#and sherlock holmes is about the truth but john's been about the solution so far. I just. I really like this john watson lmao | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

inevitably-johnlocked · 3 years

Note

Hi Steph! Hope you’re well :) Do you have a 5+1 rec list? It’s one of my all time favourite tropes and having just found a new one I wondered if you knew of any more? Sorry if you already have one linked somewhere, I’m still not very familiar with tumblr! (The new one I found is works/23857900/chapters/57342538 - sorry I’m not sure how to link properly on asks yet either! 😖

anonymous asked: What’s ur opinion on 5+1 fics?

Hi Lovelies!

Ahhh, sorry for the delay on this one!! I love 5 and Ones!! :D I’ve been tagging them since the beginning 3 years ago so I could more easily find them, just WAITING for people to ask, LOL. I read them a lot on FFNet (it was a BIG fad in the early noughts to have 5+1 fics, just like song fics were a 90′s thing lol)

So here y’all are, plus the one @johnlockedin221b suggested which I haven’t read yet! Please feel free to add your own here!

I’ve also added some *CLOSE TO* five and ones, so like four and ones, I have a 7 times fic, and just one with 5 times. Hope y’all enjoy!

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FIVE AND ONES (and SIMILAR FICS)

Once Upon A Time by ProfessorSquirrell (T, 908 w., 1 Ch. || Family, Snippets of Life, Romance, Sherlock’s Mind Palace, Implied Drug Use, Angst with Happy Ending) – There is a room in Sherlock's mind palace where nothing gets deleted. And it looks like this...

The Four Incidents by TheGirlWithRedHair22 (K+, 1,064 w., 1 Ch. || S1 Compliant, Hurt/Comfort, Romance, John Whump, Accident, John POV, Hand Holding, Worried Sherlock, Sherlock’s Self Esteem) – The first time John was present when someone insulted Sherlock, he brushed it off as a strange coincidence.

Five Times John Watson Remained Oblivious by thriceandonce (K+, 1,154 w., 1 Ch. || Five and Ones, Romance, Friendship, Asexual Sherlock, Queerplatonic Relationship) – ...And one time he didn't.

Five Times John Didn't Notice Sherlock (and one time he did) by somanyhands (T, 1,369 w., 6 Ch. || Friendship, Five and Ones, 221B Format Oneshots) – Five times out oblivious John Watson didn't notice Sherlock, and one time he really did. A short series of (five plus one) 221B fics, just because.

The 3x John Carried Sherlock, and Once ViceVersa by ShinkonoKokoro (K+, 1,673 w., 1 Ch. || Fluff, Friendship, Three and One, BAMF John, Sherlock Whump, Worried Sherlock, John Gets Shot) – It happens more than he suspects.

The Perfect Place by SilverSmile (K+, 1,955 w., 1 Ch. || Humour, Romance, 5 and Ones, Fluff, Experiments, Bed Sharing) – Sherlock attempts to find the perfect place to sleep, but his little experiment proves to be far more difficult than expected.

Like Euphoria and Scotch by FinAmour (M, 1,856 w., 1 Ch. || TSo3 Fix It, Five and One, Alchohol / Drinking, POV Second Person Sherlock, Pining Sherlock, Sherlock’s Imagination, Armchair Sex, Cracky and Fluff, Happy Ending) – 5 different ways it all could have gone + the one way it actually works itself out.

Five Times Sherlock gave John a Pebble and One Time John Returned the Gesture by grimmfairy (NR, 1,895 w., 1 Ch. || Love Confessions, Fluff, Penguins and Pebbles, Nervous / Pining Sherlock, Oblivious John) – Sherlock isn't good with words, so he decides to tell John his feelings the way penguins do, by bringing him pebbles with different meanings. John catches on.

Five Times Sherlock Realized He Was Getting Older by Mildred Graves (T, 9,215 w., 6 Ch. || Five and Ones, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Getting Old) – . . . And one time it didn't matter.

It Was All Right There In Front of Him (A Five Times Plus One Story) by bees_stories (T, 3,191 w., 1 Ch. || 5+1, Protective Idiots, Grooming, Bed Sharing, Lestrade POV) – DI Greg Lestrade is a good detective. But sometimes he doesn't trust the evidence in front of him, until there's a compelling reason to do so.

Wish I Was In Heaven Sitting Down by standbygo (M, 3,282 w. || Post-S4, Five Plus One, Missing Scenes, Parenthood, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Cuddling & Snuggling, Hurt/Comfort, Declarations of Love, Fluff, Food, John Whump) – Five times when Sherlock and John ate together, and one time they didn't. A history of the boys, in food.

Atrium by kali_asleep (T, 3,460 w., 1 Ch. || 5+1, Valentines Day, Fluff & Schmoop, First Kiss) – Five times Sherlock gave John his heart, and the one time Sherlock got a heart in return (literally)

Because Your Coat is Part of You by camellialice (K, 3,705 w., 1 Ch. || 5 and 1, Canon Compliant, Sherlock’s Coat, Angst, Fluff) – Five times John wore Sherlock's coat and one time he didn't need to.

Five Times John Cooked Something with Peas and One First Kiss by 221b_careful_what_you_wish_for (T, 3,915 w., 1 Ch. || 5 and Ones, Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Cooking / Food, Sick Sherlock, Music, Domestic Fluff, First Kiss) – After John cooks five dinners that slowly reveal their hunger for each other, Sherlock and John finally share a first kiss.

Human Body Pillow by Lunavere (K, 4,122 w., 1 Ch. || Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Five and Ones, Sleepy Johnlock, Bed Sharing) – A story about the five times John fell asleep on Sherlock, and the one time Sherlock fell asleep on him.

What John Doesn't Know (Won't Hurt Him) by blueink3 (NR [T], 4,392 w., 1 Ch, || S3 Fix It, Pining Sherlock, Snippets of Life, Hurt/Comfort, Scars, Fluff and Angst, Five and One, Hopeful Ending, POV Sherlock) – Five people who see Sherlock's scars before John Watson. But Sherlock's secrets were never something he could keep from his blogger for long.

Carry On by Mazarin221b (M, 4,647 w., 1 Ch. || 5 and Ones, H/C, Afghanistan, Frottage, Hand Jobs, First Time) – Five times John didn't want to be carried, and one time he did.

Bed-Sharing Between Flatmates by testosterone_tea (T, 5,053 w., 1 Ch. || 5 and Ones, Bed Sharing, PTSD John, Science, Whump, Insecure Sherlock) – 5 times Sherlock had an excuse to share John's bed, and the one time he didn't need one.

Storytelling by amythedork (T, 5,126 w., 1 Ch. || John’s Past, Friendship, Humour) – Five times John Watson opens up to Sherlock Holmes, and one time Sherlock Holmes opens up to John Watson. Gen, though could easily be read as pre-slash.

Sociopathy and Other Fibs by kinklock (M, 5,314 w., 1 Ch. || 5+1, Miscommunication, Humour, Friends to Lovers, Post S3, Love Confessions) – Five times John called Sherlock out, and one time Sherlock returned the favour.

five times sherlock holmes lied to john watson (and one time he finally told the truth) by miss_frankenstein (G, 5,948 w., 1 Ch. || TAB Compliant || Homophobia, Pining Sherlock, Oscar Wilde Trials, Happy Ending) – Set in "The Abominable Bride" universe, this piece adopts a familiar format to chronicle Sherlock's quiet suffering in the wake of the 1895 Oscar Wilde trials and the particular way they affect his relationship with (and feelings for) John.

Five Times John Noticed But Didn't Really by ScandalousMinds (T, 6,383 w., 5 Ch. || Domestics, Fluff/Angst, Bratty Sherlock, Idiots, Pre-Slash, Jealous Sherlock, Love Confessions) – 5 times John (thought) he noticed something peculiar about his and Sherlock's relationship but really missed the obvious.

once upon a time by darcylindbergh (M, 6,501 w., 6 Ch. || Fluff and Angst, First Kiss / Time, Love Declarations, Christmas) – It starts with a wish. In the beginning, John comes home. Part 1 of things fairy tales are made of

Five Times by AliuIce0814 (T, 6,667 w., 6 Ch. || Drama, Canon-Compliant S1 & 2, Angst, 5 and Ones, Reunion) – ... Sherlock woke John, and one time John woke Sherlock.

Six Dates by avawtsn (E, 7,421 w., 2 Ch. || 5+1, First Time / Kiss, Post S4-Compliant, POV John) – A rather accidental 5+1 written for the prompt "is this a date?" Hint: it is.

Galapogos by anchors (E, 8,460 w., 1 Ch. || Hurt/Comfort, Angst, 5 and 1, John Whump) – Somewhere in the depths of the universe, and somewhere in the middle of Sherlock's chest, a star goes into supernova.

All the Times Something ALMOST Happened by allonsys_girl (T, 9,049 w., 6 Ch. || POV Sherlock, Pining Sherlock, Canon Compliant, Angst, Friendship/Love, UST) – John and Sherlock dancing around what they dance around in canon.

Illogical, even. by magikspell (E, 9,119 w., 1 Ch. || Grey-Ace Sherlock, Character Study, Growing Up, Victor Trevor, Romance, First Time/Kiss, Sherlock-centric) – Five reasons Sherlock never believed in love and one reason he does now.

A Different Kind of Love by Svenja The Strange (T, 12,357 w., 6 Ch. || Fluff, Humour, Romance, Five and One) – The five times people noticed and the one time John did. A collection of oneshots (some short, some longer) raising the issue of Johns endless dilemma of being deemed for Sherlock’s boyfriend.

A Study in Linguistics by rizandace (T, 12,425 w., 1 Ch. || S1 Canon Compliant/S2 Divergence, Friendship, Slices of Life, Communication, Cranky Sherlock, Hospitals, Sherlock Whump, Pet Cat, Jealous John, Sherlock’s Violin, Anxious Sherlock, John Whump) – Sherlock Holmes and John Watson had their own language. It was a language of few words and minute facial expressions, and John had learned that it was nearly the only way to have an honest conversation with his eccentric flat mate.

First Response by Arwen Jade Kenobi (T, 13,516 w., 8 Ch. || Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Five and Ones, Whump / Injury) – Five times John had to perform first aid on Sherlock and one time Sherlock had to perform it on John.

Never-Ending Cycle by orphan_account (T, 17,211 w., 1 Ch. || Christmas, Est. Rel., Proposal, Fluff) – Or, four times Sherlock Holmes attempted to propose to John Watson, and the Christmas Party at which he finally did. Sherlock thinks he's a miserable failure, John is confused, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade provide some unsatisfactory advice, and Mummy is, as always, the solution. All in a lovely, fluffy holiday theme.

Just a Kiss by emmagrant01 (E, 19,695 w., 7 Ch. || 5+1, Case Fic) – Five times John and Sherlock kissed because of a case and one time they kissed for real.

EMERGENCY CONTACT: Sherlock Holmes, RELATIONSHIP: n/a by blueink3 (M, 5,533 w., 1 Ch. || Hurt John / John Whump, Five and One, Fluff & Angst, Worried Sherlock) – The first time John Watson’s emergency contact is called is the first time Sherlock Holmes finds out that he has the job. Part 1 of The Emergency Contact Series

EMERGENCY CONTACT: John Watson, RELATIONSHIP: Saint by blueink3 (M, 6,229 w., 1 Ch. || Hurt Sherlock, 5+1, Hurt / Comfort, Caring John, Scars) – The first time Sherlock Holmes realizes he needs an emergency contact is the first time he mentally appoints John Watson with the job. John, of course, does not know this and neither does the local hospital. Part 2 of The Emergency Contact Series

Caught In The Act by ShirleyCarlton (E, 7,009 w. across 6 stories || Est. Rel, Voyeurism, Character POV’s, Masturbation, Switchlock) – This is a series of six scenarios written from the points of view of six different people as they accidentally walk in on Sherlock and John having sex.

Five Times Sherlock Realized He Was Getting Older by Mildred Graves (T, 9,215 w., 6 Ch. || Five and Ones, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Getting Old) – . . . And one time it didn't matter.

The Five Stages of Mourning, Plus One by SunnyRea (T, 10,557 w., 1 Ch. || MCD, Pining / Grieving Sherlock, URT, Heavy Angst, Sherlock’s Mind Palace, Drug Use, Graphic Death, Depression, Unhappy Ending) – Sherlock did not want this, did not want another stalemate with John in the middle, a gun in Jim's hand. This cannot have happened without a sign. There has to be something he missed anything which said today is the day I kill for real.

About Sleep and Coffee and the Existence of Fate by Atiki (E, 17,426 w., 6 Ch. || Fluff, Marriage Proposal, Humour, 5+1) – Naturally, John was startled when suddenly the ultimate solution occurred to him: Marriage. This was, of course, a bit of a fundamental problem rather than an actual solution. One didn't simply use the words “Sherlock” and “marriage” within the same sentence. Not even in a hypothetical context. Five times John kind of wanted to propose to Sherlock, and one time he didn’t have to.

Just a Kiss by emmagrant01 (E, 19,695 w., 7 Ch. || 5+1, Case Fic, Kisses) – Five times John and Sherlock kissed because of a case and one time they kissed for real.

