#yeah maybe if watson was a fucking genius too!!!

[symptomofgout]

the narrative of kaveh being an idiot is so baffling to me because he is, quite literally, canonically considered a genius…? why is the popular consensus “6000 IQ alhaitham and his lovably stupid roommate kaveh” when every npc commenting on kaveh refers to his intellect & talent, the literal god of wisdom says kaveh has an “almost-perfect grasp of what it truly means for sumeru to be a nation of wisdom” (whereas she questions alhaitham’s wisdom in her line about him), and alhaitham’s own story profile calls kaveh a genius multiple times??? like the whole point is that he’s alhaitham’s intellectual equal despite having entirely separate worldviews and demeanors, which frustrates alhaitham to no end — ‘how can someone so smart do all of these things that, to me, are so evidently stupid?’ the takeaway from their dynamic should NOT be kaveh is dumb, but rather that empathy and emotion aren’t actually the opposites of logic and intelligence, but sadly both alhaitham and the realm of academia as a whole are too blinded by their own definitions of logic to fully realize that.

tl;dr kaveh is not dumb by any standards and i will prove it

(under the cut: quotes/screenshots/etc proving this + more. please spread the gospel and dispel ignorance. amen)

some npc voicelines (there are more but i’m lazy):

these are pretty self-explanatory — kaveh is a widely-renowned scholar, architect, and engineer throughout sumeru. he graduated from the akademiya with flying colors, students were desperate to take his classes, etc.

nahida’s voicelines:

both are intelligent but only one is wise: kaveh. alhaitham is too restricted by his narrow definition of wisdom (read: what he deems ‘logical’) to look beyond himself and grasp that there’s more to intellect and knowledge than pure cold rationality. he can’t comprehend that empathy and intellect aren’t fundamentally incompatible — in fact, they’re best when put hand in hand. kaveh is one of the few scholars capable of valuing emotions, empathy, and artistic endeavors, while the rest of the akademiya closes themselves off to that entire realm of knowledge from the get-go. this is what makes kaveh uniquely wise, and what alhaitham lacks. until you understand that emotions and logic can and should coexist, you won’t be successful in the true pursuit of knowledge.

last but not least:

alhaitham’s profile (worth noting that profile stories are pretty much the most reliable source of information on characters’ true beliefs and opinions — their voicelines are still them putting on acts in front of the traveler, but these stories are told from the perspective of an omniscient narrator and are likely closer to the truth):

“two geniuses.” and even after their falling out, “neither of them will deny the other party’s exceptional brilliance” — meaning alhaitham considers kaveh to be exceptionally brilliant. point blank. in the text bro

hilarious line — it’s basically alhaitham saying he doesn’t understand how someone with kaveh’s talent and intellect could have a personality/worldview so different from haitham’s. ‘how can someone that smart be so annoying!!!!!’ and ofc by values we know it’s referring to kaveh’s idealism, empathy, and affinity for the arts

alhaitham considers kaveh to be “another genius,” someone who is so much his intellectual equal that he’s “an excellent mirror” for alhaitham. it’s like an experiment for him — the initial question is “how can someone as smart as me care about all of these things i’ve always believed to be worthless,” the subjects are kaveh and alhaitham, the controlled variable is their intellect. because their intellect is the same, alhaitham is able to study their differences (can’t attribute said differences to varying intellect). alhaitham would never say it out loud — and luckily he doesn’t need to bc his character story tells us — but he’s deeply fascinated by kaveh bc kaveh’s very existence is a threat to haitham’s worldview, & he’s letting kaveh stay with him bc through kaveh, alhaitham learns about not just himself but the outside world and humanity as a whole, and as a scholar, there’s nothing more valuable. (also because he feels comfortable with kaveh [“he’s a familiar face”] and they’re both lonely [“similarly lacks familial attachments”] lol these two are never beating the We Know You Don’t Actually Hate Each Other allegations but that’s a different point so i digress)

IN CONCLUSION:

this is all just the TEXTUAL evidence — people saying “kaveh is smart” — and doesn’t even include all of the obvious implicit signs of kaveh’s intellect (no one who graduates from the akademiya w honors and teaches classes there could be anything other than incredibly intelligent, al “i don’t do anything that i don’t want to do” “i’m not going to bother explaining it to you because you won’t understand” haitham not only puts up with but actively seeks out debates with kaveh which he absolutely would not do if he didn’t respect him or consider him to be of roughly equal intellect, look at the debates he has w alhaitham on sumeru messageboards and TELL ME those messages sound like they were written by an idiot or itto or something [you cant], etc etc etc).

and also this is all from 3.3 (+ 3.4 alhaitham leaks)! we don’t even know kaveh’s rarity yet, that’s how far he is from being playable, but there’s already this much information on just how smart he is! it’s the main thing we know about him — 1) he’s smart, 2) he’s passionate/driven by what he feels is right! why does that keep turning into “LOL HOTHEADED HIMBO”??!

okay look. this is all so extra i know. BUT. i must set the record straight now (god knows it’ll only get worse the closer we get to kaveh’s release) because this sudden-onset mass illiteracy within genshin players is going to send me to an early grave. feel free to use as a resource and educate the ignorant so kaveh does not end up reduced to a one-note meme dumb guy when literally that’s just… not even in the game. i mean at least other annoying OOC fandom interpretations have basis in the game but genshin literally tells u every time it gets the opportunity that Kaveh Is Just As Smart As Alhaitham Because Cold Rationality Does Not Equal Wisdom/Intelligence and losing that would be such a crime because it is by far the most interesting n promising thing hoyo has done with new characters in ages! like, not only are they funny and entertaining, not only are they fascinating incredible foils for one another, but they’re used to make a much-needed argument against the prevalent hegemony of mindless rationality and our “logical” society’s illogical fear of emotion/empathy. but yeah sure, theyre just itto & ayato 2.0, i guess. god. the lack of reading comprehension among genshin players is literally an epidemic

#frustrating me to no end. miss the entire point of their dynamic and characters as a whole why don’t you #literally this isn’t ‘shipping goggles’ or anything it’s just … knowing how to read. not looking for subtext just literally reading the text #kaveh #genshin impact #genshin #genshin kaveh #genshin impact leaks #alhaitham #haikaveh #kavetham #kavehtham #genshin meta #i hope ppl see this bc it Needs To Be Said but sadly it will probably get like 10 notes. BUT STILL. i will try #fr the narrative needs to change i don’t think i can take five months of people on reddit characterizing him as th watson to hthm’s sherlock #yeah maybe if watson was a fucking genius too!!! #long post #(under the cut lol) #100 #500

[asherlockstudy]

Writing Series 4:

Ananda Abbington & Martin Freeman: *having problems in their marriage*

Moftiss: So guys guess what we based Series 4 on

.

Moftiss reading Doyle canon: Mary Watson. Mary Watson is the key character.

.

Mark Gatiss: I am gonna be the only straight guy in this show.

.

Amanda Abbington: It's nice to come to work, it gets stuff off of your mind.

Moftiss: It would be terrible if art imitated life.

.

Moftiss: So in the end, in order to redeem John, we will have him think about fucking Sherlock through a projection of his late wife Mary, whose death has traumatized him, all while texting Sherlock's sister whom he met randomly.

Martin Freeman: Are you sure this is going to redeem him?

Moftiss: Yeah

MF: I am so glad this is the last series

.

Martin Freeman: Look, I can't see that pompous prick again in my life, get over with Sherlock quickly.

Moftiss: Our choices have consequences.

MF: What do you mean?

Moftiss: We recently realised you would be perfect as a villain.

MF: ...... I play Dr Watson.

Moftiss: Your point being?

.

Moftiss: Moriarty's character was way more successful than we expected.

Andrew Scott: This is awesome, guys! So what's in for me in the new one?

Moftiss: First things first, how's your chooing game

.

Steven Moffat: What if the viewers can tell that Redbeard was a boy who was drowned 1 hour before Sherlock figures it out?

Mark Gatiss: Impossible, Eurus is TOO clever.

.

Benedict Cumberbatch: So who initiates the Johnlock scene? Martin or me?

Moftiss: Amanda

.

Andrew Scott: So will it be explained that I was madly in love with Sherlock and was obsessed with him and couldn't live with the thought of him being with John instead of me?

Moftiss: It will be explained... but in a sisterly kind of way

.

Show: *starts filming*

Moftiss: STOP!

Moftiss: We should add a Mary scene here.

.

Mary Watson: This show is not about Sherlock and John as humans, it is strictly about the cases.

.

Also Mary Watson: Ma bois

.

Mark Gatiss: Wait!!!

Steven Moffat: What?

MG: Did you add a quote here about Eurus being an era-defining genius, beyond Newton?

SM: Shit, I almost forgot.

.

Mary, from the heaven of assassins: You may kiss the groom.

.

Benedict Cumberbatch: So will I have the ending line? Or maybe Martin?

Moftiss: ...Amanda

.

Rupert Graves: Hey guys I have been enamoured with Molly Hooper since Series 2. I wonder if that will lead anywhere?

Mark Gatiss: What would you say about taking care of Mycroft?

RG: I'm sorry?

.

Louise Brealey: Will Molly ever move on? For real?

Moftiss, bringing a coffin to the set: Oh haven't you heard?

.

Martin Freeman, reading the TLD conversation script: Okay have you figured out anything yet?

Benedict Cumberbatch, next to him, doing the same: ...No

MF: I guess I 'll just rely on intuition then

.

Martin Freeman: Okay why did the Woman know when Sherlock's birthday was but John didn't

Moftiss: Just say the fucking line

MF: ............. Happy Birthday

.

Andrew Scott, visiting the TLD set: Did Martin replace me in the role?

Moftiss: Okay have you practiced your clock sounds or are you wasting our time here being the smartass?

.

Una Stubbs: Okay but why do I call Mycroft a reptile?

Moftiss: Just say the fucking line... Mrs Stubbs.

.

#i can generate a hundred of these #sherlock #bbc sherlock #johnlock #tjlc #sheriarty #jim moriarty #s4 wank #series 4 #sherlock holmes #moftiss #more

[stardust-sanctuary]

Random things I think the demon bros would be good at

So, I’ve been working on my own MC Penelope (hopefully I can post her on my art blog soon!), and then I saw someone mention they wanna see the bros written to be more than their cardinal sins. So I got to thinking; MC has helped improve their lives, what if they wanted to return the favor? So; here’s a random list of a stuff no one asked for.

Lucifer

We all know this man is diligent as fuck. He’s always on top of his paperwork, always looking out for Diavolo, wrangling his six wild brothers, and does it all with enough time to spare to appreciate the arts.

Time management is clearly a skill of his, but he’s also great at prioritizing tasks. What task will take the longest? When is the best time to do this task? What should I start with? The dude’s been a workaholic since before his fall; he knows his shit. He’ll definately help you if you’re struggling (just be prepared for a mountain of teasing!)

Despite being teased for being an “old man”, with age comes wisdom. He’s definately going to be the type to try and give you some dad advice in the hopes you don’t repeat his mistakes.

Mammon

The UR card “The Mammon Way” has proved to me that Mammon may have the chops to be a mathematical genius.....so long as he can apply it to money that is!

To compound that; I feel like Mammon is really good at reading patterns in behavior. How else could he manage to steal from people like Lucifer and Leviathan? This isn’t limited to just people; I feel like he could predict things like fashion or music trends.

He’ll definately pick up if your behavior changes, and tries to help in that tsundere way we all love. He tries his best, and even though he won’t always know how to help, he’ll damn well try.

“MC, you’re not eating regularly! You’re gonna slow me down if you don’t eat!”

Leviathan

So, we all know that Leviathan is really good at sewing and costuming. And maybe I’m projecting; but I feel like he’d have great talent as a writer.

Think about it; he consumes so much media and reviews it. AND he’s apparently got loads of followers? The dude has to have a way with words. Not to mention a major understanding of storytelling, character design and arcs, and world-building

DND WITH LEVIATHAN WOULD BE AMAZING

I also think he’d be a great editor (if you can steer him away from his Ruri-Chan). Definately the person to go to when you need your rough draft polished!

Satan

This good boy is Snow White when it comes to animals (sans Cerberus) and I cannot he convinced otherwise.

I swear, he’s got a secret army of crows and cats just ready to wreck someone’s day.

I also think he’s very observant. He reads so much and is able to filter in the most valuable knowledge, and can even trip up Lucifer.

Demonic Sherlock Holmes anyone?

Like Mammon, he’ll be one of the first to pick up if your start deviating your normal behavior pattern. Though this boy will quietly research things and end up worrying himself silly. Cue weird packages of homemade medicine at your door.

Just tell him to come talk to you directly, and it’ll help you both out a lot.

I also imagine him as a talented photographer. I feel like his specialties would be in nature photography and candid photos of people. (Yes I’m biased)

Asmodeus

Okay, so I have a weakness for “slut” characters. Jessica Rabbit, Haru from Beastars, characters like that. I just remember thinking to myself as a young bab “I wish I could be that confident.”

Asmodeus, despite all his vanity, would probably be very well-educated about health. He knows all the ways to make healthy food delicious, the best lotions and creams for skin problems, and maybe even correctly guess what you’re sick with.

“I told you that you were getting a cold, MC!”

“Shut up, Asmo.”

“Love you too 💕.”

I also have a feeling that he’d be the one to help you when you need a “self care” day. After all, a healthy mind helps a healthy body!

Beelzebub

Beel, Beel, Beel, how we all love this sweetheart. It’s canon that not only is he an excellent judge of food, but also one hell of an athlete! He’d probably be an amazing workout buddy.

Beel is just really pure in my eyes (minus the food tantrums but hey, we all got our flaws), so there’s not that much I can add on.

He’s that friend you can rely on, the friend you can trust with your fears and secrets, the friend whose shoulder you can cry on.

Help him through the survivors guilt he holds from Lillith’s death, the guilt he feels from being unable to stop Lucifer and Belphie from fighting, and just treat him like the good friend he is, and you’ll have a friend for life.

#protectBeel

Belphegor

I remember seeing on Tumblr someone pointing out that Belphie seduced MC just like how Satan taught us during the RAD Exams tutoring. So yeah, this boy knows how the human mind works and it honestly scares me a little.

Maybe Belphie is Sherlock Holmes and Satan is John Watson? (Would that make Lucifer Lestrade and Mammon Moriarty???)

Anyways, what strikes me about Belphie is just how he breezes through schoolwork even though he sleeps all the time? The boy is smart; maybe a bit too smart for his own good.

I honestly think he’s pretty empathetic; to the point it influences his own emotions (he went to fairly far lengths to prevent the exchange program because of how much Lilith’s death affected him. Survivors guilt is one hell of a thing). I also see this when he makes the effort to not only make up for what he did to MC but his brothers as well.

For the love of God, Lucifer, talk to your brother, damn.

Agree? Disagree? Didn’t see your idea? Go ahead and add your own thoughts!

#obey me #obey me x mc #obey me x reader #obey me!

[megabadbunny]

Cosmic Love and Monsters (3/?)

(Just how much has this place changed him? What has this place done to him?)

(sfw version on ff.net; full tags and info on ao3)

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4

***

Chapter Three: The Empty Man

It’s surreal, how quickly they lapse into some of their old patterns.

(It’s strange, how they don’t lapse at all into others.)

After sprinting down a series of halls and staircases down to his workshop (or “the dungeon” as the Doctor refers to it), without so much as a glance back to see if Rose can keep up in her gown and heels (she can’t, so she slips the heels off and gathers them in her hand with her skirts while she runs), the Doctor pores over the dimension-hopper by the light of a crystal lamp. Breathless with anticipation, squirming in her uncomfortably tight bodice, Rose slips the shoes back on, pulling up her skirts and a stool so she can watch him work.

Swap out the gown for jeans and a hoodie, the surrounding stone walls for coral, and add a rumbling background hum, and they could almost be back on the TARDIS, chatting while the Doctor cobbles together spare bits into some kind of miraculous invention to help them on their adventure to Jupiter or Zrallor X or The Low Kirchief’s Gilded Mausoleum. Or more accurately, Rose tries to chat; the Doctor seems too intently focused on his project to provide satisfactory answers to very many of her questions, brow furrowed and lips pressed tight as he tinkers with the hopper here, makes adjustments there. A pity—after all her work on the Cannon, Rose might actually understand a bit of his technobabble for once (though her suggestion of such just makes the Doctor bark out a short and disbelieving laugh. Still rude, then). Eventually, Rose abandons any attempts to talk shop, casting aside technical anecdotes for information on the Doctor’s last few years, specifically how he ended up here.

(To say this task is like pulling teeth hardly does it justice; it would be more accurate to say the job is like trying to get an unwilling patient to admit they have teeth in the first place.)

“Okay,” Rose says, “so, let me get this straight. The stars going out was just a byproduct of your standard run-of-the-mill Dalek nonsense.”

“Yep.”

“But all that’s resolved now thanks to you, via the usual hand-waving and time magic.”

“Yep.”

“And now all the Time Lords are back somehow, too, cos why not.”

“Yep.”

“And as thanks for all your hard work, they exiled you here, to a prison planet?”

The Doctor heaves an impatient sigh. “Yes, quite. Good to see you’ve maintained your ability to memorize and regurgitate basic information over the years.”

Rose chooses to ignore the barb; if the Doctor has been imprisoned here as long as it seems, it only makes sense he’d have misplaced a couple of social norms—not that he ever kept particularly good track of them to begin with.

“Why, though?” Rose asks.

Shrugging, the Doctor slips on a pair of specs, squinting at the half-disassembled dimension-hopper splayed open on the table before him. Something about its guts exposed to the open air and shining bright beneath the worklamp reminds Rose of a frog being dissected in health class, makes her feel a little queasy.

“Fear,” the Doctor eventually replies, prying out a piece of the hopper with a pair of fine tweezers. “Fear, plain and simple. I have, on occasion, made things a little difficult for them, you see.”

“You? Never,” Rose teases, bumping his shoulder with hers.

Behind his specs, the Doctor’s eyes flash with something that could almost be annoyance, but maybe it’s just a trick of the light. “Couldn’t properly control me, couldn’t properly kill me—it never quite seems to stick, even if it’s a death of the supposedly-permanent variety,” he muses. “Not to mention you never know when a spare genius may come in handy. So, what do you do with the errant Time Lord who’s simultaneously responsible for your inconvenient time-death and subsequent joyous resurrection?”

The hopper lying in pieces in front of him, the Doctor scans each in turn with the sonic, which, Rose notes with a small pang, looks every bit as different from its previous incarnation as the Doctor does. “Why, you make an example of him, of course,” he continues cheerfully. “Strand him on some backwater rock full of barbaric rubes in some unknown corner of the universe, enclose the entire thing in an impenetrable looping EMP field that fries the gears of any kind of transport more technologically advanced than a rowboat, and point and laugh at him while he lives out his remaining regenerations without the ability to so much as reconfigure a Time Rotor, much less wreak havoc across the universe.”

He wrenches apart a spare component with perhaps more force than is entirely necessary. “The perfect punishment for the perfect fucking crime,” he mutters, grimacing in disgust.

The cursing surprises Rose a little—has she ever heard the Doctor properly swear before?—but even the Doctor has got his limits, Rose knows, and his time on this so-called barbaric planet must have taken its toll. She wonders exactly how long he’s been here in this nameless place, wherever and whatever here actually is.

(She wonders what has happened to him in his time here, how much a place like this could change somebody.)

“So, tell me more about this prison planet,” says Rose, glancing at the marble walls all around them, painted in flickering shadow by the crystal worklamps. “It’s all sort of posh for that, isn’t it?”

“I think you and I have got different definitions of posh.”

Rose laughs. “I think you and I have got different definitions of prison. Or do all Time Lord jails look like something King Arthur’d live in? And why all that bit out in the arena, anyway? Is it some sort of twisted Time Lord entertainment thing?”

“You really don’t let up with the questions, do you?” the Doctor says irritably.

Taken aback, Rose furrows her brow in concern, but she must have misinterpreted his tone, because not a second later he’s shooting her a wide, winning smile, one she can’t help but return. It’s like magic, the way her lips stretch to mirror his, like she couldn’t stop even if she wanted to. Thank god some things are still the same.

“What?” she asks, laughing.

“Oh, nothing.” He returns to his work, but his smile stays firmly in place, as if plastered there. “Had a bit of déjà vu is all. Scoping out evidence and piecing together the clues, just like the good ol’ days. Rose and the Doctor.”

“The old team,” Rose supplies.

“Holmes and Watson,” the Doctor beams.

“Elton and Bernie.”

“Jekyll and Hyde.”

“What on earth’d you want to be them for?” laughs Rose.

“Why not?”

“Isn’t one of them a beast? Just a wild animal in the shape of a man?”

The Doctor chuckles. “Well, that pretty much describes you, doesn’t it?”

“Oi,” Rose laughs. She’s a little disgruntled at the insult, but she playfully swats his arm all the same. “Don’t go saying any of that ape stuff again. That’s one thing from my first Doctor that I don’t miss.”

“Your Doctor?” the Doctor asks slyly, one eyebrow piqued.

Warmth blossoms across Rose’s cheeks as she registers the implications of her statement, his reaction after. But rather than scoot it under the rug like she would have done once upon a time, when she was so much younger and still had so, so much to learn, she simply looks the Doctor square in the eye, and smiles.

“Yeah, that’s right,” she says, her stomach flipping funny little somersaults in her gut all the while. “My Doctor.”

The Doctor chuckles deep in his throat, a funny little noise that would sound patronizing coming from anyone but him. “Been thinking like that for a while now, have you?”

“Might’ve done.”

“Rather possessive of you.”

“Pretty rich coming from He-Who-Glowers-At-Pretty-Boys.”

“Good point. Maybe it’s my Rose instead, ever think of that?”

Her stomach flutters. “Nah, my Doctor’s got a better ring to it.”

“Hmm,” he replies thoughtfully. Braiding together bits of wire, the Doctor furrows his brow in concentration, his tongue peeking pinkly between his teeth. Rose can’t help but wonder if he subconsciously absorbed the gesture from her. “Don’t know if I’ve ever belonged to someone before.”

“How does it feel?”

The Doctor glances up at her. “Risky. But I’ve always liked a bit of danger,” he says, with a wink.

Warmth floods through Rose and she beams at him like an idiot as the hopper beeps in his hands, a cheerful tweet-a-tweet-tweet that makes the Doctor whoop and slap his thigh. “And that right there, do you know what that sound is? That’s the new EMP-resistant multi-passenger pre-initialization process, letting us know we’ll be ready for a jump out of this hellhole any moment now,” the Doctor says gleefully. “That, Rose Tyler, is the sound of victory. We do indeed make quite the team, don’t we?”

He holds the half-disassembled hopper out to her expectantly, his smile radiating pure joy, and maybe it’s just the tightness of her corset taking her breath away, but it’s like all the air has left the room. He may look and sound like a stranger, his edges may be rough and his words too, but he’s the closest thing to the Doctor that Rose has seen in years—he is the Doctor—and Christ, does Rose want to kiss him—so that’s exactly what she does. On impulse, her heart hammering madly in her ears, she leans forward, accepting the hopper as she bridges the distance between them so she can press the gentlest of kisses to the Doctor’s lips.

