carried in a fresh scent of shower gel along with him. “Because no one here is named Mariana, so no one listening to the podcast would feel the need to highlight it should that be their name.”

They rolled their eyes in unison.

He carried on with a sharp intake of air through his teeth, his eyes occasionally glancing at the agonisingly bright laptop screen. “But, taking yourself as an example, I’m almost certain there are at least six other Johns in the vicinity of Baker Street. You’ve a painfully common name,” he finished matter-of-factly.

“Oh thanks, mate,” John ignored the sly smile that tugged at Mariana’s lips. “Well, I apologise for not having a- a rich and pompous name like Sherlock. Yeah, how ridiculous of me. Anything else about me that’s painfully common?”

“Actually, yes. In my free time, I’ve written an essay on both your idiosyncratic and conformate behaviours. Would you like to read it?”

“Well–”

“Hang on, Sherlock, you’ve.. Written an essay about John?” Mariana asked, resting a fist on the back of John’s chair.

“Of course I have,” the detective frowned, absently brushing away a stray curl that fell into and obscured his line of view (John). “In the past year that he and I have been flat-sharing, I’ve come to.. Collect data, if you will.”

“That’s really sweet,” she raised her brows amusedly, fluffy curls bouncing on her shoulder as she tilted her head. “So.. Have you written one about me?”

“Actually, it’s totally reliant on observation and the facts,” he responded sharply, diverting his gaze. “I wouldn’t consider it sweet at all. And no. I have not written one about you.”

“Aw, that’s a shame.”

John pressed his tongue to the inside of his cheek. “Yeah, well, considering he just called me painfully common, I wouldn’t call that a shame.”

“It wasn’t an insult, Watson, it was a fact - yet another inherent trait of yours.”

“What?”

“Taking everything personally.”

“Oi-!”

“See?”

“Mate, we’ve been together for almost a year and all you can say about me is that I’m painfully common?!”

Sherlock shrugged. “We balance each other out. Like..” he scrunched up his face in thought. “Ying a-and..”

“Yin and Yang.”

“Yes.”

“Thanks, mate. So I’m the brawn to your brain.”

“Yes, exactly.” He paused. “What?”

“Oh, because you’re- you’re so uncommon, aren’t y- Well, you know what, you are.”

“Thank you. I take that as a compliment.”

“Oh, yeah, of course you do. How’s this for a compliment? You can’t even–”

“Hey!” Mariana put her hands between them in a feeble attempt to soften the tension. “I think we’re all getting a bit worked up. John, why don’t you finish.. Whatever you’re doing–”

“Shoutouts,” he sighed, rubbing his face annoyedly. “I was just trying to do the bloody shoutouts.”

“Right,” then she glanced sternly at Sherlock. “And why don’t you get back to your experiment?”

The detective straightened himself, pulling his gaze away from John with a frown. “Which one? I currently have four ongoing experiments.”

“I don’t know, how about the one that required you to use all my conditioner? You owe me, by the way. My hair feels like straw now, feel it,” she tilted her hair forward.

“No.”

“But I see you’ve managed to condition your lovely, lovely locks,” she carried on sarcastically, gesturing to his wet hair and damp skin.

"Thank you,” he replied. “It’s a new one.”

"Yeah, I- I noticed. It’s nice,” said John. His eyes widened. “It smells nice. Obviously. I don’t.. Feel your hair during the night, that’d be weird.”

Sherlock eyes narrowed amusedly. “Is that a fact.”

For God’s sake, John thought to himself. He just called you painfully common and you’re still acting like some fan. He rolled his lips with a stony resolve, forcing himself to keep eye contact.

Sherlock faltered slightly.

Mariana watched. “Hello.”

The detective calmly tore his eyes away at the sound of her voice. “Besides. That.. That experiment was boring. I finished it. Would you like to know the results?”

She glared at him. “Does it have anything to do with human remains?”

“Well. Yes.”

“Then no.” She turned to John. “I thought we could go for a drink. You know, to remind you two why you’re still living together.”

He sat up straight, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment as he thrummed his fingers against the desk. “Er, yeah, sure, once I finish these shoutouts.”

“Okay, great. We’ll leave in ten minutes. Sherlock, are you coming?”

The detective seemed to debate this offer intensely - his thick brows furrowing, tanned cheeks hollowing and grey eyes slightly narrowing until he finally said, “Of course I would.”

“Perfect,” she replied light-heartedly. “Let’s go.”

As Mariana began to leave the room, Sherlock followed cautiously, still deep in thought. “I can’t strongly recommend this line of work to you if you are unable to converse about human remains, Mrs Hudson.”

“Hey!” she held open the door with her foot and gestured for him to leave first. “My job is to answer emails, help pay the rent and send out the merch. Not to look at, or talk about, human remains..”

Her voice faded as they left the room and the door creaked shut.

John let out a gentle sigh and swivelled back to face his laptop. “Right, let’s see…” he opened up the tab that he had previously tried to hide from Mariana. He frowned. “Hang on. Why’s the footage so long– Oh, shit, I’ve been recording this entire time!”

*

The pub was relatively busy with a constant metronome of the door languidly swaying open and shut and the gentle hum of others’ conversations - cushioned only by the soothing tang of refills that glided down their throats in an attempt to ground.

In the search for a small table, Mariana had left the men upfront to order the drinks.

“Two pints of bitter and a gin and tonic, please,” called John as he leaned over the bar with a squint to tune out the overly repetitive pop music.

“Yeah alright, mate. Be a bit because it’s just me today.”

“No worries. Ta,” he scratched the top of his head and settled back into the stool.

Sherlock wasn’t sitting. In fact, he rather awkwardly stood beside John as they waited for their drinks - his posture perfect, his stance unnervingly still. There was a grim (and awfully heavy) twist in the pit of his stomach. He knew that he had somehow, in some way, upset John, but he couldn’t put a finger on why. He gazed at the doctor as he thrummed his fingers against the countertop, the reflective surface and soft lights casting a warm glow against his skin.

“Well..” he began, his deep voice cutting through the obnoxious music.

John glanced at him. “What?”

Ah, thought Sherlock. He’s still upset. (Angry? Flattered?) “It’s incomplete, but would you like to read it?”

“Do I want to read an essay about how I’m painfully common? Erm, let me think,” he tilted his head sarcastically. “No, I’m alright mate. Besides, if it’s about me, what more could I possibly want to know?”

“Actually, I’m positive that I know more about you than you do.”

“Yeah, you probably do- What? No,” he shook his head annoyedly. “Forget it. I don’t want to read your bloody essay that’s about how I’m- I’m so painfully common.”

Sherlock’s face scrunched up. “Why are you so obsessed over that phrasing?”

“Because-!” John stopped himself. His lips pursed into a thin line and his eyes softened.

He frowned. The detective tried to use all his innate and learned deductive reasoning to try to understand - he even attempted to reflect on the ‘social etiquette’ intervention he had been forced to have with Mrs Hudson last week. But it was all too much: the torturous music (to which he regretted not having brought his ear defenders), John’s uncharacteristic indifference, his lack of knowledge.

Their intense gaze seemed to make John freeze up, his navy eyes unable to pull away, unable to portray the anger his voice lamely attempted to convey. The warm, soft lights reflected into his eyes, illuminating them into a brighter, saturated tone that made Sherlock forget about the (god-awful) twist in his stomach. They were beautiful, Sherlock thought simply. (He was beautiful.)

“It’s-” he leaned his elbows on the countertop and ran his hands over his flushed face. “It’s fine. Seriously, just forget it, it’s fine.”

Sherlock cautiously opened his mouth to speak. “You don’t–”

“Here you guys go,” the bartender slid forward the three drinks.

“Thanks,” said John politely, juggling the three glasses into his hands without asking for help from the detective, who was watching him with a concerned brow etched deep into his skin. “Sherlock. It’s fine, mate.”

He didn’t respond. Instead, he watched John carefully walk through the maze of tables until he found Mariana sitting at the back on her phone. After four seconds of debating with himself, Sherlock turned slightly, pulled out his wallet, silently paid for the drinks and sauntered to the table. (Ignored the churning in his stomach.)