5 Times John Got the Girl (and lost her) and 1 Time John Got the Guy (and kept him) by LiviKate (M, 21,695 w., 6 Ch. || 5 and Ones, Kissing, Oblivious / Awkward Sherlock, BAMF / Sexy / Stud John, Embarrassed John, John’s Scar, Hurt/Comfort, Jealous Sherlock) – John has always had good luck with the ladies. He's charming, friendly and funny, not to mention great in bed. However, his usual skill with the opposite sex is constantly being thwarted by Sherlock and his outbursts. How will John ever get a leg over when Sherlock is always cockblocking him?

Five Times: Watching and Waiting by Ira Lea (K+, 23,034 w., 13 Ch. || Friendship, Post-TRF, No Slash) – Five times Sherlock didn't know John was watching, and one time he made sure of it. Five times John didn't know Sherlock was watching, and one time he figured it out. Three years of "he's dead", one moment of "he's alive", and the resulting chase through the streets of London. (Two 5:1s in quick succession and a bonus).

And A Doctor by StillWaters1 (T, 27,393 w., 6 Ch. || Friendship, Doctor John, Whump, Soldier / Doctor Dichotomy, Five and One) – It was only when people actually saw John working as a physician that they began to understand: that it wasn't just about bullets and IEDs and trauma care under fire. That "doctor" actually covered a pretty wide field. And that John was bloody good at covering ground. 5 times Dr. Watson treated others and 1 time he treated himself.

Five Times They Kissed for a Case, and One Time They Kissed for Real by fleetwood_mouse (M, 32,406 w., 6 Ch. || 5+1, Slow Burn, Fluff / Angst, Mutual Pining, Friends to Lovers) – A stolen ring! An artful blogger! And many more adventures for your enjoyment.

The Case of the Vanishing Pants by SwissMiss (E, 44,025 w., 6 Ch. || Five and Ones, Post-TRF, Case Fic, UST, Homophobia, Friends to Lovers, Pining John, Showering Together, Couple for a Case, Sherlock’s Bum, Fantasies, Jealous Sherlock) – Five times John and Sherlock lost their pants in the course of a case.

MARKED FOR LATER

Five Times Sherlock and John Had Realistic Sex and One Time They Didn't by pennydreadful (E, 1,811 w., 1 Ch. || Five and One, Anal/Oral, Finger Fucking, Hand Jobs) – Reality is a bitch.

A Study in Night Terrors by Dovahlock221 (T, 2,811 w., 1 Ch. || 5 and Ones, Night Terrors, (Emotional) Hurt/Comfort, PTSD Sherlock, Worried John, Hurt John, Angst with Happy Ending) – Five times Sherlock suffered from night terrors and the one time he had the best dream of his life.

What Every Step Is For by Anyawen (G, 2,921 w., 1 Ch. || Five and One, Bedsharing, Injury, Illness, Cold, Lack of Beds, Fake Relationship, Fluff) – Five times bedsharing occurred due to circumstance, and one time it happened by invitation.

5 Times John Almost Told Sherlock He Loved Him, and 1 Time He Did by wanderlustmind (T, 3,006 w., 1 Ch. || 5 and Ones, Additional Tags to be added) – As adorable as a box of puppies, I promise.

The Fundamental Things Apply by Raina_at (M, 6,263 w., 1 Ch. || Five and One, Kissing) – "Kisses that are easily obtained are easily forgotten." - Proverb

Five Times Sherlock Fell Asleep in John's Arms by Accident and the One Time He Did It – Accidentally – on Purpose by WillowGrove (T, 7,201 w., 6 Ch, || Five and One, Falling Asleep, Cuddling & Snuggling, Texting, Tea, First Kiss, Dreams, Fever, Comfort, Caretaker John, Love, Humour, Fluff) – Sherlock notices that John keeps cuddling him to sleep and he rather likes it. But then John stops, and Sherlock has to result to schemes to make it happen again. Who falls asleep, who wakes up in who’s arms, and – most importantly – will there be a kiss in the end?

Dinner Conversations, a 5+1 by BakerTumblings (G, 7,559 w., 1 Ch. || Post S4, Blended Families, Parentlock, Dinner Conversations, Established Relationship, Family Adventures, Five and Ones) – Five times that John had something to say at or about dinnertime, and one time where John was requested to listen. Part 8 of Eyes Wide Open

The Refractive Index by NoStraightLine (E, 10,395 w., 6 Ch. || Five and Ones, BAMF John, Crossdressing, Sherlock is Shot, Oral Fixation, First Time, Hurt/Comfort) – Five times John and Sherlock fuck in a bolt-hole, and one time they don't.

Five Christmases that went wrong and one that didn't by love_in_mind_palace (M, 11,685 w., 6 Ch. || Christmas, Fluff & Smut, Domestics, Est. Rel., 5 and 1′s, Canon Divergence, Tooth-Rotting Fluff) – John isn’t sure about most of the things in his life. Except for the fact that he loves Sherlock, Sherlock loves him back and that after years of bad luck, he is getting the Christmas he always deserved.

In Plain Sight by SilentAuror (E, 18,100 w., 1 Ch. || Post-HLV, 5 and Ones, POV Sherlock, Sex on Trains, Sex During Investigations, Sex in Offices, Unspoken Feelings, Anal, Slight Medical Kink, Public Sex Kink) – Five times that Sherlock and John have sex of some kind without talking about it and one time when they do. Part 1 of the Public Sex Kink

Just Dance by 7PercentSolution (M, 22,784 w., 6 Ch. || Four and One, For a Case, Drug Use, Abusive Boss, Ballroom Dancing, Sherlock Loves Dancing, Blackmail, Unrequited Love, Courtship) – Four dances that Sherlock taught Janine — and one he didn’t. Never mind if it leads him into dangerous territory; how could Sherlock resist a case from Lady Smallwood that lets him use his dancing skills? This is a gift work to Silvergirl, who is an inspiration to us all.

5 times Sherlock got (a) dressed like a woman, plus 1 he did not by Nauss (M, 25,719 w., 6 Ch. || Friendship and Romance, 5 and Ones, French Language Fic) – Ton regard est baissé et ton attitude ne brille pas de son habituel éclat Je-sais-que-tu-considères-que-je-n'aurais-pas-dû-mais-la-science-John. À la place, il y a tous ces petits détails que je ne parviens pas à voir, alors je m'approche de ta silhouette enrobedechambrée. Puis je lève la main, bouche bée. - John rentre en avance du travail et tombe sur un imprévu sherlockien.

Exit- An Ex Files Special by 7PercentSolution (G, 27,148 w., 6 Ch. || Sherlock/Victor Trevor, Angst Like Whoa, TRF-Compliant, Multiple POV’s, Unrequited Love, Whump, TBI and Recovery, Heartbreak, Romance, PTSD, Grieving, Five and One) – The end (or not, as the case may be), covering The Fall and its aftermath. Can be considered both a conclusion to my Fallen Angel series and a coda to Extricate and The Ex. A five plus one.

under the burden of solitude by subtext-is-my-division (E, 27,947 w., 5 Ch. || S3/S4 Fix It/Post TLD, Angst, Grief/Mourning, First Kiss, Mentions of Rape, Hurt/Comfort, Pining Sherlock, Sherlock POV, Fantasies, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Suicidal Thoughts Mentions, Five and Ones) – Five times they shared a bed platonically, and one time they didn't.

Caesura by emilycare (M, 36,608 w., 10 Ch. || Five and One, Mutual Pining, Love Confessions, Sherlock’s Violin, Friends to Lovers, Past Abuse, Past Drug Use, Angst with Happy Ending, Suicidal Thoughts, Oral Sex, Blow Jobs, Domestic Fluff, Soft Sherlock, Gay Sherlock, Bisexual John) – The violin is a retreat that eases the quiet of Sherlock Holmes' solitude. It also speaks for him when he cannot bridge the gaps his defenses create. Moments when music helps Sherlock reach out or let others in, like his stalwart flatmate and, in time, the doctor's daughter. Five times Sherlock Holmes played the violin, and one time he did not.

Magpies Series by 7PercentSolution (T, 218,813+ w. across 4 works || Series WIP || Post TRF, Drug Withdrawal, References to Torture, Confessions, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Sick Fic, PTSD, Oblivious John) – The Magpies series covers the events of the broadcast series three and four, "translated" into my universe. I wrote a lot of it before the episodes were broadcast and made some of my themes into AU (such as the Holmes parents and the sibling). Darker, more intense and angsty than Game Theory and Fallen Angel, the Magpies stories show the effects of the hiatus on all concerned. When parts five to 8 are completed, the series will bring the Ford saga to a conclusion.

#steph replies #five and ones #johnlock fic recs #my fic recs #johnlockin221b #long post #number fics #five times fics

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teawaffles · 3 years

Text

The Fugitives from the Fire: Chapter 5, Part 2

“Hey, madam innkeeper: where would you normally have been in the building?”

“……Since when did you get in charge of the investigation?”

As Sherlock took the lead, it seemed Gregson was displeased, but also no longer in the mood to put up a fight.

Hillary sniffed.

“I was always at the reception desk. I’m the only one managing the inn; I don’t have a single employee.”

“In that case, do you remember when these three men came to book their rooms? Or rather, at the time, had there been anyone with burns on their face?”

Sherlock was now diverting the conversation away from the case, instead attempting to verify if there were eyewitness accounts of the other fugitive. However, Gregson responded in a low voice.

“Holmes: it’s not going to work. We also tried asking her when we arrived at the scene back then, but it seems she has a strange policy of protecting her guests’ privacy, so she doesn’t check her guests’ appearances and such too closely.”

It seemed Hillary had heard him whispering, for she spoke up in defiance.

“You know, these parts are full of people with something to hide. I always make sure they pay up, but I don’t do such tactless things as staring people in the face.”

“Tactful, eh……”

Even Sherlock couldn’t stop himself; he cracked a wry grin. He didn’t know if it was an unwritten rule of the slums, but the innkeeper’s response was certainly a little too risky.

Nevertheless, at this point, there was nothing to be gained from laying blame on her. Sherlock continued.

“In that case, when the fire started, were you also at the reception?”

“That’s right. I wanted to stay there until the fire was contained, but a bunch of bobbies dragged me out at the very last moment.”

It seemed the lady possessed a truly dauntless spirit, so much so she had been willing to go down with her inn. That elicited something close to admiration within Sherlock, and he looked over the suspects.

“You mentioned ‘the very last moment’… That means you stayed at the reception until everyone had escaped?”

“Indeed: as the landlady, I have to ensure my guests are safe. Besides these guys, I definitely saw the ones from rooms 102 and 201 escape out the front door.”

“You’re indeed the epitome of a host.”

In his mind, Sherlock added this new piece of information on the guests’ rooms.

Excluding the murder victim, there had been five guests in total.

On the ground floor, rooms 101 (Jerry Dorff) and 102 had been occupied.

On the first floor, rooms 201 and 203 (Mike Myers).

Then on the second floor, room 301 (Bruno Campbell).

As he gathered the respective locations of the guests, the proprietress spoke up.

“Oh yes — earlier, everyone was talking about who had the chance to go up to the second floor, right? You’ll have to rule out Mr Jerry over there: for some reason, he immediately ran outside when the fire began. He seemed the very picture of alarm.”

“Hmm; this man, panicked?”

As far as he was concerned, people were free to run away in any manner they liked. But the gap between that and the taciturn, mysterious man before them made even Sherlock’s expression soften. It seemed Jerry had been strangely embarrassed by that reaction, deliberately clearing his throat.

Then, the detective turned to Gregson.

“Come to think of it, when you were going back upstairs, did you go past anyone? There must’ve been people rushing to escape.”

“I remember that: I passed by Bruno, Mike, and one other guest on the stairs. But is that important somehow?”

“If the killer had been among them, then he must’ve murdered the victim in the short period between the time you went downstairs to check the situation, and the time you returned to the second floor.”

Gregson groaned. “……Of course, that interval feels way too short. It didn’t even take me 30 seconds to go downstairs and back up again. So, that means……”

The locations of the suspects’ rooms. The escape route. The span of time until the victim had been murdered. Putting together all the clues they’d gathered by questioning the people involved, a single answer surfaced of its own accord.

“——It’s impossible for the killer to have gone upstairs and murdered him.”

Sherlock sounded as if he were pronouncing a judgement. Then, Gregson finally got his head around it — just like what a detective’s assistant would’ve done.

——“In that case, how did he murder the man in the room?”

“T-Then, the man in the room — how was he murdered……?”

Once again, the John in his imagination overlapped with Gregson. In theory, this ‘riddle’ had turned into something impossible to solve, and the assistant inspector was wracked with an anguish akin to agony.

However, that was a tale that only applied to ordinary people.

With his singularly transcendent powers of deduction, the consulting detective had already narrowed down two answers to this case.

Truthfully, right now, he could proceed to the solution right away. But for some reason, he didn’t want to do that. Surely, the reason why he was investigating the truth like this, was because he saw the figure of the man before him strenuously racking his brains.