Fighting the emotion that threatens to well up upon first contact—the nights of longing and waiting and pining and hoping, the brief handful of moments in which she allowed herself to imagine that any of this might be possible, what it would all look like, how it would all feel—Rose closes her eyes, preparing to lose herself in the kiss. To happily drown. But no more than a second after her lips touch his, the Doctor violently jerks back, punctuating the air with a knife-sharp gasp as he scrambles away from her.

The two of them stare at each other, wide-eyed, Rose frowning in confusion, the Doctor watching her warily, wide-eyed. He looks for all the world like someone who’s just had a nasty electric shock, a caged prisoner backing into the corner after a bad bout with a cattle-prod.

(Admittedly, she hadn’t given him much warning, but how had she managed to misread the moment so badly? How had she managed to so badly misread him?)

“Erm, sorry,” Rose says shakily, her toes clenching uncomfortably in their pumps. She runs a hand through her hair, her cheeks flushing flame-red from embarrassment. “I just assumed…”

Chest heaving with exertion, the Doctor watches her wordlessly, eyes wild and unblinking. Rose wonders. It’s a bit much, isn’t it, his reaction? She understands if her actions caught him a little off-guard, but surely a mere chaste kiss wouldn’t be enough to throw someone so violently off-kilter. She remembers Cassandra using her hands to draw him close and practically snog his face off, apropos of literally nothing, and certainly he was a little stunned afterward, but nothing like this. Nothing at all like this.

“I’m sorry,” Rose repeats.

(Just how much has this place changed him? What has this place done to him?)

“Doctor?” Rose asks when he doesn’t respond, concerned. “Are you all right?”

A quiet knock at the door breaks the Doctor’s manic silence, and secretly, Rose is glad for the distraction. “What is it?” the Doctor snaps, causing Rose to jump.

“So sorry, your Lordship,” peeps a timid voice on the other side of the heavy wooden door. “But you said if we had any news—”

Within several long strides the Doctor has crossed the room, yanking open the door to reveal a furry mammalian young attendant trembling in the hallway. It’s difficult for Rose to make out the Doctor’s words, his back turned to her and his voice as low as it is, but she can see in the sharp set of his shoulders that he’s working to hide tension, nearly trembling with the effort of keeping himself calm.

“What did I say about interrupting me here?” Rose can just barely hear him say.

The attendant shrinks away from him, unable to meet his gaze. “You said Never ever, your Lordship.”

“Excellent, so your hearing is unimpaired at least, as is your memory. Why, then, are you darkening my door now? Which part of never or ever escaped your understanding? What part of my instructions did your Cretaceous-era brain manage to so woefully misconstrue?”

The attendant’s gaze flickers down to the sonic, lying prone on the table where the Doctor dropped it, and she flinches. Rose wonders at that.

“But, my Lordship,” the attendant stammers. “You also said that—”

“It’s Your Lordship,” the Doctor snaps, and the attendant shrinks away from him. “And you would do well to remember that.”

He slams the door in the attendant’s face before she can reply, heaving an irritated sigh. For a moment, he just stands there, face to the door, muttering under his breath, ostensibly to himself, though Rose honestly can’t tell—she can’t make out anything he’s saying, now. She’s willing to bet it’s nothing good, though.

(Nothing about this feels good.)

Rose shakes herself. She’s being unfair. Surely that’s it. He’s just a little different now, that’s all this is. He’s a little different, new body, new personality, landlocked on a new and horrible planet, but he’s got all the same experience, the same memories, the same important stuff, and she’s just having trouble adjusting.

It’s not him. It’s her. It’s got to be.

Besides, it isn’t unlike the Doctor to be inconsiderate, rude, even a little cruel at times, much as Rose hates to admit it. He is, after all, the man who took her to see the destruction of her home planet for their first date, who touted the nonconsensual use of dead bodies as “recycling” and seemed to think that life as a paving slab was, in any way, acceptable—the same man who agreed to let her watch her father die in the street, who destroyed Harriet Jones’ life with only six simple words and no second thoughts. Surely this behavior isn’t any worse than what Rose has witnessed before, or there must be context that she’s missing, or his time on this planet has been harder on him than she knows. Maybe he’s rankled by his powerlessness here, or maybe he has grown numb to it all, yet another series of tragedies marring a landscape already pitted and scorched with death and loss. Maybe it’s the Time War all over again and he’s actually sad and weary behind that ever-present smile, secretly crushed beneath the great stone wheel of resignation as dozens or possibly hundreds of people die in the sand before him day after day—which is something he surely doesn’t have any control over, or surely he would have stopped it by now. Surely Rose is just overreacting to things.

Surely the suspicion slowly ramping up in her gut is wrong.

(Why would that girl look at the sonic like she was afraid of it?)

“Boy, I tell you, the help these days,” Rose says, forcing out the joke despite the nausea rising in her throat. She grips the hopper a little too tightly. “Downright shame, isn’t it?”

(Please, please let him know it’s a joke.)

She throws her hands up in the air helplessly. “What are you gonna do?”

“Tell me about it,” grumps the Doctor.

Rose swallows. “A little useless, aren’t they?”

“Preaching to the choir.”

“You’d think they’d have at least a little respect for your Lordship.”

A sigh. “Yes, you would think that, wouldn’t you?”

“Why do they call you that, anyway?” Rose asks, fighting to keep her voice casual. Inconspicuous. Her grip around the hopper is slippery with sweat, and suddenly her gown is claustrophobic, clinging to her, strangling the air out of her lungs even worse than before. “I mean, probably just because of the whole superior species thing, right? Everything just sort of falling into its natural order, you rising to your rightful place at the top?”

“Something like that, yeah.”

“Uh-huh. Except, I thought you said you were imprisoned here?”

“Oh, I was,” the Doctor mutters darkly. “I may be at the top of the food chain in this dungeon, but it’s still a dungeon, believe me.”

“Yeah, right,” says Rose, her breath tightening in her throat. “Is that why that girl was so afraid of you just now?”

The Doctor’s head quirks back in her direction, but he doesn’t turn back around to face her. Instead, his shoulders tighten, almost imperceptibly. “Couldn’t tell you, really,” he says. “Probably just your standard barbaric fear of tech and anyone associated with it. Likely the dratted thing hasn’t so much as come in contact with a toaster before I arrived. But it is little more than a circus animal, after all.”

“Makes sense,” Rose says coolly despite the several thousand alarm bells that have begun ringing out in her skull, because when has the Doctor ever referred to a sentient being as it? “‘Cept you said earlier that all your machines were gone. But you’ve got a sonic right there.”

The Doctor faces her with a shrug and a grin. “Just built a new one, didn’t I?”

“Of course, makes sense, what with all the materials available to you here, the barbarism and the nothing-more-advanced-than-a-rowboat and all.”

“Oh, you know me,” says the Doctor, plucking his screwdriver off the table. “I’m resourceful.”

“You’re off, is what you are,” Rose insists, stepping back.

Eying her suspiciously, the Doctor laughs. It’s a surprisingly nasty sound, nothing like before, and did his teeth always look so sharp, or so many? “What a curious little human,” he says, tucking the screwdriver away before wedging his hands in his pockets with a tight squeak of leather against wool. “Careful, now, or you’ll say something I’ll regret.”

“Sort of like calling the TARDIS a machine? Since when does the Doctor do that?”

“Since now,” replies the Doctor, his grin broadening. 

“And since when would you let something like a missing TARDIS stop you from doing what’s right, anyway?” Rose asks, backing away further, watching the Doctor as he follows after. Slowly, like a lion in tall grass, stalking its prey. Rose doesn’t stop until the worktable is solidly between them.

“Why haven’t you stopped those fights in the arena, Doctor?” she asks.

She swallows. “Are you even really the Doctor?”

“What a question!” the Doctor laughs. “A man changes his face and his voice and his personality and all of a sudden he must be a new person, mustn’t he? What a narrow conception of personhood, what an over-simplified view of the world, what a narrow little mind you have, Miss Tyler.”

Then he leans in over the table, his lips stretching thin and wide like a cheap Halloween mask. “Though I will admit, I’m not quite feeling myself these days.”

Rose’s grip tightens on the hopper till her arm shakes with the force of it.

“Who are you?” she asks quietly.

Before the Doctor—or the man who used to be the Doctor, or the man pretending to be—has a chance to answer, the hopper chirps in her hand once more, another chipper tweet-a-tweet-tweet, tweet-a-tweet-tweet shattering the silence. Pulse roaring in her ears, Rose acts without hesitation, smacking the button that will take her home.

And—

Nothing.

Horror washes over Rose like a tidal wave as the man chuckles under his breath.

“Pity,” he murmurs, clicking his tongue in disappointment. “But you know what they say; If at first you don’t succeed—”

Rose bites back a gasp as the man’s gaze flickers up to hers, his eyes dark, now, boring into her like a pair of cold-burning fires.

“Shall we try again, my love?” he asks, mouth curling into a smile, and the second he lunges for her is the second Rose hurls the hopper to the ground and shatters it with her heel.

Quick as a blink, Rose darts off and grabs a tool off the table to chuck at the man’s face but suddenly white-hot pain lances violently through her neck and head, sharp enough that she drops her makeshift weapon with a clang as she doubles over. Glowing white tendrils arc through her vision like lightning before receding, taking the pain with them. Gasping, Rose tries to stand, to run, but the pain strikes again, so hard it throws her to her knees.

“What—” she tries to gasp out, but the pain surges again, like a fire spreading from her throat to her skull to each and every nerve ending in her body, leaving her spasming and helpless. Through the haze of hurt and shock, Rose looks up to see the man aiming his sonic at her—at her collar. The collar that’s so much like the one the attendants all wear, Rose realizes belatedly.

And that girl saw the sonic screwdriver, and she was so afraid—

Swearing, scrambling backward over the floor, Rose reaches up to tear the damned collar off her neck but the man hits her with another blast from the sonic, one strong enough to make her shout. The pain strikes like a lorry, twisting and wrenching her muscles and clenching the air from her lungs. Choking, Rose slumps to her hands and knees. Black bleeds into the edges of her vision, ink creeping in at the corners, and she knows she hasn’t got long before her body surrenders.

“Who are you?” she spits out, fighting for air, for control, for anything.

“Finally! A question worth asking,” the man chuckles. “Though to be quite honest with you, I haven’t really had a proper name for a while now.”

Rose can’t make him out through her darkening field of vision, but she can hear his footsteps approaching, swears she can hear his smile, stretching wide and vicious over rows of eager teeth.

“But,” says the man’s voice, suddenly very close now, “you can call me Master.”

His laughter is the last thing Rose hears before darkness swallows her.

***

Previous | Next

#ficandchips #rose tyler #dimension hopping rose #doctorrose #doctor x rose #adventure #romance #canon divergence #alternate timelines #fluff #eventual lemons #content/trigger warnings on ao3 #<3 #mbb fic #cosmic love and monsters #also HULLO IT'S THE MASTER #idk how many folx read the tag-warnings first or how many folx figured it out on their own #but i don't care either way because this fic has been percolating in my drafts for literal years now #and i'm so damn excited for this chapter i can't even #:D #<3 <3 <3

[spidersfanfics]

My Watson

CW: Talk of death, Alcoholism

Sherlock sighed as he locked the door behind himself. It had been a long day and he was more than ready to go to bed. As he passed the living room however, a quiet sob caught his attention.

After a moment of hesitation, his curiosity got the better of him and he pushed the door open to find John sat in front of the fireplace with a bottle in one hand and two more on the ground.

Sherlock cleared his throat and John turned sluggishly to look at him. "You're home," he said after a long pause and attempted to stand. He'd barely gotten to his feet however when he stumbled and would have fallen over if Sherlock hadn't swooped in to catch him.

"And you're drunk," Sherlock said, guiding John to the armchair and sitting him down. He pried the bottle from his hands and set it aside.

John begrudgingly allowed him to take the bottle and gave him a sour look. "As if you're one to judge," he grumbled.

Sherlock frowned at him, "First of all, I have been quite good at controlling myself these days. Second of all, that's no excuse for you being a complete mess."

"But today-"

"I know," Sherlock said cutting him off, his voice going quiet. "The anniversary of Mary's death. But that is also no excuse. What would she think if she saw you now?"

John looked away, refusing to meet Sherlock's interrogative stare. "That's not fair," he said at last.

Sherlock frowned and moved away to go clean up the rest of the bottles. "Believe me, I know," he said, his back to John. "I thought you were doing better."

"I am," John protested but quickly sank back into the chair when Sherlock gave him a questioning look. "Look, I know you have no emotions or whatever but it still hurts okay?" he snapped.

When Sherlock didn't answer right away, John put his head down and sighed, hugging his arms. "Sorry, I didn't mean that.  But you've got to understand. Even if I've moved on I still miss her at the end of the day. Especially today."

"I know," said Sherlock as he returned to John, having cleaned up the rest of the booze. "I miss her too," he said, taking one of John's hands in his.

"Then won't you come and have a drink with me?" John asked, reaching back for a bottle with his free hand.

After another long silence, Sherlock cracked a slight smile and took the bottle himself. "Fine," he said reluctantly, "Old habits die hard I suppose. But I'll only drink a little."

"Thank you," John said as he watched Sherlock take a long swig from the bottle. "For being here with me."

Sherlock shrugged, "Don't thank me. You chose this after having every opportunity to leave." He sat down on the floor with a grunt and handed the bottle back. "Every right to leave too if we're being honest," he admitted.

"Yeah well it's always going to be you isn't it?" John said. "That's the one constant, no matter what happens I end up choosing you, so I think." He hesitated, "I think maybe everyone was right after all."

Sherlock chuckled, "Everyone is seldom right, mostly just me. What specifically are you referring to?"

" You know," John said, laughing along. "About us," he gestured with the bottle, drinking from it no longer his first priority.

Sherlock rolled his eyes with a smile, "You know people are not my strong suit. What about us?"

"Oh for fuck's sake- I like you Sherlock," said John, sounding a little exasperated. He rested his head on his hand and looked away.

Sherlock frowned a little, "Is that supposed to be news to me?"

This got John's attention right away and his head snapped forward. "What- yes!" he exclaimed. "I've spent most of our friendship insisting that we aren't dating and now that I'm telling you maybe I do want to date you you're acting like you aren't surprised?"

He huffed and looked away once more but when Sherlock didn't reply with another witty remark, his gaze slid forward again. "Say something won't you?" he prompted, shifting nervously under Sherlock's stare.

Sherlock gave him a look of slight confusion, "You mean that sort of liking. You fancy me."

"Well yeah. If you want to put it like that, as if we're children," John said, more than a little frustrated. "Isn't is obvious?" he asked, mocking Sherlock's usual tone whenever they were working a case. "For a genius, you can be quite dense sometimes."

John glanced at Sherlock to gauge his reaction and found his friend appearing to be deep in thought. John groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose, "Never mind. We can just forget all this once I'm sobered up."

"I mean," Sherlock began, "If that's what you'd prefer then we can. But until then," he trailed off for a bit then reached out his arms. "Come here."

"What?"

"Just come here," Sherlock insisted, grabbing onto John's arms and pulling him off of the armchair.

John stumbled into Sherlock's lap then allowed himself to be moved into a more comfortable position.

"There," said Sherlock with his arms wrapped around John who now found his resting against Sherlock's chest. "It's what people do when they like each other, isn't it?" Sherlock murmured in John's ear.

John felt his face heat up at the sudden display of affection. "Umm yes, I suppose," he managed to stammer.  Much to his eternal frustration, however, Sherlock had gone silent once more. "Oh what's the issue now?" he groaned.

"Is this what it's like to be in love?" Sherlock whispered.

John say in stunned silence for a moment then burst out laughing. "I should hope so," he said, "It would be rather convenient for me."

"Love that isn't driven by obsession," Sherlock murmured to himself, "With no strings attached. It's nice." He paused for a moment then planted a gentle kiss on John's forehead. "Consider yourself lucky, I suppose."

This only made John laugh harder, "Careful Sherlock, people will think you've gone soft."

Sherlock gave him a somewhat wounded look and John's laughter died off. "Were you being serious?"

"Of course, I'm always serious."

"Except when you're not, right?"

Sherlock scoffed and turned John to face him properly. Before John could really react, Sherlock then pulled him into a kiss. "Was that serious enough for you?" he asked as they broke apart.

"Uhh, yes," said John, somewhat dazed. "I think so."

"Good"

There was a long pause as John got his breathing back under control. "I mean what I said though," he told Sherlock.

"Hmm?"

"I'm not gay."

Sherlock laughed, "No, of course not."

John frowned, "I mean it. I liked Mary. I like wom-"

"Yes, bisexual," Sherlock interrupted. "I know."

Now it was John's turn to be confused, "What?"

Sherlock shrugged, "I figured it out pretty early on but didn't say anything because you were also obviously quite deep in the closet so to speak and hadn't come to terms with it yet."

John raised an eyebrow and let out an incredulous laugh. "You're impossible," he said.

"I prefer impeccable," Sherlock countered.

"Insufferable."

"Incredible."

John smiled lazily, "I think I love you."

"I know I do."

The two sat there for the a long time until John eventually fell asleep. Somewhat clumsily, Sherlock brought his companion to bed before collapsing at last into his own.

John awoke the next morning with a terrible hangover. So much so that he didn't notice the delicious smell of food wafting through the flat right away. After a long moment lying in bed and weighing the pros and cons of getting up, he finally dragged himself out of bed and into the kitchen.

"Good morning," said Sherlock, as John entered.

John rubbed the sleep from his eyes as he marveled at the fact that Sherlock had prepared a meal for once. "You know," he said at last, moving to sit down at the dining table, "I'm sorry about what I said last night."

"Why?"

John shrugged and put his head in his hands, massaging his temple. "I know how you feel about. Well, sentiment? So if you want, you can just forget everything I said," he explained sheepishly. "Pretend it never happened."

Sherlock scoffed "Oh come now, don't be ridiculous. Where would I be without my Watson?"

John looked up at Sherlock and raised an eyebrow, "Your Watson?"

"Well of course," Sherlock replied with a smile. "There are few people I care deeply about. But for the few who have that privilege, I never let them go."

#Sherlock #BBC Sherlock #Watson #John Watson #Sherlock Holmes #JohnLock #John x Sherlock #Sherlock x John #Watson x Sherlock #Sherlock x Watson #Spider Writes Sherlock #Spider Writes

[janeofcakes]

KYFC..: Chapter 19 (yes, it’s Johnlock on skates)

Hello, hello, my friends! I’m so sorry it’s been so long since our last meeting. God, I’ve missed you all. It’s been a hell of a couple of weeks, but all is well. I’m sorry to have left you dangling over the cliff all this time. Trust me when I say it was not intentional. Please forgive me. I certainly can’t wait for you all to read this next, long-awaited chapter, so I’ll get right down to it.

John was wrestling Moran for his gun when it went off, the door from on deck was just thrown open. Was it someone who would help him or hinder is escape? We shall see. ----

Boom! Here comes the Boom! Ready or not, here comes the boys from the Lasal. Boom! Here comes the Boom! How you like me now?                             --P.O.D., Boom

Sherlock closes his car door and begins scanning the rows of small and medium-sized boats docked at the marina. He has no idea what the name of the boat is, what it looks like, or if it is even registered to Moriarty or Moran. He glances at the small registration building some distance away and rolls his eyes at the closed sign plastered over its window. He goes back to scanning the boats for any sign of John or his kidnappers. The marina is nearly abandoned and the sun is setting. A few boats glide through the water around the docks while others are anchored a hundred yards or more from it, sprinkled here and there in the water. Their passengers are on deck watching the sunset or having a drink, maybe a quiet party. Sherlock can just hear the sound of their faint laughter. He squints, but the distance and receding light make identifying any of the people on even the closer boats impossible.

Sherlock walks quickly toward the docked boats and then stops abruptly, eyes rapidly scanning each one again. He lets out a puff of frustration and looks out at those farther away. His gaze flits from one to another, moving and stationary. Panic begins to fill his chest and well up into his throat. A dull ache he tries to ignore rests at the base of his neck. He knows John is here, or was and has sailed away. Frankly, the latter is far more likely. Damn it all. If he’s so fucking brilliant, why can’t he find John?! Moriarty wants to see him fail, wants to destroy him. This cannot be the way he fails. The championship, sure, one or even two years. The team can come back from that, but John… He cannot lose John.

God, Sherlock should have let him go when he had the chance. Yes, John would be safely away and not in a boat somewhere on this lake being murdered. Goddammit. No, that never would have worked. Moriarty wouldn’t have let John walk away. He would have pulled him back in. Why? Simple really, because Sherlock loves him. That’s what this is all about. Sherlock is killing him by caring. Caring is not an advantage.

It’s everything.

John’s voice comes to Sherlock’s ears in a memory as clearly as if he is standing right next to him. Sherlock’s lips part in surprise, his glistening eyes open wide and he lets out a quiet gasp as a tear breaks free from his lashes to skitter quickly down his cheek. Those words begin to ground him and his mind starts to settle. His heart rate slows to something approaching normal and he feels like he can think again. The slow calm brings the clarity he needs to find the solution he so desperately needs. All because of those two words and what they mean. All from John. 

“I love you,” Sherlock mutters out over the lake and then squints his eyes shut hard. He concentrates on their phone conversation, runs every detail multiple times, and then recalls every undeleted conversation he has ever had with Moriarty. Nothing. Nothing! Sherlock shakes his head angrily. He cannot let the fear and frustration cloud his mind. He has to do this. 

He turns back to his last conversation with John again. There must be something there. John would have given him something, some clue, but what could he do? On the phone, Sherlock couldn’t see him so no visual cues of any kind. John said precious little and could not have said anything too out of the ordinary with Moriarty breathing down his neck. 

Breathing.

John’s odd breathing. Sherlock had thought it was nervousness, but suppose… He starts at the beginning again and listens.

His shoulder sag. Nothing. Just a man who wants to say everything, but can reveal nothing. 

Sherlock’s brow knits in frustration and he grinds his teeth. He clenches his fists and thrusts them down to his sides, turning this way and that on the dock. God, he wants to kick something. He wants to punch the goddamn smirk right off of Moriarty’s fucking face. If he has done anything to John, Sherlock will kill the bastard himself.

No. He stops pacing. There has to be something more to the phone call, something Sherlock isn’t getting. He cradles his forehead on the tips of his fingers, tilts his head down and closes his eyes. There must be something. The man who studied multiple subjects while in medical school and still completed in record time has to have given Sherlock a clue. He would have found a way and now Sherlock must find it. John’s life depends on it, depends on him. Sherlock cannot let him down.

He takes in a long, slow breath and blows it out just as slowly. He works to clear his mind, tries to calm himself. Sherlock starts at the beginning of the phone call once again and listens to everything: John’s tone, pitch, volume, all the sounds around him that revealed his location. He hears the quiet splash of water and low engine noise when a boat passes their own. Even as Sherlock hears nothing new, the letter ‘T’ appears before him in his mind’s eye. He ignores it and continues to listen. ‘H’. Sherlock shakes his head gently in dismissal to concentrate on John’s voice, his words. ‘E’.