     *

An icy wind had been the final push out of Autumn - it had blown away the rusty coloured leaves until the pavements on Baker Street bore nothing but a thin layer of frost.

It had been five days since Sherlock had (mistakenly) revealed the existence of his essay about John and, according to his knowledge, not much had improved in 221B. The doctor was often tucked away in his room, with the excuse of ‘editing the podcast’ slowly fraying and eventually dissolving into just ‘being tired’. Mariana had taken it upon herself to become an intermediary; she waded through the flood of emotions that had drowned both of the men by attempting to speak to them both privately and also sweetening some (rather bitter) messages that they had for one another before delivering them. Sherlock had, of course, seen right through her considerate attempts at cushioning John’s colourful insults, but he didn’t say anything no matter how uncharacteristic her edits were. (He sometimes wanted to tell her to read the essay he wrote about John so that she could learn how to properly speak on his behalf but, in case he accidentally offended her, he kept those thoughts to himself.)

However, when the orders for the podcast’s merchandise started piling up, Mariana had no choice but to plant her focus on packaging and sending them away. And when that happened, his (dreadful) stomach ache had gotten worse.

The silence was killing him. (John was killing him.)

By midday, Sherlock had curled up into the sofa, his legs tucked close and arms wrapped around his chest with his fingertips pressing against the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. His eyes were shut and his face was uncomfortably pressed against a pillow, but he didn’t move. (If he did, the texture of the pillow would send a cold shower of shivers through his body.) Instead he resorted to taking deep, levelled breaths - unconsciously counting his heart’s BPM. (Always calculating, moving. Even when he didn’t want to.)

He had successfully managed to tune everyone and everything that made even the slightest of noise. He had been idle like that since 9.17am, so disturbingly still that, after the first hour, Mariana had to check if he was still breathing. He was.

During the forty-second round of unconsciously monitoring his heart’s BPM, an aggressive vibration had interrupted his counting. Sherlock opened his eyes and, for a moment, he stopped breathing.

Tried to ignore it.

Couldn’t.

(Always subconsciously craving the thrill of possibility.)

He unfolded his limbs, pulled his head away from the pillow with a shiver and sat up. His phone vibrated again.

Sherlock leaned over to the coffee table and picked it up.

Lestrade Says You Weren’t Answering Your Phone. Apparently There’s Something You’d Want To See At NSY

Interested?

It was John. (Oh God, John.)

His fingers hovered over the keyboard.

Are you?

There was a pause. (Suddenly his BPM was significantly higher than it was 16 seconds ago.)

Maybe

Sherlock was used to the quiet. Most of the time he craved it. A flattened wavelength was his ideal; it opened doors to his thoughts, germinated possibilities and carefully constructed intricate experiments. But this was entirely different:

John never said ‘maybe’ to the possibility of getting to play audience and watch his consulting detective work, to record the perfect material for his podcast and prepare for a rush of adrenaline at any given moment. He never (never) said ‘maybe’ to the idea of working with Sherlock.

The detective switched off his phone, stood up and straightened his jumper.

A gentle string of footsteps told Sherlock that Mariana had walked in. The familiar, .2-second high-pitched creak of a door also told him that she had just left John’s room.

“I assume you were talking about me,” he began plainly, entirely avoiding eye-contact as he strode over to the desk by the window and picked up his ear defenders.

“Why do you assume that?” she lightly asked, setting down a pack of diet Cokes on the kitchen table before beginning to gather her fluffy curls up into a high ponytail.

“What else would you talk about?”

“I..” Mariana hummed unconvincingly, shifting her weight from one foot to the next. “We talk about lots of things.”

He grabbed his coat from his armchair and shrugged it on. “Like?”

“Hm?”

“What sort of things do you talk about?”

She glanced down and wrapped her cardigan around herself comfortingly. “Like.. Beer. And Archie. Oh! And lots of podcast stuff, which we know you don’t really enjoy, so–”

“Scotland Yard has called. There’s something that they’d like me to see.”

“Okay,” she smiled. “Yeah, that’s great! You’ve been wanting a case for a while.”

“Yes.” Sherlock’s eyes wandered anywhere but in the direction of Mariana. “Will John be accompanying me? For the podcast stuff. ”

“Er, yeah.”

The voice came from behind Mariana. She took a step to the side to reveal John stepping into the living room with one shoe on his (left) foot and the other in his (right) hand. He bent down and slipped the other one on calmly, his face void of any indifference he had been holding against the detective for the last few days. “Got my mic all charged up,” he patted the small clip-on attached to his shirt. “Just in case.”

Sherlock eyed him carefully. “That’s good.”

It was silent. (His stomach churned.)

“Let us leave,” he said plainly, brushing straight past Mariana and John and ignoring the way their eyes met.

After he left, John sighed, leaning against the doorframe. “See?” he whispered.

Mariana shook her head. “Remember what I said, just–”

“Try again, yeah, I know,” he paused. “Sorry, Mariana- No, yeah, you’re right.”

“I hope so,” she placed a hand on his shoulder and guided him out the living room. “Now go, before he thinks we’re talking about him.”

“Again.”

***

There was a gentle knock on the door.

“Mariana?”

“Yep, it’s me,” she poked her head through with a smile. “Sherlock’s still sleeping on the couch. How are you feeling?”

“Yeah, I’m alright,” John sat up on his bed as she walked in. He politely turned off his phone and focused on her. “What’s up?”

“Three things. One, we’re out of diet Coke.”

“Ah,” John clambered off his bed and pulled open his wardrobe doors. He reached to the bottom, pulled out a pack and handed it to Mariana.

“You keep packs of mini diet Cokes in your wardrobe?” she asked quizzically.

“Don’t tell Sherlock.”

Intrigued, she peered into his wardrobe. “What else do you keep in there?”

“Pop tarts. Only the good ones, though.”

“Huh, I’ll keep that in mind the next time I’m locked in the flat by myself,” she joked.

“What was the second thing?”

“Oh, yeah, you know the ‘thank you’ cards for the merch that spelled your name wrong?”

“How could I. Jonk is a pretty big mistake to make,” he deadpanned. “I mean, whose name could possibly be Jonk?”

She shrugged. “Yeah, well, I have finally used them all up in our orders!”

“Finally. But now that means that fifty of our fans have a card that says, ‘Thanks again! From Sherlock, Mariana, Archie and Jonk’.”

“Well, I’ve just ordered another one-hundred cards with the correct spelling of your name.”

“Thanks, Mariana. Honestly though, the guy on the phone was ridiculous, I even spelled my name out for him! Y’know, the same, painfully common name that everyone knows. ”

She glared at him. “John.”

He sighed, running his hands over his face. “I know,” he mumbled. He looked up. “I know.”

“Seriously,” she lowered her voice to a gentle tone. “Why is this bothering you so much?”

“I-” he sighed, closing his wardrobe and trying to change the subject. “What.. Was the third thing you wanted to talk to me about?”

“It was about you still not talking to Sherlock!”

“Ah.”

“So?” she asked firmly.

There was a certainty, an air to Mariana that John had admired since they first crossed paths - always headstrong in her resolutions and cautious enough to ground the men’s often impulsive and derelict decisions. She also always saw right through him. (Both of them.)

John sat down on the edge of his bed. Mariana leaned her back flat against the wall as a nod for him to talk.

“I don’t know, okay? Yes. What he said upset me.”

“He always makes those kinds of comments, though. I mean, to me, as well. You’ve never really reacted this way before,” she commented, hugging the pack of drinks close. “Did he.. Perhaps say something else to you? At the pub?”

“No,” he shook his head. “That’s just the worst bit, isn’t it. That is all he said - painfully common and I just.. Lost it. Like some- Some bloody, stupid.. Stupid child. I don’t know why I did, he’s right, but. What he says means something to me, Mariana. What he thinks. I mean, what makes me different from the other six Johns in the vicinity?”

