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theemptyquarto · 4 years

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Abandoned WIP

Warstan (but John got killed off before the story starts) and purely platonic Sherlock & Mary. Quite AU... John and Mary get together before Sherlock jumped off of Bart’s. Maybe a little bit of hinted unrequited Johnlock, I honestly can’t remember if I was going there with this fic. A “Mary is the new Watson” retelling of “The Adventure of the Empty House,” rated T. This was written before S3 happened and I fell in love with BBC Mary and she actually made me view BBC John as an interesting character in his own right and I rejiggered my alignments.

I’m going to rant here, just briefly, about how ACD’s Mary Morstan is probably one of the most wronged-by-their-author characters that I can think of, which is why I started writing this fic where she takes the lead.

She appears for the first time in the second-ever (authorially, not chronologically) Sherlock Holmes story, “The Sign of the Four,” and is delightful. Watson falls hard in love right away and acts like a huge dweeb about her, she’s courageous, clever, and kind. Maybe without all the panache of the later Irene Adler, but a more traditionally Victorian heroine for our more traditionally Victorian junior protagonist. Her next appearance, “The Adventure of the Crooked Man,” is significantly more tangential, but she sets the action of the story in play and is shown to be a helpful, kind figure.

And then all of a sudden Conan Doyle ships her off to visit her mother (she was established as an orphan), stops using her at all, and finally kills her off.

Not even on the page. Between books. And it’s mentioned so tangentially in two lines of “The Adventure of the Empty House” that you can easily miss it if you aren’t looking for it.

(Incidentally this sort of shit is why ACD fandom can’t agree on how many wives Watson had or who the subject of his “sad bereavement” is. The number ranges from 1-13.)

Why, Artie? Why did you do that? I mean I get if you want to park Watson back at Baker Street you probably do have to off her but you were a fairly good hack and doing it this way made you give up the opportunity to have some sort of emotional payoff in your stories. Especially since you later introduce another wife character who is in no way distinct from Mary (a niche component of ACD fandom thinks that Mary didn’t die at all and Watson “abandoning (Holmes) for a wife,” was him and Mary reconciling after an estrangement.)

Anyway. Don’t create cool characters and then kill them for no good reason. That’s my point.

_____________

The Empty Flat (Mary)

I had been widowed for three months and was rather surprised at how badly I was doing with it. The snug three-bedroom garden flat in Maida Vale had been the perfect size for a not-quite-young couple planning on children. Now it seemed vast and empty and utterly, utterly silent. When I slept, which wasn’t all that much, I did it on the sofa. Our bed still smelled faintly of his aftershave, and I couldn’t stand either to sleep there or to wash the sheets. Arthur, the blue point Siamese cat who I had bought into the marriage, would curl up on my feet and awaken me with his yowls in the morning.

To some extent I had been able to occupy my mind with work, and the requirements of my job had kept me more or less a functional adult. But the summer holidays had begun a week previous, and I was thus thrown entirely on my own resources, which were scant. What family I had left were all back in America, and the friends I had made in England seemed to have melted away since John’s death. Some days, I thought that this was due to the universal impulse to avoid reminders of mortality. Other days I decided it was more likely due to the fact that I deleted their emails and declined to answer their phone calls.

The truth, as always, was probably somewhere in the middle.

Whatever the cause, my life was empty. I ate when I remembered that I was meant to. I wore pajamas all day. I left the flat when I ran out of cat food, and at night I would turn on the tv and stare at it without paying attention until I finally sank into oblivion.

Presumably it was on one of those descents into the maelstrom of crap British late-night TV that I first took note of the murder of Ronald Adair. The dead man was vaguely familiar to me, though I had never watched any of his shows personally. He was a scion of one of those impoverished but very old-and-noble families that the English keep on out of sentiment. Showing unusual initiative for one of his class, he’d made a success of himself by appearing on a famous reality show, then on the “celebrity” version of that show, and parlaying that into one of those mysterious but apparently quite lucrative careers that consist mostly of having your picture taken.

And now, he was dead, shot in the back of the head in his own bedroom on Park Lane.

The story struck me, for some reason. John, when he’d been alive, used to take four daily papers and half a dozen weeklies, and I had not cancelled them yet. I plucked a week’s worth out of the recycling where I had tossed them, unread, and scanned through them for articles about the murder.

Ronald Adair had been alone in his bedroom, drinking neat whiskey and updating twitter, when he died. His last tweet (@JustLukeyA, “LOL C U @ Ibiza”) had been sent at 10:11 in the evening. His personal assistant had heard the sound of breaking glass, broken down the locked door that led into the bedroom, seen his body, and dialed 999 by 10:17. The bullet had been a large caliber hollow point round that had done severe damage to the back of his skull, and he had most likely died almost instantly.

The entire affair was mysterious. While the police hadn’t released any real statements, the personal assistant had been the only other person in the house at the time of the shooting, and had been released after questioning. This would suggest the shot had been fired from outside, but the window in Adair’s bedroom, while open, was on the fourth floor. There was no evidence to suggest anyone had climbed to the window, meaning that the shot had come from somewhere outside.

This made no sense at all to the gossip rags. The window faced directly over Hyde Park, and any level shot would have had to come from over a mile away. And shooting from ground level would have been impossible: the Park was open, reasonably crowded given the warmth of the summer evening, and no one had heard a thing. The American embassy was less than two hundred yards away, and even its overblown security hadn’t noted any unusual activity. Essentially, it was impossible that he could have been shot, and yet there he was.

As I read through the papers, I thought how John would have gone through them at the breakfast table to try and figure out what had happened. Although his professional interest in solving mysteries had died with Sherlock, he never lost his fascination with the more arcane sorts of crime. He would have loved this one, and I could imagine the crinkles that would form around his eyes as he would describe the possible motives, mechanisms, and solutions. It was a Sunday, and I suspected that he would have wheedled me into taking our normal long walk in the direction of the crime scene. I’d have teased him, said he was morbid, but I’d have gone, and he’d have hypothesized happily for a while.

I could so clearly imagine it, and it made me smile, despite myself. It had been difficult to like Sherlock Holmes, and very difficult to deal with the fact that their association put John into danger on a regular basis. Yet, now that they were both gone, I found myself forgiving every thoughtless insult and sleepless lonely night the detective ever gave me, since he had made John so happy.

Wishing to hang on to my happy memory, I decided, abruptly, to take the walk over to Park Lane myself, just as John and I would have done. It was past time I actually started doing things again. I would go and see where Ronald Adair had died, and I would try and solve the mystery, and I would remember John. Quickly, before I could change my mind, I showered, dressed, and left the flat.

July, in London, is one of the few times of the year when it approaches being warm enough, and it was a beautiful day. I took the long route around Kensington Park, since a straight shot would have taken me directly past St. Mary’s Hospital, where John had worked - and where his body had been taken. The trees were brilliant green, and it seemed everyone in London was sunbathing or playing football or falling in love around me.

Ronald Adair’s flat was adjacent to the Mariott, in one of the converted brick Georgian edifices that infest all of Park Lane. I had forgotten to take note of the number, but it was easily identifiable by the flowers and stuffed animals heaped up on the low fence that surrounded it. There were a fair number of gawkers, and by asking, I found which window Adair had been shot through. I was stumped, for the moment, but thinking logically, decided the best route was to see from where I could have made the shot. The busy street and the shrubbery borders of the park being ruled out, necessarily, I confined my attention to the sidewalks. I took pictures on my phone, and paced around, and tried to work out the trigonometry involved.

Then I stopped. There were half a dozen locations from which the shot could have come. It would be the hell of a task: the window was small and high, but if it were dark out and the shooter were aiming into a lit room, it would be possible. I had hunted a lot as a kid, and might have been able to make it with a rifle. John, who had been an excellent marksman, might have been able to do it with a handgun. But to do it quickly enough to avoid notice in a busy neighborhood, to do it silently? That was impossible.

All facts that were undoubtedly obvious to the police. If John had been with me, it would have been a fun little mathematical exercise. We’d have followed it with a walk home, dinner at the pub on the end of our street, and making tipsy love in the light of a summer sunset in our flat. But he wasn’t with me, and he never would be again, and the day would end as all days did, alone with the cat and the television and the dark. The whole thing was a pointless, futile exercise - a little girl’s attempt to play make-believe.