Sherlock cocks a brow and twitches his head to the side. His eyes still closed, he wrinkles his forehead in confusion. ‘C’. Where are the letters coming from? Why can’t he ignore them and concentrate the way he wants to? ‘R’. Goddammit! Piss the fuck off!

In that split second of rage, everything snaps into place. Sherlock’s eyes pop open wide in awe.

“The breaths!” he whispers so softly the lapping of the lake nearly swallows its sound. “The code.”

A long exhale for a dash. ‘T’. Four short puffs for dots. ‘H’. One short puff for ‘E’. Long, short, long, short, ‘C’. Short, long, short. ‘R’.

Morse code. John sounded nervous, on the verge of panic or hyperventilation, in spite of the steady tone of his voice because he used morse code to give Sherlock clues when he wasn’t speaking. John Watson is a goddamn genius.

A spark of adrenaline surging through his body and every nerve ending tingling with excited energy, Sherlock closes his eyes again and listens to John speak to him without saying a word. Three long exhales for ‘O’, a short and two longs for ‘W’, long and short for ‘N’. ‘The Crown’. Sherlock listens for more and gets ‘B,O,A’ before John is out of time and ends the call. Clearly, John was spelling the word boat. The name of Moriarty’s boat is ‘The Crown’. 

At those two words, a memory bursts from the ever-locked door that holds what Sherlock has not deleted of his interactions with Moriarty. He had unlocked the door earlier to analyze his every encounter with the man and turned up nothing, but now armed with the name of Moriarty’s boat, one particular memory comes into focus.

It was right after a bout with the Demons during Sherlock’s first year as coach. Moriarty, nearly six years his senior and already well-known in the league, shook his hand afterwards with a lecherous gleam in his eye. Sherlock only kept the conversation so he would always know why he hates this man so completely. The condescension and presumption that he could have anyone and get any skater to join the Demons, not to mention he insisted on calling Sherlock ‘Hon’. Sherlock had vowed at that moment to steal the championship from this man year after year, and as decisively as possible.

“Tough luck, Hon, but that’s how it happens,” Moriarty had said with a leer as he shook Sherlock’s hand. When Sherlock moved to withdraw, Moriarty pulled on his hand and leaned in conspiratorially. Far too close for Sherlock’s liking and he struggled not to pull back. “You’re not going to make it as a head coach. Hudson will see it soon enough, but… You would make a top-notch assistant to my head. I’d love to have you under me.”

His grin was salacious and it turned Sherlock’s stomach, but he would never show it. Sherlock glared back at him with cool eyes. His answer was simple.

“I’m going to beat you every time we meet. I will take the championship from you,” Sherlock’s eyes flashed with intense determination and his teeth clicked as he enunciated every word, “this year and every year.”

Moriarty paused a moment, his smile turning down at the edges as he looked into Sherlock’s eyes and saw that he meant every word.

“Oh, Hon. You’re in the big leagues now,” Moriarty had laughed. “I always win one way or another. You should see me in a crown.”

“Sherlock!” a voice calls across the dock, bringing Sherlock back to reality. 

He whirls where he stands to see Greg Lestrade hurrying toward him. He feels himself exhale a sigh of relief in spite of himself. Greg is at his side in a blink and brings with him the welcome warmth of friendship. Sherlock has to admit he is glad he’s not alone in this endeavor. He’s a derby coach, not a bloody detective. He rolls his eyes at himself. He’s starting to sound like John, for god sake.

“Got here as fast as I could,” Greg is breathless. “Have you found them?”

“No,” Sherlock answers with regret, “but they are on Moriarty’s boat. It’s called ‘The Crown’.”

“The fuck?!” Greg puts his hands on his hips, still breathing a little hard. “How do you know that?”

“They’re out there somewhere on the lake. They need a place to kill John, if they haven’t already,” Sherlock says over Greg’s words. He looks at him impatiently. “I need your boat.”

“Yeah, you said on the phone,” Greg answers, still a bit befuddled, “but Jesus, Sherlock, kill him?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Sherlock loses his cool and shouts in Greg’s face. “They’ve tried twice already! Why wouldn’t they try again, especially since John defied his orders!?”

“What?! What orders? What are you talking about?” Greg snaps back.

“John told you just this morning that he is not resigning,” Sherlock barks, annoyed by the waste of time. “Moriarty threatened me to make him resign.”

“He said he had a change of heart, not that Moriarty put him up to it!” Greg says loudly, anger building and laced with a touch of panic. “Fuck all, Sherlock, I can’t protect the two of you if you don’t tell me what I need to know.”

“We don’t have time for this!” Sherlock replies in earnest frustration, trying not to think about what is happening to John while they stand here squabbling. He does understand Greg’s point, but every minute they waste is another off John’s life. If he is still alive. Christ, he has to find John. He has to see him again and kiss him and tell him he loves him. He can’t lose John now, not like this. 

“I need your boat!” Sherlock snarls, accosting Greg and scrabbling at his pockets for the keys.

“All right, all right!” Greg slaps his hands away and turns. “Come on.”

He takes off in a run and Sherlock follows hot on his heels.They jump onto one of the larger boats in the marina. Sherlock has been on it before, but he couldn’t have picked it out of a 

crowd. He and Greg have had drinks both on deck and in its cabin multiple times. It makes for a good off-site location to talk strategy or plan goals for the year. Greg has small parties on it from time to time, which one might think would be too crowded, but its cabin is deceptively large with a small bedroom, kitchenette and dining space, and two small lounges to boot. A few of Greg’s vacations have consisted of merely sailing away for a week or two. Sherlock has considered buying one for himself, but sailing without a first mate is a rather unappealing venture. Perhaps with John… Oh god, John.

Greg turns the key and the engine rumbles to life. 

“Which way?” he asks hurriedly, turning the steering wheel and looking behind as they start backing out.

“I don’t know,” Sherlock confesses numbly.

“You don’t know?!” Greg’s head whips around to look at him in disbelief. “Sherlock!”

Sherlock’s eyes flit over every boat in sight and come to rest on one skating across the water. There’s something about it, its rapid pace while everything around it is slow. His laser sharp gaze shoots to his incredulous captain and then runs over the boat’s dashboard, stopping suddenly on a pair of binoculars to the far right of the steering wheel. Without a word, he lunges for it, just missing Greg with his outstretched limbs. 

“Jesus, Sherlock!” Greg ducks to the left, not taking his hands from the wheel so the boat doesn’t veer off course. “The fuck are you doing?”

Sherlock does not respond. With the binoculars in hand, he turns to leap gracefully onto the cushioned passenger seats that line the sides and back of the boat’s deck. He sees it as soon as he focuses the binoculars on the boat: black letters in elegant script along the side by its bow that read ‘The Crown’. He pans up to see its driver and his heart fills with dread. She would never reveal herself if John was meant to survive.

“There,” Sherlock points, following the boat with the magnifying lenses. “Ten o’clock, about 200 yards, heading west at 20 miles per hour.”

“I see it,” Greg acknowledges as he straightens their boat, getting in line for pursuit. “We should tell the police we found them.”

“Why?” Sherlock throws over his shoulder dismissively. “No one’s called them.”

“You haven’t...Jesus Christ, Sherlock!” Greg lays into him right as he opens the throttle.

For the first time since spotting The Crown, Sherlock takes his eyes from the binoculars. He shrugs when he meets Greg’s furious death glare.

“What was I to say? I think my friend was kidnapped even though I just spoke with him and he said everything was fine?” he snaps fiercely, cocking his head. “They would have laughed in my face.”

“There’s a record of attempted murder, Sherlock,” Greg’s voice is clipped, his words harsh. “Maybe if you’d asked for the detective on his case…”

“Oh, please,” Sherlock’s lip curls in disdain. “Even that idiot would have doubted my objectivity. Probably would’ve thought it was some absurd cover for making John disappear myself.”

“Oh, for the love of…” Greg glances away and huffs before looking back at The Crown. They may be following it at a good clip, but he is trying not to make it obvious. With a look of approval on his features, Sherlock returns his eyes to the binoculars. His lips press into a firm line as he watches, keenly aware of the fact that nothing below deck is visible and that is surely where Moran or Moriarty are. They could be doing any number of things to John on that boat. He could be dead already and they are simply dumping the body.

No.

No, he can’t believe that. John is not dead. He can’t be dead. He would fight. Fight until the end. He would never give up.

“Sherlock,” Greg’s loud voice snaps him from his thoughts before they can spiral down that hole. Sherlock turns his head away from the binoculars and toward Greg, who glares at him with every opportunity. “We are chasing them now. On a boat. You said yourself John’s on no pleasure cruise.”

“But I have no proof of that!” Sherlock insists angrily while Greg slaps a palm to his own forehead.

“Call. Them,” he snarls, every ounce of his furious gaze focused on the coach. “Now.”

Staring at him icily, Sherlock tears his phone from his pocket and dials. They are on the open water now and Greg carefully matches The Crown’s speed. They will be suspicious enough without speeding to overtake it. They will have to at some point though and Sherlock needs to come up with a plan in the meantime. A fucking spectacular plan.

“911. What is your emergency?” the bland voice of an operator cracks on the line. 

“A man is being assaulted in the middle of Lake Erie on a small boat called The Crown,” Sherlock explains efficiently, if not irritably. “I am heading toward it now to help. The men on the boat are armed.”

“Sir? Sir!” there is frantic typing behind the woman’s voice, which has much increased in intensity after her indifferent greeting. “Sir, do not approach the boat. If the men are armed, they are dangerous. We’ll have your GPS coordinates momentarily. Wait for law enforcement.”

“They’ll be different by the time you get them and he’ll be dead if I wait for you to catch up!” Sherlock barks into the phone and ends the call. He pockets his phone, rather than throwing it in frustration like he wants to, and fixes a steely gaze on The Crown through the lenses of the binoculars. He can feel Greg’s furious, incredulous stare boring into the side of his head. “You wanted me to call them,” he shrugs.

“Fucking hell, Sherlock,” Greg mutters in exasperation. “Lying to the police?!”

“Lying?” Sherlock bellows, facing Greg with fire in his eyes. “It’s true! It’ll be happening by the time we get there if it isn’t already!” he turns away again to stare into the binoculars. “Now shut up so I can think of a way out of this!”

Sherlock clenches his jaw and hopes Greg thinks the vibrations quaking through his body are the result of anger and not fear. He has to think of something. John Watson cannot die today and Sherlock hopes with everything that’s in him that he is not dead already. God, Sherlock can’t even imagine his life without John. In the few months he has known John, Sherlock has never felt so close or so connected with anyone else in his life. Even Molly. Sharing his bed last night was the most natural, wonderful thing he has ever done and he wants to do it again. He’ll do it forever, if John will let him. Oh god, John. His love, his life. 

Save the doctor. Save the world.

Sherlock’s brows shoot up to hide under the curls dripping onto his forehead. He pulls back from the binoculars, his lips parted and eyes sharp. He has a plan. It is certainly not brilliant, but hopefully it will be good enough.

***

“Do you know how many sunken boats are in the Erie, John?” Moriarty asks in a smug and utterly delighted tone.

The boat is still and all four of its occupants are on deck. John’s hands are tied tightly behind his back and the pull of it makes the wound from Moran’s misfired gunshot even more painful. When the gun went off, it was no longer pointed at John’s chest, thank god. However, the bullet grazed his side and Moran has taken great pleasure in bumping or jabbing the wound at every opportunity. The side of John’s dark shirt is soaked with blood and he is certain it will need stitches, if he gets out of this alive that is.

John looks down at Moran, who is currently on his knees before John, with calculating eyes. The man ignores his glare and continues to fasten heavy weights to his tightly tied ankles. John also wears a belt of weights around his waist. He will go straight to the bottom, no doubt about it, and he has no idea how to get out of this. 

The Crown has stopped somewhere in the middle of the lake, still in the view of other boats, but far enough away that no one can help John, or even tell that he is in trouble. Moriarty could put him in the water with all the dramatic flare of a circus ringmaster without attracting the attention of the nearest boat. From what John can tell, no one in the boats nearest them has any intention of paying even the slightest bit of attention, except...

There is one certain boat that seems to be slowly approaching them and that troubles John immensely. Sherlock was meant to lead the police here, not come after John on his own. Even though he knows the others have seen it too, John tries not to watch the boat, but his eyes keep glancing in that direction as Moriarty croons and Moran ties strong knots on weights that make John feel so incredibly heavy.

John glances at Moriarty, who looks at him with an almost friendly smile and seems to be waiting for him to answer. John shifts his gaze back to Moran and then rests it on their unwavering driver, who leans against the wheel and watches the proceedings without comment. He feels a sense of antipathy in the pit of his stomach that grows and works its way up to his chest. John swallows down the bile of it burning in his throat and addresses her directly. 

“Why would you throw in with this?” John spits the words, nodding sharply in Moriarty’s direction with disgust. She stands up straight and turns slowly to face him full-on. She wears a dull expression on her face and cocks her head to the side.

“The money,” Sarah ‘Bone Crusher’ Sawyer shrugs unapologetically, a look of boredom in her eyes. John sneers and looks away from her with the huff of an angry laugh. “I know you’d like it to be something else, John. Blackmail or a sick relative who needs expensive treatments, but it really is just the money.”

John meets her passive eyes, his own burning with barely contained fury. A few seconds pass and then Sarah smiles slyly. Just smiles like she would an opponent on the track right before the whistle blows, like she knows something they don’t.

“Two thousand,” Moriarty answers his own question, disregarding their conversation entirely. Moran chuckles loudly from where he is still tying weights to John’s ankles, a dark, ugly sound. John breaks his glare with Sarah to glance down at the man as he secures the last of the five pound weights. Moran surveys his own handiwork and stands, giving John a menacing grin.

“The most of all the great lakes,” Moriarty continues almost gleefully. “Do you know how many of those shipwrecks have been found?”

He steps right up to John, invading his personal space. His eyes rake down John’s body and back up. Wearing a lascivious grin, he hooks a finger in the belt loop next to John’s buckle and tugs lightly. John easily keeps his balance, but sways closer to Moriarty. The man swoops in suddenly and licks John’s lower lip slowly, holding him in place as he does it. John suppresses his body’s near jerk of surprise and just angles himself backwards as best he can, but does not turn his head. He will not give any indication that this bastard has caught him off guard. When Moriarty pulls away, his lips twist in a smug and satisfied smile, his eyes full of hunger. John makes no response, his face stony and lined with fury. 

“Three hundred seventy-five,” Moriarty says in a low, but playful voice. “Eighteen percent. Just eighteen percent, John.”

“Do you have a point or are you just your propensity for useless trivia?” John finally snaps, wanting the bastard to shut the hell up and get out of his face, but not willing to give him the satisfaction of showing it.

“Only this,” Moriarty laughs lightly and then ducks in close to John again to whisper conspiratorially. “If they can only find a fraction of such large objects lost in this lake, they’ll never find you.”

His last four words come out in a dark and sinister tone. John does not break eye contact and suppresses a shudder that starts working its way up his spine. The man before him is not just some misguided bam pot with occasional psychotic tendencies, he is a full blown lunatic. Trying to talk him out of his fantasy or appeal to his sense of decency would be useless. The man has no conscience. Sherlock had called him a sociopath, rather than a psychopath. He was wrong.

“Oh, look!” Moriarty cries, looking out over the lake at the boat following them. It had stopped a few yards away right around the same time that they laid anchor, but it is moving toward them again. “It’s coming right for us.”

They all watch as it slowly closes the gap between them. Moriarty suddenly grabs John’s chin with one hand and jerks his head back to face him. They are very close and John can feel the man’s hot breath on his face. 

“You know it’s him,” Moriarty breathes in a hoarse, threatening whisper. “Look at how he cares for you, his damsel in distress.”

“You don’t have to do this,” John finds himself saying. He knows there is no talking Moriarty out of this, but  he can’t stop himself from trying. He must do anything he can to save Sherlock. He feels it down in his bones and in his heart. He would give himself for this man every time. 

“John,” Moriarty looks like he is addressing a child who has done something particularly cute, “are you begging for his life? Is that what this is?”

“It’s not worth it,” John continues, ignoring Moriarty’s taunts. “Not for the championship or to prove you’re better than him.”

Moriarty barks with uproarious laughter. The shuddering pleasure makes him step back a bit, giving John an unobstructed view of the other boat. He can see most of the driver clearly, but his face is obstructed. John’s heart is in his throat and his breath catches because he would know that body anywhere. Goddammit, why didn’t Sherlock call the police?

“Is that what you think?” Moriarty asks in mock surprise, regaining John’s attention with a light pinch to his chin. He leans in close again, their noses almost touching. “I told you once, I want to destroy him.”

John blinks wide, shock jolting through his body when Moriarty suddenly taps his lips against John’s nose in a light kiss. John jerks his head back instinctively and gapes at Moriarty’s wicked smile, too startled to pull himself together for a few seconds, but his mouth soon settles into a scowl that spreads over his features. The embers of anger in his belly are now a full-blown fire of rage and he flexes against the tight ropes bound around his wrists, willing himself to break them. God, he would tear this man’s throat out if he could.

“It’s not about victory,” Moriarty continues casually like he is simply straightening John’s tie before a picnic with friends and telling him how much he hates the potato salad that is sure to be there. He kisses John’s cheek deftly and John tries to squirm out of his grasp, the fire stoking, but Moriarty only holds on tighter. 

“It’s about revenge,” he whispers into John’s face. His voice is full of menace and promise, and he nips at John’s other cheek. This time John just twitches slightly at the touch, his eyes remaining on Moriarty’s. They are mesmerizing him like some sort of hypnotism and John can’t look away. “I offered him everything once and he refused. No one says no to me, John. No. One.”

Moriarty presses into John and covers his mouth with his own. He pulls John’s hair violently, provoking a cry of surprise and pain as John’s head tips back. Moriarty’s tongue plunges into John’s mouth and tangles around his tongue, working quickly with great sweeps and savage sucks. John moves his head from side to side in an effort to escape, fury seeping from every pore. It feels like every hair on his head is ripping out of his scalp, but he will not stop fighting. He viciously clamps his teeth down on Moriarty’s tongue, but it slips away before he can find purchase. Moriarty’s response to the attempt is strong fingers suddenly gripping John’s injured side, making him groan in pain even as his anger flares. He lashes out the only way he can and lurches at Moriarty, teeth snapping as he goes, but Moran catches him before he can topple to the ground with Moriarty beneath him. As Moran roughly sets John right again, doling out another sharp jab to his side. Moriarty’s stilted laughter echoes across the water, only rivaled by the engine of Sherlock’s boat, now almost next to The Crown.

“I’ve tried a lot of things, John, and I’ve waited for the perfect weakness. His Achilles heel,” Moriarty has one hand on each of John’s cheeks now, holding him in place. He is panting with a most disturbing energy. John tries to jerk his head away, but it’s no use. Moriarty’s hands are like a vice and he forces John to look into his eyes again as he whispers savagely. “It’s you. This will destroy him. He. Loves. You.”

Moriarty lingers for a few seconds, breathing John’s air, telling him what he intends to do with every flick of his cold, soulless eyes. He pulls away suddenly and steps up onto one of the deck’s built in seats. Waving unnecessarily and calling out in an almost manic sing-song to the boat that is nearly side by side to theirs.

“Is that you, Sherlock?” Moriarty’s smile grows when the boat pulls up next to them, a scowl firmly set on the lanky coach’s face. John’s heart sinks. Moriarty holds his arms out wide. “I always said you should see me in a crown. Beautiful, isn’t she? We could have had some great times in her, Sherrrrlock. Just you and me.”

Sherlock turns off his engine and moves to stand in the middle of his boat’s deck. It is larger than The Crown and sits slightly higher in the water, so he looks down his nose at them with a grim expression. His eyes are hard as steel. An eerie silence overtakes them and it seems like even the far away reverie of the other boats on the lake has gone. Suddenly theirs are the only two boats in the water, like some kind of grand stand-off.

“Let him go,” is all Sherlock says, his voice loud and commanding.

“Oh, no, no, no. That’s not how this game goes,” Moriarty cackles, genuinely amused.

“This isn’t a game,” Sherlock replies sternly, his voice rumbling with hate.

“Isn’t it?” Moriarty asks calmly, jumping down from the bench to land on The Crown’s deck. He places a finger to his lips as if thinking. He rolls his eyes skyward and inhales deeply before looking back at Sherlock. “It’s all about derby. Isn’t that what you think? It’s what your doctor thinks.”

“No,” Sherlock answers simply. Moriarty’s brows shoot up in surprise, his eyes widening for a split-second. He steps closer to the side of The Crown, places both hands on its side and leans forward slightly.

“Oh?” he cocks an ear in Sherlock’s direction.

“No,” Sherlock does not take the bait to come closer and stays where he is. “This is about you and me. About rejection and humiliation.”

“You should have let me fuck you,” Moriarty growls, his eyes growing dark. His hands grasp hard at the boat and his knuckles are white. “You should have let me have you. No one has ever refused me, the Great Jim Moriarty, King of the Track. Except you.”

“True,” it is a guttural sound that shakes John to the core with its hate and passion.

“You take a little more of my life every year. One more piece lost with every championship,” Moriarty sighs, tilting his head down and lowering his eyes almost reverently. When he raises his eyes again, they are narrow slits or pure evil. “If it was anyone else it wouldn’t matter, but you… It’s always you.”

His final words are so vicious that John flinches minutely under their power. John’s gaze is locked on Sherlock, who has not spared him even a glance so as to keep his eyes on the enemy. Moriarty looks like an animal ready to pounce and John has no doubt he would rip out Sherlock’s heart if given the chance.

John feels restless, his whole body on edge from the crackling in the air. It is like a powder keg about to explode. Moriarty’s fuse is burning at full force, getting shorter and shorter with every word. What the fuck is Sherlock’s plan to get them out of this and how can John help? He should do something, say something! He should be distracting Moriarty somehow or clobbering Moran. He tests the rope wrapped around his wrists. Clenching his fists and straightening his fingers a few times, he finds the bonds are tight, but could be loosened with time. How much time, John does not know, but it’s a start. Shifting his eyes to Moran to make sure he is not watching, John begins shifting his wrists within the rope. He twists them this way and that as imperceptibly as possible, resisting the temptation to bite his lip with the effort and ignoring the pain radiating from his side.

“So ruin my career. Put me in the hospital. Kill me!” Sherlock snarls, fury building even as he struggles to rein it in. Moriarty is already shaking his head before Sherlock finishes the first sentence.

“That won’t do it, Sherlock. It’s not what I want,” he leans over the side and growls low in a voice befitting a demon. “I want to destroy you. Tear out your heart and end your life.”

Moriarty straightens again and backs from The Crown’s edge, closer to John and Moran.

“I thought your insipid little friend, but…” Moriarty’s pitch is back in its appropriate octave and it makes the small, knowing smile he wears all the more sinister. He gestures to John with a grandiose bow. “This is your heart. This is your life, and I. Will. End. It.”