She narrowed her eyes. “I don’t actually think there are six Johns in Baker Street. We’d definitely know.”

“Yeah, but that’s the thing, isn’t it,” he replied gently. “He’s such a cocky git that you can’t tell if he means half the stuff he says.”

“And yet…”

“And yet.. I still believe him anyway. Always. Why do I do that, Mariana?”

There was a glint in her eyes as she watched the doctor debate with himself. “Are you still ghosting him online?”

“No. Well, yes, I have been. But I texted him today. Lestrade says there’s something she wants us to see, and I haven’t had much content for the podcast in a while, so…”

“You’re going to go with him.”

“Yeah.”

There was a pause.

Mariana stood up straight. “You need to talk to him, John. He needs you, no matter what he says. Your silence won’t help him understand. Give him another chance.”

“Yeah, you’re right. Thanks, Mariana.”

They shared a soft, genuine smile and she began to leave the room, only pausing for a moment. “Oh, John.”

He glanced back. “Yeah?”

She seemed to construct her next words carefully. “Try telling him how you feel. I think that’s what he needs. What both of you need.”

John gazed at her, contemplating what she said with a soft frown. He eventually nodded.

***

He kept fiddling with the microphone. He couldn’t help it, the silence was killing him. It had been his intention to heed Mariana’s advice and try to talk to Sherlock but, between the cab ride to NSY and the new case presented to them by DI Lestrade, John hadn’t managed to build the confidence to do so. (He was also still a bit annoyed.)

In the cab back to Baker Street, Sherlock had taken the manilla file of information with him from the station and kept it tucked under his arm the entire ride. 

John didn’t say anything whilst clipping on his seatbelt; instead, he subtly gazed at the muscles in Sherlock’s neck as he craned his head to stare out the window, the tanned skin that pulled taut over a layer of muscle that John never expected him to have. His dark curls were just about matted on one side because of all the time he spent still on the sofa in the morning. His eyes (oh God, his eyes) reflected the murky-green from the park that they drove by, but John knew that Sherlock’s eyes were naturally grey. He knew that from all the times he snuck a glance.

Sherlock’s muscles were naturally sleeping beneath slender limbs, his hair was naturally difficult to tame and his eyes were naturally grey. (He was naturally beautiful.)

Despite the detective’s indifference and now with a profound sense of hope, John bravely clicked on his microphone and swallowed the horrid tang in his mouth (which he decided to blame on the cabbie’s driving). “So,” he began awkwardly. “Do you think Sadelyn Sawyer was right? That her brother hired someone to kill her boyfriend?”

Sherlock didn’t respond.

“I mean, the bloke was totally sideways,” he carried on, ignoring the pang in his stomach. “Er, to the listeners, Sadelyn had shown us a few pictures of her half-brother, Frank Sawyer, at the station, and.. Well, just off-vibes straight away. Isn’t it, Sherlock?”

The consulting detective hadn’t pulled his eyes away from the window for even a second.

John cleared his throat annoyedly. “Sorry, guys, Sherlock seems to be in a strange mood today.”

“Stop the cab,” the detective said suddenly, only focused on catching the cabbie’s attention. “Would you stop the cab, please. ”

“Wha-” he watched as they rolled up to the curb of St Barts Hospital. “Sherlock.”

“It’s for the case. Will your fans want to listen?”

John’s eyes darkened. He pressed his tongue into his cheek. “No, they won’t, actually. I’m going back to the flat.” Bubbling with a fresh mixture of anger and hurt, John heard the words leave his mouth before he could properly register them as Sherlock stepped out of the cab. “Yeah. Maybe you’ll find another John, in the hospital, that’ll be a better replacement for you, mate.”

Sherlock didn’t respond. Instead, he calmly handed the cabbie a few folds of cash before walking away into the hospital.

John turned off his microphone soon after.

The faint, lingering scent of a fresh, musky cologne suffocated him and made his heart beat faster until he couldn’t breathe. He leaned forward.

"Could you, er-” his voice cracked. “Can you roll down the windows, please?”

“Too cold, mate.”

“I need to breathe a bit. Can you open mine a little? Please.”

The cabbie glanced up at him through the rearview mirror and sighed. He opened the window.

The rest of the ride was silent.

*

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, yeah, your bloke accidentally gave me too much for the hospital. He’s paid for your ride.”

Your bloke.

He took a deep breath and closed his wallet. “Thanks, then,” he said awkwardly.

“No worries.”

Carefully avoiding the ice creeping up on the curb, he watched the cab drive off Baker Street, let the crisp air fill his lungs and bitter wind nip at his cheeks before entering 221B.

The flat was empty. On the kitchen table, Mariana had left a single mini can of diet Coke at Sherlock’s chair, and a small USB at his. John tread to his chair at the table and picked up the USB. He flipped it around in his fingers until he realised what it was.

The essay.

He wondered how Mariana got it. He thought about reading it but, at the very pit of his stomach, he could still feel the anger and hurt bubbling. So he pushed the USB into his pocket and sat on the sofa. Sank in the silence. (Stuck with the sour tang of guilt in his mouth.)

He unclipped his microphone and placed it on the coffee table before settling back into the sofa. There was a single pillow at the end from where Sherlock had been laying. John ran his hand over it, knowing the texture was something that Sherlock despised. He wished he hadn’t been so stubborn so that he could have helped and replaced the pillow with his own. Replace the sofa with his own bed. (Replace the silence with his own presence.) John pressed a firm fist into the pillow before slowly lowering his head on it. He inhaled the faint scent of sea salt and cologne that had clung onto the pillow after all those hours. He closed his eyes and released a breath that had been holding him hostage.

This silence was a little more bearable.

A few beats could have passed. It might have even been over an hour since he closed his eyes, he couldn’t tell. But a harsh vibration jolted John awake.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket, his fingers narrowly missing the USB. The notification was a message from Sherlock. The last week had made it instinct for him to swipe away at the message before even reading it.

So he did.

He blew out a breath and let his head fall back on the pillow. Closed his eyes.

His phone vibrated again.

This time, he didn’t need to look to know who it was. The bitter tang in his mouth worsened. Sherlock never texted twice, not if he could help it, he never cared for it.

Tried to ignore it.

Couldn’t.

(Always subconsciously craving the thrill of possibility.)

He unfolded his limbs, pulled his head away from the pillow with a shiver and sat up. With all his might, he wanted to be angry - to swipe away Sherlock’s texts without reading them and curl back into the sofa. He knew he shouldn’t, but he couldn’t help himself. He picked up the phone and read the texts.

On my way back to the flat

We will clear the air.

He couldn’t exactly decipher what the last message meant but, by the wording, Sherlock seemed overly confident (as always) that their issue would be resolved when he returned.

As he thought about a reply, his eyes travelled to the laptop sitting on the coffee table. His fingers reached for his pocket. Mariana somehow secretly getting ahold of the essay had once again instilled a fear in John that reminded him she was much more cunning than she let on.

He wondered if she had read it or if she didn’t think it was her place to, only exporting it with nothing but good intentions. He wondered if he wanted to read it. “You’re gonna regret it,” he muttered.

Regardless, he shoved the USB into the laptop and began reading before he could change his mind.

Since it was brought up, John could only assume that the sixteen pages would consist of his common behaviours and uninteresting traits that had been meticulously studied over the last year.

And it was that. It was exactly that.

Except it was also the complete opposite; with every painfully common fact about John, Sherlock had countered it with a carefully-constructed, intricate antipode of his genericism. (Compliments.) There wasn’t a single sentence in the essay that made John feel common at all - not even the paragraphs that described why he placed his toothbrush on the left side of the sink and not the right, or how he stashed food in his wardrobe despite his flatmates having boundaries. In fact, above all the confusion, he felt like the most unique person in the world. Sherlock was right - he did know more about John than he did himself. (He could even make John’s tea better.)

Suddenly he felt awful for saying the things he did.