I knew, suddenly, that I was going to cry. It happened a lot, and it wasn’t an experience I wanted to share with all London, so I spun around to depart and slammed full-force into a souvenir hawker who had been just behind me. Grace has always eluded me. The pole she carried, hung with ballcaps and other tat, fell to the ground, and she gave an indignant Cockney squawk of “Oi! Watch it!” I bent to retrieve her pole and handed it back to her, mumbling, “Sorry, sorry,” and fled outright into the park, keeping my eyes firmly on the ground.

Leaving the path, I hurried through the park, not really aware of where I was going as long as it was quieter and emptier. I reached a dim copse free of children, tourists, and lovers, where I sat down, and let the tears flow.

It’s easy to see why the ancient Egyptians thought that the heart, and not the brain, was the source of love. True sadness isn’t felt in the head, it’s felt in the chest, and I could feel every choked beat of my heart as I sobbed and gasped and tried to catch my breath for what seemed like ages. But from a pragmatic point of view, I’m sure I didn’t go for long. Crying is too tiring to keep up for much time. Of course, I had come out without any tissues, so I wiped my aching eyes and puffy face on the corner of my cardigan.

At that moment, the hawker walked into the copse.

“There you are!” she called out, “Wondered where you’d got to!”

I sighed. “Look,” I said, “I’m sorry about knocking into you. It was an accident. If I’ve damaged anything I will be happy to pay-“

“Na, na, love. Just a load of rubbish. Can’t hurt it if it isn’t worth anything to start with. But I saw your face and thought you might be in some trouble.” The woman was elderly, with a mop of dyed auburn hair and a thick Docklands accent which I would love to render in text, if it didn’t look so silly. But her blue eyes were kind, and she handed me a miniature water bottle marked with “Souvenir of Hyde Park.”

“I’m – fine. I just got a little upset. Thank you.” The water was lukewarm and tasted faintly of plasticizers, but it soothed my irritated throat.

The woman seemed to take this remark as an invitation, and placing her wares on the grass, sat next to me. I have lived in London since I was twenty-five years old and I could tell what was coming. There are two main personality types among the English: the type that is intensely uncomfortable with any sort of emotion, and the type that delights in every possible expression of sentiment and wishes to hear all about it. They’re like New Yorkers in that respect.

Apparently I had found one of the latter variant.

“You get to see a bit of everything, my line of work,” she said, digging a battered packet of Silk Cut out of her pocket, “Care for one?”

I had officially quit smoking years ago, when I finished my doctorate, and stopped even having the occasional one when I started dating John, since he loathed the things. Just at that moment, though, it sounded like heaven. “Yes, thank you.”

She shook two out of the packet, and passed one to me before getting out a transparent plastic lighter. She lit hers, and then handed over the lighter. A brief breeze kicked up, and I bowed my head over the tiny flame, trying to make the cigarette catch, as she said, quietly, “Now, Mary, you need to remain calm.”

The cigarette caught, and I took that first delicious, poisonous drag, before the fact that this stranger knew my name really filtered into my mind.

I looked over, and where the woman had been, sat Sherlock Holmes.

The Sign of Four (Sherlock)

The art of disguise, as I have often remarked, is in context far more than it is in costume. Truly approximating the appearance of someone else is only possible from a distance: in ordinary situations major alterations to the face appear theatrical and attract more attention than not. If, instead, you select a character who would be entirely appropriate in the context in which he appears, you need make only minor changes to your own appearance. The observer’s mind will then do ninety per cent of your work and you will be de facto invisible. I intend to write a monograph on the topic when I have the time.

Mary Morstan may have had some subconscious understanding of this. On the occasion of our first meeting, I observed that she was wearing a carefully calibrated disguise, although I doubt she would have referred to it as such. Very high heels, but an intentionally prim and boxy suit, severe makeup and hairstyle, heavy-framed glasses. She introduced herself with a flat, middle-American accent, only slightly sharpened by years of living in London.

Just after she arrived, John walked into the flat, his arms filled with carrier bags of groceries, which he set down with great rapidity in order to shake her hand.

“Mary Morstan, my associate, John Watson. Miss Morstan,” I said, “Teaches maths at Westminster School.”

She stared at me when I said that. John, I noted, didn’t let go of her hand when her attention was distracted.

“How do you know that?” she asked.

I sighed, though in truth I always enjoy it when they ask for the reasoning.

“You’ve obviously come straight from work, meaning that you work Saturday mornings. Chalk dust on the right cuff, which is worn in a way that you only ever see with people who spend a great deal of time writing on blackboards. There are traces of red ink on the heel of your hand and a splotch near the tip of your index finger. Thus, teacher.”

As I’d expected, she dropped John’s hand to examine her own.

“You took the tube to get here, and in those shoes you probably didn’t walk far before you boarded at Westminster station: there’s construction digging up the street there and the fresh splashes of yellowish mud on your left stocking are quite distinctive. Half a dozen schools in that area, but your ensemble suggests older students and moneyed parents. Hence, Westminster School.”

The last was a gloss, as her ensemble suggested nothing of the sort. It said quite plainly “I teach older boys.” Her skirt was unfashionably long, her blouse was buttoned up to the neck, and her jacket was boxy in order to conceal her rather large breasts. Having attended an all-boys senior school, I recognized the style, and the motivation behind it. But since I was undoubtedly going to receive the ”abrasive” and “show-off” lectures after her departure, I saw no reason to add the “inappropriate” one, and simplified the matter.

“And… maths?”

I sighed again, this time sincerely. The easy ones are never any fun.

“There’s a graphics calculator in the right pocket of your overcoat.”

At that, she laughed. Giggled, really. But almost instantly, she caught herself, cleared her throat, and dropped back into the lower vocal register that she had previously affected. Everything I could ever have wished to know about Mary Morstan’s character was thus revealed in the first five minutes of our interview. Nature had given her a respectable brain and deposited it in a body that was small, blonde, and rather fluffy. Her disguise did a reasonable job of concealing this, but she would spend the rest of her life trying to make people take her seriously.

“That’s amazing,” she said, “I read in your blog, Doctor Watson-“

“John, please,” he interrupted. Oh dear.

“John. I read about this kind of analysis but it’s remarkable to see it in real life.”

“Can be a bit creepy if you’re not used to it, though,” John replied, which I thought extremely unfair, given that I had been very polite and not mentioned that her teeth demonstrated her adolescent bulimia or that her fingers and eyebrows strongly implied a mild obsessive-compulsive condition. I maintained my dignity, and said only,

“Thank you, John. State your case, Miss Morstan.”

“Right. Well. I suppose I have to go back to the beginning. My father, Thomas Morstan, was English. I was actually born in Sussex, but when I was two my parents divorced and my mother and I moved back to America. I never got to see him much, growing up, but he always kept in touch, by phone and letters, and then by email when that came around. Sent birthday gifts and that sort of thing. Ten years ago I finished grad school, and he offered to buy me a ticket to come and meet him in London. I hadn’t seen him for several years at that point and I didn’t have a job so, obviously, I said yes.”

“Mmm. Continue.”

“He’d booked us rooms at the Langham, which I thought was much too expensive for him, but he said it was a treat for my graduation.”

“What was his profession, then?”

“He started off in the Army, but he resigned his commission after the first Gulf War and joined the diplomatic service.”

“As?”

“An attaché. Just an office job, basically. Visas and helping distressed tourists and so on.”

“And his rank in the army?”

“Ah, he ended as a Lieutenant Colonel, I believe.

“Go on.”

“I flew to London, expecting him to pick me up at Heathrow, but he wasn’t there. No answer when I tried to call him. I took a cab to the Langham and asked if he’d checked in, and he had, but there was no answer when they called up to his room. Eventually they agreed to open the door – he’d had a heart attack a few years before, and I was getting very upset - and all of his things were in there, but no sign of him. I never saw him again.”

“Interesting. Did the police investigate?” John was patting her shoulder, sympathetically, which seemed excessive given that the death (and yes, it was death, almost certainly) was ten years in the past. She should have been well beyond it by this point. But upon closer observation, I could see that he was right: a slight swimminess around the eyes and the set of the jawbone indicating gritted teeth. Oedipal complex. She replied, calmly enough.

“Yes. They didn’t find anything.”

“Of course they didn’t. They never do. Did your father have any acquaintances in London?”

“Only one that they could find: a Major Sholto. He had no idea Dad was even in town.”

