(a short [hopefully] comic series where I, the author, am exploring the friendship between Mr. Sherlock Holmes and his college friend Victor Trevor. And also Holmes' orientation, kind of. And queerplatonic relationships in the XIXth century. Expect: light angst, deep talks, deep thoughts, confusion, platonic!! love, and some funny moments too. This is not a fix-it btw so also expect Victor to eventually move to Terai.)
(My essay why I love Victor and why he's a *significant* part of Holmes. If you're curious why I got so obsessed.)
Chapter 1 - The beggining
part 1 - part 2 - part 3 - part 4 - part 5 - part 6
YOU - On your way back to the precinct, you pass a gaggle of kids gathered around a boombox blasting one of the latest hits. One of the kis is rapping, using a bottle half-filled with some yellow liquid as an approximation of a microphone.
INLAND EMPIRE - What even is that?
[Perception - Medium 10] Look closer at the bottle.
PERCEPTION: 5
EVEN 58%
-1 Thought about pissing yourself.
-1 Wearing the pissf****t jacket.
[CHECK FAILURE]
YOU - Turn to Kim. "Dude's got a bottle of piss."
KIM KITSURAGI - The lieutenant's eyes become filled with infinite weariness as he looks at the bottle, then you, then back at the bottle. "That's not what that is."
PERCEPTION - That's a bottle of piss!
HAND/EYE COORDINATION - It's right in his hand! And he's got on the lid. If the top even slips it could drip down his wrist.
AUTHORITY - I mean, who does this kid think he is?
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT - Look at the bubbles. Look at the colour. Homie's dehydrated! Get him some water.
YOU - You bristle at the thought of the streets of Revachol being overrun with underaged, dehydrated piss-fiends.
KIM KITSURAGI - The lieutenant stands in mute horror as you approach the freestyling youth.
YOU - The words flow from your mouth, rapid-fire, uncoordinated, along with a generous amount of spit. There's no forcing them back in. You must be heard.
AUTHORITY - Prove that it's juice! Drink it!
ELECTROCHEMISTRY - We wanna see. We think it's pee.
LOGIC - We don't believe ya. We think it's from your urethra.
The annual ballpoint pallanoph in celebration of clinging to this rocky sphere for one more year (despite appearances) was delayed by a few days. Oops! I’m not dead, just growing older.
Art is still hard, but this runs on autopilot sometimes. And sometimes, that’s enough.
writing is cool because the whole time you do it, you're thinking "is this shit? is this a steaming pile of hot garbage? is this the worst thing ever written by anyone?" and then you literally never find out