As if on cue, Moran wraps his big hands around John’s biceps and pushes him to the far side of The Crown. The top of the side comes to right about the middle of John’s thigh and he would easily topple over if pushed, especially when restrained and covered with weights. In spite of the obvious intent, Sherlock does not move or flinch. John knows he does not want to tip his hand, but his visible lack of concern still squeezes John’s heart.

“You will not succeed,” Sherlock says coldly, careful to show no emotion but anger. “You failed to kill Molly and you only harmed your own spy when you tried for Harry.”

“Oh, you know about little Ginger, do you?” the villain huffs out a surprised laugh. “And I suppose Sarah is no shocker either.”

“You fail to defeat Rock City on the track,” Sherlock continues as though the man had said nothing. “Failure is your life. Your idiom and you will fail now too. It is inevitable.”

Moriarty’s jaw is clenched tightly shut, the thin muscles beneath his skin working fast. His entire form is tight as ripcord, hands clenched into white-knuckled fists. Eyes blazing, body twitching every few seconds as if he is trying to keep from jumping into Sherlock’s boat to bite off his head, Moriarty manages a wry smile. It gradually grows into a terrifying grin worthy of a monster.  In the silence that follows, Moran’s fingers tighten around John’s arms. He knows what is coming and is powerless to stop it. His mind should jump to action and find a way out, but that is not what his mind does. Instead it plays through all of his memories of Sherlock. He sees everything they have done, every moment shared, every expression and every word.

I love you.

John’s mind zeros in on that moment, that voice. Sherlock’s voice. Sincere, honest, so full of adoration and love. Genuine love from a man who, until now, had guarded his heart with such vigor.

Suddenly, it all becomes astoundingly clear. The clouds are lifted and John’s eyes see what he has been forever hidden from him. His own feelings bubbling to the surface with such force it nearly knocks him off his feet. Every part of his body tingles and his heart explodes in his chest. He knows what it is! He knows what to call the feeling he has danced around for weeks. He should have known long ago, but just couldn’t seem to wrap his mind around it. He has never felt it for anyone before, hadn’t even thought himself capable, and he will never feel this way about anyone else. Only Sherlock.

John locks fierce blue eyes on Sherlock and feels an immediate warmth bloom in his chest. He has to say it. He has to tell Sherlock how he feels before it’s too late. Let the words pass through his lips at least once before they are forever silenced. John opens his mouth to speak, as Moriarty tilts his head and Moran pushes John over the side of The Crown. He twists his body instinctively, but his bounds allow for no movement sufficient to save his life.

“Sherlock!” is all John gets out before his words are cut off by the water that swallows him whole.

---

AAAARRRRRRHHHGGGGGGUUMMMM! Jane. Jane!!!!! WHY? Two cliffhangers in a row??? What happened to our fairly safe and highly amusing Johnlock meets roller derby? I just can’t help myself. I am the Empress of Evil, the Harbinger of Doom. Oo, I should’ve put that on the back of my t-shirt. Haha.

Oh, my poor John, thrown into certain death. He got away from Moran not once, but twice, but can he escape this? It doesn’t look good. And what of Sherlock’s plan? Does John being in the water toss the whole thing in the scrapheap? We shall see in the next chapter and, while we’re talking about chapters let me just say that I’ve added one more. You have a little more to look forward to. ☺

Thank you all for your love and support. Thank you to my lovely beta, MyBreadAndButter. She always brings out the best in me, as do all of you. I love you, my friends. Stay well and stay safe. Jane

---

@zentris @221b-carefulwhatyouwishfor @tooolforthissh--stuff @shana-movershaker @melmey-fanfics @louise175dk @technicallywiseoncns @underestimatemethatwillbefun @jhamishw @weirdlittlegoofball @superwholockpotterincamelot @superwholocklmt @ladidragonuniverse @kittenmadnessandtea @srebrnafh @welcometomyharddrive @annecumberbatch @kingdomofbrokenhearts @philliphooper @whodwantmeasaflatmate @gloriascott93 @vvaticancameoss @cow-mow @echosilverwolf @spazzz32 @absentmindedsstuff @swissmissing @shuukichan @maeliandmyself @wtgilsa  @red-pen-revolution @britishaccentfan @dischorde @plasticstrawsmuggler @youknowyougrow @one-thousand-splendid-stars @irina12maria

#Sherlock Holmes #Sherlock #sherlockholmes #sherlock loves john #sherlock fanfic #sherlock roller derby #john watson #johnwatson #johnlock #Johnlock fanfic #John loves Sherlock #sherlock au #johnlock au

[zani-is-a-stan]

suzani watches the Sherlock unaired pilot

Opening

-       This version of John looks way more old and way more dad

-       That close shot on the gun tell the viewer that John is suicidal

-       The dark silhouette of the cupid statue kind of stands out. Given how the cinematography and shot framing is a lot sloppier in this version, I don’t think this is intentional. But if it was intentional, this would be a signal to the viewer that this is a love story.

-       Mmm, pass on both Anderson’s beard and this way of introducing the concept of a Sherlock

-       This title & credits sequence is so dated

-       Anderson with no inflection is boring

-       Dinner with wine is not a great place for John to be saying he’s broke

We meet Sherlock & Molly

-       We start to see the beginnings of the geometric and precise framing that are the signature of the show in that one shot of Molly behind the glass

-       Its nice to see that Molly’s character required almost no adjustment between the two versions. Given that she was the first character original to the show instead of the books, it’s nice to see that she stuck the landing so perfectly

-       It’s starting to be really obvious how loose the editing is. There’s a lot of dead air at the beginning and end of every shot before each cut. Much better in the final version.

The lab

-       This version of Sherlock seems a lot more accurate to the book Sherlock from Study in Scarlet than the series ultimately ended up being. He’s softer, more interested in interacting with other people than the antisocial, high functioning ASD (where’s the fic that explores that?) twanging brain haver he is in the first episode of season 1

-       I want to read a take on Sherlock that discusses him as having ASD and interprets the violin playing and the mystery solving as his stimming techniques

-       The camera shots in this scene are really starting to stand out as very different from the show. It’s not just the editing which is kind of thoughtless – these shots are poorly composed and poorly planned. I don’t think it would stand out so much if the final version of the show didn’t make so many deliberate and stylized decisions regarding with the shots and editing.

The apartment

-       The extrapolation of john’s family based on the phone became much cleaner in the aired version

-       Comic sans! I mean, mrs Hudson is better than that.

-       Mrs Hudson definitely checked out john’s butt …

-       “can I just ask … what is your street?” this was very good, if repetitive

-       Sherlock needs an assistant? This sherlock has a need for human connection that the other one doesn’t – and he has a lava lamp.

-       Ugh the apartment at 221B baker st looks so much more vintage in this setup. Not a fan.

-       This sherlock definitely cares more about what other people think than the final version.

-       Mrs Hudson is a much softer, premade character in this version. I like the final version better. She seems stronger that way.

The cab ride

-       So boring. Such greenscreen. Wow.

-       not just the greenscreen. the difference in the shooting and finishing of this sequence in the pilot and the aired episode is so incredibly improved that you can hardly believe there were part of the same thing.

-       TOO MUCH SYNTH

-       Sherlock has a far too human response to john’s compliments and more doubt in how accurate his deductions are

The crime scene

-       Im glad they changed sally’s outfit, and smoothed out sherlock’s taunting of her and Anderson’s affair. Ugh I wish they’d kept sally around. This show needed more normie/casual sherlock opponents. Lack of closeups in this scene do it no favors

-       They cut the Rache/Rachel clue. And btw, I do love how this was inverted from the book presentation in the show.

-       “no, there are two women and three men lying dead, keep talking and there will be more” – this sherlock prioritizes people over mystery solving, and that’s a little more humanizing as well.

-       When he’s deconstructing the scene around the woman in pink, there’s a switch in sherlock’s voice when he’s off camera. I’m wondering if maybe that’s a stat actor reading the script for some reason, or if they recorded the dialogue and the camera angles at the same time and forgot to switch when they were editing that shot? Makes sense given how messy the editing is throughout the pilot.

-       “do you know you do that out loud?” “sorry, I’ll shut up” “No, don’t worry, it’s fine” (pleased smile) --- this exchange is so accurate to book Sherlock and Holmes

-       This is not the same sally as the first episode. I had to check because I have a little bit of face blindness and there weren’t any closeups, but it’s definitely not her. Interesting how the actress who ultimately played her changed the inflection but brought very little new to the blocking.

a bit inbetween and the pink case

-       No Mycroft, hmm. Don’t care for it. It added a lot with a really nice red herring feel.

-       John returns to his place for absolutely no reason narratively.

-       I don’t care for the red herring moment where john looks at the pink case and wonders if sally was right and talks out loud about it.

-       The end exchange of this scene is awesome and should have stayed. “Donovan said you get off on this.” “And I said danger and here you are.” “DAMNIT!” It’s very funny, and it’s a fun spar between the two rather than the ultimate resigned tolerance that series John seems to settle into by season 2.

do you have a girlfriend? a boyfriend?

-       Sherlock not eating is a brilliant touch, I think that should have been there.

-       This version of the girlfriend boyfriend conversation is far more successful than the aired version, although I prefer the setting in the aired version. It’s flirtier, and the “Everything else is transport” line carries implications I prefer to the one we saw on on the official version.

-       Sherlock knowing the cab thing ahead of time really lowers the stakes.

-       Angelo and the headless nun thing is fucking beautiful. (although angelo is a bit of an upstager) But, the change in the plot to the John running and leaving the cane behind in the final version is much more relevant to the story.

-       Ok, so the cabbie drugging Sherlock did show us that John is smart in his own right (we never got enough of that), but it showed us Sherlock fucking up in a way that is inconsistent with the show version of that character. For us to buy that Sherlock is other level super genius instead of just very smart, he can’t make this kind of mistake. If he can’t make a mistake, then John can’t prove his own intelligence. I do think it was a good idea to put the police back in his apartment now, as it gives us more interesting and fun things about those characters, and the ultimate build to the cab ride and the incorporation of modern technology really contributed to the modernizing of the adaption.

which pill

-       WHOA that cabbie did just very much threaten to molest or rape Sherlock. Although if there were no women or gay men on the script team, I can totally see the writers not realizing that this line had that connotation.

-       And this version requires a lot more explaining of plotholes with dialogue in a way that is avoided in the final verion. This is unquestionably good, because there’s nothing more graceless in filmed stories than having plot explained with words, especially by a villain.

-       Taking the pills out of the bottle looks silly.

-       Final version cabbie is better. More self-satified and mean.

-       “Either way, you’re wasted as a cabbie” is a way better line in the final.

-       Taking him out of the apartment and away from the police phone call was A+ the right choice.

-       Everyone know the best cops scream “Who is firing, who is firing?” when someone fires a shot.

i’ve got a blanket

-       Sherlock saying “Yeah, maybe he beat me, but he’s dead” is a far shot from the man who shook a dying man and demanded to know if he was right or not. Again, this Sherlock is far more human and far less computer.

-       That bit with mrs Hudson at the end was unnecessarily mean, I’m glad they cut it

-       “I’m his Doctor.” – this lines should have stayed forever.

Overall thoughts

Ok, so overall changes between the pilot and the aired first episode. Plot was a lot more polished. They scrubbed every trace of human need from Sherlock, which I think was a good choice, at least for the beginning of the show. His literal only love is his own abilities as the show airs, which leaves him with a very interesting and exploitable weakness – his arrogance, where as pilot Sherlock doesn’t seem to care all that much when he makes a mistake. We did lose a couple of scenes that had a lot of good chemistry in them, but I think the plot was much improved overall for the changes. The change of Sherlock from being casually mean to people like Anderson to swatting away an irritating fly is very successful. The focus of Sherlock’s relationship with Lestrade seems of a higher priority than Watsons a little bit, so I’m glad that changed. The lead up to John shooting the cabbie was much better in the final

Honestly the pilot doesn’t look like a pilot as much as it looks like a proof of concept piece. The budget was obviously smaller: that’s why they reused the same restaurant set, it’s why the final confrontation took place in the apartment rather than a second location, that’s why the effects are missing or budgety, that’s why the editing was low-end. This as a pilot was sold on the impact of the actors and the bones of the script, not on any of the look that would ultimately make the show what it was. The color work between the first and second version of this alone was amazing.   I also think that the hair change in Sherlock was an excellent choice. It offsets BC’s face/head structure in a way that plays into the strangeness of the character in a much better way. Similarly, the coat and scarf that he wears in the series do exist in the pilot, but aren’t really a signature of Sherlock’s on-screen shape design in the same way.

I think the only thing I would’ve kept is the inflection, delivery & read on the girlfriend boyfriend scene, and the return of the “I said danger and here you are” exchange.

There’s a lot of talk about Sherlock’s sexuality and what was cannon in the books. TV Sherlock they seem to be confused about (Belgravia as an episode left me really confused about what statement the writers were trying to make there, which implies that they’re either not completely sure either, or they’re too straight to understand what they’re doing). In the books, Holmes chooses not to have romantic relationship because it stops his brain from working clearly – it’s a deliberate choice based on the Victorian concept of sex (and women, because they are clearly only sex objects) diminishing the capacity for clear thought and mental performance. This is not the same as him being asexual or aromantic as we not aro/ace people understand the concept in 2019.

Based on the scene as it airs, the girlfriend/boyfriend scene would leave me with the opinion that Sherlock is not just asexual but also aromantic. Possibly one of these by choice rather than nature. Based as how the scene plays out in the unaired pilot, I would think that Sherlock is celibate and also attracted to John, more likely gay than bisexual. (There was quite a bit of smoldering going on in the Sherlock to John direction.)

#sherlock #sherlock pilot #suzani watches #suzani watches the unaired sherlock pilot

[mmacabrera]

Opportunities we had lost || part 3

chapter 3: glorious opportunity

summary: She was Goldie O’Gilt, she didn’t wait for opportunities anymore. She made them if it was necessary and she took them without letting go of even one bit. She could have this, if she didn’t have this when she was younger, maybe she could have this now. Goldie O’Gilt took what she wanted, this woman was no exception.

character/ships: m’ma cabrera/goldie o’gilt.

word count: 4224

n/a: Reincarnation!AU, resolved unresolved sexual/romantic tension, bamf adult ladies, made up backstories, some guns but they’re never used, well umm kinda, injuries, pining, kissing, visit my tumblr for my masterpost page of this fic.

Gloria threw the folder on the table, the slapping sound making Goldie immediately turn around on the couch, her hands behind her head. She had been watching absorbedly at the ceiling, intense expression on her face. The expression was gone now, replaced with a confident smile and playful eyes, as nothing had happened. Gloria just gestured to her to move so she could sit down.

Goldie finally sat down and moved. “So, how can I help you, dear officer?”

Gloria sat down hard on the couch and looked at her straight in the eye. “How did you know Victoria and me were related?”

Goldie stopped smiling but there was some kind of hope reflecting out of her eyes now. “What? What are you talking about?”

Gloria opened the folder and held the first picture. She didn’t even want to see it but the question that she had been holding onto for months finally got out. “Is this the Victoria you know?”

Goldie’s eyes were now wide open and she snatched the picture out of her hand, gasping. She didn’t need to see the picture again to know what Goldie was seeing.

Gloria did have reasons to freak out every time she saw that photograph of that girl’s portrait.

After all, that girl’s face was her own.

Or, at least, it looked almost exactly like hers.

Her face was younger but harsher. Her hair was longer, delicate and well cared at the same time that looked untamed and wild.

But what really threw her off, more than the similarities, more than those unreliable feelings, were her eyes. Her eyes were different in a way that wasn’t physical.

Black eyes that looked directly at the viewer, piercing and determinate.

Gloria was so sure those were her exact same eyes, but there was something that made her breathing harder when she stared at them. There was an intensity that she felt she couldn’t keep up with. Some unspoken hardship, some unspoken truth, some unspoken will to what? To live? To fight? To transcend, maybe? She looked way ahead of her like she had made a decision that she was really determined to live up to.

Some unspoken promise that Gloria had to know about.

But that was impossible. Of course. How she could know anything about this woman? Less about a promise she did.

Gloria didn’t know why, but since the day that she saw that one particular picture, her feelings regarding Goldie seemed even more confusing than before. That feeling in the back of her mind recoiled and expanded wildly every time she tried to regard it. And now that Goldie was there? It positively was starting to hurt.

Goldie’s face was a poem. She looked confused, an incredulous expression on her while she looked at the picture. At some point, she started to look at her and then at the picture. Gloria raised a brow at some point, because really, how many times did she need to see the picture and then at her again? She understood she was surprised but considering she was the one insisting she was Victoria maybe she shouldn’t be as incredulous.

Goldie got up suddenly, signaling her with the picture accusingly, surprising her with a betrayed face that Gloria didn’t know how to deal with. She screamed at her, “I knew it! You’re Victoria!”

Gloria got up too by impulse at the scream, ignoring her common sense of not starting a fight. “The hell I am! We’ve been over this already! And don’t scream at me!”

Goldie groaned, she seemed to think better of it and threw her hands up in frustration accompanied by an exasperated noise. “Ok! Maybe you’re not her.” Goldie complied, not exactly calm but definitely not screaming again. She still had a weird betrayed face on her. “But you’re related, right? You say so yourself, is she like your great-grandma or something?”

Gloria sat down again with a grunt, caressing the middle of her beak. “We aren’t related by blood, genius. Or, at least I hope so,” she sighed, almost talking to herself that last part. “Fucking sit down, you’re making me nervous.”

Goldie blinked at her, confused. She sat down as she told her at least. The picture still firmly in her grasp. “What do you mean not by blood? You look the same.”

“I know, you don’t need to remind me. And before I answer that, you have to answer me something first. How old are you?”

“Oh, that? Now?”

“Yeah, that. Because, that woman?" she said, signaling the picture Goldie had in her hands. "Obviously lived in the 1860s or something and you don’t look over your forties so you better explain how do you know her.”

Goldie snorted, looking at her. “Really? That’s all you wanna know?”

Gloria shrugged, her brow furrowed. “No, but it’s a start.”

“Ok, ok. I’m like, with exactitude, one hundred thirty-two years old? Maybe, do you have a calculator?”

Gloria blinked at her and then let her head fell into the couch, looking at the ceiling with an incredulous expression. “Oh Jesús Bendito, my boss was right.”

“Yeah, I answered you already, are you gonna explain me-?”

Gloria continued freaking out, ignoring her. “You’re over one hundred years and you look like that!?”

Goldie rolled her eyes. “Yeah, the Fountain of Youth comes handy for that. Now, about Victoria-“

“The Fountain of what now!?”

Goldie groaned, exasperated. “We don’t have time for you losing it, Gloria. How the hell are you and Victoria related? Apart from the obvious and uncanny physical resemblance.”

“Yeah, I…I think my head hurts, give me a second.”

“Yeah, there are rumors that that happens to people that don’t use their brains too much.”

Gloria looked at her with the most tired expression she could give her, Goldie just smiled, signaling to the folder, edging her on opening it.

Gloria grunted, sitting upright again. “Ok, you win. But I don’t really know how we are related. I just know that we are. I actually hoped that you, that you knew.”

She sighed, taking the other pictures out of the folder and showing them to Goldie. She took them immediately and looked at them with attention. Now those were real photographs of the moment. Black and white, sepia and color photographs, two women always together, sometimes there was a man, sometimes there was a little girl. But the two women were always together in every picture, there was a real feeling to them, something domestic that Gloria could understand and relate to. One of those women was Victoria. They didn’t freak her out as bad and that feeling in the back of her mind? It felt more like hers than anything else. Still foreign, but a relatable one.

Goldie looked at every picture with a mixed expression, confusion, and nerves colliding in her eyes. “Who are these people?”

“My family.”

“You said-.”

“I know what I say, just…let me explain. Give me one of the pictures were the four are together.”

Goldie looked for one immediately and gave it to her. Gloria put the picture on the table and then signaled to the little duckling, she looked happy, with a big smile taking all her face, each little fluffy gray hand taking one of the women’s. “This is my great-grandma.”

Then she signaled to the man, a sturdy but short white duck with an easy expression. One of his hands were on the shoulder of the woman that wasn’t Victoria. He had a wedding ring. “This is my great-great-grandfather, Julio Lozano, and this one,” she said next, signaling a black duck with a beautiful face, she had a soft-spoken expression and her head rested tenderly on Victoria’s shoulder, “is my great-great-grandmother, Mercedes Cabrera.”

Goldie raised a brow at her. “So? The only thing I’m getting from this is that your great-great-grandmother was pretty hardcore on keeping the Cabrera name alive since you’re a Cabrera too.”

Gloria tried not to snort but she did let a smug smile slide on her face. “Yeah, I know, this is the part that really interests you. Your dearest Victoria,” she continued, signaling to Victoria. She looked calm and gorgeous like she always did, that always ever present self-assured smile on her face looked now indulgent and trusting. Goldie sighed.

Gloria took some other papers out of the folder. They looked old and boring. It was a contract, a certificate of change of name “I dug a little deeper and found that she was my great-great-grandmother’s companion, business partner, teacher and later on my great-grandma’s teacher. But that’s all I have, no more records, no certificate of birth, no certificate of death, no more photos. These are the only things I could find about her. And they were from my family. It’s like…she disappeared after that.”

Goldie inspected the contract and the certificate of the change of name. She furrowed her brow, some detail taking her attention then she took the pictures, the ones were her great-great-grandmother and Victoria were together.

Goldie asked with an uncertain voice like she didn’t want to ask at all, and less of all, she didn’t want an answer. “Were they together? Is that why she changed her name to Cabrera?”

“Oh, that.” Gloria took the papers from her, looking over them. And yes there it was, Victoria Flores Silva to Victoria Cabrera. “I thought that too. They definitely didn’t seem like just business partners or companions on those pictures.”

Goldie showed her one picture have Victoria hugging her great-great-grandmother from behind with a pretty romantic smile. No great-great-grandpa in sight. “No shit, Sherlock.”

“Fuck off, Watson.” Gloria snatched the picture out of her grasp. “It’s just a theory anyway, and even then, I still don’t know anything about Victoria. My family never talked about her even when they have this stuff about her, but they did talk about my great-great-parents and my great-grandma, if she was so related to us I don’t know why they wouldn’t talk about her.”

Goldie groaned, looking at all the pictures in desperation. She took a deep breath and a sobered expression took over her face.

Gloria was still trying to fight that feeling in the back of her mind that edge her to do a bunch of actions without reason at all. That expression Goldie just made her feel guilty like she had just hurt her. She wanted to apologize but for what? For Victoria apparently moving on with her great-great-grandma? It wasn’t Gloria’s fault.

And yet.

Goldie turned to her, a serious expression on her face. “Why did you look for these? We only saw each other for one time, you could have easily brushed off our encounter. Excuse me saying that I was just hallucinating or something. Why look for these things? Why find out about this now?”

Gloria wanted answers to those question too, she could admit that she thought that maybe having confirmation that this was Victoria could somewhat clear the fog of those feelings of familiarity mixed with an unknown that wasn’t part of her normal. Honestly, all of this only made the hurt worse. She still didn’t know shit about Victoria. But her name resonated in her mind like a part of her. She hated not knowing something about herself. She had never doubted who she was until now.

She decided to just tell Goldie. She let her mouth run out, almost everything pouring out of her.