“Mmm. I doubt a disappearance ten years ago would incline you to seek the services of a consulting detective today. What has changed?”

Morstan cleared her throat and opened the battered leather attache case that had been sitting at her feet. From a manila folder, she removed a broadsheet page of yellowing newsprint, with a quarter-page sized advertisement in the upper right hand corner circled in red ink. The paper was the Omaha World-Herald, the date was May 4, 2004, and the advertisement simply stated:

“If Mary Morstan, daughter of Captain Thomas Morstan, will contact the address below, it will be to her advantage” followed by an email address.

“Half a dozen of my friends from high school saw this and forwarded it on to me.”

“And what did you do?”

“I sent them an email. I said I was Thomas Morstan’s daughter, that I’d relocated to London, and asked what they wanted.”

“Any reply?”

“No. And when I sent on a follow-up a few days later, it bounced. It was just Hotmail… could have been anyone. But then a few days after that, I received this in the mail.”

Reaching back into the attaché case, she pulled out a small pouch made of black jeweler’s felt. Loosening the drawstring, she tipped something small and square into her palm, and passed it over to me.

I could hear John inhale sharply through is teeth as I reached for my lens. Mary said, wryly, “Yes, that’s pretty much how I felt. It’s a three carat, blue-white, flawless diamond. Probably dug up in India, if that’s any help. It’s worth around $150,000, retail.”

“Unusual cut,” I murmured, looking at the magnified lump of crystallized charcoal, “It’s called the-“

“The old mine cut,” interrupted Mary, “Meaning it was most likely faceted sometime between 1700 and 1900. I know. After the police gave it back to me, I had it appraised at Sotheby’s.”

“You went to the police again?”

“I did.”

“Any good?”

“Not really. They hung onto it a while, but nobody reported any similar gems lost or stolen, and then they gave it back. Apparently it’s “not illegal to be given things.” So after that I was on my own. But I still didn’t feel right about it, so I had the appraisal to see if a real professional could find anything more useful.”

“Well done,” said John, heartily. He was in a fair way to make an idiot of himself over this woman, although she seemed flattered by the compliment.

“Thank you,” Mary replied, “And then, the thing is, Mr. Holmes, that it didn’t stop with this. Every year since then, on May 14, I get another one of these in my mail. I’ve changed addresses and it didn’t make a difference. Perfectly matched, very expensive diamonds. I left the rest of them in my safe deposit box: even carrying one of them around makes me edgy. And then, yesterday, there was this.”

She passed over a letter. Fine, high linen content paper, no watermark, 10-point… Trebuchet font, printed on an HP laserjet printer. It read, “Be at the third pillar from the left outside the Lyceum Theatre on Saturday, July 9 at seven o'clock. If you are distrustful, bring two friends. You are a wronged woman, and shall have justice. Do not bring police. If you do, all will be in vain. Your unknown friend.”

There was no signature or address.

“Did you keep the envelope?”

“Yes, here. And here,” she said, passing over a small heap of padded mailers sealed into plastic zip-topped bags, “Are the envelopes the diamonds came in.”

“Well, you do have the right instincts. Not much to see here, though… the letter and the last three packages had their labels off the same printer. The first four were from another. It stretches credulity to think that there are separate groups doing this so we’ll assume for the moment it was simply a matter of replacing an outdated device. The mailers can be bought anywhere. Various London postmarks… thumbprint on this one, Miss Morstan, may I see your right hand please? Thank you. Your thumbprint. I’ll put them under the microscope later but I doubt there’ll be that much to learn.”

“And you’ve no idea at all who may have sent these? No… admirers, things like that?” John asked.

She laughed at that. “Generally, when men are interested in me they go more for things like asking me to dinner rather than anonymously sending me a million dollars in gems over the course of seven years. I’m not that unapproachable.” I rolled my eyes at their stale flirtation, although I don’t believe either of them noticed it.

“But…” she continued, more hesitantly, “Mr. Holmes, do you think that there’s any possibility that these are from my father?”

John was glaring at me, and so instead of saying “Of course not. He’s been dead for ten years,” replied “I’m afraid it’s very unlikely.”

“I see,” Mary replied, quietly. She drew a deep breath and continued, “Well, regardless, I had planned to go… unless you can give me a real reason not to. If whoever it is wants to hurt me it seems like they’ve chosen a really baroque way of going about it. I mean, they already know where I live so it’s not like there’s much point in avoiding them. And I’m getting sick of this mystery.”

“There are, however, a few points of interest in it. As you are allowed to bring two friends and John is already planning on accompanying you, I believe I shall join him.”

She darted her gaze back and forth between us, smiling, “Really? You will? Both of you? Oh, thank you, thank you so much! This whole saga has just been so shady and I didn’t know anyone who’d be any help with this kind of thing. It’s such a weight off my mind. Thank you.”

She was gushing, and her voice had inevitably pitched up again. I responded calmly with, “Yes, well. Can you be here by five thirty on Saturday? And leave us your contact information.”

“Of course!”

And, writing an email address and a phone number on a sheet of scrap paper, she disappeared in a whirl of gratitude.

John rose to escort her to the door. I remained seated, and began texting.

“That, he said, picking up his carrier bags and taking them into the kitchen, “Was a very attractive woman.”

“Hadn’t noticed.”

“Really. I knew you were a human adding machine but I never thought you were actually dead. Sherlock, it’s an objective fact! She’s got a beautiful smile.”

“Very short.”

“Oh, come on. She’s an inch or two shorter than I am.”

While this statement would not actually exclude “short” from consideration, I simply raised my eyebrows and replied, “Women have developed this remarkable technology called shoes which they use when they wish to increase their height, John. She’s no more than five feet tall.”

“Yes, well, shortness is not a handicap, Sherlock. And she’s clever.”

“She’s adequate.”

“And brave. She was going to walk by herself into a threatening situation just because she wanted to find out the truth.”

“So are you. So am I, for that matter. I fail to see why it’s so much more meritorious when it’s her doing it.”

“I’m a combat-trained military reservist, and you are England’s only consulting detective. It’s our job. She’s a very small maths teacher.”

I set down the mobile and glared at him, “Mary Morstan, John, is in no need of your protection. This affair of the diamonds is a mere personal intrigue. She’ll meet with the woman and resolve it without the benefit of your attention.”

He paused from putting the potatoes in the bin and inquired, “It’s a woman sending the diamonds? You’re sure?”

In general, I don’t admit which of my deductions I’m certain of and which are (very good) guesses. Maintaining a reputation as infallible isn’t a trivial exercise. But John had repeatedly earned the truth from me, and so I said, “No, I’m not. I’m reasonably confident, given the font choice, the computer used, and the wording, that it’s a woman, and a rather melodramatic one. But there’s more – uncertainty in these things than I would like.”

John chuckled. “I should take a picture of you right now and call it ‘Sherlock Holmes admitting he might be wrong’. They’d love to have it down at the Yard. So why take the case if you don’t think there’s any mystery?”

“Oh, there is one, just not the “why is someone sending me expensive gemstones” one she came in with. Can you log on to the GRO database and look something up for me? My email address and password will get you in.”

“Sure,” he said, walking back into the sitting room and picking up his laptop, “What?”

“Deaths. Start by looking for “Sholto” in late April, early May of 2005. If that doesn’t bring up anything, look for ex-military, older, in London, same time frame.”

“Right. What are you going to do?”

I held up my mobile. “I’ve done it. I’ve sent a text to brother Mycroft.”

“Why?”

“Watson, when a man leaves a high rank role in the army to become a low-end functionary in the diplomatic service, what does that suggest?”

“Er, PTSD?”

“No. It suggests spy. I want to find out exactly what Thomas Morstan did for a living.”

A week after that, Mary Morstan arrived punctually back at Baker Street. She’d replaced the dowdy suit with trousers and a blue blouse cut low in the front, left off her glasses, and undone her severe bun to let her hair hang over her shoulders. She had chosen flat shoes this time, which was a relief, as it showed the target of all this display was John rather than me.

Six hours after that, I saw that the display had been successful. I had to physically restrain John from going to her as she was handcuffed and loaded into a black maria for the murder of Barbara Sholto. As typical of Americans, she was explaining loudly and slowly to the arresting officer that there had been a terrible misunderstanding, clearly expecting this to rectify the situation.