As Gregson continued to despair, Sherlock Holmes placed a hand on his back.

“Gregson, do you have a moment?”

“……What do you want?”

He looked exhausted — but that was a weariness born from his own sense of responsibility, and even Sherlock refused to take a jibe at him now.

Gregson was shouldering a duty as a police inspector, so the detective resolved to use a little discretion.

“I want to talk to you outside for a bit.”

“…………”

Sherlock had said so in a serious tone, and Gregson didn’t put up a fight.

✦ ✦ ✦ ✦

Once they left the inn, an unnerving oppressiveness made their skin prickle: clearly, the locals’ anger had only intensified. Lestrade was trying his best to negotiate with and conciliate them, but it wouldn’t be long before their frustration boiled over.

Yet, even as they were caught in this race against time, Sherlock remained unhurried. On the streets to which filth clung here and there, he began to speak as if they were simply having a chat.

“First off, from the conversation earlier, we’ve eliminated the possibility that the culprit went to room 303 and killed him. As such, we have to consider a different tack.”

“A different tack?”

“What I mean is, the idea that he didn’t attack from the door — rather, the window.”

Sherlock proposed the theory he’d thought up at the start: that the man had been shot from the window. With this idea, they could break free of the ‘riddle’ created by the locked room — the murderer could kill the victim even without going all the way to the second floor.

However, Gregson shrugged in amazement, and explained in an indifferent tone.

“This might dispute the deduction you’re so proud of, but we did look into that as well. Firstly, for this method to work, there must’ve been two men in total: one to start the fire at the inn, and the other to shoot the victim from outside. But hiring another collaborator to silence an accomplice, or settle a falling-out, brings its own share of danger. In addition, in order to shoot his victim, a gunman would minimally have to be at the same height as him. There’s a brothel across the street from the inn, facing its north wall, and with three floors to boot, it fits the bill. But at the time of the murder, there’d been people on its second floor, and no one testified that they heard a gunshot. Hence, that explanation has to be rejected.”

Unusually, the inspector had discussed his view without a hint of his usual thorny attitude.

But Sherlock was adamant. “If that’s the case, then——”

——“If that’s the case, then how about something like this? Sherlock.”

His partner’s voice resounded through his mind. Now, the detective persisted in playing the role of an assistant, raising another idea to the inspector.

“From the street beside the inn, he could’ve aimed at room 303’s window and shot the victim. With that, he wouldn’t have raised suspicions among the people in the brothel.”

“……That’s rather cliché. There were officers outside the inn, so if there’d been someone with a gun outside, they would’ve arrested him long ago. Moreover, the victim collapsed a step away from the room door. If he’d been shot from the window, he would’ve lain there still. Even if he had then used the last of his strength to crawl all the way to the door, with that level of blood loss, it’d be strange that there hadn’t been a trail of blood leading from the window. As I said earlier, as far as I could tell through the keyhole, I didn’t see any marks like that.”

The inspector calmly refuted his theory, and Sherlock made the same troubled face as John always did.

——Then and there, he eliminated one of his two suppositions, and completely saw through the ‘riddle’ of this case.

“Is that so? Then I’m completely at a loss here.”

“Hmm, what’s gotten into you since earlier? ……You kept making deductions that were quite unlike you.”

Gregson had casually said something that, deep down, revealed a glimpse of his recognition of the detective’s ability. Unwittingly, Sherlock broke into a gentle smile.

But just as quickly, he replaced it with the troubled expression required of the fool he was playing. Sherlock put both hands behind his head, and looked up at the sky.

“Hey, Gregson. Somehow, we’ve been talking over and over and getting nowhere; so for a change of pace, how about a quiz?”

“Huh? You purposely brought me all the way outside, for a quiz?!”

Gregson frowned, but Sherlock continued without a care.

“Let’s say there are two children, A and B, and they’re friends. One day, the two of them play catch at a distance of about 20 steps away from one another. But although A can throw the ball to B, B can’t throw it back to A. Why is that so? In case you were wondering, the two of them have the same strength.”

“……Hmm.”

Gregson forgot about his complaints for a moment, and pondered.

“Did B sprain his shoulder?”

“In a quiz like this, that kind of reasoning’s rubbish, isn’t it?”

“There’s a wall between them.”

“Then A couldn’t have thrown the ball over.”

“……Another kid suddenly appeared and stole the ball.”

“You’re being a little careless, aren’t ya?”

It was unclear what the intention behind this quiz was, and to top it off, Sherlock had rejected every one of his answers. At last, Gregson raised his voice.

“Dammit, just tell me the answer already! Also, what’s the point of a quiz like this?!”

“Come on, now,” Sherlock parried. “I’ll give you a hint: for example, try looking at this building here.”

“Hmm……”

The detective pointed to the inn they had just stepped out of. Coincidentally, just like the one that had burnt down, this building also had three floors.

“What about it?”

“Man, you’re still as slow as ever. Look……”

Sherlock pointed to a window on the upper floors, and moved his finger between that and the window below it a few times.

Watching that action, Gregson seemed to have arrived at the answer himself.

“I see. So the children were standing on the upper and lower floors respectively, and leaning out the windows to throw the ball? Although it could be thrown from the floor above to the one below, it would be difficult to throw the ball back up in the other direction. That’s to say, the distance of 20 steps was not lengthwise, but vertical——”

Right then, as if a bolt of electricity had coursed through him, Gregson twitched. His hand shot to his chin; sinking deep into thought, he remained absolutely motionless, with only his lips piecing fragments together into clues.

“There’s only one way…… To be able to kill without going upstairs…… In that case, the position of the body…… And it ending up as a locked room…… But, such an extraordinary method –– is it even possible?”

At his final question, Sherlock grinned.

“I don’t have the foggiest idea what you just thought of…… But when you’ve eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.” [1]

“………!”

Gregson looked at the detective, standing boldly where he was.

Whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.

That was what he’d always maintained.

A suicide, or an accident. Pretending to be dead. Entering the room and murdering him. A sniper shot from the window. After carefully pursuing all lines of thought, in the end, only this solution remained.

In that case, it had to be the truth.

Could it be, that he’d started this entire conversation in order to guide him here……?

“……Hmph.”

At that thought, Assistant Inspector Gregson reassumed his usual, haughty attitude: the manner of a police inspector who saw the detective as his enemy.

“Let’s go, Holmes. I’ll tell you what I’ve deduced.”

——This is my case.

As Gregson strode away triumphantly, Sherlock chuckled.

T/N: Sherlock has grown so much..! (my /heart/)

Footnotes:

[1] A quote from Chapter 6 of the Sherlock Holmes novel The Sign of the Four, by Arthur Conan Doyle. (Wikipedia)

#moriarty the patriot #yuukoku no moriarty #yuumori #english translation #the girl who sees rainbows

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betweendoctorsanddetectives · 3 years

Note

tjlc aside, what is the “you were told but you didn’t listen.” solution for Sherlock surviving the fall??? 🔍👀 Or is the solution inherent in tjlc??? Is there any meta on the fall that exists after s4 was released??? I've already read toxicsemicolon's (Amy's) meta on medium but she doesn't detail Sherlock's survival plan in s2...

i do think the solution is ultimately inherent to tjlc (and i’d also be inclined to say that there’s very little to be solved in the show outside of the lense of tjlc)

so there’s two elements to my answer here, the first being that I think the how doesn’t matter and the second being my best answer anyway

keep reading under the cut!

firstly, i’m firmly of the opinion that there’s very little point in understanding how he survived for a number of reasons:

1) to me, it’s funny that mofftiss knew how much people cared about how he survived when they didn’t care or really plan a solution. one of their favourite holmesian anecdotes & one that i think of often is “You know my methods Watson, I am well known to be indestructible” from A Study In Terror 1965. i’m struggling to find the clip where mark gatiss says this but i know i’ve seen it, i think they talk about how holmes survives a fire that almost certainly would have killed him, and then it’s never explained in the film & mofftiss found that really entertaining.

“You know my methods, John. I am known to be indestructible.” is said by sherlock in the end of teh, when john does finally ask how he survived, and i take this as an indication that mofftiss don’t care about the audience understanding how sherlock survived

boop and they’re fine.

2) focusing on this too much takes away from its metanarrative purpose, which is essentially that sherlock the character represents sherlock the show. by this i mean that there is a parallel to be found between the character of sherlock ‘dying’ and then ‘coming back to life’ and the show of sherlock being ‘bad’ and then being ‘redeemed’. s4 was intentionally wrong-feeling, they knew how angry it would make people, and they predicted it to a tee. acd got berated by angry fans following the publication of the final problem, mofftiss are now bad bad men who get many complaints and even a fan campaign against them. anderson represented fans in s3 in the capacity both of obsessively trying to understand how sherlock survived the fall, and of the doubting thomas turned true believer (i.e. had no faith in sherlock (the show) until he realised the truth). they knew what would happen, they foresaw the loss of faith of most fans, they foresaw some small group of fans believing in sherlock holmes!

taking that into account, the metanarrative we see from the fall is far more important to me than the literal answer as to how he survived. sherlock’s fall from grace = Sherlock’s Fall From Grace

3) it’s simply the wrong thing to focus on. imagine if the hiatus between s2 and s3 hadn’t been spent largely on solving this one element of the show... the tjlc boom happened after tsot aired, when the idea that johnlock was actually endgame really took off in believable way among a much larger group of fans & from there the meta was incredibly prevalent and big connections could be made that hadn’t before! john’s “i don’t care how you did it” line is really relevant to me. i don’t care either. anderson’s character is ridiculed for how much he cares. there are mysteries integral to a sublime enjoyment of the show and so much time was spent focusing on one mystery that simply... wasn’t

“it’s not the fall, it’s the landing”

now, none of this is to disparage the good good problem solving that was thrown at this question, or the genuine enjoyment people may gain from it - at the end of the day if you have fun solving a mystery that’s all that matters!

a number of theories are plausible, with some even being compatible together, and some theorised prior to s3 and then acknowledged in s3:

rubber ball under the armpit to cut off bloodflow for when john took the pulse; bungee cord; john knocked down by the biker so he wouldn’t see; the ambulance station(?) blocking john’s view of the pavement; homeless network helping; false dummy body; mycroft the confidant being able to help

in terms of when people say “you were told” regarding the fall, i think it could only refer to the little sequence from when sherlock explains to anderson! but people can feel free to chime in because obviously, as i’ve said, i’m not particularly personally interested in how he survived, so i’ve not cultivated a strong knowledge of this area

finally, my personal favourite theory, which may have been proposed elsewhere by someone else*, but i actually stumbled across myself when watching jonathan creek:

this is my favourite simply because i find it fun, i don’t necessarily think it is The Most Correct

(& i’m inclined to believe that mofftiss have in fact seen jonathan creek, partly because it’s iconic within the realms of campy british murder mystery, partly because the main characters have a distinctly johnlockian dynamic, partly because some elements in the show make the tjlc bell in my brain go ding, and partly because of this)

oh! also, a fun fact i had forgotten about and came across when i was finding the screencaps above! alistair petrie (sholto) was in the episode in which that fall survival method appears, and was in fact playing the character who fakes their own death. everything magically connected :-)

* pre-s3 airing, i saw posts about the layout of the hospital and the pavement outside and i’m sure i have seen, all those years ago, someone talking about false flags in the pavement or a trapdoor or trampoline or net or something, though i can’t say i ever saw anyone connect it to this episode of jonathan creek

#Anonymous #tjlc #would like to say i think its very sweet of anon to refer to amy's meta in parentheses because thats how i always refer to it :')

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possiblyimbiassed · 4 years

Text

The Lost Special?

Musings over possible implications of BBC Dracula

After obsessively watching all three episodes of BBC Dracula, I can’t help feeling I’ve got one of my suspicions, if not exactly confirmed, at least enhanced: that this Victorian old story, finally adapted into present time, might in fact be relevant to Mofftiss’ version of ACD’s short story The Lost Special. Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t, but since I can’t deny I do like ‘tin-hatting’, for now I choose to believe it is. ;)

(Continued under the cut)

As some of you guys already have expressed, I think BBC Dracula has BBC Sherlock written all over it. I believe this was obvious already from the setup; same authors, same producers, same broadcasters, same set designer, same format, three of the same actors including one of the writers, and even the same airing slot as BBC Sherlock. The Sherlock hints are sprinkled all over the two first episodes, which occur in the same Victorian time frame as ACD’s original Sherlock Holmes stories. This for example:

But the bringing of Bram Stoker’s old narrative into present time in the third episode (The Dark Compass) kind of sealed the deal for me.

Suddenly we have Count Dracula sending text messages by smart phone to his victims:

We have Dracula vomiting on the rug of a crime scene:

We have him storing body parts in the fridge! (X)

And this fridge scene is taking place while Dracula is watching a TV program with elephants on the Savannah, exclaiming “Look at her - so beautiful!”:

Who is beautiful - the ‘Elephant in the Room’? It certainly feels like Mofftiss are stringing us along here, doesn’t it? ;)) But no; it’s the sun that Dracula admires as beautiful, we learn that in the show. The shining from the sun is a thing he thought he could never endure, but ultimately he learns that he actually can.