“When I first saw you, I started feeling weird and you calling me Victoria just finally fucked me up, I started having these, these weird feelings every time I thought about you and you calling me Victoria, like I had known you before, like you had called me that before, but that’s like, impossible, right? Like there was something else I had to know about it. It wouldn’t leave my mind at all and then… then I found this stuff between the things mi’amá brought from Cuba when I was cleaning the apartment and well, it freaked me out.”

“I actually wanted to ignore it because it freaked me out. But they got worse when I saw that photograph of Victoria’s portrait and I just, I had to know, you know? But now, I’m even more confused. I don’t know why I feel like this and Victoria isn’t even related to me by blood. Why did you have to come and turn my world upside down? Why do I feel like this?”

She didn’t even realize but she was now up and walking around her couch, frustrated and angry. She sounded bitter, and she kinda was.

She had enough dealing with her recent divorce and her chaotic mess of a schedule and Fenton and groceries and saving up to pay for taxes and bills and Fenton’s school and she wanted a house too! Why Life have to throw her now what? An identity crisis? Some existential bullshit she didn’t even have to deal with when she was a teenager? Was that why? She didn’t have an existential crisis when she was a teen so she was having it now? There was no other explanation for this crap.

“That’s probably because you are her reincarnation.”

Except maybe that one.

Gloria laughed hard, the absurdity of the comment taking her completely by surprise and distracting her from her own self-loathing. She looked at Goldie, still laughing. But Goldie was serious, not an ounce of humor in her face. Gloria stopped laughing immediately, incredulous.

“Oh por Dios Bendito, you’re serious.”

Goldie talked again, this time more firmly, getting up and walking to her. “You heard me. You are her reincarnation.”

“I’m her what now?” Gloria looked at her like he had grown a second head. She snorted at the next second, she couldn’t believe what she was hearing this. “Goldie, look you can’t, as old as you say or whatever, but you can’t really pretend that I going to believe in some bullshit like reincarnation. I’m not Jesús!”

“That’s resurrection, genius. I’m talking about reincarnation. She died, you were born.”

“I don’t care, it's bullshit.”

“Then tell me, officer,” she asked, defiantly. “How the hell do you explain that you look exactly like her? How else do you explain that you feel like you know me? If it’s not reincarnation, what is it?”

Gloria stayed silent, stubbornly so. She refused to acknowledge that it had to do something with resurrection. Because if it was reincarnation, who was her then? Did that mean that her feelings, her actions, her history wasn’t hers? If she was Victoria, what did that mean for her?

The feeling of her world going upside down was a completely unsolicited one. She had always known who she was, she had always felt certain of her feelings, of what to do. It had been her normal to act as her mind say at the moment that it said. But with these feelings that didn’t feel hers, with this pain in the back of her mind, she felt anxious and undefined, not knowing how to react to any of this.

Goldie seemed to think better of it, sighing softly and taking her face between her hands. Gloria stayed quiet, an uncertain expression in her face. “You say you have feelings for me, something that you can’t explain. What are those feelings?”

“Goldie-”

“Tell me.”

It sounded commendably soft for something that actually felt so authoritative.

Gloria gulped, the back of her mind screaming and recoiling. Something that boiled in her veins that she couldn’t explain nor wanted to, a mix of attraction and longing that she couldn’t control.

She felt desperate, to do what? She didn’t know exactly, a feeling she had not welcome into her stabbed her heart again and again, and now that Goldie was there, in front of her with a familiar face that shouldn’t be familiar, the feeling wounded her heart harder. She felt like she had not seen Goldie in a century, even if she knew it had been only months. Hell, only hours. She felt the need to snatch her up by the waist and kiss her instead of whatever they were doing right now.

But that was illogical, and she couldn’t be driven by illogical impulses like that.

Every reasonable thought in her demanded distance between them, demanded distrust. But, that something was having none of it.

“Mierda…” Gloria looked to the ground, still insecure about the whole thing. “I’m sorry.”

Goldie hummed, sounding amused. “Why for?”

Gloria scoffed, frustrated. “I had no fucking idea, for my great-great-grandma getting on with Victoria? The hell I know, I just saw your face, all sad and I just feel sorry, ok?”

Goldie let out a deep breath and then she let out a soft laugh, it sounded patronizing. Gloria still couldn’t see her in the face.

“It’s that all? That’s all that has been eating you away?” No, that isn’t all, she thought, the desire to just kiss her still there but she didn’t want to deal with that now. Not with Goldie. “What more are you feeling, officer?”

She changed the subject, a cowardice she didn’t know she had taking over her mind. “Why did you come here anyway? To annoy me? Because I’m feeling very annoyed right now.” Goldie snorted. “You said you came here for something and you wouldn’t leave until you did, so what is it?”

Goldie looked at her like she knew she was avoiding the subject. She didn’t let her. “Oh, that. Well, it was mostly to confirm some things, but now that I did, your feelings sound more interesting…” Goldie sent her a look. Her emerald eyes sending her into a spiral. She knew that look like she had been seeing it her whole life. There were desire and want and longing.

She felt that too.

Goldie walked up to her until she was pretty close, their beaks almost meeting. Gloria felt shivers and chills through her body, the feeling young and far away but strong in its own way.

Just do it, she thought, not avoiding her gaze, staring in those greens intently. She didn’t know from where exactly that thought came from. The situation felt familiar, her mind screaming an order she couldn’t understand when Goldie put her hands in her shirt.

“Well, feeling annoyed is a feeling, all right. What are you gonna do about it, officer?”

Yeah, what are you gonna do now, officer Cabrera? Are you a coward?

She knew exactly what she wanted to do now, and she was no coward. She was tired of being held down by this confusion and this strange fearfulness that wasn’t hers. Goldie was beautiful and confusing and just there. And her mind screamed for release, who was she to deny it now?

“Just, this,” and she closed the distance, kissing her hard, with all her might. Her fingers losing themselves in blond hair. Her mind finally shutting up.

The peace she had been looking for finally there.

.

I wish I was in Dawson, Victoria thought, waiting angrily in an empty room of her house for the man that had asked for her hand in marriage.

She felt angered. She felt incomplete. The beautiful Spanish night didn’t relax her anymore, her always warm house didn’t feel as welcoming as always and her own room felt like a trap. She had felt like this for weeks now, she didn’t know what to do with these emotions except writing letters to Goldie that she didn’t feel brave enough to send.

The frustration was eating her inside out. She could have so easily kissed her, it wouldn’t have mattered at all at that point. She was going far away from her, who knew if she could see her again, it was only a step, a single action. She was such a coward, she wanted to kiss her until she couldn’t breathe.

She yearned, wanted, longed.

She wished she could reset her life again only to be able to do that simple thing. She wished she could hold onto her and never let go.

The voice of a man interrupted her thoughts. “Good morning, I hope I’m not interrupting anything. That’s a pretty sad face you got there. Something wrong, señorita Victoria? We could do this meeting any other day, I’ve got no problem with that.”

Victoria sighed, feeling her patience on thin ice. She turned around with the most serious face she could muster and greeted the man. “Good morning, Señor Cabrera. And don’t worry, I prefer to get this out of the way finally. It’s a pleasure to see you, by the way.”

Mr. Cabrera, seemingly not believing her one bit, keep on smiling, patronizingly so. Victoria hated it. “Good to hear that, then I think you may be wondering why I asked for this meeting.”

Cut the crap, old man, we both know why.

“And no, it’s no, it’s not for your hand in marriage, like your parents and you are probably thinking.”

Victoria blinked, confused and forgetting her anger for a moment. She dropped her serious act in a second. “Wait, what?”

“I’m actually here to propose you something else. Well, more like someone else.”

Victoria rolled her eyes, disappointment and anger came to her again. She couldn’t believe she actually thought it was something else. “If it’s your son then-.”

“It’s my daughter, actually.” Victoria shut her mouth immediately, not knowing what to say. Mr. Cabrera kept smiling, not dropping his easy-going demeanor for a second.

“To, to marry her?” She asked with a traitorous timid voice, completely incredulous of what she was hearing.

“Well, no. That would be illegal, really.” Victoria wondered if legality was the only thing stopping this man from proposing his daughter to her in marriage. “There’s a rumor around town that you’re the most knowledgeable woman that Spain has ever seen.”

She was no woman, not yet, not with only fifteen. But Victoria, proudly, didn’t waste a second to confirm it. “I am.”

Mr. Cabrera let out a rich and charming laugh. “And humble too, apparently.” Victoria shrugged, a genuine smug smile breaking through her face, she was starting to feel at ease with him. “I was wondering if you could be my daughter’s teacher and companionship. She is my only heir since my wife died and honestly, I’m not looking for another.”

“A wife or an heir?” she asked, doubtfully.

“Both,” he replied with ease. “I was hoping you would say yes, she is shy and I don’t trust the teachers around here, they don’t want to teach women.”

“Oh, I know.”

Mr. Cabrera hummed, appreciatively. “I bet you do. You understand that world better than me. She will carry the Cabrera’s name and pass it down, I’m pretty sure of it. She is at least really hard about that subject.”

“You mean if you’re lucky to find a man that would accept to carry a woman’s name or let their progenies have it instead of his.”

“Ah, señorita Victoria, you’re killing me with these answers. Would you accept or not?”

Victoria snorted. “I…” There was something in the back of her mind that told her that teaching another girl sounded like a betrayal. She paid it no mind. She didn’t know if she could put the past in the past, but this was a step. It wasn’t a bad deal. “I can. But I have to inform my parents.”

“I actually would like to talk with your parents personally if you don’t mind."

Victoria smiled, this time with more honesty. “They’ll be thrilled.”

“I sure hope so. But now, my daughter has been waiting for your approval, I’m gonna present her to you in this instant.”

“Wait, now?”

“Yes, of course! What better time to start than right now? Daughter of mine, come here!”

Victoria tried not to laugh at this man, especially when his beautiful daughter stepped in. She was almost exactly like her father, black jet feathers that looked soft to the touch and beautiful black eyes. She held herself with little confidence. Definitely Goldie’s opposite.

Mr. Cabrera smiled and grabbed his daughter by her shoulder with proudness. “Señorita Victoria, this is my daughter, Mercedes. Mercedes, Victoria. Now, if you excuse me, ladies, I’m gonna do some business.”

And he got out there like a breeze, Victoria finally couldn’t hold it down more and laughed heartedly. “Your father sure is an impatient man.”

The young Cabrera laughed. Her voice was heavenly. She looked a little embarrassed but seemed to have a lot of affection for her father, if that little look she threw in his direction was anything to get by.

“He is a good father. I’m thankful to you for accepting, he has been talking about you for a while very excitedly.”

“Has he?”

She nodded. Victoria was thinking that she was going to like this family very much. “Anyways, would you like to start your lessons now?”

She seemed surprised. “Now?”

“Didn’t he say that what better time to start than now?”

She laughed again and Victoria thought that she may be okay after all. Even if the feelings in the back of her mind told her otherwise. “I think these lessons are gonna be a pleasure with someone with such humor.”

“The pleasure is gonna be mine. Really.”

Im not promising shit, im gonna die from it lmao not even when im 100% sure im gonna do it, i end not doing it lmao anyways, have some kisses and misteries about vic.

#ducktales #ducktales 2017 #cabroldie #m'ma cabrera #goldie o'gilt #toddy writes #toddy was here #reincarnation au

[bizarre-dollhouse]

Yana Toboso’s Writing Style: The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly

I’LL STOP WRITING LONG WINDED KURO POSTS WHEN I’M DEAD.

I do my best to stay out of Kuro discourse because...I just hate it and find it’s usually about stuff that’s pretty trivial in the grand scheme of things. But within the past several months I’ve noticed a new point of contention is the author herself, which I think is an actual good point of contention because it opens up an interesting conversation about the work as a whole and how/why Kuro is the way it is (aka good, bad, and...tonally confused to say the least). 

And just to make things perfectly clear, this is an opinion piece about Yana Toboso’s strengths and weaknesses as a mangaka. This is not me telling people that they’re viewing the series all wrong and that I’m right. I just want to open up a discussion (in fact, I welcome people disagreeing with me, I just want it to be clear that this is not an attack on other people’s opinions, it’s just my opinions).

Lots of text under the cut.

I’m going to start with what I like about Kuro, since I’ve been reading it for like, 5 years and own 25 volumes of it (including one I just bought like 2 weeks ago). 

The Good:

What I think is by far Yana’s biggest strength is her characters. They all have very distinct personalities, but aren’t just one note. There’s also a lot of them; one thing that struck me when I reread all of Kuro was just how big the cast is and how it feels even bigger because a very large portion of the cast have their own arcs, whether it be during the course of the series or in their backstories (or both). 

Even the villains are a really good variety of comedic, evil/scary, and sympathetic (except maybe the first mobster guy but the first arc kinda sucks anyway and is mostly just for plot establishment. And I guess the curry contest guy kinda sucks too but that arc is all about Soma and Agni so I can give it a pass). Baron Kelvin is piss-your-pants terrifying in his appearance, actions, and behaviour, but still has a backstory that isn’t at all sympathetic but makes you understand his motivations. 

I think that’s the key for all of the villains/characters in general; everyone has motivations that make sense even if they’re not relatable. 

I also think the fact that most people in the fandom want spin-offs (about the reapers, Vincent and Dee, the servants, the season 2 cast, etc.) is indicative of how good these characters are. There’s a sense that most of them could hold their own story.

I also think that the characters interact well with each other, whether it be in a fun way or a more serious way. Narrowing it down to the 2 mains, one aspect of Kuro that keeps me coming back is how Ciel and Sebastian work off of each other with their dialogue and general attitude towards each other. They’re both in a weird position where they kind of hate each other (Seb finds Ciel annoying and troublesome while Ciel is always a little afraid of Seb) but also need each other (Ciel needs protection/a weapon of mass destruction, and Sebastian needs food). Due to this weird situation, they’ve developed this comedic dialogue that’s kind of born from their repressed emotions. TBH the way they work off of each other has made them my favourite sherlock/watson duo.

The only flaw with the character writing I think is Sebastian, who’s kind of inconsistent. But chapter 137 served as a kind of reminder that his human personality is 100% an act (aside from maybe his cat fascination...). But yeah, for the most part Kuro has a top notch cast.

Another thing I think Yana is really good at is foreshadowing. This might be a touch contentious, but I maintain my earlier stance that a big reason people hate the 2ct being canon is because of expectations and the fact that it’s a cliche is western culture (and personal taste, of course). Rereading the series was unbelievable because there were so many “AHA” moments and “how could I have been so blind?” moments. I think any plot twist that makes you go back and read a series and say “ooooh thaaaat’s what that waaaaas” like 90 times had some good set up to it. (Actually rereading the Campania and the Green Witch arcs made me feel like it might have even been too obvious...but a lot of people still didn’t catch it so, kudos). 

Even in the Curry arc there’s tidbits of foreshadowing for the servants backstories, and I’m sure other speculation that’s going on right now will have some pay off in future chapters (some of it, anyway). All in all, the series made for a great second go because of all the little hints that can be caught once you know future plot points.

Yana Toboso also has a lot of really good ideas. The execution can go either way, but the concepts of most (definitely not all) of the Kuro arcs are like...really great. Some of them are these alternate spins on history that come from these creative supernatural elements (side note: I like how the zombies in the kuro-verse bite people because they want to consume a soul, but can never succeed. It’s both creative and a little fucked up). Or then there’s something like the Green Witch arc that plays out like a Scooby Doo episode but it’s got all of this weird stuff about war and poison and psychology and dreams and other good shit. Even though I think the cricket match went on for way to long, I’ll admit that the idea of this evil genius murderous noble achieving his goals by cheating at the worlds most boring sport is kind of funny.

I hate the boyband arc though I’m sorry that was not a good idea i hat--

Despite some fan-servicy bits (which I’ll talk about A LOT later) Kuroshitsuji feels like a passion project. This is pure speculation, but if you read the extra behind the scenes bits in the manga volumes, Yana talks about all of the books she read to prepare for this, or how she actually took cricket lessons with her editor despite the fact that they were awkwardly old to be in beginner lessons. She also did a shit ton of work for anime-only character designs and other promotional stuff while still publishing a chapter every month.

Even without the “behind the scenes” stuff, the amount of references that can be found in her work and the fact that she never misses a month even when she’s publishing bonus chapters gives off the sense that she cares about this.

Though again, 100% speculation.

I also hugely appreciate the mixture of comedy and tragedy in Kuro. (It opens up some problems, but we’ll get to those later). It’s not a slog to get through but it also doesn’t feel...pointless? I guess?? It’s mostly a dark comedy with action-y moments that then becomes a genuine horrific tragedy. It’s kind of hard to explain why I like this combo, but if it helps anyone relate to what i’m saying, it’s like the tone shifts in Angel Beats and how that show is both enjoyable and a total cry-fest. Same with Kuro except with different genre trappings. There’s a sense that anything could happen since it’s not all tied to one tone. Tone pieces definitely aren’t a bad thing, but I like the huge variety that can be found in this one series.

That being said...

The Bad:

I’ve said this approximately 37359767 times on this blog, but I’ll say it again.

Kuroshitsuji has a pacing problem. A really bad pacing problem.

There’s literally an arc where Ciel goes to a school, makes some enemies Mean Girls style, plays sports, and then finds out the bad guy is the same bad buy from the last arc who’s plans have changed only slightly. This is one of the longest arcs in the series.

This. Strikes me as a bad idea from a structural standpoint. The arc isn’t really a bad idea, but it’s like...a 2 volume idea, y’know?

I’ve already talked at length about how bad the pacing of the blue cult arc was so i won’t repeat myself but, yeah. Unbelievable waste of time also huge missed opportunity for a Phantom of the Opera spoof like are you kidding me ALL OF THE PIECES WERE THER--

A lot of people complain about the Green Witch arc’s pacing since it’s really long and has a weird act structure (which it is and does respectively). This is something that doesn’t bother me at all but I feel like it’s worth bringing up since it bothered a lot of people, so maybe it’s something I just don’t see.

Also even though I like the mix of comedy and horror/tragedy, sometimes it doesn’t flow very well. This is especially apparent in the boyband arc, where the jump from stupid to serious is break-neck, and the lack of interesting events that happen in the school arc.

Kuroshitsuji is also at a disadvantage being a monthly publication instead of a weekly one, which makes the stretched out parts feel even more stretched out. It isn’t tailored to this release schedule (although I wouldn’t know how to fix this particular problem other than to just...tighten things up pacing wise). 

Yana also has a tendency to expect her readers to read her mind. What I mean by this is that she’ll say things on twitter/her blog like “Sebastian is the main character of Kuro” or “Ciel and Sebastian have no emotional connection,” and like a million other things.

....She says it like it’s obvious but if you go on tumblr or forums or anywhere...clearly not everyone sees these things and will often ask questions about her posts because they seem so not-obvious. 

Which is super weird because (if I remember correctly), she once said that people can interpret her work however they want, but she seems to be actively discouraging that.

This is another thing that makes me think Kuro is a passion project. It’s like she feels the need to make sure everyone sees everything that she’s thought of...but it doesn’t work if it’s not actually weaved into the narrative, then it’s just confusing.

This bothers me a lot because as a university English Major I’ve had “Death of the Author” drilled into my brainstem and Yana’s actively fighting me on it. Please make things more obvious in your story if you want readers to understand them.

Of course there’s a bunch of supernatural inconsistencies like “if Sebastian/the reapers/this supernatural thing could do this, why couldn’t they do this? how does this work?” (like, it’s implied that the reapers can make themselves invisible to humans if they want...so why do Grell and Ron show up to the Campania in full visibility? All the time?). Stuff like this is a problem with literally every supernatural story ever, so I try not to harp on it, but it’s there.

Tiiiiiiime for the most contentious topic.

The Ugly:

I’ll say this a bluntly and straightforward as I possibly can: Kuroshitsuji is kind of perverted. 

It is.

While the rumour that Kuroshitsuji was supposed to be a yaoi has been thoroughly debunked, Yana did used to draw BL staring young boys under the name “Yanao Rock.” 

....Yeeeaaaah it unfortunately comes through in Kuro. The unbelievably infamous corset scene is played as a joke, but it is the most perverted joke in the history of the universe.

One thing that blows my mind (in a bad way) is that one panel where Ciel’s having an asthma attack (you all know exactly what I’m talking about) and it can be so easily seen as looking pornographic when out of context. There’s also that recent cover page (I believe for chapter 136?) where RC and OC are lying in a kind of state of undress and they look really pretty even though the context is horrifying. 

Also that scene of RC swallowing the ring is drawn really pretty which is...a weird scene to have drawn really pretty.

i’ve heard people say that this all means nothing and we’re all reading too much into it, which I don’t buy for a second. I’ve also heard people say it’s for fujoshi fan service to which I’m kind of like....maybe?

This is based on 100% speculation, not at all fact, but I think the most obvious explanation is Yana is drawing beautiful boys in weird positions because she’s good at/likes drawing beautiful boys.

I’m not saying this is a good thing or an ironclad excuse, because it’s noooot. It comes across as pretty tasteless, especially given recent developments. It reminds me of the snake arc in Bakemonogatari or the weird shit that’s in the Made in Abyss manga; like this sexual shit feels very odd in these stories but there’s a sinking feeling that the author threw it in for their own enjoyment, like they were maaaybe trying to be sneaky and failed.

That being said, in that one particular scene in chapter 135 that actually deals with legit sexual abuse, I...didn’t think that sexualization felt perverted outside the context of the narrative (IT DEFINITELY WAS PERVERTED WITHIN THE CONTEXT OF THE NARRATIVE, DON’T GET ME WRONG). And this isn’t just going off of Yana’s bullshit tweet because, like I said earlier, these things should be clear to the audience within the work itself. It was nasty as fuck, but I could see a scene being portrayed similarly in something like Berserk or Game of Thrones or any grim dark story, and no one being as mad at the creator BUT

BUUUUUUUUT that’s the issue! Kuroshitsuji is not Berserk or Game of Thrones! The issue with the series being a tonal cluster-fuck is that scenes about explicit sexual assault don’t fit in a black comedy formula so it feels weird. THIS ISSUE IS EXACERBATED GREATLY BY THE LACK OF TACT DISPLAYED IN OTHER SCENES THAT CAN BE READ AS/ARE SEXUAL. Yana made it really hard for this scene to be okay by being all loose with tone and the visual presentation of younger male characters earlier in the series.

Huge problem. Very unfortunate.

Conclusions:

I felt compelled to make this post because Kuroshitsuji is a series where the artist is not abstract. With most shows or movies people say “that movie was good” or “that show was bad” or whatever. But in Kuro discourse it’s always “Yana Toboso did bad” or “Yana Toboso did good.” 

I’m not saying this is bad....(in fact it’s probably good since Yana (and K-san) are being rightfully complimented/dragged based on the merit of their work) It is interesting, though, that Kuro discourse made a sliiiight shift from the work to the author. So, this was me trying to tie the author and the work together.

Thanks for coming to my TED Talk.

#kuroshitsuji #black butler #Yana Toboso #text

[sorrowsflower]

The Choices Made (Adlock)

Set at the end of The Reichenbach Fall

Motherhood had never been part of the Woman's plan.