“John, look,” I said, sotto voce, as I pinned him to the wall of the alley, “If you go over there you’ll only be arrested too. Athelney Jones has already picked up the entire domestic staff and Theresa Sholto and would be only too happy to increase his bag. The man’s an idiot, even by the standards of the metropolitan police. We’ll text Lestrade to let him know, and the worst she’ll have is a few uncomfortable hours, but we need to be on our way if we’re going to actually catch the killer which is the only thing that will do her any good.”

Even that early, I suspected that Mary would not be as swiftly forgotten as the rest of the girlfriends.

Three days later, Mary was a free woman again. The lost crown jewels of the Russian Tsars, of which she had been offered a one-third share, were scattered along six miles of the bottom of the Thames. She had accepted this development with equanimity. As she said to John, “Even if they hadn’t been lost, it’s not like I was expecting to keep them. I’m sure there’s still some Romanovs somewhere who’d like to have them back. The whole time Teresa was telling me the story of how she got them I kept thinking “Yeah, this kind of stuff doesn’t happen in real life.””

I heard, while they were falling in love, enough of “The Things Mary Says” to gag a cat. I heard about Mary’s feelings on politics, the arts, and current events. I heard about Mary’s emotional turmoil on the discovery that her father was an intelligence agent who had taken the pay of so many competing nations and organizations that even now nobody could say who he had really worked for. And that was apart from his being a jewel thief. I heard enough recitations of her personal charm, intelligence, and integrity to gag a dog.

Not being enamored of her, I was able to observe her far more clearly. I saw that she omitted to mention during the investigation that she was already in receipt of seven perfectly-matched flawless three carat blue-white diamonds, pulled from a coronet made for some forgotten Tsarina. I saw no reason to bring it up to anyone, if she had overcome her scruples about receiving stolen property. I would rather the money have gone to John than to anyone else, and it was clear by that point that it would.

Over the next months, Mary incorporated herself into John’s life, and thus, into mine. I grew accustomed to the scent of her cosmetics in the flat’s shared w.c. (she was a disgustingly early riser and had usually gone before I woke up), and the sounds of their post-sex conversation from the upstairs bedroom (they kept the actual lovemaking quiet, out of politeness, but the after-chat was quite distinct). I drew the line, however, at allowing her to tidy the place. She didn’t understand the system and would have made a hash of it.

Ultimately, just over six months after the day she rang the bell at Baker Street, I found myself ordering a round of tequila shots at the bar of the White Lion and slipping chloral hydrate into three of them. Earlier, Mary had balanced on tiptoe to kiss my cheek and whisper in my ear “Can you please try not to let them get him too drunk?” I carried the round back to the table where a flushed and grinning but not yet weaving Watson listened as a dozen of his Army and medical school friends speculated on whether Mary would qualify him as “Four-Continents Watson” or if the actual location of the coitus mattered more than the origin of the lady in question. I passed the shot glasses around, judging that the administration of three Mickey Finns to three particular members of the party would bring the night to a graceful but early end in about an hour.

I judged, as usual, correctly. After decanting the three dazed ringleaders into a cab, the party broke up, and John and I made it back to Baker Street with only slightly more difficulty than usual. The stairs did give him some trouble, but ultimately I was able to successfully deposit him on the couch. I shook two aspirin from the bottle and handed them to him along with a glass of water. He took both uncomplainingly.

“Sherlock?”

“Yes?”

“Thanks. For whatever you did back there. I’d hate to be a mess tomorrow.”

“I looked up the duties of the best man and apparently making sure the groom is present and presentable are tops on the list.”

“And you even agreed to wear a tie!” This non sequitur amused him, and he chuckled at his own joke for a moment, before sobering (comparatively), and staring around the flat. “I’m going to miss all this.”

“No, you won’t,” I predicted, climbing the stairs to fetch the blankets off his bed.

“I will!” he insisted, “I’m happy, really happy, about Mary. She’s wonnerful. But I’ll miss this life. And you.”

“It’s not as though I’ll be dead. You’ll be ten minutes away. I’ll be sure to call you whenever I need my cases blogged.”

“I love you, mate, you know that? Even though you are- just such a prick.”

I smiled and pitched the blankets at his head. “I do. Tosser. Now go to sleep. You have a busy day ahead of you.”

He was out and snoring, wearing everything but his shoes, five minutes later. I refilled his water glass and left it on the end table.

At noon the next day I (wearing not only a tie but my entire morning suit) stood at John’s left shoulder and watched Mary Morstan walk down the aisle. I doubt she saw me: her eyes were fixed on John, who was sober, alert, and in full dress uniform, as requested. The expression of love and joy on her face obliged me to concede that, at the moment, she was in fact a very attractive woman.

I don’t think I could have given him up to anyone who loved him even a bit less.

At the reception I gave a speech which everyone said was very interesting, and drank one and a half glasses of inferior Prosecco. I watched them cut the cake, noting that the new Mrs. Watson was far more comfortable with John’s ceremonial saber than he was. She’d lost the callosities of the dedicated fencer, but the skill remained. Then, as Molly Hooper was prowling around with an eye towards dancing and my actual duties were complete, I slipped out of the hall and walked back to Baker Street.

I stopped in at the chemists and bought a packet of cigarettes, then let myself into the flat. There was a peculiar sensory illusion that it was larger and emptier than normal: nonsense, of course. John was routinely absent when I was there. The fact that the absence would now be permanent didn’t alter the actual physical size of the place.

There was always work, and heedless of my dress clothes, I went to it. Three months later, I “died.” And three years after that, I returned to a London which seemed larger and emptier than I recalled. Sensory illusion again. The softer emotions have a very negative impact upon accurate observation, and the world in general doesn’t change at all when a single person drops out of it. On an individual level, though, a single death can rip the bottom out of everything. Such was the case with Mary Watson, who I encountered on a bright August day in Park Lane. She’d lost a stone in weight, which was significant at her height, and was wearing an oversized camel-colored cardigan which I recognized with a pang as being one of Watson’s. She had, in general, the appearance of a child’s toy where the stuffing had been pulled out. I approached her, unseen, as her attention was on Ronald Adair’s flat. When she lost her composure and fled, I hesitated. Then I followed. There were two reasons for this. The first, as always, was John. I couldn’t envision a situation where he would not have come to the aid of a crying woman. In the particular case of Mary, he’d have sprinted to it.

As for the second, well… On the occasion of the case of Neville St. Claire, John had said to me that, “People in trouble come to my wife like birds to a light-house.”

And I truly had nowhere else to go. Chapter 3: The Death of Ronald Adair (Mary)

In general, I am not a fainter, and I didn’t faint then. But a grey mist swirled in front of my eyes, and when it subsided I noticed I had dropped the cigarette onto the well-clipped Hyde Park grass. I picked it up with numb, nerveless fingers. With my other hand I reached out to Sherlock and pushed on the flesh of his bicep. He was reassuringly solid.

“So I haven’t gone mad.”

“No.”

“Not dead, then?”

“Yes.”

I took a drag from the Silk Cut and asked, “Does anyone else know besides me?”

“Mycroft.”

“Of course.”

“And Molly Hooper.”

“That bitch!” I exclaimed, before I could stop myself. I wouldn’t quite have called Molly a friend. We didn’t see much of one another, but her quiet competence had gotten me through the hellscape of the funeral. I found it startlingly painful to believe that she had been concealing a secret like this- especially from John.

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at me and said, “You’re harsher on her than on Mycroft?”

“There is nothing that I would put past one of the Holmes boys.”

He sighed, and drew on his own cigarette. The sun dipped below the treetops and set us into shadows.

“Sherlock,” I asked, eventually, “What do you want?”

“I need a gun.”

“Oh, Jesus Christ. Of course you do.”

“Mary, please-“ and he hesitated. He and I had never been more than “friendly”, and he certainly had never been inclined to ask any favors of me.

“You’re still in trouble, aren’t you?” I accused.

He hesitated again.

“Yes.”

“Right,” I said, brushing off my pants and rising, “We’ll talk. Baker Street, or our place? My place.”

“Baker Street is being watched.”

“Can we take a cab?”

“Probably.”

It was actually very impressive, how he collapsed his face into that of the Cockney souvenir hawker. He even seemed to lose several inches in height. The stage lost an excellent actor when he decided to go into detective work.