Sherlock was (undoubtedly) the most luminous soul he had ever met - his confidence unwavering and thoughtfulness so subtly imbedded. The observations he made about the people he cared for were endlessly detailed and never burdening. He did it because he cared. Because he wanted them to know that he had noticed what no else could. John had spent almost a year shamelessly praising his detective’s brilliant mind whenever he overcame an obstacle that everyone else deemed too high - rescuing people, saving innocent lives, preventing overtime bills at Scotland Yard. John never stopped to realise how much he meant to Sherlock.

His mind travelled back to the conversation he had with Mariana.

And yet .. I still believe him anyway. Always. Why do I do that, Mariana?

Now he knew why.

“I woke you up.”

John turned to find the deep voice belonging to Sherlock hovering at the doorway, his eyes glancing at the pillow on the sofa.

“No, it’s, erm-” he turned off the laptop quickly and cleared his throat. “I wasn’t really planning on sleeping, anyway- It’s fine, you.. You didn’t wake me up, Sherlock.”

His eyes were still fixed on the sofa. “It is an awful pillow,” he said plainly.

John glanced at it. “Yeah- erm. Yeah, I don’t know how you did it for so long. It’s terrible to sleep on.” (He’d do it a thousand times again if it meant he’d be wrapped in that scent of sea salt and cologne.)

It was quiet.

“Did you, er, find what you needed? At the hospital.”

Sherlock stepped forward, ignoring him completely and struggling to find his words. “I fear that I may be…” His face was gently scrunched up and facing the floor. He hadn’t bothered to take off his coat since he came in and so, with every pace, the bitter cold wind from outside surrounded him like an armour. John could feel it every time he neared. “John, I am lost.”

“Sherlock–”

“Let me talk,” he met John’s gaze. The harsh, irritated red of his waterline clashed with the tint of blue in his eyes. “Would you give me a moment. Please.”

But the doctor couldn’t watch Sherlock struggle with himself for any longer, the anxiety that emanated from his icy coat getting stronger with every step. “Sherlock, can you- Mate, stop it. It’s okay, I- I…” John pulled the USB out of the laptop and held it up. “I know,” he said softly.

He stopped pacing.

“Mariana gave it to me.”

The detective didn’t move. He didn’t respond. His eyes were fixated on the USB.

John realised.

“Christ, no, Sherlock, I-I’m not angry- I’m not upset. The essay is.. It’s really incredible. Seriously, I don’t know how you do it. And it’s incomplete. How is it possibly incomplete, I mean, you’ve pretty much got all that there is about me on there, mate. I think I’ve learnt something about myself after reading that.”

“It’ll remain incomplete for as long as we’re together,” he finally replied, the irritation in his eyes subduing into a calmer gaze. “Of course, except…”

“It’s.. This is my fault. I- I took what you said and blew it out of proportion, and I’m sorry. Really.”

“I apologise, too.”

It was quiet again.

John could hear Mariana in the back of his mind, shouting at him to confess his feelings, telling him that this was the perfect moment to do so. But his stomach still ached and he still couldn’t get rid of the guilt sitting on his tongue. He wanted to speak, desperately. He just didn’t know how to start.

But it seemed that Sherlock had decidedly done that for him.

“The website said that couples may require some space before talking again,” he continued.

“Yeah,” John nodded.

Then he paused.

“Hang on, what? What do you mean, couples? ”

Sherlock eyed him curiously. “I wouldn’t have done this otherwise.” He stood up straight. “That is also why I said you were perfect for me–”

“-You quite literally said the opposite–”

“And we balanced each other out. Like yang and yin.”

“Yin and yang.”

“That’s what I said.”

”You said it yourself; we’ve been together for almost a year,” he recited plainly.

John’s heart was failing. (It must have been.) He couldn’t properly compute what Sherlock was casually insinuating as he stood towering over him. But the detective didn’t seem to realise the weight of his words and so, after shrugging off his coat, he carried on.

“And I make you tea,” he said matter-of-factly.

John blinked. “You-” he gently cleared his throat. “You make them for Mariana as well.”

“No, I don’t. I make them for you.” He paused. “Who’s Mariana?”

“Sherlock!”

It was silent again. But this time, the air wasn’t filled with anger or hurt or guilt.

John pursed his lips and lowered his voice. “Did you really search up what to do?”

“Well. I do admit that this area of sentimentality is a plane I am foreign to and, in an attempt to correct that, I did some research.”

There was a pause. John narrowed his eyes.

“Is that why you made my bed the other day?”

“Yes.” He brought his hands together. “But also because you kept tucking the ends in at the wrong angle and it was annoying me.”

There it was again, thought John. He was a fool for regarding Sherlock’s hypervigilance as a brag. There was nothing he could do but smile. He dipped his head knowingly. “You didn’t accidentally give the cabbie extra money today, did you.”

Sherlock shook his head. “I had calculated the precise amount beforehand. Cared for and simultaneously granted you space. That’s what couples do.”

“Yes, but,” he tried to word his thoughts politely. “You can’t just assume you’re in a relationship with someone just because you balance each other out. I mean I agree, thank you. Really, I’m flattered, mate, but.. I think we could have avoided a lot of.. Bad feelings if we just spoke about it, don’t you think? Like I thought you calling me painfully common was because you didn’t hold me any differently than you would a stranger. That leaving me in the cab was because you didn’t care. That- That upset me, I suppose, because I wanted you to care the same way I do. And you do,” he waved the USB. “You really do. Just.. differently than what I’m used to. Which is also my fault and I’m sorry. Mariana sort of put me in my place today.”

Sherlock watched him for a moment. He lowered his voice and softened his brow. “I am lost in you.”

John stood up. He stepped up to Sherlock and held out the USB. “I’d really like for you to finish writing it,” he said gently.

“Finish writing it,” Sherlock repeated, staring deep into his eyes with caution. Then, when he realised what John was trying to say, his eyebrows relaxed. “I’ll get to finish it.”

He nodded. “Yeah. For as long as we’re together. And maybe tonight, you can switch out that awful pillow for mine.”

Sherlock tilted his head.

“It’s a ‘couples’ thing.”

For the first time in a week, the corner of his lips lifted.

“It is a rather awful pillow, isn’t it.”

“Yeah, I think Mariana bought it.”

“Is that the person who lived here before us?”

“Wh.. No. Mariana.”

“Yeah?” A soft voice entered the living room, soon followed by a dog’s tired huffs of air. She walked in wearing a thick, yellow woollen scarf and a leather jacket. She lowered her shopping bags down to the floor and carefully unclipped Archie from his leash. “Are you guys okay?”

John glanced up at Sherlock.

He gave a small, affirmative nod.

“Yeah, we are, Mariana.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, unconsciously leaning into the detective.

“So.. You’re talking to each other again?” she asked excitedly as she unwrapped her scarf.

“Yes, we…” he scratched his head in embarrassment, her wording making him feel as if he were a teenager with silly school drama. “Actually, we.. We have some news. Good news, obviously.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah…” he glanced up at the detective. “Yeah. Sherlock and I.. We- We’re, erm—“

“We have cleared the air and are continuing our healthy relationship,” he interrupted casually, throwing them both off guard. He turned his head to John. “Did I say that right?”

“I- You said it perfectly, mate.”

The same glint that John had seen earlier in Mariana’s eyes was back again. (She had always known.) “I’m so happy for the two of you! Congratulations,” she grinned.

“You knew,” he said.

“Only a little bit.” She tilted her head. “Okay, yes. But it was so obvious!”

Sherlock raised his brows at him. “See. Even Mrs Hudson knew it.”

For once, John wasn’t in the slightest bit upset. He let a smile adorn his face and lovingly pressed his arms into the detective’s. The scent of his cologne rubbing against his clothes satiated the bubbling in his stomach and made the (god-awful) tang of guilt in his mouth subside. “Guess I was just too painfully common to see it.”

It went silent.

Mariana hesitated. Sherlock stiffened.

John alarmingly stood up straight. “That- God, that was a joke. Don’t worry.”

He could feel Sherlock’s muscles relaxing and hear Mariana’s sigh of relief. Her smile had come back. “Oh, we should totally go for drinks. To celebrate.”