Same thing as Sherlock says about John Watson the distant suns in the sky in TGG:

Or about Sister Sentiment’s music in TFP:

Taking Dracula to modern time is something that the authors had expressly denied they would do. But they were lying of course, as is their usual MO. Exactly the same deception as they did with TAB, isn’t it? And as if this wouldn’t be enough, there’s a whole list of other modern Sherlock references, summarized by @gosherlocked (X). I’m sure there’s more, we just need some more time to find them.

As I mentioned in this comment recently (X): The Lost Special (X) is a short story about a derailed, disappeared train that ACD wrote during the Great Hiatus (1898). It bears some typical Holmes-case mystery characteristics. And the anonymous person who in this story sends a letter to the train company, suggesting a way of solving the case, seems very much to be Holmes himself:

“It is one of the elementary principles of practical reasoning, that when the impossible has been eliminated the residuum, HOWEVER IMPROBABLE, must contain the truth. It is certain that the train left Kenyon Junction. It is certain that it did not reach Barton Moss. It is in the highest degree unlikely, but still possible, that it may have taken one of the seven available side lines. It is obviously impossible for a train to run where there are no rails, and, therefore, we may reduce our improbables to the three open lines, namely the Carnstock Iron Works, the Big Ben, and the Perseverance.”

(X). So this short story indeed looks like a Holmes story in disguise. But Sherlock Holmes’ name is never mentioned in The Lost Special and the storyteller is not John Watson. In this story the police did not act on this anonymous person’s advice. The truth wasn’t revealed until one of the perpetrators - a hired murderer who was threatened with execution years later - admitted that he had participated in derailing the train in question (X): “A conspiracy of men had temporarily re-attached the side track leading to the abandoned mine Heartsease just long enough for the train to go down to the mine, then pulled the tracks back up before they could be discovered.” To the broader audience, however - the Holmes readers - the character of Sherlock Holmes remained ‘dead’.

The wrapping up

One could say that The Lost Special both had and had not a satisfactory ending. Satisfactory because the truth was finally told and the mystery thus solved, but unsatisfactory because in spite of all the hints, the readers didn’t get to know anything more from Holmes. Not until years later (1903) when ACD actually did ‘resurrect’ him and continued the narrative of Sherlock Holmes with 33 more short stories.

When Dracula finally ‘dies’ at the end of the BBC Dracula series, it’s not by being ‘staked’ or burnt to ashes with the sunlight as one would expect for a ‘monster’ like him. It’s by embracing the criticism of his most resilient but dying opponent: Zoe/Agatha Van Helsing (Mofftiss call her ‘Zagatha’ in an interview). She is dying from cancer, not from vampire bites. Dracula drinks her (to him) mortal blood and then ‘dies’ in her arms, basking in the sunlight (without burning) in a tender lovers’ embrace.

Zagatha in BBC Dracula is criticizing the vampire for skulking in the shadows, being afraid of facing death. She says it will be his punishment to live on for eternity, while she is mortal and dying:

Seriously, this is so much ‘Buffy the Vampire Slayer that I can’t just... But Count Dracula re-writes Bram Stoker’s original story and opts for another solution: to ‘die’ willingly in the sunlight, together with Zagatha. And if dying is a metaphor for falling in love - as I believe it is in BBC Sherlock - this might have some important implications. I think Dracula and Zagatha here represent two sides of Sherlock that are finally allowed to merge; his Sentiment and his (Homo)sexuality.

Like The Lost Special, BBC Dracula is nicely wrapped up and ‘solved’. But we still don’t really know what happened with Count Dracula, because we don’t actually see him crumble into ashes like he did in Stoker’s canon, and like the other vampire who was ‘staked’ in the show - Lucy Westenra. But the episode is packed with Sherlock references, so...

But I can’t say for the life of me that S4 of BBC Sherlock brought a satisfactory ending for the Holmes narrative either; it’s not ‘wrapped up’ at all! John and Sherlock seem to live on for eternity as ‘best friends’, solving crimes in the heteronormative ‘legends’ preferred by Ghost!Mary’s voiceover. They are simply immortal, Un-Dead for ever - like a punishment? Wouldn’t it be far more satisfying if Sherlock Holmes and John Watson’s characters would come out and appear ‘human’ and ‘mortal’ and not have to remain just ‘best friends’ forever?

The (lack of) train references

One might argue, of course, that there are no specific train references in BBC Dracula, so how could we think it has anything to do with The Lost Special? Because, like The Lost Special, BBC Dracula is a Sherlock story in disguise! And because in the BBC Sherlock narrative itself there are already several episodes with train references; the most prominent of them is TEH and the last one - TFP. So there’s really no need for more references. But the train theme isn’t explained; it’s not ‘wrapped up’ at all, and neither is Sherlock’s story. I’ve tried to argue before that the detective is actually dying in S4, and so have others (X). And making him immortal will not save his credibility as a human.

I do hope he’ll wake up again, though - preferably with help of modern medicine rather than superstition - to a more credible and realistic story than both TFP and Dracula. ;)

In TEH, apart from scenes with John Watson traveling alone through the Underground network of London, we have a derailed Underground train carriage near Sumatra road, where no-one would care to look. Like a Lost Special. It’s not carrying a bomb; the whole carriage is the bomb, which is threatening to overthrow the Parliament. Which very much makes me think that Mofftiss still have a metaphoric ‘bomb’ stored for us, a ‘rug-pull’ of sorts. But John and Sherlock (and the world) were not ready in TEH, so they switched it off. The ‘bomb’ never went off in S3 (2014). In TEH John was urging Sherlock to ”use your Mind Palace” to defuse the bomb, and I think he did - for the rest of the show up until TFP. Because in TEH, Instead of the big explosion, we got a truly weird, staged scene with Anderson (who didn’t quite believe Sherlock’s explanation anyway).

And then the plot carried on in its heteronormative tracks with John’s wedding and Mary taking over the narrative. But in TST we learned that Sherlock, as a child, had re-written an old tale about someone encountering Death in ‘Samarra’ into a story where the hero ends up in Sumatra instead, and lives. In TFP the plot derailed completely into an absurd horror story, and we got Moriarty as train driver, going “Choo-choo!” like a train whistle:

But the only 'explanation’ related to trains that we learn about Moriarty in TFP is rather lame: that Jim’s brother supposedly was a station master (not from canon, though). And then he goes “tick-tock, tick-tock” like a ticking bomb:

(Also similar to Mycroft’s ‘tick-tock’ countdown until he’ll die from obesity in TAB). But no bomb went off at that point in TFP either (I’m not counting the Patience Grenade here, because that happened before the ‘tick-tock’). So what was all that tick-tocking about? And how long will it keep ticking asdf?

The Sussex Vampire etc.

After reading some interesting metas from @yeah-oh-shit (X, X) and @ebaeschnbliah (X) I feel more and more convinced that legal issues with the ACD Estate might be very relevant for what Mofftiss are doing with BBC Sherlock and BBC Dracula. Three important ACD stories have now entered the public domain on January 1st this year: The Sussex Vampire (SUSS), The Illustrious Client (ILLU, where Holmes and Watson visit a turkish bath ;) ) and The Three Garridebs (3GAR; known for a scene where Holmes shows a glimpse of his true feelings for Watson). in SUSS there’s a quote about Sumatra which I find really interesting in the context described above:

“Matilda Briggs was not the name of a young woman, Watson,” said Holmes in a reminiscent voice. “It was a ship which is associated with the giant rat of Sumatra, a story for which the world is not yet prepared.

As I said in this comment (X), there’s a lot of subtext to draw from this. And I do hope the world is prepared now. ;)

@raggedyblue @ebaeschnbliah @gosherlocked

#bbc dracula #dracula spoilers #Dracula=TheLostSpecial?#Comparison Dracula-Sherlock

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allaroundcringey · 4 years

Text

Dependency ~ Sherlock Holmes

Chapter 2 ~ Eavesdropping

Pairing : Sherlock x Female Reader

Summary : After a few years John Watson was left no choice but to call his old school mate Amelia Harold. The matter of the call you ask? Sherlock's drug problem. What started out as a simple phone call to help out his friend turned out to be so much more: it gave Amelia Harold a chance to find out who deemed her father guilty of murder. Full of friendship, truth, heartbreak, suspense, and love this story showcases what matters most in life: your friends and family.

Warnings : mention of drug abuse, addiction, and emotional abuse in later chapters

A/N : Just want to pop in and say that I plan on making a master list for this series once I get a few more chapters posted! Also- I think my schedule for posting will be every Sunday since a weeks worth of time ensures I can put out good chapters. If I feel the compulsion to post earlier than that then I will. Enjoy chapter 2!

***I do not own any of these characters, plot ideas, and lines taken directly from the show (though there are only a few of those) anything pertaining to Amelia is my original work.***

Both scattered across the ground due to the velocity of the explosion, Amelia and Sherlock quickly got themselves back together enough to stand up again. Sherlock looking nonchalant, Amelia was forced to question his odd behavior after such an event.

"Does this stuff just... normally happen around here?"

"Yes. Now if you would show yourself out that would be lovely." Sherlock said, flipping his night gown with his hand and heading towards his room. Before he could make it far Amelia stuck out her hand to stop him from going any farther.

"I'll leave when I please. And you'll be polite to me since I am company of John's. And I don't take bullshit from anyone especially from Sherlock Holmes. Understand?"

With a silent nod and look of defeat Sherlock sat back in his chair. Amelia could have left when he told her to since she had no reason to stay but she could not stand Sherlock being rude to her again. The main thought she held was how John was able to put up with such a creature.

In an attempt to clear the silence, Amelia spoke up. Sherlock clearly had the same idea since he started to speak at the same time. With an awkward stare, Sherlock spoke up again.

"Why are you so sensitive about your father?" He said bluntly. In truth he didn't mean for it to sound condescending but like many other things he'd said, especially that night, it did.

"How about you learn to shut your mouth and understand that not everyone is an open book. You definitely aren't." Amelia replied with a scoff.

"I only meant to make conversation." Sherlock snapped. Amelia had had a big enough dose of Sherlock for the night (if not a lifetime) and decided to see herself off. Wondering whether she should say goodbye or simply leave she decided on the latter to avoid more tension.

On her way down the stairs making her way around the corner, she caught a glimpse of Sherlock from where he stood near the window. He looked almost lonely. No, he definitely looked lonely. Contemplating on if she should go back up there he caught her staring and immediately put on a facade and slammed the door shut.

Today being a day off work, Amelia made her way straight to 221B that morning. She peculiarly found that this morning had been the easiest for her to awake since the traumatic events in her early adulthood. Not wanting to acknowledge the sudden, and frankly scary, change she blocked out the thoughts by what today could hold.

Hopefully John could finally have a moment to sit down with her and explain what he had phoned her for in the first place. What on Earth could Sherlock possibly need from her?

Hailing a cab outside her flat she knew that soon enough she would find out.

Pushing her way past the emergency crew outside 221B, Amelia found herself walking up the steps almost as if she had been there many times before. 221B had that affect on people.

When she arrived to the sitting room she found a new face sitting in John's chair. Sherlock of course was sitting in his own chair and John was standing near the desk.

"Hi, did I walk in on something? I'll come back later if you'd like." Amelia spoke directly to John, avoiding the curious gaze the new man cast upon her.

"No it is totally fine. I was just wrapping up anyway. Mycroft Holmes, pleased to meet you." Amelia could tell the smile he put on was fake, and he simply just wanted to get on with the matters that brought him there.

"Amelia Harlod."

"Are you John's girlfriend?" Mycroft asked which received a howl of laughter from John and Amelia.

"Oh my goodness you think I would want to be with this lad?" Amelia laughed, pointing her thumb at John, gasping for breath.

"Mycroft we've been friends since primary school only having recently reconnected again. Nothing of the relationship sorts." John explained so Mycroft could understand.

"Oh. Sorry to imply anything." Somewhat embarrassed, although trying to hide it the best he could, Mycroft turned back to Sherlock. "Maybe you can get through to him John. Or even possibly you Ms. Harold. Sherlock I don't think you understand how urgent this case is."

Tuning out since she felt it wasn't her place to listen, Amelia looked on at the damage that was caused to the flat due to last nights events. All of the previously skewed decorations were truly thrown all over the place now. She questioned whether it was safe to be in the flat at the moment but decided either way it didn't matter. She would have gone in no matter the answer.

Drawn away from her investigation of sorts, she found that Mycroft was getting into the details of the case he wanted Sherlock to take.

"Andrew West was found dead on the train tracks this morning." He stated.

"Tried to kill himself?" John questioned, even though that seemed self explanatory.

"Seems like the ovbious solution but no. West was believed to have held the plans for a missile defense system that are on a memory stick. These are now missing."

"That's not very clever."

"Assuming they have any brain's, it's not the only copy." Amelia added into the conversation, with a look of approval from Mycroft.

"Yes. Indeed that is the case." Turning his attention from John and Amelia he faced Sherlock. "You need to find these plans brother. Don't make me order you."