We walked in silence back to Park Lane, and took a cab (after he’d dismissed the first one that tried to stop). He sat next to me in silence, until a horrible thought overtook me, and I said, “Oh, God, has anyone told you? About-“

“Your… bereavement? Yes. I was… very sorry to hear of it.”

It was a relief. It had already happened several times: some colleague or acquaintance who I hadn’t seen in a while would, in the course of ordinary chit-chat, drop, “Oh, and how’s John doing?” into the conversation. And then I would have to watch their faces change from polite disinterest to horror and pity as I gave them the news. I would say it was the worst thing I had to do, but I had developed an entire new suite of worst things in recent months and was somewhat spoiled for choice.

We didn’t speak any further until I let us into the flat.

“Have a seat. I’ll just go get it.”

John, given that he was occasionally prone to physically violent nightmares, had always kept the Sig Sauer semi-automatic securely locked away in a box in the master bedroom closet. I retrieved it, and returned to the living room. Sherlock had installed himself in his old favorite spot on the sofa, and Arthur had climbed onto the arm next to him. They were watching each other with matching expressions of flat-eyed distaste.

“I don’t know where the key is,” I said, passing the box over.

“It’s fine,” he replied. And indeed, he materialized a lockpick from somewhere and opened it within ten seconds.

He’d removed his auburn wig, although he still had on an excellent shade of lipstick for his complexion: a glossy transparent berry-stain. It was almost the only color on his face. Whatever he’d been up to, it was doing no favors for his health. I wouldn’t have thought he could have gotten thinner or paler, barring his contracting tuberculosis or vampirism. And yet, he had managed. At some point, he’d cut his hair off close to the scalp, and it was faintly peppered with grey. Sherlock was a year or two younger than I, but at the moment I could see what he would be like as an old man.

“You know that thing’s illegal, right?” I said.

“It’s not something that’s a real concern just at the moment,” he returned, calmly.

“It should probably be cleaned. It’s not been touched since… well, I’m not sure of the last time John cleaned it.”

“It will be fine. They’re very simple instruments and Watson was always over-cautious. I didn’t clean my old one for years and it never had any problems.”

“That’s because John would secretly do it for you every few months.”

One of the small pleasures in life that everyone should get to experience at least once is to watch Sherlock Holmes’ face when he is informed that one of the normals has gotten something past him. I had to suppress a flicker of a smile at how thunderous he looked.

“Look,” I said, “Give it here and I’ll do it. The cleaning kit’s on the top shelf above the stove in the kitchen, if you’ll reach it down for me.”

I could hear him rummaging around in the cabinet as I released the clip, disconnected the slide, and popped out the spring. I laid everything down on the coffee table and accepted the kit when he returned and gave it to me. When I sighted down the barrel, I could see ample dust, and a fair bit of corrosion from the soggy English atmosphere. It only made sense, really. When Sherlock had died, John had lost any professional reason to carry a gun, and gained a strong personal reason to lock it away and leave it to rust. Dipping the cleaning swab into the wide-mouthed jar of solvent, I began passing it through the barrel.

“’In a self-defense situation, there will be many things you can’t control. The condition of your weapon is not one of them,’” I quoted.

“Did Watson say that?”

“No, though he’d have agreed with the sentiment. That was my stepfather. He was the one who taught me about shooting.”

Sherlock blinked at me. “I didn’t know you had a stepfather.”

“Like everyone else, I do actually have an objective existence apart from the parts you find interesting, Sherlock.”

I sounded bitter, but I didn’t care. I had been the one to put John back together after Sherlock’s quote-unquote death, and having him sitting calmly on my sofa irked.

“I only meant,” he replied, “That he wasn’t at your wedding.”

“He has congestive heart failure and travel is very difficult for him!” I snapped,

“Sherlock, why the hell did you do this?”

“Well, I had in fact been exposed as a fraud and-“

“Bullshit. You have been more or less cleared for two years and I’m sure your brother told you that. D.I. Lestrade had to demonstrate that you weren’t, in general, a criminal, because he wanted to keep his job. Fifty people, including me, by the by, came forward to tell stories of how you had solved cases that you couldn’t possibly have faked. The only real mystery remaining is this whole affair with Richard Brook, and frankly the best person to justify that would have been you.”

He scrubbed his hands through the bristles of his hair. “There was more.”

“So tell me.”

Sherlock sighed, and stared off into the space over my left shoulder. “When the head of an organization is removed, the organization generally remains. John Kennedy is shot, the United States persists. The death of Jim Moriarty left a thriving multinational criminal organization with a vacancy at the top for which there were numerous keen candidates. I have spent the last three years attempting to take advantage of this situation and dismantle its operations entirely.”

Something about the cold way he said “dismantle” made me think I really didn’t want to hear much about this process. I asked, “And you couldn’t have done that in your own persona?”

“No. Because- Moriarty was in many ways a remarkable man.”

The tone of this statement was pure admiration, and I rubbed my forehead where I could feel the old familiar “Sherlock” headache coming on. “How’s that?” I asked.

“I don’t want to say he founded a cult of personality, but in his immediate circle were several men who genuinely did admire him and support him in his goals, as opposed to the ordinary hangers-on who simply were in it for the profit.”

“So, his friends.”

“What?”

I sighed. “Never mind. Continue.”

#quarto's fics #warstan #Sherlock&Mary #major character death #Mary morstan #mary morstanning #ACD Mary in BBC Sherlock #which used to be a thing

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aelaer · 5 years

Text

Tagged: All about me and fanfic

Thank you for tagging me @dragonnan! My fan fic history is a long one... and in three fandoms. Which is why most of this will be under a cut for anyone who has a lot of time to waste. And is morbidly curious. But there’s some (okay, dozens) of fanfic recs for three fandoms under there too, sooooo.

Tagging at the top so you don’t have to read my verbose-ness if you don’t want to: @amethyst-noir @cairistiona7 @mdcbd @phierie if you’re interested in giving it a shot :)

1. At what age did you start writing fanfiction?

13. You can still find my earliest works online, too; I kept up anything that wasn't completely deplorable (though fanfiction.net deleted my stupidly popular, several hundred reviews of a story I did in 2004 because it was script format. The bastards xD Popular with all the little kids).

2. Who is your favorite author?

Lmaooooo what a question. Okay so for three fandoms. The big thing that’s common between all my favorite authors is that romance is not a primary genre with any of these writers. So if you like gen (of all genres) you’ve come to the right post.

If anyone here is a LOTR book fan (especially Aragorn), let me direct you to storiesofarda.com. It’s an old site, not even mobile friendly. Anyway, go read the works of Cairistiona and Meckinock. If you're more into hobbits and anything fluffy, go read Shirebound. That I remember their names since I was last active in fanfic in LOTR in 2011 speaks to their quality. I've had the honor of meeting Shirebound several times in real life as well, this last time in New York back in April after several years apart (though I'd like to meet Cair one day for sure, as well). I had a lot of favorites years ago but I’d need to reread the old stuff to see what still lives up to my expectations.

Scanning my favorites in Sherlock, Jolie Black , CaffeineKitty, and hollyesque on AO3. Stillwaters1, chappysmom, Radon65, and Morgan Stuart from fanfiction.net. But I have a couple favorite stories from authors who only wrote a couple fics (below).

Now the MCU (okay basically Doctor Strange, let’s be honest), on AO3: Grim Revolution and merrywil (the latter is pretty new and needs a hell lot more attention, she is a great writer). I love those long, introspective character one shots. There's not a lot of authors who don't focus on romance in the MCU with Stephen as a main character -- indeed, it’s partially nonexistent -- so shorter list. ElenaCee wrote some great stories just after the first film but has sadly moved onto other fandoms.

Dragonnan on AO3 is currently my favourite whump writer. Two of my fandoms and lots of my favorite tropes. I feel spoiled. My favorite romance-is-their-primary-genre writer is amethyst-noir for her characterization of Stephen combined with the oh-so-fun (for us) scenarios.

3. Favorite type of scene to write?

I can usually tickle myself quite a bit when I get some really great situational comedy into a story. I can never be fully an angst/whump writer because I adore comedy. So yeah, situational comedy for sure.

4. What is your favorite fanfic?

Stop asking me these questions ahhh. Okay so I'll be mentioning fanfics not by any of the authors listed above (which are in my most favorite stories too but, well, their works are all favorites anyway. Just look at all their works in said fandom for more favorites if you’re lacking reading material and have similar tastes. And once you’re done reading all the works by those authors, come back here for more. Seriously, read the authors above).