“Aw, that’s a great idea, Mariana. Yeah, we’ll do that. Sherlock, you okay with that?”

They both glanced at the consulting detective, whose brows were furrowed deep. “But we already did that,” he began plainly.

He turned. “What? When?”

“Last week. When Mrs Hudson took us to the pub to remind us why we were still together.”

“Oh, for God’s—“

🐝

give it up for the brilliant and incredibly talented samuel for being my other half in this project; his artwork was perfect down to the T and i couldn’t have asked for a better and funnier partner. (also, try finding the sh&co logo in the picture! it’s such a good detail.)

thank you to eardefenders for creating this flashbang event! it was lots of fun.

#submission #sherlock and co #sherlock & co #flashbang event #sherlock homes #john watson #mariana ametxazurra

[llycaons]

now that I'm home, a brief summary of the new (historical) fantasy books I AM interested in. there are still nonfiction (essays, social commentary, biology) that are on my list but THIS is more my jam. putting this under a readmore but 1. if you've read any of these I'd love to hear your (non-spoilery!) opinion of them, and 2. if you have any recs based on this list, feel free to reply or send me an ask!

The Water Outlaws by S.L. Huang: if this book is bad I'm going to cry. it looks like it could be everything I've ever wanted. I love when lesbians are anti-authoritarian and I love wuxia settings. the rebel love interest has tattoos 😍

The Witch's Heart by Genevieve Gornichec: I haven't actually read much norse mythology-inspired stuff except that pjo spinoff that wasn't very good (and one set in 9th century greenland that was HORRIBLE) but this was suggested a few times and I think it looks very promising! it's always neat to see older women as protags and she's bisexual and maybe polyam as well, which I've only ever seen in baru cormorant and the broken earth iirc

The Forever Sea by Joshua Phillip Johnson: this doesn't look GREAT but I looovvee environmental fantasy so I'll give it a shot

The Night Tiger by Yangsze Choo: this one looks WILD

The Keeper of Night by Kylie Lee Baker: this one seems a little more YA than the others but the concept is pretty original so I'm curious to see what they do with it

Fireheart Tiger by Aliette de Bodard: the description made me cringe a bit but the idea is pretty cool and it seems like YA but it's marked at adult?

The Order of the Pure Moon Reflected in Water by Zen Cho: another wuxia-inspired book!!! please be good PLEASE be fucking good 😭

Black Sun by Rebecca Roanhorse: this one is sparing in the description but I have a sense it'll be VERY intense

The Emperor and the Endless Palace by Justinian Huang: I may struggle to keep focused on this one but I thought I'd check it out bc in theory it's interesting

The Black Tides of Heaven by Neon Yang: I didn't really understand the summary but it's hopefully good? I'l always check out a wuxia and I like a sibling dynamic

Deep as the Sky, Red as the Sea by Rita Chang-Eppig: PIRATES, BABY!!!!

The Master and Margarita by Mikhail Bulgakov, Katherine Tiernan O'Connor (Translator), Ellendea Proffer (Annotations/Afterword), Diana Lewis Burgin (Translator), Hans Fronius (Illustrator): *points* like from tumblr...in all seriousness I HAVE heard some really interesting things about this book and the relationship so I'm glad to add it to my list

The Winged Histories by Sofia Samatar: the first book of this series sounds really boring ngl but this one oohh 👀

Mexican Gothic by Silvia Moreno-Garcia: I heard high praise for this one so while it doesn't specifically appeal to me, I'll give it a shot

Sistersong by Lucy Holland: I like a sibling story!

Silver in the Wood by Emily Tesh: this one could touch me tenderly I feel. I like when love interests are nice. whenever I see those setups that are like 'oh he's got an OBNOXIOUS and HOT partner' I'm like well this projection isn't working for me bc I'd leave then. I don't want to be annoyed by someone I'm supposed to like. I am aware this is a big setup for CR arc of mdzs but the annoying guy is my actual younger brother and my dear dear friend wwx so he can do whatever he wants. and also lwj really does have a stick up his ass and wwx is acting significantly more normally all things considered. anyway. this gay tree man may touch my heart

books that are ALREADY on my list/I have read excerpts from already

The Mask of Mirrors by M.A. Carrick: this one is pretty YA but I enjoy the writing and the setting, and the plot is exciting. I look forward to reading more

The Watchmaker of Filigree Street by Natasha Pulley: I think my mutual suggested this to me and I tried reading it but I found it really hard to read but I am going to try it again because it sounds so intruiging!

The Adventures of Amina al-Sirafi by Shannon Chakraborty: I'm on the fence bc while I liked the city of brass, I thought this one was a bit weaker so idk if I'll keep reading. I like the concept tho

The Buried Giant by Kazuo Ishiguro: this one's strange and mysterious and I love the almost primordial atmosphere of england 1000 years ago...the ancient and massive landmarks around the elderly characters as they go about their relatively small lives. kind of frightening, kind of magical

These Violent Delights by Chloe Gong: I haven't read any of this and it DOES look pretty YA but the setting sounds fun so why not

#cor.txt #there's also a few more strictly historical fiction books but ummm I like these the best lol

[jeridoesntdourls]

Love getting sideblogs because now i can rant about the whole of the worldbuilding (being a history nerd) that has been going on inside my head about this without feeling guilty about my mutuals who came there to see my DE art and not arcana- So a little while back I decided to start brewing up some ideas for an Arcana-based Brazilian continent/nation called Tua and of course, my own characters! I haven't uncovered the entirety of Vesuvia’s lore and so my own ideas might seem too expansive in comparison.

Firstly, we have Borea or Borao (Boh-reh-ah and Bor-um/Bor-ão respectively). Born to two foreign diplomats during the shift from the First Conquest to the Red Council (you can see a timeline here!), they lived during two of the shakiest moments in Tua's history. Through their parent's reasonable wealth and items gained from visits to other lands, they managed to hone their magic and become one of the nation's best sorcerers (silently cultivating their infatuation of astronomy and it's associated magic alongside that). As the years passed so did the dissolution of the Houses made during the Red Council, paving way to the influence and familiar exploration under the influence of the growing Insulind nation. After the first grueling years, Borea's parents began to organize a counterattack, relying on the local community to plan heists and revolts, creating the group Cravo Vermelho (Red Carnation). These reactions were not as effective as the people would have liked, Insulind growing more violent and capable of outlasting any revolutionary effort. As a last effort, the Diplomats striked a bargain with Vesuvia, one of the only nations not allied with Insulind, they would send their most experienced mages to help cure the Plague and in return they would be given the military aid of its ruler: Count Lucio.

Borea set sail to the country amongst friends and stormy seas, getting to Vesuvia amidst bloodshed and disease. Working under the merciless Courtiers, many of the mages died to intentional cruelty or in reckless pursuit of the cure, guided by the Count's demands and the frantic longing to return home. Borea would meet Asra during this time and work alongside him as an anxious but ambitious friend. That changed during the climax of the Insulind's hold on Tua, where Lucio failed to uphold the bargain(again), causing the deaths of Borea's parents and the beginning of the revolts that would one day free Tua. Borea changed from a chattering researcher to an apathetic shell, intent to watch Vesuvia die, believing the Plague to have been a warning and eventual retribution to the failures of the Count by the Saints. They roamed the sickly streets daily, forgetting the warm faces of bakers who would offer them food and scurrying children, a silent fury accumulating deep inside, paving the way to frustrated arrogance. They would eventually contract the plague themselves and succumb to it, continuing to follow the Asra route from there.