"I'd like to see you attempt that." Sherlock answered with an eye roll.

"Think on it." Mycroft insisted, that seeming to be his goodbye to his brother. Walking towards John he shook his hand and said his departures to him.

"Goodbye Ms. Harold it was nice to meet you. I hope I'll be seeing more of you." Mycroft added then promptly left the flat.

Annoyingly Sherlock played an ear splitting tune on his violin to match Mycroft leaving.

As soon as Mycroft was out of ear shot John started in on Sherlock. "Why did you tell him you've been busy? Your schedule is completely free to the point it's making you go mad."

"Why not?"

"So it's a rivalry between you two, a sibling rivalry? I wouldn't put it past you." Amelia thought out loud.

"You've known me for a day don't make assumptions." Sherpock answered, dragging the 'day.'

The ringing of Sherlock's phone started cutting off the argument that was bound to happen if the conversation lingered. He immediately picked it up and extanged a few words with whoever was on the other side.

"Ah. How could I say no." He hung up the phone and got up from where he was sitting to leave the flat. "Lestrade called to summon me. Are you coming John?"

"Yeah I guess so." John stuttered throwing a questioning look towards Amelia not sure what to do.

"Oh don't stand there looking like a lost puppy. Come along if you must." Sherlock said frustrated. Amelia wanting to say no just to retaliate but realizing she had no other plans for the day was forced to listen to him, and she followed the consulting detective and blogger out the door.

Not returning to the flat until late that night, the three of them were simply exhausted. Sherlock didn't bother to make conversation before heading straight into his room and closing the door behind him. Not that he would have in the first place. Finally having a moment of silence to speak, Amelia and John sat in the sitting room. Sherlock not being there to reprimand her, Amelia sat in his chair.

"I'm sorry it's taken so long to sit down together." John sighed as he sank into his chair.

"Nothing to worry about. I actually had a bit of fun today." Shifting in the chair so her elbows rested on her knees she looked directly at John. "I know you wouldn't have phoned me without a purpose. Not to just catch up."

"I'm sorry for that too. I know I should have called earlier not just when I needed you. I hope you can forgive me because truly I am so glad we are talking again."

"John of course I forgive you. It's my nature to not stay mad at anyone, you know that. Now tell me what you need because I'm getting impatient." Amelia replied with a light laugh.

"It's not widely known to the public but Sherlock tends to not have the healthiest of coping mechanism. Particularly when he's bored."

"Like he was yesterday."

"Yes, exactly. I know that when things with your father went down," Amelia took a sharp inhale at the mention of him as John continued on, "you experienced some of the same things. To put it bluntly I was wondering if you could help Sherlock get over his drug addiction. He says he can easily do it on his own and all other sorts of excuses but something that complicated can't be done by yourself. I'm sure you would understand."

"You would understand also. You were always there for me." Amelia commented with a sad smile, reminiscing on the past.

"I know it's a lot to ask and if you think it will be triggering in any way-" before John could finish Amelia cut him off.

"Even if it is I know how to handle myself. And I can see that you clearly care for Sherlock a lot. And although I don't want to admit it, I see why you care. Of course I'll help in anyway possible."

"Amelia you never cease to amaze me. Thank you again." John said as he got up to hug Amelia. Only staying in the hug for a moment, they released each other when John spoke up once again.

"I know you don't love talking about it but you do know if you need someone to talk to about anything pertaining to your father you know you can come to me. Right?"

"Yes John. I appreciate it." Amelia sighed, which then turned into a yawn.

"You can stay here tonight if you'd like since it's late. Cabs don't usually circle around here at this hour."

"That would be lovely John."

"You can have my bed if you'd like." John offered gesturing towards the upstairs bedroom.

"Well now, that would just be confirming Mycroft's suspicions John! The couch is just fine in all seriousness. Now get to bed." Amelia lightly slapped John across the shoulder in an attempt to shoo him off. After an extange of goodnights, John was off to his bed.

Alone again, Amelia sat on the couch and rubbed her face with her hands. After all these years it was still hard to openly talk about her father. Not wanting to think about him longer she gingerly laid down on the couch, calling it a night.

After he heard the final noises of the couch moving, Sherlock sat up from where he was on the floor next to his door with a hard look on his face. Eavesdropping was a bad habit of his. After learning the new information on Amelia and that her intentions were truly good he felt remorse for treating her rudely. He wasn't sure how to make up for his actions. In typical Sherlock fashion he didn't feel comfortable or right saying sorry. Deciding to sleep on it, Sherlock laid down in his bed. Alone again.

#sherlock x reader #sherlock fandom #sherlock bbc #bbc sherlock #sherlock #john watson #holmes and watson #sherlock fanfiction #sherlock fanfic #fanfiction #fanfic #fandom #dependency

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strawberry-skies-xx · 4 years

Text

fic recs

time to make a post about every single amazing fic I’ve read! it’s gonna be a longass post so get ready!

fandoms, ships and tropes included:

Supernatural - Destiel (mostly AUs), Wincest, Sastiel, Sabriel, Sam x Ruby, Sam x Reader // omegaverse / boyking!Sam / God!Sam

BBC Sherlock - Johnlock, Sherlock x Molly Hooper x John and included pairings, Sherlock x Mycroft x Greg x John and all included pairings // omegaverse

Loki - Loki/OC

***this entire list has NSFW fics***

SUPERNATURAL

God!Sam, no ships

The Holy Grail Bird by de_nugis for monicawoe

The God-gun has a divine recoil effect. Sam has to have another try at living with power.

...

Boyking!Sam, no ships

The King’s Guard by monicawoe

Andy had spent the last few hours watching Sam Winchester —King of Hell, God of the Abyss, Bane of Heaven— kill nearly two dozen souls, and feed them all to his pet — the biggest, scariest looking hellhound of them all.

...

Destiel

Twist and Shout by standbyme, gabriel

What begins as a transforming love between Dean Winchester and Castiel Novak in the summer of 1965 quickly derails into something far more tumultuous when Dean is drafted in the Vietnam War. Though the two both voice their relationship is one where saying goodbye is never a real truth, their story becomes fraught with the tragedy of circumstance. In an era where homosexuality was especially vulnerable, Twist and Shout is the story of the love transcending time, returning over and over in its many forms, as faithful as the sea.

...

Blades of Silver, Hearts of Gold by Scribo_Vivere

Corsair Winchester is the most feared pirate in the Caribbean waters. When he makes it his goal to attack the Pride of Heaven, a massive ship that is part of Port Lawrence's Naval fleet, he finds himself ill-prepared in every way to come face to face with Commodore Castiel Novak, the brother of the man he wishes dead. It seems an easy solution to take the Commodore captive, but Castiel's ocean-blue eyes, kissable mouth, and fiery defiance make Winchester begin to question his choice. As a war ensues on all fronts, it remains to be seen who is the prisoner, who is the master, and how far both men will go in the name of prudence, sacrifice, and love.

...

Ninety One Whiskey by komodobits

In the spring of 1944, the 104th Medical Battalion of the United States Army is disbanded, and its men reassigned to various infantry companies in preparation for their invasion of occupied France. For First Lieutenant Novak, this is less than helpful, as he has so far met his platoon’s designated medic a grand total of twice, and has both times found Sergeant Winchester to be the optimum combination of reckless, arrogant, and downright insufferable so as to make cohesive platoon function near impossible. When the time comes to move out, however, Castiel has to reconcile himself to the fact that men are going to go down and trust that Dean Winchester may well be the only person who can put them back together again.

...

Steps by Camerahead12

The moment he saw Dean Winchester dance Castiel knew he was lost.

It wasn’t the way his muscles moved as he leapt across the floor, or even the way the sweat dripped down the man’s freckled skin. It was just simply the way he danced. The passion that bled out from the movements left him breathless and thirsty for more.

And when he danced with Dean that first time, it was like falling in love.

Little did he know that falling for the man would lead to questioning everything Castiel has ever stood for. As the deadline for the studios yearly performance draws closer, will Castiel be able to come up with an idea good enough to save his company? Or will it be too late to pull it away from Crowley, his money hungry investor’s hands?

As everything begins to slowly fall into place, Fate (as She usually does) has other ideas. Just when life seems to be working out, not only will their trust in each other be tested, but their strength they’ve discovered within themselves starts to bend. Will they be able to hold it together before it snaps, leaving nothing but broken dreams in its place?

...

Find Me in the Light by allmystars

Castiel is fine with his life. Really, he is. He’s content with the locals and his prying, if well-meaning, business partner and brother. Everything is just...fine. That’s how he likes it—plain and uneventful.

Until Gabriel hires Dean Winchester to work at the cafe and, suddenly, Castiel's carefully crafted isolation is broken apart like the waves that stole his mother from him, and Castiel hates him for it.

He hates Dean’s attitude—hates his car and his stupidly pretty face with that permanent smirk. He just...hates Dean Winchester.

Until he doesn’t.

Until, somehow, Dean manages to weasel his way into Castiel’s heart and take up permanent residence there. Then Castiel isn’t fine—he’s far from it, actually. He’s great—wonderful and perfect and happy.

But things change—nothing is ever-present—and this loss might kill him. It might just tear Castiel apart. After all, how do you lose something you’ve been searching for your whole life, and survive it? How do you do that?

Castiel doesn’t think he can.

...

Of Twists and Turns by Kitmistry, Piento

When naval surgeon Castiel Novak is captured by the Black Impala pirates, he has no choice but to agree to their terms: He is to serve on their ship for a whole year before they release him. That doesn’t mean he is going to like it, though. Especially when their captain is the embodiment of everything Castiel despises.

Determined to earn his freedom, Castiel settles into the life of an outlaw. When the pirates’ true goal is revealed, though, he can no longer deny that things are not as black and white as he thought they were. And he can’t deny how drawn he is to Captain Winchester either.

...

Sabriel

Fifty Shades of Freedom by Aria_Lerendeair (omegaverse fic)

Gabriel Novak is a Class-A Alpha asshole and Sam Winchester wants nothing to do with him, especially after that interview! Except then, he maybe finds out a few things about Gabriel Novak that make him hate him a little less, and hey, maybe some of that bondage stuff sounds interesting…

Golden Shades of Freedom by Aria_Lerendeair (PART 2)

After the world finds out about their relationship, Sam settles into something semi-normal, with Gabriel. The paparazzi are desperate for something, but Sam is, well. Happier than he expected to be, dating an asshole like Gabriel. That, of course, is when the invitation from Gabriel’s family had come for the summer. Sam agrees to go, only if he can bring Dean with him. A few uncomfortable family revelations and one epic fight later, Sam’s left wondering if Gabriel actually is his happily ever after.

...

Sam x Ruby (and side-Destiel)

Job & Family by TigerLilyNoh

After Dean's death (at the end of season 3), Sam and Ruby begin hunting down Lilith. Without Dean by his side, Sam finds the world of hunting to not be as black and white as he once thought. He just wants to get closure and move on with life, but outside forces aren't making that so easy. By the time the brothers reunite, Sam is a very different person than he used to be.

The battle for Hell, Heaven, and the Apocalypse begins. In these crazy times, the boys find themselves with new enemies, allies, and bedfellows.

...

Sam and/or Dean x Reader

@negans-lucille-tblr is a great writer on Tumblr. I tried making a list of all the series I’d recommend and then realized I was just writing her entire Supernatural masterlist so here’s the link to her actual masterlist.

@winchest09 is also a great writer. Haven’t read her entire masterlist but her Life for Rent series is amazing.

...

BBC SHERLOCK

Johnlock

The Gilded Cage by BeautifulFiction (omegaverse fic)

In a world where Omegas are the property of the elite Alphas, locked away and treasured by those wealthy enough to buy them, John never questioned his flatmate's secondary gender. Sherlock Holmes was an Alpha through-and through.

Wasn't he?

A chance discovery turns the world on its head, and John is left grappling to come to terms with Sherlock's past as events conspire to threaten their future.

…

The Stars Move Still by BeautifulFiction

“What could I want so desperately that would make me sell my soul? What could possibly compel me to surrender the part of myself that makes me who I am: the source of my magic, my self-control, everything?"

...

BDSM (aka, thousands of words of pure filth. porn with plot if you squint.)

various pairings between Sherlock, Greg, John, Mycroft, Molly, and Eurus. (Molly and Eurus are non-con relationships)

Something Extraordinary by sherlock1110, sherlockian4evr

In a Dom/sub world, Dom!John and sub!Mycroft have found each other as have Dom!Sherlock and sub!Greg. This is their story.

…

Things Unwanted by sherlock1110, sherlockian4evr

sherlock1110, sherlockian4evr

This series contains variations on non-con/dub-con scenarios, most of which involve abduction and/or imprisonment of one form or another.

…

The Detective, His Doctor, His Brother, and His DCI by sherlock1110, sherlockian4evr

This is the first fic where The Detective and the Doctor and The British Government and the DI come together here.

...

Fics of the Void (aka very dark fics, non-con is a given)

Wincest

A Threefold Path to Redemption by rei_c

Sam finds a way to keep Dean from going to hell: he'll go in his brother's place. He knows it's going to be bad and that he'll emerge changed. He never knew how much.