For most of her life, she had been focused on survival and domination, and she had pursued both with a reckless frivolity that burned everyone in her path. None of these things were conducive to raising a child.

Her first discovery of the new little parasite she was incubating was not a joyous moment, as it was for some women. 

Her initial reaction was of shock, because she had always been very careful. Meticulous to the point of obsession. Though her work as a dominatrix never involved actual sexual intercourse, she'd had her own set of lovers, both male and female, prior to her acquaintance with a certain consulting detective, and protection was paramount to her.

It must be a mistake. A false positive.

But before the opportunity to analyze how, and which, bout of sexual activity with said detective -- it had to be Sherlock's; all her other recent lovers had been female -- had resulted in this little inconvenience, the dread settled in. 

It was not dissimilar to a wall of rain come crashing suddenly down on her head, invoking a long-forgotten childhood memory of watching little cartoon figures with black clouds above their heads.

Dear God, she was thinking of cartoons. It was already starting.

She drew a deep breath. That felt a little better. 

Perhaps this was not the black cloud she was imagining it to be. Hell, she wasn't even sure if she really was pregnant.

The dread lifted somewhat, eased by practical thought into a small niggling at the back of her head that could be easily ignored. Tomorrow, she would go to the doctor. Just to make sure.

...

Tomorrow, however, did not bring the fair weather report she had been expecting. The moment the doctor walked in with the results, she had known even before the other woman had opened her mouth.

"Congratula--!"

The Woman held up a hand. She didn't even want to hear it. The dread, which until then had been at the back of her mind, came to the foreground and threatened to take over.

But she was the Woman. She was not given to emotion or sentiment. She had already allowed emotion to take over once, and look where that had gotten her -- sitting in a clinic with a foolishly smiling doctor offering her congratulations.

Her brain immediately went into damage control, as it always did when confronted with a crisis. Find the root of the problem, and fix it. 

She quickly went over her upcoming calendar in her mind, and without letting the doctor start a spiel on -- God, she didn't even want to use the word -- pregnancy and pre-natal care, she cut the doctor off with a cold, professional hand and set up an appointment.

The doctor tried to argue, to offer other options, but she was stopped by the calm look on the Woman's face. There was no confusion, emotional turmoil or hysteria there. Only calm decisiveness. She had made her choice.

The appointment was made.

...

There were no major changes to the Woman's routine. At least not at first. No specific alterations or concessions made for the developing creature inside her, except maybe her morning routine was altered to compensate for the absolutely horrid morning sickness.

Then the "morning" sickness turned into "morning to noon" sickness. But still, it wasn't that bad. She had always been good at concealing physical ailments. And tea helped.

But when it quickly became "the whole fucking day" sickness, she had to admit, it was harder to conceal. The tea, which was now unpalatable, no longer helped. She had to scale down on her clients, and cancel various appointments because now she just felt violently ill all the time.

She abhorred it. The wretched nausea, the sweating, the heaving and dry-heaving, the dizzy spells and light-headedness, the weakness. It was all so distasteful, especially for someone who had been so meticulous about her body, and so immaculate in appearance. 

Pain she could handle -- she was a dominatrix, after all; pain was her bread and butter -- but this prolonged, ever-present discomfort was threatening to undo her. That, and the lack of control over her own body, which before had been a beautiful weapon for her.

Still, she took comfort in the fact that this would all be over soon, and she could return to her normal (if it could be called that) life.

...

Three days before her appointment, an article appeared on the British news website she frequently monitored. 

SUICIDE OF FAKE GENIUS

It was accompanied by a photograph of a man in a dark Belstaff coat and a blue scarf lying on the street, face intentionally obscured to spare the readers the man's gruesome, bloody death. But even through the blurring, the vivid red bloodstains on the man's face and on the street he had landed on were evident.

The bile that she had been suppressing all day rose to the back of her throat, and she had to look away to keep from being sick. 

She slammed the laptop shut and tried to breathe.

It took her several long, shaky minutes, but the nausea eventually subsided. Enough, at least, for her to be able to pick up the phone and place some calls. Half an hour later, she was feeling slightly better (physically, anyway), the story was confirmed, and she received an unobscured copy of the photograph.

The nausea threatened to come up again, but she tamped it down with a deep breath, and analyzed the picture as logically and impartially as possible.

It seemed genuine.

The blood was real, and though there was no way to be sure until her contacts at the morgue confirmed it, she would venture a guess and say that it was his. The face, covered as it was with blood, closely resembled his as well. 

But she, of all people, knew how easy it was to fool someone with a pretty face.

And she had seen his work, too. She had seen the cleverly-edited video of her own "execution" that had made its way into Mycroft Holmes's hands. As loathe as she was to admit it, if she wasn't alive and whole -- and now currently carrying evidence inside her body that would absolutely refute her death in Karachi -- she probably would have been fooled by it too if it had been her.

It wasn't real.

It couldn't be. He was too clever, too good of an opponent to die. True, he had a certain self-destructive streak, but there was no way someone as arrogant as he was would ever commit suicide. And certainly not for something they both knew was a lie.

That thought helped her calm down and settled her nerves.

All she had to do now was wait for the video to prove it.

Fifteen minutes later, the email arrived, and she opened the file. The angle of the video was limited to Sherlock alone, as her contact had been focusing on him, and the sound was less than ideal, but it was clear enough that the detective on the roof was speaking to John Watson, unseen, on the street. She could hear Sherlock confessing to the lie the press and the British public had been fed. 

Rich Brook. Reichenbach. 

They both knew it wasn't true. She, herself, was evidence that it was a lie. And yet, here he was, extolling the opposite to John Watson.

"Keep your eyes on me."

That immediately raised a flag. A magician directing the audience to the illusion and away from the trick. The Woman examined the video intently, trying to spot any discrepancies.

And that was when she saw it. 

A glint of sunlight from the roof a few buildings to the right. It only appeared as Sherlock said "Goodbye, John" and hung up the phone.

Before he dropped the phone and jumped, disappearing from her contact's view and the camera's.

Frustrated, and though she would never admit it to herself, more than a little shaken, she played the video again, to the part of the timeframe where she saw the glint of sunlight. She knew what that was.

The reflection from a rifle's scope, revealed only at the last minute before the shot. A shot that Sherlock Holmes's apparent death had prevented.

A sniper.

And it wasn't pointed at Sherlock.

And then she understood.

Sherlock, despite all his arguments to the contrary, was an irrationally sentimental being. He formed emotional attachments to people. 

While between the two of them, the Woman was more attuned to people, it was Sherlock who actually cared for them. When she had been exposed, it was only too easy for the Woman to abandon all ties, including her loyal Kate, and leave her former life. 

Sherlock, on the other hand... He had a whole brood of people he surrounded himself with. The doctor, his landlady, his brother, the detective inspector, his mousy little pathologist. 

If an instance occurred where he was required to give up his life for the few people he cared about, especially if it included John Watson, she had no doubt the idiot would actually do it. Hadn't he already infiltrated one of the most dangerous terrorist cells in Asia to save her life?

Foolish, foolish man.

She stopped the video and closed the laptop.

...

The day of the appointment came. And went.

She stayed home, phone in hand.

It never rang.

_______________

By SorrowsFlower

Yeah, okay, so I made this on one of those “writing game” sites where you “fight” a monster by completing x-amount of words in the allotted time. So my lazy ass didn’t edit, proofread or research any of this stuff like I normally would have.

#adlock #adlock fic #sherlock holmes #irene adler #the reichenbach fall #a scandal in belgravia #post-Karachi #adlock ficlets #nero wolfe #yeah i just gave up on it #we all know how it ends anyway

[takaraphoenix]

Sherlock?

I’m not big on it. Like, I watch it, but it’s a casual watch for me like Navy CIS or Law & Order: SVU. It’s not something I get even remotely invested in.

I mean, the only reasons I got into it were three in particular:

1.) I watched Detective Conan as a kid and that was the first time I even heard the name Sherlock, because he was a “modern day Sherlock”, so to me when I was later confronted with the actual Sherlock for the first time, it was “oh, an old-fashiony Shinichi Kudou then” to me.

2.) The RDJ movies. That’s how I was first really confronted with Sherlock and I mainly watched those because of RDJ, that precious bean. And when I started watching the show, I was like “Oh, I liked that movie, why not try the show”.

3.) The fandom is terrifyingly big. Like. All the memes. All the Sherlock everywhere. All the quotes. All the Bernard Cucumberbear. I gotta admit, the buzz it got alone was enough to make me tentatively curious (that does not work for every huge thing. Nothing will ever make me watch The Walking Dead because I am terrifyingly uncomfortable with zombies).

So yeah, that much for the intro. That’s how I found the show and why I started watching it, with those three things in mind. And, what can I say, it was a huge let-down for me personally?

First of all, the sheer number of episodes. Nine episodes? You people throw such an intense party about nine freaking episodes? Half a season of basically any other show is already longer than that, for heaven’s sake, you barely get time to get invested, how did you people get that invested?

I mean, seriously now, I’ve heard so much of how awesome Sherlock is for literal years at that point and I braced myself for like at least 50 episodes to be watched, for like at least five season. But... three seasons and... a total of nine episodes?

That brings me to my first complaint. Apparently, it doesn’t bother many, but it bothers me. It’s a fucking ridiculous schedule, is what it is. I know that Moffat, because he’s been doing fucking ridiculous schedules on Doctor Who too and I know it’s the combination of “Whoops, both our main leads are kiiinda popular and keep making movies instead of solemnly focusing on this show. Damn it”. But to me, it just doesn’t compute to wait literal three years for a new season - and fuck that Christmas special they put in between there, it was still a three year wait for a new season.

With a standard waiting time of two years. Two years to get three episodes. That doesn’t compute with me at all. If I had been there from the beginning, I would have stopped watching after season two when it became apparent that they don’t give a fuck about delivering seasons in a reasonable time-frame because I ain’t got the patience for that.

It also never did anything to get me hooked. Plot-wise, sure, it was a cool different approach to solving crimes but not any more special or fun than say Psych or Mentalist or literally any other show who did the consultant thing. Which, yeah, people who read and loved the books may crucify me for because obviously, Sherlock did it first. But show-wise and for the way I met them, Sherlock kinda did it last.

And Sherlock himself is in no way or shape a likable or relatable character, so that’s where it lost me too, I suppose. He brings nothing to the table that justifies his attitude and behavior and all I do when watching the show is mainly feel bad for Watson. Also no, I do not ship them. At. All.

I like Sherlock’s brother Minecraft Microsoft. He’s oddly fun. And I do mean odd, because I don’t really understand my self why I find him so funny.

And Irene Adler. Really like that lady. She brought something new and intriguing to the show - and I’m not just talking about the BDSM element there.

I don’t understand the fascination with Moriarty. I don’t know, he’s not exactly an exceptional villain with an intriguing story or anything, I just... somehow, I expected more and then there’s the other thing but we’re going to get into this later on.

Ironically, the first time I actually got hooked on it was the second last episode that was available at the time. The wedding of John and Mary. Personally, I thought that was the best episode, closely followed by the one about the puppy of Baskerville.

I did not like the late pseudo-Christmas special The Abominable Bride. Not at all. For the first two thirds, it was just a confusing untill it became Not What I Like by being revealed as a drug-inducted fever-dream. I don’t approve of drugs at all and to use them to tell a very weird time-shifty story was... strange. Bringing back Moriarty, very weird.

Which brings me to the Moriarty-thing I wanted to get back at!

Season 4 was an abomination. I hate it. I hate it so much. I like to not use the word “hate”, but there just isn’t another way to describe my feelings for that pile of stinking garbage that they wrote there.

And by “season 4″, I namely mean Mary-Sue Holmes and how she was shoehorned and retconned into the plot.

Honestly though, literally naming her Mary-Sue would have at least been fun self-awareness and a better name than the Mary-Sue-esque name they picked for “sudden sister of the main character who was kinda there all along but we are right now figuring out how exactly that works but she’s also a genius and suuuper duper important and her name shall be Moonshine Emerald Potter-Holmes Eurus Homes”.

I’m sorry, but it is physically impossible to see her as a proper character because she is such a bad, bad, bad Mary-Sue. This is the kind of plotlines in fanfiction that make me scoff and keep scrolling. The sudden sister of the main character who was never mentioned before but is just as super-duper special in the same aspects as her brother (you know, like Jason Grace for The Heroes of Olympus...).

I have a problem with that kind of writing. If it’s fanfiction, I can scroll past it. I can even respect it, because let’s face it every fanfiction author started off in some kind of way with those self-insert Mary-Sue characters, even if it was just in your head as a kid.

But if canon, particularly a popular franchise that has come a long way, suddenly reverts back from intriguing and detailed story-telling into the most basic elementary school level of story-telling, that’s just pathetic.

And, to bring back Moriarty, she completely undercut him. If they had literally brought back Moriarty and he would have been behind it all, that would have even been cool and would have also sold me on him more. Instead, he was just a... better pawn for Mary-Sue Holmes and it, to me, made his plotline worth so much less than before.

The fact that we had to turn it all around and have Mary-Sue Holmes be a “misunderstood character in need of love” was just another overused, cheap trope that fell in line with the fanfiction cliches they were working into that one.

The fact that it were Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat writing it just... shocks me, to be honest?

I mean, I’m not a Moffat fan, personally I think that his plots are too convoluted and messy and go on for too long but let’s safe that in case anyone sends an ask for Doctor Who. But, despite all that, his stories have an amazing pay-off at the end of it all. He’s brilliant at that, I’ll give him that.

Mark Gatiss, not a fan of his writing. His episodes on Doctor Who are some of the weirdest, strangest, most boring and forgettable ones. So I’m very tempted to blame him for that one because with Moffat, I had at least expected a good pay-off for all that drama?

But that’s just my personal opinion on the matter. I guess it just didn’t bring any of the key-elements I’m looking for in a show to the table. Maybe that would have been different if it, ya know, would be a “proper” show that by now already had like seven seasons, each with 10 to 20 episodes, giving the whole thing more development. I just didn’t click with the characters, the format or the story and that last “big surprise reveal” just completey ruined it for me, so I’ll not be tuning back in if they ever in ten years get around to making a new season.

#ask me a show and I shall rant #TV Rants #Sherlock #sugarspiceandfuckyou

[lilousmustaches]

Sucker for pain

Warnings: Self harm. 

Notes: My first Sherlock fic! I talked about all of this here. This was a request i recieved years ago in my Main blog but i didn't write Sherlock in the time, but now i write so here it is :) Hope you guys like it!! Tell me what you think ;)

Sherlock x sister!reader

"What? I thought it was incredible!" John said surprised by your opinion on the movie you two just saw, climbing up the stairs of Baker Street. 

 "It was stupid." You said opening the door to the apartment and immediately seeing Sherlock upside down on the couch. "Bored?" You asked. 

 "Always little sis." He answered with a sigh. Oh yeah, you were the youngest Holmes, the little sister of Sherlock and Mycroft. You started to live with Sherlock and John a year ago when you moved to London to study.

 "How was the movie?" 

 "A bummer" "Amazing" you and John said in the same time. 

 "I trust (Y/N)" your brother said sitting straight and getting up to get his violin. "But actually I really don't care" He said starting to play.

 "Of course." John said ironic and you laughed. 

 "Okay guys, I'm going to bed, good night" You said only hearing John's reply before going to your room. They always were extremely welcome with you and not once Sherlock showed any resistance of you staying in his house. You eventually helped them in some cases but of course, you weren't as intelligent as your brothers. And that's one of the reasons why you were so self conscious about yourself. Being in the shadow of your two genius old brothers was hard. Really hard. Your self esteem was extremely low and you were sure you were depressed. But of course you couldn't just go to a doctor or a therapist, Mycroft would know, and this surely was a thing you didn't want them to discover. And that's why you always wore long sleeves. To cover the self harm scars that went all up your left arm. 

 Something you started doing years ago, right after you had an overdose. And yeah, maybe you weren't as intelligent as Sherlock, but you sure we're as crazy as him. Drugs, cigarettes and all of the sort. You were an addicted. Addicted to pain. And when Mycroft sent you to rehab after your overdose, you started doing something else to forget your miserable life. Cutting. 

 You opened your makeup bag and slowly got your razor out. You took a deep breath and opened a new cut in your forearm. 

 An ordinary night for (Y/N) Holmes.

xxXXxxXXxx

 You sighed walking back to the apartment. College sucked. People sucked. Everything in your life sucked. Starting with the fact that this day you had woken up feeling everything a little heavier than usual. You knew that it was going to be a hard day since the beginning. But you didn't expect that today was going to be so awful. 

 One of your teachers gave the test results and when he saw that your grade wasn't one of the best, he made sure to say to the whole class that he was expecting more of you. After all, you were the sister of Sherlock Holmes, The great detective. 

 You roughly opened the door of your house wanting nothing more than to lay down and sleep, but when you entered you saw Sherlock in his usual chair and Mycroft in Watson's chair, drinking tea and looking at you with curious faces.

 "Rough day sister?" Mycroft asked taking a sip of his tea. 

 "You can't even imagine, brother mine." You said going to your room trying to escape the questions. 

 "Where do you think you're going?" Sherlock asked making you stop on your tracks and slowly turn to look at them. 

 "To my room, why? Have you got a problem with that?" You replied in a sassy tone and he frown. 

 "Client chair, now." He simply said indicating that he wanted you to sit on the chair that was meant for his clients. He only asked that when he wanted to question you. And this time it would be with Mycroft's help. How wonderful! 

"But..." You tried but got cut. 

 "Now." He said again and you rolled your eyes and sighed, throwing your bag on the floor and sitting on the chair visibly annoyed. 

 "Why are you here, Mycroft?" You asked crossing your arms looking at your oldest brother. 

 "We do the questions, (y/n)." He answered coldly, making you roll your eyes again. "Are you smoking again?" 

 "What? No!" You answered, surprised by the question. "John hid all the cigarettes that existed in this house, Sherlock's included." 

 "That is true." Sherlock said but shook his head, returning the focus to you. "You look like you are in abstinence, what did you take?" He said more to him than to you. 

 "I had a bad day." You said but they ignored you. 

 "It wasn't weed..." Mycroft observed and you knew that right now they were talking between them and they would ignore anything you said. 

 "If it had been injected she would be scratching her arm." Sherlock continued and they stayed silent for a minute just observing you. 

 "Am I free to go?" You asked tired of all of this, and with a little hesitation Sherlock nodded. 

 "For now." He said when you already had gotten up and practically ran to your room. 

 "Yeah, yeah, anything you say." And with that you closed your door with a loud 'bang'. You took a deep breath feeling tears in your eyes. You didn't know the exact reason why you were crying, but unfortunately this happened more than you liked. You just laid in your bed looking at the ceiling, not having any strength to do anything. 

 The voices in your head were getting louder and louder within the minutes.

 'You're a mess' 'You're a shame to this family's name' 'You don't deserve to be alive' 'Sherlock hates you' 'Mycroft hates you' 'John hates you' 

 At this point you were already sobbing and trembling, and of course, you got your razor out of the makeup bag, sitting on your bed you started cutting, deeper. 

 "(Y/N), John and Mary want to know if you want to...." Sherlock said entering your room without permission but he stopped talking when he saw the scene in front of him. You, (Y/N) Holmes, his baby sister, sitting on your bed crying, sobbing, with bloody wrists and in your trembling hands, the razor that caused all that damage. He was already breathing heavily and although he hated to admit it, he was scared. "(Y/N)... Love, I need you to drop that razor for me okay?" He said the calmest that he could like he was talking to a kid, trying not to scare you. Sherlock watched you as you slowly opened your shaking hand letting the razor fall in the bed. "There you go." He said relieved and with a fast check in the corridor to see if there was anyone there, he closed your door and went to stand in front of you. "Okay....hmm, we need to clean this up." He said a little bit lost looking at the amount of blood you already lost. He ran to your bathroom getting a towel and running back to you, he gently put in your arms trying to stop the bleeding. 

 "It-it hurts." You cried, flinching at his touch. 

 "I know but it is going to pass." He said gulping, opening two buttons of his shirt, trying to think straight.

 "Sherlock...." You whined, crying more, and when he saw that you weren't losing more blood, he hugged you, letting you cry on his shoulders. He wondered if you could feel his heart beating fast. 

 "It's okay, (Y/N), I'm here." Sherlock said feeling his own eyes wet, hugging you stronger. "I'm here, sis, everything is fine, nothing is going to hurt you." 

 "I'm sorry..." You said between sobs. 

 "Shhh" Sherlock started rocking you back and forth, passing his hand through your hair. "You have nothing to be sorry for." He said but something came up in his head only preoccupying him more. "Did you take something?" When you didn't answer, he cupped your face with his hands, making you look at him. "(Y/N) did you take something?" He insisted "I can't.... I can't think" He said a little lost and annoyed because his feelings were taking over his brain keeping him from thinking straight. 

 Sherlock forced himself to think and looked around trying to deduce something, but he found nothing, you were clean. You were slowly stopping to cry and relaxing in your brother's arms with his smooth voice calming you down. 

 Sherlock got comfortable in the bed, still with you in his arms. You sniffed, now much more calmer, hugging him stronger. 

 "You don't cuddle." You said softly feeling your Dry tears in your cheeks. 

 "I don't." He simply said. "But you do. And right now, all I care about is you." He said and you closed your eyes trying not to cry again. Although you were always kind of close, Sherlock wasn't the guy to said cheesy things, he wasn't the guy to hug and kiss, he wasn't the kind of guy who showed any emotions. 

"Sometimes I.... I have these suffocating crises and... I'm sorry." You said and he sighed. 

 "We will talk about that later, try to get some sleep." He said. "I'm here now sister. I'm here" 

 xxXXxxXXxx

 Sherlock sighed running his Hands over his mouth, and with a last check on you, he got out of the room, still a little shocked with what had just happened. He couldn't.... He just didn't understand. And it killed him. 

 "What the hell took you so long?" John asked in the moment he saw Sherlock coming out of your room and going to the living room with a strange face. "Is (Y/N) okay?" 

 John and Mycroft were there, no sign of Mary, probably she got down the stairs to talk to Mrs. Hudson. The couple came to the flat to invite (Y/N) to the theater. Sherlock sighed again looking at his older brother, what the hell was he still doing in his apartment, he came to discuss a case, he should have left by now. They would want explanations, for fuck sake, John was already asking. 

"She..." Sherlock started for the first in a long time, not knowing what to say. 

"What the hell happened to our sister?" Mycroft said trying to keep it cool and watched as Sherlock sat on his armchair burying his head in his hands. 

"Sherlock!" Mycroft cried already losing his temper, walking in heavy steps to your room to see what was going on.

 "Wait!" Sherlock said when he noticed what his brother was doing. 

 "Too late." Mycroft said, slowly opening the door of your room seeing you sleeping. But quickly he scanned the room and saw enough to make his deductions. He came back to the living room, looking down chewing the inside of his cheeks. "Suicide attempt." He said with a bitter smile.

 "Wait, what?" John asked surprised, sitting on his own chair, looking between the both Holmes brothers. 