Borea's route must be the one to follow cannon the most and also the most history heavy! There's still a lot of things I haven't covered (their relationship with their siblings and more interpersonal things but this would be an entire essay if that were the case). Argo is a moth in case anyone was wondering and their card is The Hierophant Here's their profile typed out:

BOREA NORCHE

PRONOUNS: She/Her/They/Them

FAMILIAR: Argo

BIRTHDAY: August 28th

HEIGHT: 5'7'' (176cm)

FAVORITE COLOR: Navy Blue

FAVORITE SEASON: Winter

FASHION SENSE: Fancy nerd

MBTI: ENFJ

FURSONA: Ram

MOST LIKELY TO: Believe in aliens

OTHER: Middle sibling of four

#Borea Norche #Borea #the arcana oc #the arcana worldbuilding #tua #havent set up a map or a time line yet but i will in a bit #For christmas i either want the ability to draw in the arcana style or the money to commission someone because I NEED TO SEE MY GUYS #word vomit kinda #the arcana #vesuvia

[northeasternwind]

18 for the Sherlock Holmes ask game!

18. Favorite Sherlock Holmes trivia

OHHH THIS IS A FUN ONE HEEHEEHEE

Technically, Holmes and Watson never committed burglary in the entire series. There's an essay in The Baker Street Journal which goes through every case where they enter a building unlawfully. I think burglary was unlawful entry with intention to commit a felony? But basically iirc technically none of their less than legal adventures actually meet the standard for burglary apparently LMAOSHKFJHSKDJFH I have that essay laying around somewhere...

Please note, a not-insignificant fraction of meta from the BSJ is just tumblr shitposts and I was limited on time so I didn't read the whole thing, so it's possible that the entire essay is just a joke. In which case, there's your fun fact. There's like 70 years of shitposts out there just waiting for you to discover them brent

#i-hope-they-have-wifi-in-hell #do tags with hyphens work now? they didn't use to #asks #sherlock holmes

[lostsoullover]

Basil of Baker Street from the wonderful film "The Great Mouse Detective" (1986) is not only a queer icon but is also trans gender. In this essay I will-

#basil x ratigan #basil of baker street #the great mouse detective

[marley-manson]

Hey Marley, it'd be cool if you would drop a list of the masculinity in film books you're reading. No pressure tho!

Oh yeah for sure, lol sorry I have a tendency to default to vagueness when I'm talking about anything outside of fandom.

There's a lot, I went on a spree for a few weeks lol, so this is under a cut

Only one I've read cover to cover so far is Armed Forces: Masculinity and Sexuality in the American War Film - Robert Eberwein which was both interesting and frustrating in that a lot of it was (mildly defensively lol, as a response to a lot of queer film theory) explaining how a lot of homoerotic shit isn't intended to be interpreted as actually gay, but I'm glad I read it because I was specifically trying to understand how contemporary audiences viewed homoerotic shit.

Books I've read at least a chapter of:

Men, Masculinity, and the Media - Steve Craig

Running Scared: Masculinity and the Representation of the Male Body - Peter Lehman

Masculinity: Bodies, Movies, Culture - Peter Lehman

Masculinity and Popular Television - Rebecca Feasey

Buffoon Men: Classic Hollywood Comedians and Queered Masculinity - Scott Balcerzak

Shadows of Doubt: Negotiations of Masculinity in American Genre Films - Barry Keith Grant

Screening the Male: Exploring Masculinities in Hollywood Cinema - Steven Cohan

Laughing Matters: Understanding Film, Television, and Radio Comedy - John Mundy, Glyn White

Laughing Hysterically: American Screen Comedy of the 1950s - Ed Sikov (highly recommend just for the essay on Some Like It Hot)

What Made Pistachio Nuts?: Early Sound Comedy and the Vaudeville Aesthetic - Henry Jenkins

also shoutout to this article

Books I've obtained but haven't looked through yet:

American Cinema of the 1970s: Themes and Variations - Lester D. Friedman

Hollywood Androgyny - Rebecca Bell-Metereau

The New Hollywood: What the Movies Did With the New Freedom of the Seventies - James Bernardoni

Manhood in Hollywood: From Bush to Bush - David Greven

Girls Will Be Boys: Crossdressed Women, Lesbians, and American Cinema - Laura Horak

Hard Bodies: Hollywood Masculinity in the Regan Era - Susan Jeffords

The Remasculinization of America: Gender and the Vietnam War - Susan Jeffords (I've actually read the first Jeffords in uni and parts of the second but they're pretty psychoanalytical so ymmv)

Deviant Eyes, Deviant Bodies: Sexual Re-orientations in Film and Video - Chris Straayer

Masculinity in Fiction and Film: Representing Men in Popular Cultures 1945-2000 - Brian Baker

Masculinity in the Contemporary Romantic Comedy - John Alberti

Out in Culture: Gay, Lesbian and Queer Essays on Popular Culture - Corey K. Creekmur, Alexander Doty

Flaming Classics: Queering the Film Canon - Alexander Doty

Making Things Perfectly Queer: Interpreting Mass Culture - Alexander Doty

Vested Interests: Crossdressing and Cultual Anxiety - Marjorie Garber

Queer Images: A History of Gay and Lesbian Film in America - Harry M. Benshoff

Ghost Faces: Hollywood and Post-Millennial Masculinity - David Greven

Ethereal Queer: Television, Historicity, Desire - Amy Villarejo

Gender Terrains in African Cinema - Dominica Dipio

Masculinity and Monstrosity in Contemporary Hollywood Films - Kirk Combe and Brenda Boyle

Open Secret: Gay Hollywood 1928-1998 - David Ehrenstein

Screened Out: Playing Gay in Hollywood From Edison to Stonewall - Richard Barrios

Hollywood from Vietnam to Regan - Robin Wood

In a Lonely Street: Film Noir, Genre, Masculinity - Frank Krutnik

Unamerican Hollywood: Politics and Film in the Blacklist Era - Frank Krutnik and others

#text post

[mariacallous]

Lesley Tellez, a food journalist and author of the cookbook “Eat Mexico: Recipes from Mexico City’s Streets, Markets and Fondas,” said that while she hadn’t seen the full episode, she found the snippets that were circulating on social media unimaginative.

Despite its diversity, Mexican cuisine gets overshadowed in the culinary world by European cuisines, she added, and the show’s treatment of it perpetuates misconceptions.

“I think they should have been a lot more thoughtful about it,” Tellez told CNN. “It reduces Mexican food to stereotypes – to being this two-dimensional cuisine.”

Though it would have veered from the show’s typical format, Tellez said she would have liked to see “The Great British Bake Off” bring in a Mexican chef as a guest, as opposed to having two White, British judges serve as authorities.

Alejandra Ramos, host of “The Great American Recipe” on PBS and a chef of Puerto Rican descent, said the episode reflected a lack of diversity behind and in front of the camera.

“This would have been a perfect moment to bring in a Mexican guest judge or host to lead the discussions on camera and to guide the contestants,” she wrote in an email to CNN. “There should have also been consultants with actual Mexican cultural and food background and expertise brought in to consult on the story, scripting, food styling and challenges – as well as the post-production and marketing.”

Ramos also questioned why a baking competition would challenge contestants to make tacos – a point viewers of the show have also called out on social media.

“Mexico has incredible pastries, cakes, breads, and even baked savory dishes that they could have made instead,” she said. “But that would have called for more actual knowledge about Mexican culture and cuisine which is clearly lacking here.”

CNN has reached out to “The Great British Bake Off” for comment.

Since the first episode aired in 2010, “The Great British Bake Off” – which streams stateside as “The Great British Baking Show” – has become a cultural phenomenon, soothing viewers with its spirit of camaraderie and offering them an escape. Still, it’s garnered complaints of cultural insensitivity before.

During a “Japanese Week” episode in 2020, some contestants devised concoctions that instead relied on Chinese and Indian flavors, which some critics said amounted to conflating distinct Asian cuisines. That same episode saw Lucas refer to katsu curry as “cat poo curry.”

“Anyone who’s watched GBBO also knows how prickly the judges get when they think something has too much spice, how easily they exoticize non-British foods, and how the standard marker of a good baker is their ability to make a Victoria Sponge,” Jaya Saxena wrote in a 2020 article for Eater.

Former contestants have also spoken out on the show’s diversity issues.