...

Suite!verse by leonidaslion

This is how the world ends, this is how the world ends, this is how the world ends…

...

Sastiel

Like a Nail to a Cross by azazelsocks (unfinished but still posting)

“I want what any god wants,” Castiel said. “I want you. Your life, your soul, your devotion. Everything you have to give belongs to me, your God. In exchange, your family will be safe.”

There really was no other answer. “I agree,” Sam said.

The new God orders the Winchesters to kneel or be destroyed, and Sam, as always, will do anything to save his brother.

...

Sam and Dean-centric, no ships

Semper Familia by KatZen

When his dad comes back into the clearing with a scrawny kid he's just bought in tow, Dean isn't surprised. He knows Lilim aren't human, that they're creatures, like witches or wendigo.

But the kid that John's got by the arm, who's pulled as far away from Dean's dad as possible without actually trying to get his arm back, the kid whose eyes don't leave John and are bright with fear, the kid who looks like he hasn't eaten in a couple of days and is obviously favoring his left leg...

This kid looks an awful lot like a person. And what's more, he's the same age Sammy would have been.

...

LOKI

Loki/OC

Banditry by LoquaciousQuibbler (unfinished but still posting)

Noir, a thief living on the streets of Asgard, didn't realize it was Prince Loki she had pickpocketed. Call it a happy coincidence. She's immediately charmed by him, but how could a thief get her hands on the key to the prince's heart? Oh, no need. She's pretty handy with a lock pick.

...

shameless self promotion

LOKI | no ships

Stories of Innocence

A collection of short stories (five chapters or less) about Loki's youth. For those people who have a sudden craving for when Loki was happy and before Odin happened.

...

The End

The opposite end of the spectrum; where my Stories of Innocence are of young Thor and Loki, these are older Thor and Loki stories. They are part of the MCU and are based on events from those movies. Warning: lots of feels (I made myself almost cry for a character I dislike because of what I wrote).

...

BBC SHERLOCK | Johnlock

Loving a Married Man

I seem to love to make myself cry. A small collection of Sherlock feels stories. Warning: may make you cry.

...

SUPERNATURAL | Boyking!Sam / Sastiel

Prompt Fight | on ao3

A collection of boyking!Sam short stories written in accordance to prompts given.

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colorofmymindposts · 5 years

Text

The Deviance of Two English Gentlemen Chapter Three

Chapter Title: The Unyielding Interim

Fandom: Sherlock Holmes (Ritchie films)/Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms Pairing: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Mary Morstan/John Watson Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Mary Morstan Rating: Teen and Up Status: Incomplete, chapters are posted weekly Word Count: 1514 for this chapter, 4291 for the entire work thus far Summary: Set post Game of Shadows. When Sherlock Holmes is given a case by none other than Mrs. Watson, he has no idea that he cannot fix the unsolvable for the couple. Intimate truths are exposed in the process, leaving all three irrevocably changed. Tags: Case Fic, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Secrets, Bickering Notes: The entire work can be read here on ao3. You can also read chapter one here and chapter two here. Note that this is not Brit-picked, but I tried my best.

Story:

The next two weeks passed in such an odd succession that Holmes began to wonder whether he was indulging too much in the comfort of his seven percent solution. After that first night, Watson had not come down for many hours, not until late afternoon, all dressed in clothes appropriated from Holmes’ wardrobe, though neither of them addressed the subject. He had given a curt thanks and goodbye before departing.

The next time Watson deigned it worthy of his time to visit, Holmes had just finished conducting his experiment on the potency of various chloroform formulas. When Watson burst into his rooms, unannounced, he scolded Holmes for not leaving the flat in a span of time which had lasted four days apparently. In a fit of frustration, Watson left in search of food, insisting Holmes was going to “lose half a stone at this rate” if he continued in his totally reasonable, reclusive behaviours. Later, they chatted over dinner about the day’s newspaper, Holmes’ findings in the last seventy-two hours of intense dedication to the differences between trichloromethane and ether while Watson contributed an anecdote here or there about an unruly patient in the clinic.

They did not talk about Mary. They also did not speak of Watson’s domestic, precipitating him to storm off and drown his sorrows in cheap ale. Holmes had suspicions, however, even if he didn’t voice them.

One possibility was infidelity. “Three continents Watson” would imply to a simpleton that he was dissatisfied in marriage, but Holmes knew his Watson better. A man as loyal as he, who followed Holmes into the thoroughfare of the European criminal underworld with revolver in hand and no questions asked, would not be a husband who would lie with another woman. Especially not when Watson was clearly enamored by his Mary’s charms and said wife was understandably in love with Watson, a phenomenon Holmes could not explain but inherently knew was truth.

The second situation was problems with money, hypothetically. For some unknown reason, Watson had adopted a rather Draconian ideal of finances and women’s place within that (being nonexistent) much to Holmes’ chagrin, particularly as he knew undoubtedly Mrs. Watson would manage transactions far better than that gambling boy. But for such a violent reaction to occur those six nights ago, when Holmes had repeatedly criticized Watson’s handling of his funds in the past, this hypothetical seemed, just as the previous one, highly unlikely.

The third scenario Holmes could not feasibly wrap his head around without feeling prone and ill inside. Simply put, the consummation of marriage...was known to have its difficulties. The desired product of a match between man and wife as desired by a Christian God would only solidify the reality of Watson’s world apart from Holmes’ own isolated one, never again to amalgamate together but at short, infrequent intervals. If this were really the case though, some kind of disagreement had brewed between the Watsons, interrupting idyllic sentiment leftover from honeymoon bliss. The baseness of sex could very well have that effect on a standard English gentleman and lady.

Watson’s eyes had been upon him for some time, he could tell. He met his friend’s gaze head-on, finding concern and something else indescribable mingled in between. Upon reflection, he should make a study of Watson’s eyes, if nothing else than for his private records.

“You haven’t spoken in two hours,” Watson remarked casually.

Holmes blinked rapidly, readjusting to the settings. Seated in his chair, tea gone cold. Disposed of his waistcoat, Watson slouched in what was once his designated chair, brown suspenders rolling off his shoulders slowly but surely, his top button undone. Thoroughly distracting. Holmes sniffed the air.

“Have you been smoking?” He inquired, recognizing the scent as that of a Cuban cigar circa 1889, approximately.

“Yes, I thought it might make you more alert. I fear it may have made you fall deeper into that stupor of yours you just came out of,” Watson admitted as his fingers idly tapped against the cigar resting in the ashtray on the table. “What has addled your brain so?”

“Watson, you know my methods. My periods of introspection provide clarity to my work. My thoughts are in perfect working order.”

“Mhmm,” he hummed back. After straightening his braces, Watson began to loop his arms through his coat previously draped across the back of his chair. “Perhaps I should leave you to your thoughts, in that case.”

“Back home again?” Holmes mused.

Watson, as ever, corrected him. “To Mary.”

Perhaps the lovers’ quarrel was not as serious as he supposed at all. Nonetheless, he felt he had to offer: “My door is always open.”

An affirming smile answered him with a quality of sadness to it, the only thing preceding Watson’s familiar tread on Baker Street.

Another week was to be endured before Watson’s presence graced him once again. In this particular instance, Watson seemed more at ease. He suggested to Holmes that they go for a stroll in the city. Watson always liked it when Holmes would make and share observations of passersbys, one of their favourite activities to engage in from the earliest point in their friendship. If Holmes himself was in worse spirits he would have refused such a triviality, but knowing it might help his friend, he acquiesced cordially to the offer, fortunate enough to still spend time with the man as he was.

There was nothing out of the ordinary at first. An oversized clerk bumbled down Manchester Street obviously having taken too late a lunch break; an older American couple conversed loudly about the spectacles and filth of London to distract from the all too personal topic of the wife’s dying father; a paperboy shouted the newest headlines, limping as he did so due to a factory accident which likely cracked most of the bones in his left foot that never healed properly. Watson smiled along to most of these descriptions but frowned at the last, almost bent on offering his services to the boy, but by Holmes’ observations the accident had occurred years ago and no doctor’s attention would help him now.

At last, they reached Hyde Park, a perfect spot for observation of both animals and nature alike. As it was a Sunday, many families were out and about, relieved to send their children to attend to their own amusements. Their shrill cries and laughter was certainly no symphony to Holmes, but Watson appeared slightly perturbed, glancing at his fob-watch for the time and requesting that perhaps they roam somewhere else. Holmes himself was growing tired of this charade his friend was putting on and scoffed loudly.

“Really, you could just tell me that you prefer the company of your wife to my own, and we’d be done with it,” he ground out, kicking his one boot against the pavement as he did so.

“What?” Watson had the audacity to appear flummoxed. His attempts at treating Holmes with decency were driving the detective mad.

“I know you’re inventing excuses to be around me now that you’re married and yet still feel obligated to maintain our partner—pardon me, friendship,” explained Holmes, in a manner not unlike when he told Lestrade off for one of his idiotic theories. “But you’re bored because there are no cases for me to amuse you with, so you’re regretting the whole outing. I’d prefer that you just be honest with me instead of relying on me to deduce it for the both of us.”

He refused to look Watson in the eye after his statement and proceeded down the footpath without his friend in tow. It thus surprised him as he was about to turn out of the park when running footfalls made their distinct approach. Watson’s all too familiar ragged breaths were there behind Holmes, on his neck, and then he was being spun around by his shoulders, Watson having a firm grip on both his arms and a dazzling intensity in his gaze.

“For once Holmes you have no idea what you’re driving at, but my problems with Mary actually have nothing to do with you this time. I can’t explain. It wouldn’t be right to you or Mary—”

“Sirs!” The voice of a young lady, no older than in her twenties with a crying babe in her arms. “Please, if you’ve anything to spare good sirs, my child’s life be saved. You’re honorable gentlemen, fathers? Think of the poor children, gentlemen.”

Damn her timing, just as he was getting something out of Watson. Though much as Watson’s readers of The Strand might have insisted otherwise, he was not heartless.

“3 shillings, madam,” he said as he withdrew the change from his pocket into her grateful outstretched hand, pins and pricks visible on her fingertips. A factory seamstress then, paid a pittance for her work.

She issued great thanks, politely scurrying away in the opposite direction from whence they came. He likely would have mused more on her upbringing, physicality and motivations too, had Watson not suddenly fallen out of consciousness into his arms, helpless as a babe.

#holmes x watson #consulting husbands #john watson #sherlock holmes #rdj holmes #sherlock holmes movies #my writing #fanfiction

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simplyshelbs16xoxo · 5 years

Text

‘Repeating History’ Chapter 3: It’s All There, in Your Head

FFN | Ao3 | Buy Me a Coffee?

1894

It was late—nearly midnight—and Sherlock looked out his window at the foggy city. It was so chilling outside, he could practically see the cold front moving in. There were few people who came out at such an hour; most being criminals, junkies, or secret lovers. That is why it piqued his curiosity when he noticed a young woman approach the outside door to 221B. What would possess her to arrive here at such an hour, especially walking alone at night with a murderer on the loose? Mrs. Hudson’s voice cut through his thoughts.

“Mister Holmes? You have a client,” she informed him.

“Let her in, Mrs. Hudson, thank you,” he replied. Whatever he imagined this client to be after, he was not prepared for it. In walked Molly Hooper, clutching her bag, her eyes full of determination. “Miss Hooper.”

Molly returned his greeting with a small curtsy. “I am sorry for the late hour, Mister Holmes, but I know you are the only person who can help me.”

Sherlock gestured for her to sit in the client chair set between where he and Watson normally rested. “What is it that you need, Miss Hooper?” He observed her body language, noting that she was nervous about whatever his answer may be to her request.

“As you know, my best friend has been brutally murdered,” she spoke softly, her voice breaking. “I wish to know who is behind this as much as you do.” Sherlock nodded in encouragement for her to go on. Taking a deep breath, she continued. “I know that Doctor Watson is your partner in crime solving, but I do know he is married and that his wife is with child, close to giving birth very soon.”

Sherlock looked at her with the curiosity of a cat. “I see you’ve done your research, Miss Hooper. Impressive.”

“Well, actually, Mister Holmes, I have met Mrs. Watson, as her usual doctor had not been in for quite a while. Nobody knows where he’s gone off to,” Molly explained. “What I’m asking is if I can help you to bring Meena’s murderer to justice?”

Sherlock pondered this idea for so long that when thirty minutes had passed, Molly took matters into her own hands. She lightly shook his shoulder with her gloved hand, hoping he would snap out of it. Sherlock jumped when he finally came to, looking up at the most brilliant woman he had ever met. “I am sorry, Miss Hooper, I must have thought I answered you already.”

She giggled; a sweet melodic sound to his ears. “It is quite alright, Mister Holmes. What do you say?”

“As you are correct about Doctor Watson being quite busy at the moment, I say that you are welcome to investigate with me,” Sherlock told her, a genuine smile on his face. “I must warn you though, I can be a bit—“

“Abrasive?” Molly provided. “I have been forewarned about your behaviours, Mister Holmes.”

“And you aren’t…shocked?” He wondered if she knew about the seven percent solution he’d sometimes use.