I listed these fics in alphabetical order because that seemed most fair.

LOTR (Most are book-verse. I need to reread a lot of these. Most of these authors have several works for the fandom, though I think each of these particular stories have Aragorn as a primary character):

A Proper Course of Action by GadFlyGirl (absolutely hilarious one-shot after Helm’s Deep about ‘the Denethor situation’)

Across the Years by MistyC (a very creative and well-written story that spins an old cliche in a much more interesting way)

Butterbur and the King by Eledhwen (fantastic character one-shot from one of my favorite minor characters)

Conversations with the King by athelas63 (great characterizations, good healing scenes)

Conversion by Pentangle-linnon (for everyone who says that first person can’t be done in fanfic - read this one-shot, then tell me what you think now. A work of pure brilliance)

Crossroads of Light and Shadow by Mirach (this one I recommend simply for the creativity alone; the art she was able to execute with the text in flipping fanfiction.net is really mind-boggling. Very creative!)

Doomed to Live by fliewatuet (it was never completed, but it’s so freaking good that I am putting it here anyway)

For Every Evil by Mirrordance (fantastic modern incarnation AU that spun out into a series)

Greet the Dawn by Neoinean (a great, very long long-shot with two characters meeting and it’s just a great combination of humor and angst. More great characterization)

Helping Strangers by Imaginigma (fantastic one-shot, really interesting OCs, a wonderful scenario)

In Shadow Realm by Legolass Q (original concept, well-developed characters, engaging plot, truly magnificent)

Light Fingers by Aearwen22 (I think this is the only fic here that doesn’t star Aragorn- he’s a pretty minor character. Brilliant brilliant characterizations of the OCs and a look of a part of society often ignored in LOTR fan fic)

Pale-Faced Tark by Carafinwe (everything by this author is brilliant, but the visceral imagery she managed to capture in two short chapters here still blows my mind)

The Patient by Scribe (another fantastic modern incarnation AU that spun out into a series)

Ransom by MP brennan (man I just continue to see how much the LOTR fandom completely spoiled me with all of these brilliant, plotty fics. Another original concept with brilliant OCs and fantastic execution)

Shattered Stones by MCat711 (a very creepy, original, well-executed one shot that keeps you guessing the whole way through)

The Weight of Power by Nefhiriel (does it follow canon as established by the Appendices? No. Do I care? No. The story’s absolutely fantastic and makes those small discrepancies mean nothing. This was also the first story I ever drew fan art for. I then made something for Shirebound a year later, then didn’t make anything again until that Ebony Maw piece I posted a bit back)

With Hope and Without Hope by docmon (AU scenario in that the Three Hunters are captured while trying to rescue the Hobbits. Very well-thought out and compelling plot, fantastic characterizations all around)

Sherlock:

Annie’s Song by Berouge (One of the only romantic-leaning fics listed here [Sherlolly], but that is due to its excellent characterization and execution. Creative one-shot.)

The Case of the Missing Bus Ticket by Unsentimentalf (I think I burst a rib laughing to this story. Long one-shot. Situational humor at its finest)

Constantly by thesignofserbia (great one shot concerning Serbia)

Drowning by Dayja (I like a lot of her stuff. Angsty.)

Firestorm by Dustbunny13 (This is... beyond words. So gorgeous. I adored it from beginning to end. Have read a few times. Sometimes accept it as season 3 alternate canon, it’s just fantastic)

Fortune and Bust by ThessalyMc (a wonderful gap-filler fic, very similar to a lot of my favorite authors listed above in quality and type of content)

The Green Blade by verityburns (excellent case fic)

The Holiday by Scriblit (both whumpy angst and humor and case fic? Yeeeessss. Another I’ve read several times.)

Landscape With The Fall Of Icarus by Caitlin Fairchild (another Serbia fic? Yes predictable of me)

London Orbital (another story, very long one-shot, where I burst a rib laughing)

Rigging screws, size 1 3/8 inch, galvanised by AJHall (another excellent case fic)

World Enough, and Time by StoneWingedAngel (an excellent and creative execution of a trope that you'll realize by the time you get to day three)

Doctor Strange (unless stated otherwise, they’re all one-shots. Need more multi-chapter fics... or just gen Stephen content in general):

The Architect by mudgems (a great what-if with Stephen, Loki, and the Time Stone)

Born of the Same Impulse by GwendolynStacy (WIP multi-chapter. Time stone shenanigans send Stephen and Tony back to just before Ultron and a few months after the car accident, but before Kamar-Taj [the accident happens in 2015 rather than 2016 for this to work. It’s brilliant])

Citizen Erased by Imagined (WIP multi-chapter. One of the only romance-is-a-major-genre story [ironstrange] on the list, but the plot concept is incredibly unique, the mystery is being unraveled so wonderfully well, and the collection of characters is really fantastic and in-character.)

The End of Infinity by FriendlyNeighborhoodFangirls (WIP multi-chapter. It’s canon compliant, only Stephen does a fantastic trick after canon and snatches Loki from the claws of death to go back to 2016 and fix everything. Peter, Tony also co-star. I am very much looking forward to where this goes)

Extracurricular Activities by EmptyHead (I am cheating here and linking a series. But it’s so damn creative, and while Stephen plays a big role, he’s definitely not the starring character. Synopsis is that MJ learns the mystic arts. It’s really brilliant!)

Geniuses by decotex (Stephen Strange's and Tony Stark's backstories, published before IW came out)

Hearth Sorcery by keshwyn (Another cheat here with a series of 5 one-shots, but this is too excellent and undervalued not to link. Excellent OC and world-building, highly recommend)

Holiday Magic by KarToon12 (Stephen plays Santa Claus for sick kids. It's adorable)

i hope you hold the mirror up (to show me what i chose) by CallicoKitten (Stephen and Tony being assholes to one another, published way before IW. I love it)

Like an Old Coat by ValmureEld (Could definitely see this as a follow up scene to the events in the Doctor Strange film. Great character interaction sequence)

Magic In Our Veins by Luna_Heart (the lack of Loki and Stephen interaction stories is criminal. Absolutely criminal. I want more!)

The Night’s First Watch by fathomfive (omg this is so good. So so so good. Excellent character study, I can’t recommend it enough)

of coffee and (questionable) first impressions by Phierie (Ooohh I love this alternate first meeting lots. Beat up on monsters and a coffee break after the work. Great stuff)

Project Code 131793 by StrangeMischief (Absolutely haunting and incredibly well-executed AU. I would adore to see more in this universe, it is so interesting)

Replay by INMH (the horror of Dormammu and coping with it)

You’ve Got Mail by Jadesfire (it’s about the mail situation with the Sanctum. What is not to love about that concept)

5. What tags do you avoid like the plague?

A/B/O, mpreg, not Mary friendly (for Sherlock), not Team Cap friendly, anti-Steve, anti-Wanda (or similar). Any of that anti-character bullshit, but in the MCU those are the two I see the most (and so probably make me rage the most. I once saw anti-T’Challa for instance and that just confused me more than anything). A bit of a rant in the next two paragraphs (I have Strong Feelings on this topic).

I don't tolerate the anti-character crowd. I really don't. Disliking a character is one thing and completely normal (I have my own list), but expanding time and energy to write just how much this character sucks is mind-boggling (and tends to make for really shitty fanfic. So you create a strawman villain of the character you hate for your favorite character to go against? Good job, you’ve made your favorite character appear entirely too stupid to deal with a well-developed character in conflict, and have made your favorite character 2D. Have a gold star). Your energy can be used elsewhere that isn't focused on hate. If you hate the character but aren’t creative enough to present them as anything but a strawman in your writing, don’t bother. Create an OC for your antagonist instead. Stop making canon characters so ridiculously OOC.

The real world is too filled with negativity to have it as part of a major focus in my fandom experience. It actually really, really bothers me that I cannot save a filter that automatically excludes all those anti tags as they haven’t been canonicalized on AO3. What perhaps bothers me even more is the number of kudos those hate-filled fics with incredibly OOC characters receive. The hypocrisy in this crowd is just astounding when you start pointing out the flaws in their favorite characters, too (FYI: All well-developed characters have flaws. I love Stephen Strange for his flaws. Before Stephen made his debut, Tony Stark was my favorite for similar reasons. It makes them INTERESTING).