In an interview with Insider last year, Rav Bansal called for new hosts and judges who were better versed in non-English ingredients and recipes, and who could better reflect the show’s diverse cast of contestants. Ali Imdad expressed surprise that production staff had allowed certain missteps to occur. Ruby Tandoh referred to the show as a “strange vehicle for change,” writing in an essay for the food publication Heated that it had launched the careers of several Black and brown chefs while being “steeped in the symbolism of an old-fashioned, implicitly white Britishness.”

[tiger-moran]

OK so I thought I was almost done with actually writing this essay but I’ve been thinking about this and it’s something else that does not make sense to me. So am I missing something obvious or is this another plot hole, why does Holmes know he and his rooms are being watched “continuously” by associates of Moran yet still seem to assume Moran or his associates couldn’t have possibly known he had left his Baker Street rooms that afternoon and not returned? Why does he think that they couldn’t still know that Holmes had already gone out when the wax dummy appears in the window? Why doesn’t he seem to consider that they could be stationed somewhere nearby watching, he only seems to look if someone is literally following them at street level when Moran could have people positioned in nearby buildings looking down or something, why does he claim Moran is so ‘cunning and dangerous’ but then appear to simultaneously think he and his associates will be taken in by his disguise when they know he went in those rooms just a few hours earlier? Or that they aren’t clever enough to actually track him even within a few metres of his rooms? Also his disguise is basically no more than an old coat, a wig and a pile of books and hunching himself over a bit. Yes it may have fooled Watson because he believed Holmes was dead and had no reason to think Holmes would suddenly appear again but Moran and his associates have known since about 3 seconds after Moriarty fell into the waterfall or whatever actually happened to him that Holmes was alive, why would they be taken in by some apparently random old dude who they never saw going into those rooms coming out of those rooms just a few hours after Holmes went in? (For that matter why on earth would he assume Moran would shoot from such a difficult position as in the street when he literally calls the empty house opposite “convenient”, but that’s something that’s not made any sense to me for years already.)

As far as I can make out from this, Moran very plausibly could have known that Holmes is apparently simultaneously in his rooms and out of his rooms meaning therefore the one in the rooms must be not really Holmes. He could have known that the one in his rooms is fake and could therefore have just been making some sort of point by shooting it through its ‘brain’. Is that the real reason Holmes doesn’t want Moran arrested for his attempted murder, because he knows it never was an attempted murder?

#Sebastian Moran #Sherlock Holmes #it makes no damn sense

[freaky-flamboyant-flags]

Rainbows and Rage - A History of the Pride Flag (Part 1):

You know it; you love it; it's the rainbow flag!!! 🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍🌈Most of you probably also know some of the basic history behind it, but in this series of posts I am going to be going through some of my favourite iterations of it, their history and meanings.

Firstly, lets start at the beginning with the original 8 stripe variation, designed by Gilbert Baker in 1978:

It was intended to be a symbol to celebrate the diversity of the LGBTQ+ community and be used as a symbol of pride. The main symbol used at the time was the pink triangle, a symbol which had been reclaimed from its use by Nazis to be used in activism, so the idea with the rainbow flag was to have something with a more positive background: created by queer people, for queer people. In Gilbert Baker's words "We needed something beautiful, something from us." (interview with MoMA).

There is quite a lot of hidden symbolism behind the colours. Many different sources say different things about why the symbol of a rainbow was chosen, some of them being: its assossiations with nature, the Bible story about it and the hippie movement. Rainbows have been used as symbols throughout history and continue to be used outside of the LGBTQ+ community (the NHS!), so choosing a rainbow comes with many connotations, most of them positive.The colours also all have individual meanings:

pink - sex

red - life

orange - healing

yellow - sunlight

green - nature

turquoise - magic

indigo - serenity

violet - spirit

I could write an entrie essay on Gilbert Baker, but the main points are that he was a 27 year old war verteran and a drag queen. He didn't have any experience in designing flags, but was encouraged by some of his activist friends (notably Harvey Milk). Creating the first two flags took a team of around 30 people, who hand sewed and dyed them, and was done at the San Fransisco Gay Community Centre. They were first raised on June 25th 1978 in the United Nations Plaza.

If you want to learn more about the inspiration behind the first flag, there is quite a lot of information here: https://gilbertbaker.com/

But how did this 8 stripe version evolve into the 6 stripes that we use today?

It was obvious from the start that some of the colours would need to be cut, so that the flags could be produced on a larger scale at a cheaper cost. The pink colour was chosen to dropped due to shortages of fabric/dyes. The turquoise was also removed so that there were an even number of colours, for the 1979 Pride Parade on Market Street, so that the flag could be split across the road.

In my opinion, the original 8 stripe flag is beautiful, and people should definitely use it more often! I will finish this post here so that it is not too long, but follow for more of the history behind this flag, because there are a lot more versions, some of them with really interesting stories. [part 2 !!!]

Links to learn more: MoMA interview, GLBT Historical Society, Gilbert Baker Foundation

#queer #lgbtqplus #lgbtq #lgbt history #gay #vexillography #vexillology #gilbert baker pride flag

[victorianpining]

I wanted you to know that I haven't stopped thinking about From A Drop of Water since I found and read it last week. It is a masterpiece. I've also devoured your Great Heart essay and the first four episodes of Better Story. Thank you for writing and making them. I was a fan on the outskirts when everything went down, and context is everything.

Thanks to all that, my brain sent me a dream last night of a slightly reworked version of the final confrontation in FADOW... the dream had it occurring at the Roland Kerr college of S1E01. Hope you don't mind but um, here's what the dream had... (oh btw, all the dream said of the earlier parts of the series was the birth of baby Watson, followed by Mary disappearing (back to Moriarty.)) Warning, very... stream of conscious writing ahead.

Moriarty has been baiting Sherlock with texts and other things, but Sherlock has ignored them because he knows Moriarty wants John dead and Sherlock as his prize.

But the strain is wearing on him, and John notices, worries. Though he grapples with his feelings and doesn’t say anything, thinking Sherlock would dismiss his concerns as fussing.

Then Moriarty gets Mary to text John in a calculated move. After some back and forth (possibly over the phone, instead of text?), Mary baits the trap, suggesting John offer himself in Sherlock’s place (or rather, leads John to suggest it).

“There is another option, you know…”

Perhaps she suggests taking Moriarty down together, and tries to sweet-talk him…

But in the end, that’s not what causes John to decide (though the audience might think so at first).

John hands himself over and Mary says: “I knew you’d see sense eventually” with a smile, then leads him to Moriarty (she hopes she’ll get to keep him, after).

Meanwhile, John’s written Sherlock a letter, asking him to take care of little Watson… and revealed his mental state, and a vague outline of his plan.

Some sort of confessional thing. Though it stops short of saying the final confession (love).

It’s enough for Sherlock to realise things are Dire, and he wants to rush off and find John (ooh, perhaps Mary sent a timed text, some sort of ‘save John Watson’ thing?).

Yet there is baby Watson to consider, and John’s entrusting her to Sherlock’s care… he tries to leave and hail a cab to take them to Molly’s, but the streets are eerily quiet.

Then Mrs H arrives back from bridge earlier than expected, having had to walk the last part due to traffic blockages… entrances to Baker St have been cordoned off, and she feared the worst.

(Mycroft, being “helpful” – to John. Prioritising Sherlock’s safety.)

Sherlock summarises the situation to Mrs Hudson, then gives her baby W in exchange for the keys to Mrs H’s car.

“Get inside and stay there, stay away from windows. … if I’m not back with John in an hour, call Lestrade and tell him to make with all haste to Roland-Kerr Further Education College!”

Sherlock goes to be the hero and save John for a third time… back where it all began, at the old college where John shot Jeff Hope for Sherlock.

John nearly sacrifices himself to blow up a Semtex-clad Moriarty or something (a la Drop of Water)… shooting Moriarty with his gun would do it.

But he hesitates too long, and then Moriarty stops him by telling him Sherlock’s arrived and Mary’s got her sights on him

A role reversal scene of The Fall … and Moriarty’s first mistake is reminding John of that

This helps John start putting the pieces together, and he makes a speech of his own… the reason John decided to walk into the apparent trap wasn’t because of Mary, he couldn’t care less about her now.