“It takes more than your seven percent solution to shock me,” she remarked.

Sherlock was taken aback. This woman knew very much about him. He stood up from his chair, facing her, only a few inches between them. “And what if we run into the murderer, Miss Hooper? What then? I cannot have a damsel in distress to worry about on a case such as this.” His harsh tone did nothing to repel her. This told him that she could handle his worst attitudes.

Molly Hooper stood her ground, unwavering. “I am a woman of intellect and resilience, as you may have already deduced. I am not a fine piece of delicate china, Mister Holmes. I will not be shattered so easily.”

The tension was thick, but Sherlock was more than satisfied with Molly’s comeback at his attempt to deter her. They stood in such close proximity that if he were to lean down just a bit, his lips would touch hers. Her deep brown eyes held a fierce determination as she bore her gaze into his ocean eyes. Neither of them realised that Doctor Watson had been a witness to the last minute of their conversation…at least, not until the man cleared his throat.

“Doctor Watson.” Molly snapped out of her fixation on Sherlock. “I must be going. Thank you again, Mister Holmes.”

Before she could leave, Sherlock spoke up. “There is a guest room upstairs. I’ll not have you walking the streets alone at this time of night, Miss Hooper.” He watched as she paused to think about it, eventually nodding her head in thanks before disappearing upstairs.

“Oh, Holmes, you do fancy her,” Watson remarked.

“What? No I don’t,” Holmes argued. “I do not bother with fanciful romantic entanglements, Watson, you know that.”

“You may find yourself in love with her one day,” Watson continued. Holmes was not taking it well.

As the two men continued to argue, their voice rose higher. Molly was attempting to sleep when she heard the baritone of Sherlock’s unmistakable voice.

“She means nothing to me!” he had shouted. “Miss Hooper is merely a client, and nothing more, Watson!”

The cold truth sliced through her like a scalpel. These past few weeks, she was sure they had a lovely friendship blooming, but perhaps it was all a charade after all. Tears silently fell down her cheeks, as she waited for sleep to succumb her. She would not allow this to deter her from her duty to find this killer. Not one man should dare to get in her away, let alone Sherlock Holmes.

2016

“She means nothing to me!” That was the last thing Sherlock could remember from his strange dream last night. His head throbbed with pain as if he had imbibed too much alcohol. Everyone he knew and loved was there, but in a Victorian setting. The dream had been so vivid, he could’ve sworn that this happened to him in his lifetime. A voice that sounded suspiciously like Mary’s asked, “But which lifetime?” It was balderdash; there were no such things as past lives.

Every morning since the family dinner, Sherlock found that he had to continue reminding himself that Molly wanted a break from him; at least, romantically. It had hurt him, but he wanted her to be happy, even if it was without him in the picture. It hurt more that he hadn’t even heard from her since. In the meantime, there were a few appointments he needed to make, but they’d have to wait until later. Greg Lestrade rushed into 221B, urgency written across his face.

“There’s been two more murders,” he informed him. “I need you to come with me, Sherlock.”

Fear flooded through him, an icy feeling prickling his skin. “Is it Molly?” He felt panic rising within him.

“God, no, Sherlock, I’m sorry for worrying you like that. We need you because there’s a note for you. It’s typed, but maybe you can get something from it,” Greg explained. Sherlock nodded, and slipped on his coat. The game was on, and he knew that the further this went, the more dangerous it would become.

Upon his arrival at the crime scene, Sherlock was immediately graced by Sally Donovan’s presence. Delightful. He was far from being in the mood for whatever tirade she was sure to go on.

“Freak,” she greeted him. “Heard about you and Hooper; sounds like she finally got in her right mind.”

Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh. “And what,” he huffed, “is that supposed to mean?”

A derisive smile graced Donovan’s face. “It means that the girl has finally realised that she’s too good for you, and it only took a month of dating you.”

For the first time, her words affected him. He and Molly were only on a break, but maybe it was because she had truly realised that he was no good for her.

“Sherlock!” Greg called to him. He motioned for the detective to follow him.

Glad for a reason to leave Donovan’s presence, Sherlock followed Lestrade, immediately kneeling between the two bodies to read the bloodstained note.

I am the Hunter

But you’re not the prey

Your heart will be torn asunder

Think of your family

It will pave the way

Does the Devil live within me?

You wonder

“It’s a riddle,” Sherlock stated. “Why is Hunter capitalized?”

“I’m not sure,” Greg confessed. “Haven’t been able to make heads or tails of it, but I was sure it was meant for you.”

After snapping a photo of the note, Sherlock placed it in an evidence bag. He planned to do nothing but comb through the words until something clicked. Hunter was capitalized, he had to think of his family; how did it all connect? There were no Hunters in his family, not surname or first name. That’s when he heard a car door slam, and looked up to see Molly smiling at him.

“Wow, you look like you rose from the dead,” Mary remarked as she strolled into the lab with lunch for her and Molly. The pathologist’s hair was tied back into the limpest ponytail; her eyes looked red and puffy from lack of sleep or perhaps having cried herself to sleep. The cheerfulness that Molly usually exuded was no longer there, as if a star had gone out. She didn’t even laugh at the awful joke Mary had just made.

“Long night,” was all Molly said as she began to examine a specimen of bacteria with the microscope.

“What’s going on?” Mary asked, wondering what had gone wrong. “I haven’t heard anything since your dinner with Sherlock and his family last week. Did everything go well, love?”

Molly lifted her head from the microscope to look at her friend. “It was all very”—she shoved her notebook aside—“lovely.”

Mary arched an eyebrow. “Then what’s wrong, poppet?”

Molly took a deep, shaky breath, planning to get straight to the point, but went off on a rant. “It’s funny, because this is everything I’ve always wanted, regardless of the fact I never expected it to happen. I want this—I do—but I haven’t had time to breathe since Sherlock’s almost-exile.” Mary approached the lab table, setting down the takeaway bags. “Mary, I called things off with him just to get some space. It was one of the most difficult things I had to do.” She laughed in disbelief. “Helping him fake his death was so much easier.” Molly didn’t dare divulge about her strange dream last night. It was Victorian times, and she had been listening to Sherlock and John arguing from the upstairs bedroom of 221B. They were arguing about her. The last thing she could remember was Sherlock’s voice, cold and cruel, claiming that she meant nothing to him.

Just when Mary was about to offer some advice, Molly’s mobile went off, notifying her of a text from Lestrade. “It’s Greg; he needs me at the crime scene where two women were slain. Anderson has called in sick. Of course.”

“Molly, love, before you go, just listen to what I have to say,” Mary told her. “I understand why you had to distance yourself, and whilst it was hard for you, I’m proud that you’re putting your wellbeing first.” She took Molly’s hand as a gesture of motherly comfort. “Just make sure that this is what you want. If you feel you need to take things slow with Sherlock—and it looks to be that way—let him know when you’re ready for him.”

“You know, I wondered all night if it was a break I needed, or if I just need us to focus on our friendship first,” Molly confessed. “I don’t want him cut out of my life whilst I deal with this. He’s—“ she took a breath—“he’s my person.”

“Your person?” Mary repeated amusingly. “Re-watching Grey’s Anatomy I see.”

“Shut up,” Molly laughed whilst gathering her things. She waved goodbye to Mary as she exited through the doors. She and Sherlock would be working together today, and she used the time it took for her cab ride to try and get herself together. Her heart pounded furiously in her chest when she spotted Sherlock through the backseat window. He was in deep concentration as he examined the bodies, his brows furrowed as if something wasn’t adding up. Molly paid the driver, and exited the vehicle, taking a deep breath. His eyes locked with hers immediately as if he could sense her presence. Perhaps he can. They shared a smile before getting to work.

1894

Her heart beat in time with the pounding in her head. Sleep had been scarce after all she had heard last night. Molly sat up quickly, the room spinning much too fast. Her hand went to grasp the bedding, only she heard the crinkling of paper. After the dizziness subsided, she took a deep breath before reading the contents of the letter.

To whomever it may concern,

I reside in Sherrinford.

Having problems with ol’ Jack?

Don’t forget about Reichenbach.

If it is answers you want discovered,

I suggest visiting your dear, old brother.

“How curious,” Molly muttered aloud. It was a riddle, and clearly meant for Sherlock. She could hardly imagine how awful it would feel to face him, but she had the advantage in that he does not know she heard him last night. This note was important, but the question was who wrote it? Also, who delivered it? Chills ran up her spine at the thought of a stranger—possibly a murderer—had snuck into her temporary room.

Deciding that Sherlock’s immediate attention be given to this letter, Molly flew down the stairs in only her chemise, uncaring of what was proper in a situation such as this.

Upon spotting the detective standing by the fire, lost in his thoughts, Molly rushed right to his side. “Mister Holmes, I found this letter in the bed I was sleeping in, and I think it is imperative to our case.”

Sherlock spared a quick glance before taking the letter from her hands, but looked back at her, noticing her state of…undress. The firelight was illuminating the fabric, making it noticeably transparent. He averted his eyes quickly, swallowing the lump that began to form in his throat, and began scanning the letter. “Impossible.”

“What?” Molly asked, her hand grasping his arm gently. “What is it?”

“It appears I must have a word with my dear brother,” Sherlock huffed. “Make sure you are properly dressed by the time I return, Miss Hooper…I shall not be returning alone.”

Sherlock Holmes was practically fuming. How could this be? Apparently, his brother knew the answer.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft Holmes greeted his brother. “To what do I owe this pleasure?” He bit into a pastry, unaware of his brother’s anger.

“Moriarty’s alive, isn’t he?” Sherlock felt it best to get straight to the point. He stared down his brother until, finally, he spoke.

“What does it matter now? He’s locked up in Sherrinford,” Mycroft told him. No explanation as to how Moriarty survived, no concern that he may be puppeteering the murders.

“How!?” Sherlock shouted. “How is he alive?”

“Don’t be arrogant, Sherlock,” Mycroft snapped. “You’re not the only person who can survive a fall.” He looked his little brother dead in the eye. “We found him unconscious not long after, and I suggested he be locked up, seeing as he did not, in fact, perish.”

“I need you to come to Baker Street. Now,” Sherlock urged his brother. “Lives may be at stake if you do not cooperate.”

Mycroft sighed with resignation. “Very well, then.”

Molly was only half-dressed by the time she heard Sherlock come back. She wondered if he had brought his brother back with him to help them decipher the riddle. Footsteps sounded on the stairs, and she quickly finished tying the laces on her boots, not wanting his brother to see her in such a state. Her cheeks flushed as she remembered being in only her chemise earlier. Now, if only she could get these damn corset laces tightened and tied. The knock on the door caused her to nearly jump out of her skin.

“Miss Hooper?” Sherlock called to her. “I’d like you to come downstairs. If you are to be on this case, you must talk with my brother post-haste.” He jumped back slightly when Molly opened the door only wide enough for him to see her face poke through.

“Do you think you could help me first? I cannot seem to get these laces tied for the life of me,” she told him.

“Yes, of course,” he replied, opening her door the rest of the way. He swallowed hard as he tightened her laces, each tug increasing the soft swell of her breasts. Being so close to her, he could smell honeysuckle on her skin. How could he possibly work this case with her if she drove him wild with desire every time he stood near her? This was a problem. He’d have to be careful.

“Thank you,” she smiled at him after he had finished. “Shall we go see your brother?” Sherlock only gave a curt nod in response before walking ahead of her, expecting her to follow behind. She did so, and was greeted by the dumbfounded look on the eldest Holmes’s face.

“You’re not Doctor Watson,” Mycroft so obviously pointed out. “Sherlock, who is she?”

“This is Miss Hooper, Mycroft. She is an accomplished pathologist at St. Bartholomew’s,” Sherlock explained. “Seeing as Watson is busy with his wife and unborn child, she offered her services to help with the case.”

Molly fidgeted as Mycroft Holmes scrutinized her. “Yes, well, let us hope that is the only service she is offering to you, brother mine.”

“Mycroft!” Sherlock roared. “You will not speak so unkindly of Miss Hooper! I will not tolerate it!” His eyes flickered toward Molly, noting she was not visibly upset, but her eyes held a fierceness he had not yet seen. Her strength was admirable.

Mycroft, realising he had struck a nerve, immediately asked for the note, looking it over. “Moriarty wants you to pay him a visit at Sherrinford, it seems. He has answers about your medical murderer. It seems that Jack the Ripper is still roaming the streets after all.”

“Sherrinford?” Molly asked, looking at Sherlock. “What is it, and when are we going?”

“It is a place,” Mycroft began, “for the criminally insane.”

“She’ll not be going,” Sherlock firmly stated.

“You said I could assist you!” It was not proper for a lady to raise her voice, but in this moment, Molly didn’t give a damn. “You cannot stop me from going. I will find a way.”

“And I said no, Molly, that’s final.” He did not shout back, but rather, growled out the words.

“I do not have to listen to you,” she told him. “You are neither my husband nor my father, so I will do as I please.” For once, Sherlock could say nothing. He knew she was right; she didn’t have to listen to him, and she could find her way to Sherrinford through Mycroft if she had to. Lord knows his brother enjoyed getting under his skin. “I am doing this to seek justice for my best friend’s murder. How dare you try to keep me from any of it after you had agreed I could assist you.”