 "Our little sister tried to kill herself." Mycroft said looking at the yellow happy face on the wall. 

 "She didn't." Sherlock replied still looking at the ground. "The angles of her scars weren't of someone who wanted to die. It implied that this was something recurrent, that's why we thought that she was in abstinence. (Y/N) had a bad day and she needed to hurt herself. I just... I can't understand why I didn't see that before. All the signs were right in front of me." 

 "Well..." Mycroft started still looking at the face in the wall. "She's a Holmes after all." 

 "You are saying... That (Y/N) is depressed?" John asked carefully seeing Sherlock slowly nod his head. 

 "She had an anxiety attack, that's why she cut deeper and lost so much blood." He explained. 

 "Oh god." John took a deep breath looking away trying to process all those informations.

 "I will take care of that." Mycroft affirmed finally looking back to his brother. "(Y/N) will be sent to the best clinic and..." 

 "You will not intern her again Mycroft" Sherlock madly interrupted the older Holmes.

 "You won't take care of 'that', i will take care of my sister." 

 "You're not a doctor Sherlock! She will receive the right treatment only in a clinic, being watched 24/7" Mycroft said indignant like what he was saying was obvious. "She can have another anxiety attack at any moment and hurt herself again in a more deadly way."

 "You're right." John started and Sherlock looked surprised at his friend. "He's not a doctor, but I am." He continued assuming the military posture that never left his body. "And we will make sure to watch her and send her to the best therapist and psychiatrist." 

 "You can't decide the way I take care of my sister Doctor Watson." Mycroft exclaimed angrily. 

 "But I can." Sherlock interfered. "She described the time she passed in rehab as the worst days of her life. You. Won't. Take. Her. Away." Sherlock said clenching his teeth looking at Mycroft but suddenly they heard a noise in the corridor making all of them look at the same direction. 

 "I..." You said like you weren't expecting to be caught listening to their conversation, you were pale, with red eyes from crying and white gauze wrapped around your pulses. 

 "(Y/N)...." Sherlock said when he looked at you, why did you get up? You were as stubborn as him.

 "They will take care of me Mycroft." You said slowly walking in the direction of your brother and your best friend John. "Just... I will be fine." 

 "(Y/N) I just want the best for you." Mycroft said like he was having an internal fight with himself. 

 "I know." You said softly with a sad smile. "And that's why you're going to let me stay here. With them. With... Family." You said and Sherlock looked at you with a small smile, it could be said, a proud smile.

 "Well." Mycroft started. "I will come back to see you dear sister, I must go." He said awkwardly giving you a kiss in the forehead and without looking back, he got out of Baker Street.

 "Thank you guys..." You said. "I wouldn't stand going back to a rehabilitation clinic." 

 "It's going to be okay (Y/N)." John said with a reassuring smile squeezing your shoulder. "We would never let you go." 

 "We're family." Sherlock said pulling you into his arms. "And you will get better, you will see"

 In that particularly moment, in your brother arms and holding your best friend's hand, you believed it.

#Sherlock #sherlock BBC #sherlock x reader #sherlock x you #sherlock x y/n #sherlock imagines #sherlock bbc imagines #sherlock holmes imagines #sherlock holmes x reader #benedict cumberbatch #benedict x reader #benedict cumberbatch x reader #benedict cumberbatch imagines #john watson #sherlock fanfic #bbc sherlock #my work #My writing #My Imagines #sucker for pain

[sevensity]

RFA/Minor Trio and MC as the World’s Greatest Detective

So originally I wrote this for @makosharkies but then Tumblr just tossed it  away why u play me like dis?

This is written for a super detective who hides behind a fake name, like L aka Ryuzaki aka best sad alien man boy of all time. She chooses to confide her secret to the RFA because???? The power of friendship prevails all!!!11

  YOOᔕᑌᑎG:

As soon as you tell him your alias, he’s like wait what?

You mean that super famous detective who’s been solving decade-long cases?

Is worried that being the world’s greatest detective means you’ll somehow get your hands on his browser history so he has a mini heart-attack

But other than that, is super excited to try out your skills, so he’ll often come up to you and ask all sorts of questions that you have to guess i.e “MC what did I eat for supper last night?” “Fettuccini Alfredo and a Caesar salad.” “Oh my god! You really are a genius!” “Yoosung pls we had dinner together.”

Anyways, you answer all his questions right

Yoosung’s admiration level is over 9000 (wow I’m so funny)

He starts reading mystery novels, has difficulty understanding how the crimes happened and how they were solved, but the boy is trying okay

Falls in love with Agatha Christie, and gushes to you about how intricate the murders are, and how cool Monsieur Poirot is, and you just patiently listen to him go on and on because gosh darn the boy is cute

But of course keeps reminding you that you’re the most amazing of all

Yoosung gets a Sherlock hat and parades around his apartment wearing it, plus it’s honestly the best thing to witness cuz the ear flaps bounce up and down as he runs around you, making him look like an actual puppy

Yoosung come here I want to pet you forever

  ᒍᑌᗰIᑎ:

To be honest the world’s greatest detective paired up with a corporate giant is an absolutely terrifying combination in the business world

You can investigate the dark secrets of his competition and expose all of their back deals, thus ruining their reputation and standing

Likewise, any sabotage attempts are quickly ended in you revealing the culprits, leading to their arrest, so soon nobody bothers to try and take Jumin down anymore because they already know the outcome

His influence and power has doubled, maybe even tripled, and it’s all thanks to you

But still, he keeps reminding you not to push yourself, and you keep reminding him that solving things is part of your job and that it’s a lot of fun

When he sees you trying to solve an actual, difficult case though, he can only stand back and just watch in amazement as the person he loves gives all the right answers to mysteries that befuddled the world for ages

Tbh being a detective sounds really cool but my observation skills are limited to “This wall pattern is missing a stripe,” and  "My right boob is 0.6cm higher than my left one,” and then thinking about it all day long 

  ᘔEᑎ:

“Babe, if you’re the best detective in the world, can you determine the cause of my godly looks?”

Zen n o

It’s cool because whenever he receives hate mail, or anti fans do something to cause him trouble, you’ll swoop in like a midnight vigilante and find the culprit in a heartbeat

Zen’s all like wait aren’t I supposed to protect you but honestly he loves knowing that you’re basically his personal super hero

Low key wants you to dress up as a superhero to go and catch the perpetrator 

Z e n NO

He also finds it enchanting how quickly your mind works, and how you can figure out the most difficult things using just the smallest of hints

At some point he has a play in which his role is that of a detective, so he keeps asking you for advice on how to portray his character properly

Zen I’m sorry but I’ve never met such a flamboyant detective in my life

He’d probably end up causing more crimes with his sinful looks if he were an actual detective tho

  ᔕᗩEYOᑌᑎG:

*in the case that MC did not single-handedly arrest Unknown and just proceeded to enter the apartment normally*

So he kind of freaked out at first, because not two hours had passed since you joined the group chat did you call him by his actual name during your very first phone convo. You ask him about his past and current life, and said you would be willing to try and rejoin him and his bro bro

*cue nervous seven nervously sweating while having a nervous breakdown*

Yet he couldn’t really figure out anything about you, no matter how hard he tried

But later you tell him your alias, and he’s like OH WHAT NO WAY???

He’s been a hardcore fan for the longest time

Y’all have mystery nights, where you take turns creating a crime scene and the quickest one to solve the problem wins a bag of Honey Buddha Chips

To be honest, Seven’s cases are so extravagant and weird sometimes it’s hard to get past the “Seven what the fuck?” stage, but you manage to solve them all anyways

And when it’s Seven turn to solve your mysteries, he’s like that kid taking a math test that uses the wrong equation but still ends up with the right answer

It’s pretty amazing actually

Once, when you were solving a case, Seven asked you how you came to your conclusion, and just as a joke you said “’Tis elementary, my dear Watson.”

He proceeded to flip his darn shit

After that, he constantly asks you to cosplay as Sherlock Holmes and walk around with him outside, of course with him dressed up as maid Watson

You comply and it’s surprisingly fun.  You spend most of the day café hopping, using your powers of observation to come up with theories regarding the other patrons

It becomes a competition to come up with the most ridiculous theory, but still be able to back it up with ‘conclusive’ evidence

Seven is really, really good at this, and it’s so much fun you join in

“I think that lady is lying to her friend. Her left nostril twitches every 2.8 seconds, and also the wart on her chin looks rather untrustworthy.”

“Hm, yes that is true. And according to today’s alignment of the sun and the stars, plus the presence of a dusty pickle on the floor, I can say with 100% certainty that your theory is correct.”

Being with Seven is just so much fun hnnng

 ᔕᗩEᖇᗩᑎ:

Ok but tbh if MC was the world’s greatest detective, Saeran would be screwed from square one

Like MC would probably figure out that he was already at the apartment, and lure him out of his hiding spot by choosing those “there is no number pad” options all the time

You know that “bad” ending you can get without even entering the chat-room where Unknown drags your ass away to become his assistant

Kind of off topic but I never really understood why MC would just go along quietly with him I mean yeah he’s hot but like? instead just drag his ass into the apartment and have some sexy time if ya catch my drift

Being a detective means you are very knowledgeable in many skills, and self-defense/fighting is one of them

So basically you tackle him, and decide that going inside the apartment would be more suitable for an interrogation and some other stuff

But of course you still end up entering the chat-room, and it takes a while to explain everything to everyone

It’s not long before Mint Eye goes down, the twins are reunited, Rika is shipped off to Alaska to live in a snake’s natural habitat the wild 

Everyone is confused, and kind of amazed

They decide to let you enter the RFA regardless, since you seem really cool and you helped them so much

When Saeran calms down a bit, he realizes how lucky he was to have chosen you as bait

Feels forever grateful for your interference, and feels calm when he sits beside you while you quietly solve you cases, thoroughly enjoys watching you work

He’s also really happy when you ask for his input regarding a case, and he’ll gladly help you in any way he can

It’s therapeutic for him

Let the bean be a detective too

 ᐯᗩᑎᗪEᖇᗯOOᗪ:

Thinks you being the world’s greatest detective means that you’re another Seven

No it just means we have different ways of acquiring our information

This guy

He’s actually so fucking impressed by your skills

But is he ever going to admit it?

Hell to the no

At least not to your face 

He will however go on a Vanderwood Rant and tell others about how talented you are, how amazing your mind is, and just overall how cool his partner is

Seven uses this to his advantage

If Vanderwood is ever using his Grasp of the Maid on Saeyoung, who wishes to escape, he’ll jokingly say something along the lines of “But in all honesty, I don’t think MC is that talented.”

Hoooooooh  bo i

Vanderwood will literally go on for hours without realizing it unless you physically shut his mouth for him

Cue Seven using Quick Escape

Never tarnish MC’s good name in front of Vanderwood, unless you have about half a day to spare

 ᐯ:

Thanks to you Rika is now undergoing mental rehabilitation

Feels indebted to you forever

V I did it for you not for Rika

Is constantly worried about your safety, since a lot of criminal organizations are after your head

You assure you that you’re safe as long as nobody in the RFA spills your secret, but this mom boy doesn’t stop fretting

So you convince him to get the eye surgery, saying how if he could see, he would be able to keep you safe

And how he could also help you collect evidence and stuff for your job (but really it’s just for his sake, the poor boy doesn’t deserve any more suffering)

He gets it done and just never leaves your side

But his presence isn’t obnoxious or anything, he never gets in your way, he just kind of goes to screen saver mode until you move or need his help

You’re sitting, working, and want some tea? Home boy is gonna read your mind 

There’s a cup of tea in your hand before you can even breathe

Though his presence is soothing, like listening to raindrops against the roof, or the quiet chatter you hear in a coffee shop

But don’t expect him to be a big help when you ask for his advice in a case, his soul is too gentle to talk about suspects and crimes

Also he was basically involved in an illegal religious cult like five minutes ago I’m pretty sure if you bring up crimes he’s going to want to turn himself in

#hnnng so I got one down #but I'm sorry about the RFA and Minor MC post #it's gone gone goN E #and I'm really sad because that one was so cute imo #ahhhhh #my post #mystic messenger #mystic messenger imagine #mystic messenger headcanon #mystic messenger scenario #mm 707 #707 #mysme 707 #mystic emssenger 707 #mm luciel #mysme luciel #luciel choi #mystic messenger luciel #mm seven #mysme seven #mystic messenger seven #mm saeyoung #saeyoung choi #mysme saeyoung #mystic messenger saeyoung #kim yoosung #yoosung kim #mm yoosung #mysme yoosung #mystic messenger yoosung

[thedarcydichotomy]

BASIC.

FULL NAME. Darcy Paige Lewis NICKNAME. Darce, Wolfy BIRTHDAY. November 4th ETHNIC GROUP.  White NATIONALITY.  American LANGUAGE.  English, Sarcasm... Does dog count? SEXUAL ORIENTATION. Heterosexual RELATIONSHIP STATUS. {Verse dependent} Single CLASS. Top of, tyvm HOME TOWN / AREA. Salem, Massachusetts CURRENT HOME. Avengers Tower, Manhattan PROFESSION. SHIELD Agent

PHYSICAL.

HAIR. Dark brown (fur black) EYES. Blue (gold) NOSE. Well it works just fine FACE. I think it works just fine too LIPS. Good for doing things with COMPLEXION.  Pale. So sue me, I’m not huge on tanning BLEMISHES. Not for a few years now SCARS.  Nothing big enough to be noticed TATTOOS. Just the one, from before everything. Seems a bit of a silly one now. PIERCINGS. Ears, belly button once upon a time. HEIGHT. 5′4″ WEIGHT: How dare you BUILD.  Is ‘pinup’ a build type? Because I’m going to go with that. ALLERGIES.  Not any more USUAL HAIR STYLE. Loose and long USUAL CLOTHING. Whatever’s comfy

PSYCHOLOGY.

FEAR. If I told you you’d use it against me ASPIRATION. Making something good out of my lot in life POSITIVE TRAITS. Loyal, protective, witty, loving NEGATIVE TRAITS. Possessive, emotional, impatient VICE HABIT.  Gluttony and Wrath FAITH. Nope GHOSTS? They exist, just don’t ask what plane of existence it is AFTERLIFE?  Maybe for some people REINCARNATION? Hopefully not ALIENS? Um, you do remember that huge wormhole over New York a few years back right? POLITICAL ALIGNMENT. Left ECONOMIC PREFERENCE. Something a lot better than the awful capitalist society we have now. SOCIOPOLITICAL POSITION. If I start in on that we’re going to be here for the next three days. So my final word on politics - Fuck Trump. With a cactus. EDUCATION LEVEL.  Most of a degree in political science

FAMILY.

FATHER.  Gregory Matthew Lewis MOTHER.  Sandra Marie Lewis SIBLINGS. Brother, Luke Matthew Lewis EXTENDED  FAMILY.  None that are official, but I have my people I’d consider as good as NAME MEANING.   The meaning of the name “Darcy” is: “Dark One” Eerily accurate these days. HISTORICAL CONNECTION. Um, I exist, therefore I have history. Am I related to anyone of note? No freaking idea.

FAVOURITES.

BOOKS.  Dickens, Harry Potter, autobiographies of anyone interesting MUSIC. Pretty much anything. I like having a variety to choose from on my iPod DEITY. They can all go fuck themselves up their snooty alien asses. HOLIDAY.  Halloween! MONTH. October SEASON.  Fall PLACE.  Toss up between woods and a cosy teashop WEATHER. Right before the rain SOUND.  Rainfall SCENT.  Citrus and pine  TASTE.  Bacon, maple syrup, coffee, chocolate FEEL. You know when you stick your hand in a bag of rice or legumes? Yeah that. Also skin to skin touch and body warmth, those are pretty great. ANIMAL. NOT wolf. I always liked cats, actually. NUMBER.  1234567890 COLOUR. Purple

EXTRA.

TALENTS. Hacking, bullshitting BAD AT. Keeping secrets, actually. It’s a problem. TURN ONS. Loyalty, tender dominance, smart mouth, perky butt TURN OFFS. Misogyny, general asshole behaviour HOBBIES. Music, Candy Crush, freaking drunk dudebro’s out by changing eye colour/growing claws/fangs TROPES. Adorkable, combat pragmatist, genius ditz, plucky comic relief, the Watson AESTHETICS. Forest, blood, smoke, silver, ipods, purple, sweaters

FC INFO.

MAIN  FC. Kat Dennings ALT  FC. none OLDER  FC.   none YOUNGER  FC.    none VOICE  CLAIM.  Kat Dennings

Tagged by: @tarnishedhalo Tagging: Whomsoever is interested in doing it.

[the-abominable-bee]

the posh boy solution

hi hello welcome to the second part of this little piece

part one: the posh boy problem

also available on: AO3

***

Sometimes John calls Sherlock little secret names in his head. Greets him with hey, handsome in the morning, calls him genius when he's being too clever, calls him pretty man, silly git, sweetheart. But sometimes he just needs to call him,

"You fucking idiot!"

John throws his jacket at the back of his chair in obvious distress. It falls off immediately. He is clearly angry with him, Sherlock has observed the ragged breath and flaring nostrils long ago and drawn his conclusions. He wonders what exactly he's done wrong to upset him so much. The fact that he (technically not quite) stole a boat or that he managed to fall into the Thames? He himself is just upset about having been forced to sacrifice his woollen coat in order to save himself from drowning. Of course, he owns lots of coats. You never know when an accidence like this one might occur.

While Sherlock swam to the shore, John made sure the jewellery thieves, due to which that boat chase had originally been initiated, did not shoot at Sherlock, and in the process of that received a pretty hard blow to the head. A bump is already growing just next to the vein that always pulsates visibly when John is angry.

"You should cool that," Sherlock suggests.

"Shut up! I will cool that when I feel like cooling it, I'm a bloody doctor!"

Sherlock swallows. It's worse than he thought. He cannot deny that he likes John when he is on the right side of angry, but this is probably the wrong side and he is also being yelled at.

"A boat chase, Sherlock?!"

"In my defence-" Sherlock starts, but is interrupted by John raising a finger, ordering him to shut the hell up.

"Take your clothes off."

Sherlock stares. Sherlock blinks. His mind stays blank for a worryingly long amount of time. Then he remembers. He's wet. Soaked, in fact, completely down to his bones, and freezing too. It's taken him a little long to catch up because these words, words spoken in the tone of an army captain, are something he's last heard two days ago, half asleep and desperate in his own bedroom. Another one of those nights in which his imagination filled in for the needs that reality doesn't meet.

John is waiting in this charged air of silence, maybe having realised what he just said, maybe not. Sherlock tips his chin up and obeys.

"I'm not so posh anymore now, am I?" he mutters under his breath.

John presses his lips together at this, and Sherlock worries briefly that the vein at his temple might just burst. His eyes withhold a certain kind of spark, like a candle flickering, like the glare of a predator. All of a sudden, Sherlock feels stripped completely naked by those eyes only. Then he comes to realise ... He's stripping down. The ruined jacket abandoned next to his shoes and socks, his shirt hanging open to expose his chest and stomach, and his trousers... he's in the process of shoving them down his thighs. The process of stripping down to his underwear for John Watson. But he feels naked.

John is walking towards him. Slowly, like he means to break him. He might.

His eyes are boring into Sherlock's own and electrify the space between them, the air they breathe. Sherlock swallows, once more, but his throat is dry and he is thirsty. He is cold, goosebumps all over his body from the river water and those ocean eyes, but his skin is hot with anticipation.

John steps right into his space. Sherlock can smell him. It does things to him, awful things to his heightened senses. It clouds them, but at the same time he is overly aware of naked skin and of John wearing way too many clothes.

"Yeah," John whispers roughly, so rough and so low he could hurt himself on that sandpaper voice. "You're still a fucking posh boy."

John's eyes drop, and his breath is ragged, but Sherlock suspects this time it's for entirely different reasons than anger. He doesn't know who gives in first, and frankly, he  doesn’t give one fuck about it because the next thing he knows is that John's lips are on his and it feels like he's dying and being reborn in one single breath.

They long for each other, and their lips meet so hard it might leave bruises. John is all-consuming, is groaning and opening his mouth by opening his own first. Sherlock's knees buckle at the sensation that is John's tongue running over his bottom lip. If this is what it's like to kiss John Watson, he should be put in chains because it's dangerous. He walks him backwards, shoves him into the wall next to the kitchen. Sherlock's trousers have dropped down to his ankles and he almost falls over them, held upright by the hard surface of the wall where he bumps his head into.

Dizzy and with a sharp pain buzzing through the back of his head, he feels weightless when John lifts one of his legs, slowly running his hand over the underside of his thigh, fingers through thin hairs and over hard muscle, and Sherlock's natural reaction is to wrap his leg around John's middle and hold on tight, so tight. His trousers are hanging from the end of his foot like one last resort before they fall off and to the floor. The pain wears off, and suddenly Sherlock thinks he can feel everything.

The smooth fabric of John's shirt and the rough one of his jeans that presses against the lower part of his body. Against his thighs and hipbones and the growing bulge in his pants. John's one hand is rubbing back and forth over his inner thigh and the soft spot where it dissolves into firm buttocks. A soft spot that draws a quite whine out of the back of his throat. He places his other hand on his face to hold him. Lifting his jaw ever so slightly, his thumb is stroking over one sharp cheekbone, and he kisses him again.

Sherlock still feels like he is dying, but it's different than it was before. John deepens the kiss, and he feels utterly devoured. He's never wanted anything more, he thinks. Wrapped up in all of him. It fuels his addictive personality in many dangerous ways, but he cannot think, can only indulge in this dance of drawing back only to lean back in again, tongues against each other in one hot wet mess.

All the blood is running south, and as he wraps his arms around John's neck, he isn't quite sure how to feel, much less what he is doing.

John breaks the kiss with a sigh. A long, dreamy sigh Sherlock has trouble interpreting correctly. Is it regret? Relief? Pity? But as he closes his eyes in silence, he brings their foreheads together and leans against him. They stay like this for what seems like minutes over minutes, and it should be uncomfortable, should feel ridiculous - with one of them undressed and the two of them panting against each other - but it doesn't. They breathe together in unison, and when John draws back to look at him, his eyes don't show anger, aren't predatory. They are warm, they are gentle.

"You have no idea how long..." he begins, but doesn't quite know where he was going with it, or if he wants this sentence to end.

Sherlock's response gets stuck in his throat and its remains come out in a sob. "Yes," he manages.

"And all this time," John continues, "So much time..."

"It's okay," Sherlock assures him. His voice is quiet, as if he was afraid of breaking emotions fragile and clear as glass. And when they aren’t clear as glass, they are a thick fog of all the things left unsaid. It's very hard to see through it, but what he sees is sharp enough. "We're here now."

John leans back in. He takes his time now, is gentle in his touches and caresses his cheeks. They feel wet, somehow, but Sherlock doesn't understand why. It's like the tears are falling naturally.

"Bedroom," John whispers.

How many times has he imagined John Watson in his bed before this? He hasn't kept track, but he knows that this time couldn't be further from his imagination. Because it is reality. And it feels so, so much better than anything else in the world.