No, it was his thoughts on Sherlock sacrificing himself for John countless times over the years – most notably The Fall and Magnussen’s shooting – that did it. He did it for Sherlock… just like at The Pool, five years ago.

Moriarty laughs, and makes his second mistake, reminding John that if John had been faster, and Sherlock had run off and left John that night, all of this could have been avoided by John and JM’s deaths. “But he never seems to be able to leave you alone for long, does he, Johnny? And tonight, you’ve signed his death warrant.”

Sherlock is led in by Mary during this speech and he and John stand together against Moriarty… the confrontation forcing John to put the growing revelation on hold.

But still, it’s impossible for anyone not to notice that John and Sherlock are able to communicate with just a handful of glances… “you okay?” “yes… baby okay?” “safe” “why’d you come here, I was trying to stop you having to”

“we’re stronger together” Sherlock says aloud.

Soon, Mary realises that Moriarty was never going to let her have John, and Moriarty kills her with a bullet through her forehead before she can become a liability.

The whole ‘burning heart’ thing happens – Moriarty cuts John’s chest with a knife/ dagger that’s been “sterilised” (as JM puts it) in fire (it’s still white-hot)…

Sherlock screams John’s name when this happens, and John looks over and finally starts observing.

Then John realises… he wants to live. (Not just because of the potential of Sherlock, not just for baby W, but for himself.) He finally stops blaming himself for things that weren’t his fault and decides to live.

Of course, that means getting rid of Moriarty first…

idk how, because he’s wearing Semtex, so how do John and Sherlock escape when there's no water to absorb an explosion?

After, there’s the “John? Say you’re not hurt!” moment.

The final confirmation… and John knows.

Which would, of course, lead to a love confession… back in Baker Street.

Thank you so much for sharing this with me! I hope you don't mind me posting it too. I'm so fascinated by the bits of my version your dream kept AND the ways you took those details as a springboard for a new scenario. Great job to your subconscious, very symbolically resonate detailing here, all very in character, I love it.

#asks

[essayonmyhometown]

Heritage in Words: My Hometown Essay Writer Online for Free

My Hometown Essay Writer

Revisit nostalgic narratives with our free online My Hometown essay writer. Express the emotions, memories, and local charm that define your hometown, creating a captivating and heartfelt essay. As I close my eyes, I am transported back to the streets that cradled my childhood dreams and echoed with laughter. My hometown, a place etched into the deepest corners of my heart, holds memories that dance like fireflies in the twilight. Nestled amidst rolling hills and whispering forests, it's more than just a dot on the map; it's a tapestry woven with the threads of shared history, community spirit, and the simple joys of life.

Stepping onto the cobbled pathways, I am greeted by familiar faces, each with a story to tell. The corner bakery, with its aroma of freshly baked bread, was where I spent lazy Sunday mornings, indulging in warm pastries and conversations with the kind-hearted baker who knew my order by heart. As I walk past the town square, I can still hear the melodic tunes of street musicians, their music weaving through the bustling crowd like a gentle breeze.

My hometown is a mosaic of architectural marvels and hidden gems. The ancient church steeple, standing tall against the sky, whispers tales of bygone eras, while the quaint cottages with their colorful gardens offer a glimpse into a simpler way of life. Every corner holds a piece of history, waiting to be unraveled by those who care to listen.

But beyond its picturesque charm lies the beating heart of community spirit. Whether it was coming together for annual festivals that painted the streets with vibrant colors or rallying support in times of adversity, my hometown taught me the true meaning of solidarity and belonging. Neighbors weren't just faces passing by; they were extended family, ready to lend a helping hand or share a hearty laugh.

The memories I cherish most are those of childhood adventures that unfolded in the embrace of nature. The sprawling meadows, where we spent endless summers chasing butterflies and building secret forts, are etched into the fabric of my being. Even now, the scent of wildflowers transports me back to those carefree days of exploration and wonder.

As I grew older, my hometown became a silent witness to my journey of self-discovery. It was where I stumbled, fell, and picked myself up again, guided by the unwavering support of friends and mentors. The local library, with its shelves lined with literary treasures, became my sanctuary, offering solace and inspiration in moments of doubt.

Though time may have painted wrinkles on the face of my hometown, its spirit remains forever young. The old oak tree, under whose shade I sought refuge during sweltering summers, still stands tall, a silent guardian of cherished memories. And while faces may change and streets may evolve, the essence of my hometown, with its warmth and authenticity, remains unchanged.

In the quiet moments of reflection, I am reminded of how fortunate I am to call this place home. It's not just about the physical landmarks or geographical coordinates; it's about the intangible sense of belonging that resides in the hearts of its inhabitants. My hometown may be just a small speck on the map, but to me, it is the entire world encapsulated in a single embrace.

As I bid farewell to the familiar sights and sounds, I carry with me the essence of my hometown, like a beacon guiding me through life's journey. No matter where I go or what adventures await, I know that a piece of my heart will always remain tethered to those cobbled streets and rolling hills, where every corner holds a treasure trove of memories waiting to be revisited.

#my hometown essay writer #my hometown essay writer free #online my hometown essay writer #best my hometown essay writer

[cakeblogs]

Exploring the Irresistible Features of Online Bakery in Mumbai

Mumbai is recognised for its diversified cuisine scene as well as its vibrant culture and bustling streets. Online bakeries have made a niche for themselves among the multitude of food alternatives available, giving a delectable selection of baked products to Mumbaikars. In this essay, we will look at the intriguing aspects that make online bakery in Mumbai a popular choice for individuals looking for something unique and out of the box type.

Extensive Menu Variety

The online bakery in Mumbai takes pride in delivering a comprehensive menu those appeals to a wide range of tastes. From classic cakes and pastries to artisanal bread, cupcakes, and cookies, these virtual bakeries have something for everyone's sweet craving.

Customization Options

Personalisation is key, and online bakery in Mumbai understand this well. Many of them offer customization options, allowing customers to tailor their orders according to flavour preferences, dietary restrictions, and special occasions. Whether it's a birthday, anniversary, or any other celebration, customers can add a personal touch to their orders.

Prompt and Reliable Delivery Services

Mumbai is a city that thrives on efficiency, and online bakery in Mumbai ensures that their delivery services are prompt and reliable. Customers can enjoy the convenience of having freshly baked goodies delivered to their doorstep, often with the option for same-day or scheduled deliveries.

User-Friendly Websites and Apps

Navigating through the online ordering process is made seamless by user-friendly websites and mobile apps. Online bakeries invest in intuitive platforms that make it easy for customers to browse through the menu, place orders, and track deliveries effortlessly.

High-Quality Ingredients

The best online bakeries in Mumbai prioritize the use of high-quality, fresh ingredients. This commitment to quality not only ensures delicious products but also caters to the discerning tastes who appreciate the finer nuances of baked goods.

Specialty and Fusion Offerings

To stand out in a city known for its culinary diversity, online bakery in Mumbai often experiment with unique flavour combinations and offer specialty items. From fusion desserts that blend traditional and international flavours to innovative takes on classic recipes, these bakeries cater to adventurous palates.

Interactive Customer Support

Customer satisfaction is paramount, and online bakeries in Mumbai maintain interactive customer support services. Whether its answering queries about menu items, assisting with order modifications, or addressing concerns, these bakeries prioritize communication to ensure a positive customer experience.

Loyalty Programs and Discounts

Online bakers frequently use loyalty programmes and give discounts to reward current customers and entice new ones. These incentives help to retain customers and make indulging in sweet sweets even more enjoyable.

Conclusion

In the ever-evolving culinary landscape Online bakery in Mumbai have successfully embraced the digital era while preserving the essence of traditional baking. With their diverse menus, commitment to quality, and customer-centric approach, these virtual bakeries have become an integral part of the city's vibrant food culture. Whether you're craving a classic cake or an avant-garde pastry, Mumbai's online bakeries are ready to delight your taste buds with their irresistible offerings.

Thank you!

Original content:- Exploring the Irresistible Features of Online Bakery in Mumbai