Anyway, rant over.

6. What AU do you wish to write but feel like you won’t manage?

If I really really really want to write something, I'll write it. That said, there are things that I don't plan to write that I would adore reading (like that unfinished Stephen travels to the HP universe in Harry's fifth year fic ahhhhh I want that it would have made the 5th year so much better. Maybe if I bribe the original writer with fan art... wardmason you’re killing me).

7. Do you outline, or write as you go?

Depends. The outlines only tend to come into play for long stories with several scenes, and writing tends to happen first before outlining.

8. What has been your favorite story to write so far? Why?

Such hard questions! Uhhh I had great fun writing in my youth but I can barely remember it. Within this last year, uh... can I just say all of them? I've written about 100k in 6 months, I'm clearly enjoying myself here. I’ve had vibrant moments of delight in writing or planning several of them.

9. Do you prefer to write one-shots or multi-chapters? Why?

Both. Just depends on the story I want to tell and how long that story is saying it should be. I like posting a variety too; have one-shots coming out while I am working on the longer stories in the background.

10. What is your favorite kind of comment?

Oh those deep analytical ones that clearly took time to write. They're so lovely and really make my day. Every fanfic writer knows exactly what type of comment I am talking about.

11. Why did you start writing fanfiction? Why are you still writing?

I started because I had just seen the first Pirates of the Caribbean movie and I really liked the characters (before the sequels ruined them in various capacities) and I thought, "I should put them in Middle-earth!" 45 chapters and 7 years later that damn fic got completed (after dozens and dozens of rewrites as my writing abilities improved over the years).

Now, it's because I really enjoy writing and I like playing in copyrighted playgrounds with characters and worlds I love. Yeah, I could write an original novel, but it wouldn't be nearly as much fun.

#personal #about me #fanfic #fic rec #doctor strange fanfic #lotr fanfic #sherlock fanfic

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digimondestined · 5 years

Note

1-50 :D (for xxx: Blurred Lines; 42: Aokise Songfics (Need You Now); 46: Try- and Keep Trying; 47, made up title: In the man behold a child) ❤️

1) How old were you when you first starting writing fanfiction?

Oof. 12 ish? FFNet But we don’t speak about it; the site or the writing :P

2) What fandoms do you write for and do you have a particular favourite if you write for more than one?

Right now, I’m more invested in aokise / knb fandom and well, once invested, it’s hard to pull my focus :P Other fandoms I’m interested in writing in as of the moment are Owari No Seraph (Gureshin :P) and Seven Deadly Sins (man, that’s lovely hell)

3) Do you prefer writing OC’s or reader inserts? Explain your answer.

Probably OCs? I haven’t written OC’s in a while but heck, reader inserts sounds kinda of awkward to write :P

4) What is your favourite genre to write for?

…is angst with a happy ending a genre?(Otherwise maybe coming of age?)

5) If you had to choose a favourite out of all of your multi chaptered stories, which would it be and why?

Blurred Lines is the only one that has an actual plot :P and is multi chaptered :P. It’s also got a couple of my favorite tropes such as mutual pining & simultaneous obliviousness. To be honest, I normally don’t edit my works before I put them out (sometimes I’ll get a loving friend to look at it tho :PPPPPP) because I can’t bear reading what I’ve written without cringing, but yeah, I thought Blurred Lines was pretty good :D in terms of writing skill because I’ve been able to read it again aha and I thank all the wonderful people who showered me the work with compliments.

6) If you had to delete one of your stories and never speak of it again, which would it be and why?

LMAO WHAT MAKES YOU THINK I HAVEN’T ALREADY? If I delete stories, it’s always for the reason I’m disappointed with it in hindsight, or xD embarrassed I produced such poo.

7) When is your preferred time to write?

Night time becuz I like to procrastinate, it’s quiet and the dark is cozy.

8) Where do you take your inspiration from?

Other writers/stories, canon material, music, random insights at odd times, prompts sparked by single words or little phrases, prompts from sites or book quotes or from friends and epiphanies, and then mostly I don’t :P

9) In your Blurred Lines fic, what’s your favourite scene that you wrote?

Chapter 5, the (two I guess?) scene where Aomine’s really upset and Kise makes it his job to take his mind off of it; it’s a memorable moment for both of them because Kise’s determination and hard work really gets to show (SEIRIN GAH; jskghjkghg sg lgsg gsjlsd) in front of two people that mean a lot: himself and Aomine, and for Aomine, it’s an example of how he can be weak and injured too, and is so much more than some give him credit for.

10) In your fic, why did you decide to end it like that? Did you have an alternative ending in mind? Nah, I really liked how it ended actually :) Happy after endings are my favorite :)

11) Have you ever amended a story due to criticisms you’ve received after posting it?

I’ve only gotten harsh criticism once or twice and man, you should’ve seen me RAWRR in their faces :P. Sometimes self criticism- ex: dislike of plot- will get me to edit though; and then there are just times where I’ve been lazy but reading the work, I’ll see flaws that definitely have to be changed and will proceed to do so.

12) Who is your favourite character to write for? Why?

Aomine and Kise are the most fun imo. I go wild with both because of the complexity to both their characters and simply, the inspiration you can see from different works of other authors (Ex: MoustachePenguin wrote JustBreathe with Kise who had crushing depression and KaijosCopyCat wrote When It Rains, It Rains Bullets, where Kise is actually more jaded than Aomine is); point being said, there’s enough material to make a lot reasonable.Kise is fun for his masks and layers; Aomine is great for his relativity. And of course, you can always find a way to knit in angst of some sort :P

13) Who is your least favourite character to write for? Why?

Lots man. Kuroko, Murasakibara-

14) How did you come up with the title for the xxx? - You can ask about multiple stories.

SO. Remember how it was planned as a one-shot aha :P I’d gotten 3 chapters and ½ written out before I said screw it and posted them before gradually working on the rest :P

Anyways, I’d only then finished on a final summary, and with one of the parts being “Lines Blurring”, I thought heck let’s roll with that.

Oh also! Had a hard time getting that summary out. gotta thank my special, one and only snowflake.

15) If you write OC’s, how do you decide on their names?

- Likes to indulge myself; I’ll base OCs of some real characters, then twinkle with the name little bit, maybe adding extra letters or finding names with similar meanings?

- It also has to do with how the name tastes. You know how some words just flow better? (Connotation and all that :P) but like, Jewel over Gem, Crystal over Jewel, Ruby over Everything, etc. etc. etc. etc. etc.

16) How did you come up with the idea for xxx?

Was a prompt- (voldetort :P)

but i was given an open ending option and then i took it and ran with it and turned it into angst with happy ending :P

17) Post a line from a WIP that you’re working on.

Kise stuck out his tongue, Aomine smirked, and they let Momoi laugh herself dry.

18) Do you have any abandoned WIP’s? What made you abandon them?

Yah, who doesn’t? :PP (atop of the temporarily abandoned WIPs :PPP) Either loss of enthusiasm, lack of ability (time, but mostly procrastination :P) to write, or post-insights that lemme realize the story is unsatisfying to the point of repulsive :P

19) Are there any stories that you’ve written that you’d really love to do a sequel to?

Maybe Blurred Lines? Struggle them through 2nd year of school, relationship where it’s so much more precious than a regular, “we-just-began-a-”relationship” because of the stakes. (But then I’d have to like write a conflict???and my inability to be creative would hinder that :P)

20) Are there any stories that you wished you’d ended differently?

I haven’t really “ended” any stories of worthy length, but for Blurred Lines :P. Which had an okay ending in my opinion, though maybe hurriedly carried out XDI imagine when I do get to finishing more/other stories, I might? Because I can be impulsive. :P But then again, I take a heck long time to procrastinate; and sometimes that means more time to think about how a story wants to go- in these cases, I don’t, usually :)

21) Tell me about another writer(s) who you admire? What is it about them that you admire?

I am heck into lots of writers.

Roch; VanillaDaydreams22 (tumblr) and just VanillaDaydreams (ao3) is a great friend and writer :P with a lovely, descriptive style of fluid writing.

A famous one would be moustachiopenguin - wrote lots of heart wrenching stories; aha we both know :P So, imagination, use of plot, detail, etc.

And then there’s an up and new coming one; her name starts with a Y and ends with a U.