John doesn't hold anything back with him. He kisses him in every spot, he bites his lip and neck and, oh god, the sensitive skin up, up his thighs. He whispers names into all of those spots, lets them sink into his flesh and travel to his chest where they can burn and glow and melt his insecurities with flickers of bliss.

He calls him love when he breaks a kiss, calls him honey as he buries his face in the crook of his neck, calls him genius when Sherlock touches him in the most intimate of places. He tells him he is gorgeous, tells him I need you and I want you. It's the hottest thing in Sherlock's ears, goes straight between his legs. He asks him, Is this okay?, asks almost desperately how, how can I have you?

He calls him you brilliant man when he groans, you pretty, pretty boy. But as he thrusts, harder, yes harder, sinks his teeth into his flesh and moans, as his movements became frantic and they are so close and wrapped in each other with tangled limbs and desperation, and yes, as he comes, the one thing on his lips is Sherlock. Only Sherlock. As beautiful as he has ever heard his own name sound. He's had no idea his name could sound like this, and he's not sure how anything else could ever come close to being this good.

They lie together, cuddling and blissed out and fucking happy for the first time in what seems to have taken ages. Sherlock feels a smile stretching across his face. John's thumb caresses long laugh lines as he is bent over him. But he isn't smiling back. He looks like something worries him.

"Don't ever risk your own life like that again," he warns him, but warns him softly.

Sherlock thinks about it in the most rational way he can. He is very serious when he says, "If risking my life leads to this right here, to you and me, I might just consider it."

John goes ahead and bites him. Just below his jawline, as he has very recently learned he likes a lot.

Sherlock gasps and John lets go.

"Oh no," he whispers. "This wasn't a reward, Sherlock. It was... long overdue. I'm still mad at you."

Sherlock looks away in honest concern and fear. "Are you really?"

John sighs. "No."

They cuddle in silence for a long while. Sherlock is very close to falling asleep. He is much closer to losing himself to whatever he feels for John Watson. He knows it is love. He's not sure how much more it is, but it might just kill him one day. That might just be fine with him.

"You're my posh boy now," John murmurs right before he feels himself drift away.

He smiles, honestly. Wholeheartedly.

"I've never been anything else, John."

***

tags:

thanks SO MUCH to everyone who has asked to be tagged, should i write a second part. i was really overwhelmed by all of you and literally wrote down all of your urls. hope i didn’t forget anyone. ♥

@just--elope @mikabee @missmuffin221 @totallysilvergirl @lauramcewan @sincerely-chaos @cuccaine @kilmameri @thepurplewombat @unapologeticocdsufferer @the-moon-loves-the-sea @riren-maniatic @kenau @johnhedgehogwatson @xpapillondenuitx @gobacktobakerstreet @morgendaemmerung89 @waternity @sweetmandolins @wildeflwr @simply-bdfx @sherlock-sleuths @joyfulblazestarlightlove @gimmeastartoreachfor @simpleanddestructivechemistry @jonlockandyouknowit @nachoakley @mrsdrhookmaxon @anindoorkitty @sissidead

#:) #ficlet #my work #smut sunday #ao3 #posh boy #johnlock #johnlock ficlet

[spiritcc]

Baskerville Hound

And here goes another series off the marathon list, with a final episode that went off with such a bang one day in November 2013 that I realised this series stole my heart once and forever. 

I’ll never stop repeating myself that the title is not a critical research failure on my part and it’s totally intentional, and maybe only needs a better phrasing at most. It’s not the hound dammit, stop side-eyeing me. 

Anyway, here comes the episode that wraps it all up nicely, shakes the irony by the hand, tips its hat off and makes you wish there were more, despite the fact that series was finished perfectly.

My friend Sherlock Holmes, huh

I don’t know why I never really considered this episode anything special when it delivers so fucking much. I don’t know, I did think it was good and all, but for some reason I never gave it the appropriate credit. I think the main reason was that this was the last episode after all, it’s its duty to wrap it all up nicely. Idk what kind of reasoning was that, but for some reason I always overlooked it until I’ve read somewhere that somebody considered this their favorite episode. That was big news for me, like wow, this episode could be actually considered...an episode, that can be liked, not just a some sort of obligatory addition that has to end the series. 

Whatever the hell I was thinking, I’m better now, this episode is beyond enjoyable. 

First of all, holy shit I was not expecting this.

I, just as always, totally expected this very genius very scary Moriarty to die at the Reichenbach and call it a day, because really, Moriarty always died at the Reichenbach. Always! No matter the genius, that’s always where it ends and Holmes defeats his “mortal” enemy and that’s it. I’ve seen Moriarty pull out the rope and shit, but I didn’t give it a second thought, because Moriarty always dies.

This fucking series hit me with a truck right there, it was so casual and yet so fucking shocking. I’ve never seen any other adaptation do that, and I’m pretty sure that’s not just my general disregard towards other Holmes stuff. Well, a few months later Sherlock S3 waddled along and suddenly pulled the same card, which was rather interesting since neither show could’ve borrowed the idea from one another. Suddenly the non-existent pedestal was stolen from the new series that did it first, but then this year S4 came along and HAHAHA bitches, we’re taking the well-deserved crown back. WE did it first, and nobody has still done it second, take it away, Holmes!

He’s still doing the same business as observed in episode four, trapping peeps by card debts, demanding crazy stuff in return. The peep had a cameo in My Dearly Beloved Detective, by the way, as a gambling guy in the bachelor club. Come 30 years and a different adaptation later and he’s still gambling. Don’t do cards, kids. 

That was a very cool opening regardless, I think this series always nails that pretty well. Liked the cold colors, the canon exposition of what’s in those Holmes stories, they even squeezed some tiny chasing in, that was very cool in how morbid it went.

Glad to know Watson and Mrs. Hudson are doing fine, very domestic, very settled.

Don’t ask me why she’s still going by Mrs. Hudson, I honestly have no explanation for that besides the assumption that they didn’t marry in the first place, everybody stubbornly keeps calling her Mrs. Hudson. I don’t know, really, all the clues are there, but these guys are not this edgy at that day and age to share the bed and don’t share last names. 

Well, Watson’s pipes from the first episode make an arc

As well as the infamous broken English that flashes in every Russian adaptation, good to know it’s still doing well.

Everything to keep the lie afloat, Watson sacrificing his pipes to appeal to the readers and the fictitious look of Sherlock Holmes. By the way, I completely forgot about that, Watson quit smoking there, two and a half years ago at least. Wow. Why tho, but I’m still impressed. 

Now, there was the second shook(tm) of the day, the final Mycroft reveal.

When I realised we’re not going to see his face, I initially thought it’s because Mycroft was so important and so top secret we just would’t have the luxury. Just like Moriarty kind of, this show doesn’t let the audience forget that it’s just the audience that is far from being almighty, so here we go: a person from the highs of the government will not allow to flash his face left and right. 

I’d still like to stand by my point, because I still don’t want to accept the real reason being some good old trolling. 

Like seriously, when he came in I thought wow, okay, we’re not bothering with the reunion(tm) then, but then the reveal came and I just lost it. No, he wasn’t that important. He just always had the same fucking face. That was just Petrenko all along. That was Petrenko who did his voice, with a deeper baritone, that pic of the sibling in Holmes’ room had two identical dudes on it and Watson even gestured about their faces, but we never noticed, and got trolled for it. That was hilarious no doubt though, but the remains of my initial butthurt are still lingering. For the whole series they were like ooh very serious much mystery pay attention to everything, and then in this episode they just went “lol chill” on everything. I loved it, but not much when they actually fooled me. 

By the way, before I forget, Watson’s opening narration. The only narration clearly done in the present tense, which means everything before was written past Reichenbach. Watson’s life did turn for the boring there, even Mrs. Hudson said that.

She continues to be the wisest of the bunch, always pushing Watson to do the right thing. Still don’t know why he needs to be persuaded, but oh well. 

I used to wonder who was who there, but now I know for sure that this certainly Mycroft. 

The baritone, the posture, no quirks, nothing extra. Don’t think he was anywhere near as bright as Sherlock though, no evidence of any sort of extraordinary intellect flashed in this series. Maybe that’s why he won in Watson’s book, having Sherlock’s face and still acting adequately automatically makes him a better person, the plank is just this low. 

Here we go again with “lol chill” trolling, now I’m pretty sure the creators were just fed up with pretentious suspense about an event that everybody knows by heart. Random suspicious man that happens to be where the main characters go? There he is.

Now chill. 

Now, the next time we meet Mycroft, THAT was fucking Sherlock. Before everything, before I got the chance to look at his body language and everything, I realised it’s this fucker in 0.1 seconds just by one thing.

That fucking laugh. 

That motherfucking laugh that been echoing in this series in its full majestic euheuehe, just this little fucking laugh was more than enough for me to realise The Holmes is fucking back.

Then there’s the body language of a man having a seizure, the swearing, the drinking, all that, Watson managed to notice that too so that’s no surprise. Holmes the master of disguise that can’t even play his own fucking twin, never mind anything else. 

By the way, I’m going to give some credit to this fuck up of a man that sold his country to Moriarty, at least he was conscious about the situation to some extent. At least he tried defending West, after trying to blame everything on him beforehand alright, but you know, it does seem that he suffered and that’s good to know.  

And there goes the touching reunion, aka the punching reunion, which I found rather ugly the first time because well, you know, the Soviet series *clears throat* yeah I was still biased back then. Holmes and Watson exchanging insults, yikes. Now, it’s actually pretty funny.

It’s all true what they’re throwing at each other, but it’s been said many times before and yeah, just losers bickering. Can’t believe I was watching those “friends” burn each other and I laughed. 

I can at least finally conclude that their friendship arc also makes perfect sense to me, both of them explained why they stuck to each other in the first place. If Watson’s motives were clear way before that dialogue, Holmes had finally vocalised his reasoning that was exactly what I’ve suspected: Watson is just this lively and curious to ignore him. Holmes brings the thrills in their lives, Watson never allows Holmes go beyond proper limits. They’re polar opposites, but that’s why they’re attracted to each other, since difference lights up their everyday lives. Weird friendship that always made sense. Quite refreshing to witness.

When things get way too heated, Mrs. Hudson slaps some sense into everyone once again.

Is the in the gang? Is she? Well she should be cause yall fuckers kill each other without her being the only normal one. 

Mandatory Reichenbach explanation: yep, bullshit.

This episode finishes the arc of Holmes’ Laugh as well, gifting us the best one to date. Thank you guys for not clearing the museum set up.

These two have a great dynamic, actually, they only needed the child to come back to make it work. 

Well, the fun didn’t last long, the “late” part from the third episode said hello.

I knew shit was going to go down when that made an appearance in the third episode, but it didn’t happen then, nor in the seventh episode, so I kind of forgot about it already. And that is when it managed to surprise me. 

This scene and the entire aftermath were the things that made me reconsider stuff about my opinion about Adler. I made it clear I don’t like her and her romance plotline was not necessary and it all annoyed me more than anything. Before I started rolling my eyes here, the fucking Big Ben stroke a big one. Well, of course it’s a pity that she lived such a shitty dependable life and was disposed in the end like a dog. Well, her murder was even kind of impressive since it’s the bestest Moriarty’s thing in action, but still. That’s where the drama ended for me seemingly because I’m not with Holmes on that one, but then the rest of the episode made me think about a few things. He was broken, angry, depressed, her death hit Holmes hard. I may say, he even lost in the end, just like maybe his Livanov dad before: Watson’s got everything, Holmes has just lost everything, even though he was the one that worked the hardest. I watched Holmes suffer there, and you know what, I don’t think I’ll ever hate Adler as much as I claim to, she mattered a lot to Holmes and I just have to accept that. She mattered a whole lot, and I might not understand that entirely, but I accept that - it is a tragedy. I think even the episode itself could be split into pre- and post- Adler’s death, because that was some massive final addition to Holmes’ arc. I don’t think he will be the same anymore. A lot of things will, of course, remain, but I think something deep inside him died with Adler once and forever. 

Watson counting shots again, always my favorite thing.

Here starts the interesting part of the case, after the first part of the episode being so weirdly canon. This is where even the most inattentive viewer realises some things were there all along, like the importance of ballistics and random Big Ben pictures in the album. 

All this Big Ben showdown was the actual ultimate dream of Moriarty, everything went towards this creation that was there ever since Moriarty worked for the Queen, if that’s what it was. Shitting on her plans every now and then? Alternative scenarios that Moriarty was able to afford. Chasing after some guy’s money? The self-funding that would’ve allowed him to build the weapon. Everything went towards one thing, one way or the other, and it always was Moriarty getting his revenge on the Queen. Such a simple premise, but makes so much sense in so many episodes. 

Here comes the ironically cynical part that I’m not sure I’ve managed to translate correctly. 

Mortgages, that’s what it says so far. Bills of sale is what the wikipedia says. Mortgages is what flashes on the actual papers Moriarty reads, but then again, their fantastic take on English is not to be trusted. 

Well, basically, what were these papers everyone was so pumped up for? Submarine blueprints, monarch letters? Haha, the fucking government sells the crown because it’s constantly broke. Indeed, that’s what traditions cost, Watson, the government earns extra money by selling the fucking crown of England back and forth and profiting on percentages. 

That was so delightful in how cynical the reveal turned out to be, I don’t even care how far away from the truth that take was, I’d still totally imagine them doing that. The pride, the traditions, all those values - all for some mortgage papers where the country itself sells its pride, its traditions and its values. So in the vein of this series and how bluntly it approaches sensitive issues in Russia, big sentiment costs nothing, your own country sells itself. Fantastic, honestly, don’t care about the bullshit meter, I love me some truly revolting politics in never political Sherlock Holmes. 

Also, great sibling dynamic, Petrenko is casually great, as always, there’s a clear distinction between Sherlock and Mycroft. Plus, heil the all improving combined shooting techniques, you can’t even tell that this scene was obviously shot separately.  

Now, I did talk about the fact that this show barely explains anything and I hope that nobody finds this annoying, because as it turned out, that was always the intention and I will always love that. Take that wanky translation away, Holmes:

The curious reader can't wait to see what happens next? He waits for Sherlock Holmes to come, stretch in his chair, sort everything out and elegantly pull a rabbit out of a hat. And could the reader think of everything himself? He saw everything I saw, and he knows everything I know. So what, now let's see who will be smarter: the reader or Sherlock Holmes.

If you haven’t noticed, the show indeed never hid anything from us, it wasn’t like the reveal in the Hound that I still hate where Holmes pops up out of nowhere and delivers vital information that was nowhere near the reader. Everything was always there in front of you, it was always only up to you to gather it together and make your own conclusions. All the little details, let’s just take one: Watson figuring out that Sholto is the rat without explaining his reasoning to the audience. Sholto appeared everywhere Holmes and Watson went. Sholto’s views. Sholto was the one screaming at Watson to shoot his former comrades. Sholto stopped Gregson with his stick, in probably the same manner as he’d stabbed Small; Holmes elaborates on the nature of the wound in the next scene. All of that was always there, the Gregson scene even got some pretty evident focus. All these details were always there in front of you. Watson figured it out. And you should’ve too, since you’ve seen everything he did, no more, no less. 

I always believed that this show leaves enough information for you to make your own conclusions, and I will always love that. Holmes will not do everything for you, and you will not just mindlessly watch him do some shit and then come back with a perfect explanation. Can you think for yourself? That’s the question the series is asking from you. 

Nah fuck the fanservice.

So, I’m pretty sure the entire clock thing was pretty understandable, but I chewed on it properly today and yeah, it’s quite understandable. There’s the Big Ben, and there’s the Queen’s personal clock. The Queen’s clock is the important one, it’s the actual standard, and that’s what they follow in the palace. Holmes fucks with the pendulum, Big Ben is a minute faster as a result. Twelve hits, Big Beg fires. The actual clock shows 11:59, so the Queen remains behind the closed doors for another minute despite the Big Ben ringing. Since Big Ben was a minute early, the bullet only shoots the doors and gets stuck there safely. The Queen exists when it’s actually twelve. The bullet’s been already shot into nothing. Moriarty sucks dong. British weeaboos sing happy birthday. 

As a little detail, when Big Ben hits twelve, you could actually see the weapon firing, but the Queen is still inside.  

Watson had the final attack of this series and that one hit him hard.

Again, the post-war trauma arc, which will never finish because it never actually vanishes as the narrative pleases. To be honest, here it actually served the narrative as a way of leaving Watson behind to have the Holmes vs. Moriarty 1 to 1, but you know, still nice to know they’ve never forgotten. Poor Watson though.

Thinking about it now, I think I can understand why the creators never fancied the waterfall fight, if that’s what it was.

Because it’s not their fight. 

Maybe I’m going crazy with all those details that aren’t probably there, but I started noticing that Holmes and Moriarty are kinda similar. I don’t want to pull some pretentious “two alike minds at different sides of law” thing, but there were parallels. Episode three, Watson says a whore doesn’t matter when thousands of soldiers are involved, Holmes calls him an accountant. Next scene, Holmes decided to quote Watson saying a whore is not worth the lives of thousands of soldiers, Moriarty calls him an accountant. Episode six, Lestrade says police sounds scary, Holmes replies that they can be bribed, poisoned, killed. Moriarty flashback. Policemen say police sounds scary, Moriarty replies the same as Holmes. Every scheme Moriarty does, Holmes always figures it out, because he can keep up with the man’s vivid imagination when it comes to crimes. Both are scientists. Both wear glasses at the end of the day. Both operate with the only extraordinary thing they have - their brains. 

And that’s why I think the waterfalls don’t work in their narrative, a physical fight is not their fight. That was their true fight - sitting next to each other at the top of Big Ben, patiently waiting until their strictly intellectual game outplays their opponent. In this series, Holmes and Moriarty fight with their intelligence, and that final showdown was their ultimate round, and by god it was much more fascinating than the beating. 

This is where I started to realise that every character had an arc that I followed to the point that I felt like I knew everyone for years. I knew exactly what Holmes was thinking about before the flashbacks even bothered to elaborate.

The man went through a lot during this series, he’s lost a lot, he’s suffered a lot, but despite everything he always carried on, and his little brainy game played the most amazing act to date.

I shed a tear because I’m so proud of him. He deserves all the applause there is. He has indeed won, as many times before, but this day, it was truly his triumph, for Irene and for everyone else.

And in the most ironic way ever, Moriarty just kills himself. See, in the end, Moriarty could only be killed by Moriarty. Fair enough, he’s lost his biggest battle, but his suicide is just as satisfying as it’s...kinda underwhelming in a hilarious way. 

What still doesn’t leave my head is Holmes’ last words to Moriarty: “Professor, let’s go”. What was he planning to do? Did Holmes really just win and propose Moriarty to just...leave the clock together for starters? Those words honestly do not leave my mind, that speaks so much about who Holmes is and even how he treats his own achievement. 

The final winner, the awkward conqueror of the world.

All of that happened and nobody would ever find out. Stakes so high, yet so invisible. 

A second arc coming to an end, Lestrade and his secrets and weaknesses. I mentioned it a lot how much I love this little scene and how quality Boyarsky’s acting is, the man went from happiness to murder in less than a second. And when he asked about Higgis, Holmes lied to him, and I’ve known Lestrade for so long now I perfectly understand why. I see Lestrade on the outside, but at the end of the series, I feel I can see through him, what breaks his heart and scares him, even though the show doesn’t give any visible clues about that anymore.

I see you now, Lestrade, and I love you. 

Let’s also point out that Holmes decided to lie because he knew what the news would do to Lestrade. Holmes actually cared that much he decided not to break him. 

This lady I haven’t mentioned yet, she’s been here and there on tv, but this role is one of the few dramatic ones and I think she played it beautifully.

Holmes just can’t stop staring, because I think that he realises both of them are going through the same thing.

Sucks to lose a loved one, not exactly glad to know you’re not the only one. 

The show just keeps punching, now since the first time in forever we are refused in watching everything Holmes does, and when he does, it’s a completely sudden beautiful, and very painful performance on his violin, the one that he allegedly never learned how to master.

The tragic ceases with this freakin guest

Mrs. Hudson’s face in the background,

The Queen, yes, the actress finishes the Barrymore couple from the Soviet series. Mr. Barrymore was the editor here, Mrs. Barrymore - well, here. Quality canon migration. 

The Queen is such a real MVP she actually acknowledges the fact that Watson wrote the stories, and actually applauds him. Then the Queen delivers a burn to Mycroft’s self-esteem, that was great. 

Then the Queen delivers another burn to the audience by pulling out this little file

That explains a lot :’) I’m sure it does Sherlock my boy :’) I’m really glad you got to know all of that :’) you that have seen everything we did :’) I’m sure you deserved to know the entire explanation :’) we’ll just congratulate you :’)

Well, if so, even from whatever we’ve got I think there’s enough to finish the puzzle. Moriarty probably worked for the Queen one way or another, conflict over the weapon, went into hiding, Queen went on a hunt, she was chasing him and he kept systematically poisoning her life. Whatever in that file would probably be totally mindblowing but :’) whatever we’ve got I guess.

And finally, the Queen delivers her final present and I even went so unnecessary extra as far as to split the subtitles and give “dog” a separate line to keep the hilariousness.

Here comes dat good boi the subject of this episode’s title, Baskerville

That was legit fucking hilarious, a final spit into the Make Your Own Unique Holmes Adaptation 101 kit that always included the mandatory hound adaptation: here’s your fucking hound. Of the Baskervilles. Woof. 

Made even funnier on a meta example since Watson probably got so fed with the dog he wrote the entire story where he gets Holmes to shoot the fucker five times after calling it names. 

Also, here goes my final crazy reference hunt of the day, but if that was intentional, then it’s the ultimate shout out.

Hound of the Baskervilles 1983, Frankland’s dog.

Sherlock Holmes 2013, Baskerville Hound, image above. 

?????

And finishing the awesomeness exchange, Holmes gifts the Queen the same penny that saved her life.

Finally, the main arc of this one main character of this show ends up in a single, very satisfying sentence.

I’m a writer. 

If you’d followed his remarks since episode one, that is satisfying beyond belief.

Holmes and Watson’s friendship is sure a weird, but a still an enjoyable one. They can hate on each other however they want, switch from respectable to informal “you” depending on how pissed they are, they can bicker all the want because they are different. But both know they’re invaluable to each other. As the director said, Holmes becomes the Holmes we know because of Watson. But Watson becomes the Watson we know because of Holmes. 

How is he going to call his new book? My friend Sherlock Holmes.

Hi, the accidental ACD of this universe. Of course Watson can name his book whatever he wishes. Because YOU, editor sir, certainly support the final line of this entire series: especially when all those stories are lies anyway.

The credits roll, the music kicks in, and I cry, cry every time because I love this show so much. Whatever there was, it all wraps up nicely, everyone went through an arc, the story makes perfect sense, the series is awesome, and I will never ever regret clinging on it so hard that I decided to subtitle it. 

So here it is, Sherlock Holmes 2013. An incredibly unique and fantastic series that sure has changed my life no matter how much I’d want to deny it. Of course, I have a blog about you, just like about the Soviet series, and just like about every other Russian SH adaptation - of course I’ll see you in like five minutes. It doesn’t make another journey any less emotional though. 

#new russian sherlock holmes #marathon notes #the hound named baskerville