22) Do you have a story that you look back on and cringe when you reread it?

Literally all of them. :P Anything from over 4-6 months in particular is a bit of, no thanks :P

23) Do you prefer listening to music when you’re writing or do you need silence?

I prefer music, even though sometimes it’s not helpful and actually, is a hindrance :P but music always helps the mood~

24) How do you feel about writing smutty scenes?

Laughs.

25) Have you ever cried whilst writing a story?

Writing? Nah. Reading? Heck, few times.

26) Which part of your Blurred Lines fic was the hardest to write?

All of it cause I didn’t want to write it, I wanted to waste time~

- In the later chapters, carrying out Aomine’s realization for feelings was a little difficult; I had Satsuki sort of catalyze his action, because he’s pretty heckin determined to get Kise in his unconscious mind; Satsuki’s rejection just enforces the feeling he needs to express himself, though hard. But I occasionally would wonder whether Aomine was made too soft, or OOC in general.

27) Do you make a general outline for your stories or do you just go with the flow?

My impulsiveness pushes me towards flow; but for fics requiring detail, general outline help XD no matter how “general”.

28) What is something you wished you’d known before you started posting fanfiction?

Maybe just the fact that the fandoms I’d get to were in existence :D like how some of us talked about, would have been pretty cool to write with the other gazillion of fan- tho, then again, wouldn’t trade them for you guys aha

There’s a lot of things I’ve learned from it and only with the actual writing action have I come to understand the things :P

29) Do you have a story that you feel doesn’t get as much love as you’d like?

Maybe Lazy or No Questions Asked. Lazy, because it was the first time I’d written something short but with a bit of story to it still, y’know? :P And then No Questions Asked because I just love the trope of uncertainty and obliviousness and pining in the middle of aokise.

30) In contrast to 29 is there a story which gets lots of love which you kinda eye roll at?

Honestly? Say It. It was short and okay but like, plot-wise? Not sure if it deserved all the kindness it/I got XD

32) Are any of your characters based on real people?

I haven’t written any OCs in a while! I imagine one I get back to doing so, they could be :P

33) What’s the biggest compliment you’ve gotten?

Not quite sure. I have shit memory sometimes aha, but all the support is good :D

34) What’s the harshest criticism you’ve gotten?

On one of my first fics, which I’d written 24 chapters / 40K (GASP I KNOW :D IT’LL NEVER HAPPEN AGAIN *SMILES THROUGH THE TEARS OF SAD*) I was told the other chapters should be deleted because it was so bad. But like, the reader had posted said criticism through at least half of the work so :P and a couple of chapters later, said, “This is better! But change everything before this.”I actually got a lot of help/reviews becasue I’d asked for them from various authors aha and fandom was popular and lively; the criticism just went straight through my ears I think. XD

35) Do you share your story ideas with anyone else or do you keep them close to your chest?

I like getting a second opinion if I’m insecure about the idea (often, you guessed right

36) Can you give us a spoiler for one of your WIP’s?

No.

jkjk :P I currently have 4 active WIPs. 1. SECRET (for fanzine :PP), 2. As Long As You Love Me (CJ’s prompt) 3. Some Stuff Has Actually Changed 4. Oops I Did It Again

37) What’s the funniest story you’ve written?

What is humor explain??!?!?

38) If you could collab with any other writer on here, who would it be? (Perhaps this question will inspire some collabs!) If you’re shy, don’t tag the blog, just name it.

- You silly.- Roch + CJ- You, super lovely

39) Do you prefer first, second or third person?

3rd for the most of it. I’ve never written with 1st before but I’m considering it for a work that’d require an extensive cast. 2nd also strikes me as fun though, because of this angsty story I’d read where Kise was the narrator but done through 2nd? 2nd also seems very poetic and I’d like to try it out some day for fun :P

40) Do people know you write fanfiction?

Yeet :P

41) What’s you favourite minor character you’ve written?

Nijimura, Jellal, you name it XD all of them??? You know my tendency to avoid protagonists :P

42) Song fic - What made you decide to use the song Need You Now

It’s a quarter after one, I’m all alone and I need you nowSaid I wouldn’t call but I lost all control and I need you nowAnd I don’t know how I can do without, I just need you now

Angsty and perfect for pining ships.

43) Has anyone ever guessed the plot twist of one of your fics before you posted it?

LMAO I’ve never written a fic long enough for a plot twist to occur; B) I DON’T WRITE PLOT?? XD

44) What is the last line you wrote?

A victory, Kise should think, should be thinking. What is there instead is empathy, but sadness anyways. Oh Aominecchi…

45) What spurs you on during the writing process?

Not much. There are periods of time when I don’t want to write at all and I will find excuses of any kind to get off my laptop, or stay on, and just not write aha. What helps is typically at night when I feel semi-tired, I’ll be motivated to write enough to be a pleasant thought before bed.

46) I really loved your Try and Keep Trying fic. If you were ever to do a sequel, what do you think might happen in it?

GoM have a Winter Cup Banquet and there’s alcohol there. AoKise has done a lot more pining and both gotten better at hiding it. They meet awkwardly at the event becuz of their friends talking to each of their friends and then suddenly disappearing while AoKise are startled, staring at each other. Cautious tense talk tried to be made easier by both of them; Kise makes a joke like, “Alcohol would make this a little easier, right Aominecchi?”

And Aomine blurts out stupid becuz high strung, smth like, “Is that what you thought the last time?”

AND THEN, Kise is also high strung right, so his reply is probably something dumb; maybe a few more lines and then:

KISE ACCIDENTALLY CALLS HIM ‘DAIKI’ AND THEY BOTH JUST FREEZE AND BLUSH PROFUSELY BC THEY’RE REMINDED OF THE KISS AND FDSJFS AHO REALIZES KISE DID N O T FORGET - and he’ quick to press Kise for an explanation but Kise is sure this is going to lead to heartbreak, that Aomine’s frantic (heart beating at 12432 beats a second) and desperate (to know becuz becuz if Kise- if Ryouta-) demands of Kise to tell him the truth are from a place of piss/fury. When Aomine realizes Kise is only shying away from his emotional cornering/words more and more, Aomine does the only thing he can think of and kisses Kise again and again and again.

Kise realizes he means it, Aomine is almost heartbroken over how Kise couldn’t understand he meant it; both are overwhelmingly overjoyed becuz c’mon. MUTUAL pining, not just pining :P and then THAT turns into cautious, hopeful, cautious prompts for dating.

47) Here’s a fic title - In the man behold a child

(Uni AU)Aomine pines after Kise’s ass and he constantly sends him is inviting him: “C’mon Kise, kiss me and I’ll shut up forever.” and “C’mon Kise, I’d be a great fuckbuddy. No string attached but sex. I’ll be gone immediately.”, lots of, “C’mon Kise. I’m fun. I’ll give you want you want, what you need.” and more earnest and genuine stuff, “I know I sound like I’m kidding, and maybe parts of me were…but I meant it when I said I love you. And I’ll wait until you finally hear I’m fully serious.”

Eventually, Kise comes to realize he is serious. The fact that Aomine really has matured as a person over time and that he really loves Kise. Who also realizes maybe a little bit of the fact that he’d never needed a real relationship because Aomine sort of checked off all the boxes; and so, (poetically aha; i thought of this at last moment XD) child Kise is also revealed in man Kise for being oblivious and little bit scared (because that’s what teens/kids are good at Aha?)

Ofc, then Kise finally says yes, though hesitant still; Aomine takes him slowly through love and all the good stuff :P

48) What’s your favourite trope to write?

Angst with a Happy Ending, Mutual Pining/Obliviousness & Uncertainty, Friends to Lovers, Friends to Lovers to Enemies to Friends to Lovers, anything with a slight of it’s hard and if we’re not being told we’re gonna make it through, how can i be reassured now that we will; but you’ve got friends to rely on so it’ll be okay OTHERWISE KNOWN AS Angst with a Happy Ending :P

49) Can you remember the first fic you read? What was it about?

Something from Warrior Cats

50) If you could write only angst, fluff or smut for the rest of your writing life, which would it be and why?

(Both both is good)

YOU CAN’T MAKE ME CHOOSE.

But like, if angst with a happy ending counts as angst??? Than that :PFluff is good but you have to have a reason that makes it even sweeter :P

#ruyota~#sourinralia #answered asks #stuff about me #:P #aoki

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