All was silent in the room with the exception of Molly’s heeled boots storming up the stairs, finishing with a slamming door and a burning regret in Sherlock’s heart.

“Headstrong, isn’t she?” Mycroft remarked, clearly amused. Sherlock, however, was not.

#sherlolly #sherlolly halloween at 221b #sherlolly halloween 2019 #repeating history #my fanfiction

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swissmissficrecs · 6 years

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Hi! I really really love works like Through the Clouds and The Sea in a Chasm and Horse and Carriage where one of the boys proposes marriage or retirement together and the other struggles with what that means about their "friendship". Do you have any other fics you can rec me along that vein? I'd also love fics where Sherlock marries them without telling John!

Reply: I love these too! First of all, here are some relatedlists:

Fakerelationship

Couplestherapy

Gettingtogether late in life

And here are the ones you mentioned in case anyone else would liketo look them up:

Horse andCarriage by flawedamythyst (60K, Teen, Johnlock)Sherlockproposes. John thinks the whole idea is ludicrous.

Through theClouds by mazarin221b (20K, Explicit, Johnlock)Sherlock takesa remarkably early retirement at 47, and convinces John that a changeof pace would do them both good. They buy an old cottage on the SouthDowns, and exchange their nonstop life in Baker Street for quietcontemplation, bee studies, and book writing.They might go completelyinsane, but sometimes it takes stepping outside of the life you’reliving to find the life you want.

The Sea in aChasm [orphaned] (17K, Teen, Johnlock and John/OFC)WhenSherlock decides to retire to Sussex, John decides to find out who heis without Sherlock.

Now I know I have read a couple of fics where Sherlock (or Mycroft) secretly procured a marriage license for them for medical or case-related purposes without John’s knowledge, but unfortunately I am not able to find them right now so if anyone else knows one please let us know! I can give you a bunch of others, though, in which thoughts of marriage lead to angst and re-examination of the relationship:

This is a very close second (and one of my all-time favorite fics)in which Sherlock pretends to be married to John without John’sknowledge:

The Good Morrowseries by greywash (213K, Explicit, Johnlock)My post-S2series where everyone has a lot of feels about everything andplausibility isstretched unto breaking. Also: fucking.

In this one, Sherlock thinks John is going to propose but hedoesn’t, leading to relationship re-evaluation:

Stood in History by philalethia (18K, Explicit, Johnlock)He discovered the ring in John’s sock drawer. It all went a bit downhill from there.

In these, one or the other of them thinks about proposing for areally long time:

a good old-fashioned happy ending by darcylindbergh (32K, Explicit, Johnlock)And Sherlock stands there, in the middle of a Christmas market as John hums along to Silent Night, John’s hand warm in his with fingertips a little gritty from the cinnamon-sugar doused churros they’d shared, and thinks, oh, that’s–that’s an idea, isn’t it?*For Christmas this year, Sherlock wants to get John something special: something every fairytale deserves.

The One With the Proposal by kim47 (22K, Explicit, Johnlock)Proposing shouldn’t be this difficult.Written for this prompt at the kink meme: Remember that episode of Friends where Chandler is going to propose to Monica and how he pretends that he doesn’t care about marriage so she’ll be really surprised? How about a version of it with Sherlock and John with Sherlock being the one that wants to propose but pretends that he has no desire for it?

About Sleep and Coffee and the Existence of Fate by Atiki (17K, Explicit, Johnlock)Naturally, John was startled when suddenly the ultimate solution occurred to him: Marriage. This was, of course, a bit of a fundamental problem rather than an actual solution. One didn’t simply use the words “Sherlock” and “marriage” within the same sentence. Not even in a hypothetical context. (Five times John kind of wanted to propose to Sherlock, and one time he didn’t have to.)

In these, both of them angst a whole lot over getting married:

Sketchy Part 2 by serpentynka (158K, Explicit, Johnlock and Mycroft/OMC)What (and who) will be left when nobody cares about your Work? A slow-burn fic with cases, places, mistaken identities, unfair choices, essential changes, violent feels, blatant lies, fearless portraiture, family secrets, high-risk bespoke gifts, durable friendships, bedtime stories, foreign travel and tongues, sickness (and health), and the significance of things which are slow to unfurl – but cannot be ignored. Oh, and…porn. (A continuation of plot arcs from Part 1 of Sketchy) When the world’s only consulting detective starts dreaming of bowing out, his dearest person in the world is more than willing to go with him. It would seem that all that’s left to do is choose a date and leave London. The machinations that be are never quite what they seem.

God Help Me, I Do by PlainJane (90K, Explicit, Johnlock and Mollstrade)A consulting detective, two doctors, a forensic pathologist, a DI, a senior citizen, a recovering alcoholic and the British government walk into a register office…John and Sherlock have resolved to be together as much more than just colleagues or friends, but how will their relationship change between the proposal and the wedding? Follow along as they learn about themselves and about each other. How will they share their news with those closest to them? How will John adjust to the reality of being in a relationship with a man instead of a woman? How will they both find time and space for personal and professional lives? And how will Sherlock cope with the intensity of true love? Cases, chuckles, angst and lots of good loving on the journey to one very unconventional wedding day.

Set in Stone by SilentAuror (39K, Explicit, Johnlock)Sherlock and John are back from Ravine Valley and planning their wedding. However, as they move past the trial of the human traffickers, Sherlock can't help but wonder if he's imagining that John is becoming a little distant. Surely he isn't getting cold feet about the wedding...

This has a similar premise to Horse and Carriage:

The Important Bit by Solshine (10K, G, Johnlock)Just where exactly is the line between “to love” and “to be in love”? What difference is required between “flatmate” and “husband”? (Besides the rings, obviously.) No, the important bit is that they have each other. Thirty years, give or take, in an atypical marriage. Basically a long bit of platonic domestic fluff.

And finally these in which they get engaged/married for a case(with John’s knowledge) and it becomes serious:

Thanks to the Barbarians by queen_jadis (10K, Explicit, Johnlock)John and Sherlock get married for a case, which both of them find hilarious - until they realise that they can’t get a divorce. The offensive piece of paper has more effect on their relationship than John thinks it has any right to do.

A Case of Identity by jkay1980 (91K, Teen, Johnlock)John and Sherlock have succeeded in rebuilding their friendship after Sherlock’s fake suicide, but an unusual case puts their relationship to the test. They pretend to be engaged and attend a marriage counseling workshop. Under the pretext of the case, Sherlock turns out to be a master of seduction, and John finally learns he might like Sherlock more than he thought. Slowly, John discovers that he loves Sherlock not only in a friendly, brotherly way, but both men have to fight their own demons before they can think of taking their relationship to a new level…

Till Death Do Us Part by prettysailorsoldier (15K, Mature, Johnlock)When Sherlock links a recent spree of murder-suicides to a psychologist who specializes in marriage counseling, there’s really only one thing to do: Go undercover as a couple in hopes of drawing the killer out. Faking a relationship seems easy enough, but things take a turn when their real issues start to creep into the sessions, and, all the while, a killer is watching, waiting in the shadows for their chance to strike.

Abstinence Makes the Heart Grow Fonder by distantstarlight (96K, Explicit, Johnlock)For his entire life Sherlock Holmes has had complete mastery over his transport. He drives it harder than he should, is careless with it, and makes it bend to his will. His transport has always done it’s duty but lately Sherlock’s transport has been making some demands.

A Silver Sixpence by _doodle (16K, NC-17, Johnlock)John, we need to get married.

Mountebank by Odamaki (26K, Mature, Johnlock)“I am calm,” John snaps, leaning on the door to glare out at the dark streets around them. Sherlock’s not said where they’re going; all he knows is they came off the ring road to the west of London and have vanished somewhere into the depths of Berkshire. All he knows is that he’s been trussed up in a suit that wasn’t hired from anywhere and if brought new would edge up into the triple figure margins. “Be calmer,” Sherlock advises, with a trace of irony. “We’re going to a party.”

The Newlywed Game: Johnlock Edition by patternofdefiance (9K, Explicit, Johnlock)What it says on the tin: John and Sherlock pretend to be married in order to be contestants in a Newlywed Game.Of course it’s for a case.Of course it doesn’t stay that way.

The Pretence of an Unacknowledged Truth by stickleworting (28K, Explicit, Johnlock) He’s decided to just be himself, cliché as it sounds. The lie about being Sherlock’s mate will be difficult enough to keep up, he’s not going to think up more of a charade regarding himself on top of that. If he uses the wrong fork at dinner, fine. If someone calls him on it, he’ll just stab them with it. Job done.First attempt at Omegaverse because a very good friend of mine likes it, and I like my friend. She asked for: alpha!John/omega!Sherlock; age difference; pretend bondmates to meet Sherlock’s family; synthesised bond scent; and bonding in Sherlock’s old bedroom. I think I’m managing to cram it all in for you, sweetpea ;) No mpreg, I’m afraid. That was a stretch too far.

#rec list #request

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stlgeekgirl · 6 years

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The Case of the Lost Belief

The second gift for my Secret Santa @iamtheno1cumbercookie Today calls for a little Sherlock and Rosie fluff. Hope you enjoy it.

Warning: Do not let any kids still within the magic of Santa read this!

“I want to hire you”

The childlike voice suddenly appeared out of seemingly nowhere from the direction of his sitting room. Sherlock poked his head from the kitchen.

Eight-year-old Rosie Watson stood just inside his doorway, small fists clenched at her sides. He squashed down his first involuntary question: Does your father know you’re here? because obviously if John knew where his daughter was, he’d be here with her.

The second obvious yet involuntary question that sprang forth: How did you get here? was also squashed. Young Watson was intelligent enough to know how to get to Baker Street by either taxi or train. To prove it as he stepped into the sitting room, the small blonde pointed towards the landing.

“The taxi needs money, I didn’t have any.”

“Sit.” he ordered, hurrying past her and grabbing his wallet and phone from the fireplace mantle as he passed. “Your chair. Don’t move until I return.”

He hurried down the stairs to pay the taxi driver. Luckily it was one of his regulars.

“Afternoon Mr. Holmes.”

“George. How much?”

“Twenty-three quid. Picked the young Miss up from Adlington.”

Sherlock handed over the notes and thanked the driver. He unlocked his phone as he stepped back into Baker St. and texted John.

��Rosie is at Baker St. She’s fine. SH

“Now Miss Watson,” he said as he stepped back into the flat. Rosie, who was sitting in the chair deemed “Watson’s” turned to look at him. “What is this nonsense about hiring me?”

“I wanna hire you.” She repeated as if it were the most normal thing in the world for the Consulting Detective to be hired out by eight-year old’s. Although there had been a couple. She began pulling coins and notes from the backpack sitting on the floor beside her.

“I don’t have much money, but I hope it’s enough.”

“Put your money away Rosie-mine, I’ll not take it.”

“I’m serious.” Her blue eyes glinted like icy steel and Sherlock felt the old familiar pang of loss when he saw Mary in her look. “I have a case and I need you to solve it.”

She was serious. As much as an eight-year-old could be.

Sherlock crossed the room and sat in his chair, across from her, giving himself a few minutes more to look her over. Tear-stained face, agitated posture, red cheeks, papers poking from her open backpack. Someone had upset her.

“Why don’t you explain what you wish to hire me for and then we’ll discuss payment.”

His phone buzzed in his pocket as he spoke, and he slid it out to read the message.

WHAT! JW

I’ve been looking all over this bloody school for her! JW

“I want you to prove that Father Christmas is real.” Rosie stated.

Oh.

OH!

Oh.

He was in no way prepared to destroy his eight-year-old God daughter’s belief system. Especially a belief system that had been expressly forbidden by John, Mrs. Hudson and Molly that he was not even to express a peep about.

He watched her silently waiting for her to continue ranting. If she was upset about something, he found that just standing there and allowing her to stomp around and shout about it usually led to her discovering the solution on her own. His Rosie was extremely clever.

This time, however, she merely stared at him, daring him to refuse her. As if he could refuse her anything.

Mary had been gone these past eight years and while he missed her every damn day, as Rosie had grown, she’d effortlessly slipped into that hole he had in his rarely used heart where her mother occupied for the short time she’d been in his life. Rosie only had to ask, and Sherlock would fight metaphorical dragons for her. He would do anything for her.

Including upsetting everything she believed in and thereby regulating him to the couch to sleep for who knew how long when her Godmother discovered what he had done.

“What happened?”

“Jack said Father Christmas was a myth.” The story exploded from her and frothed over like a raging volcano. “He said that our parents give us our presents, that they lied to us about a magical man who comes and brings us presents. Katie said only babies believe in Father Christmas. So, I pushed her.”

“Rosamund.” he admonished.

“She made me angry!” Rosie exploded again, a smaller one this time as her vitriol was quickly running out. Her eyes reddened again, and Sherlock pushed back the usual panic he got when the woman around him began to cry. “You never lie to me Uncle Sherlock. You promised me you’d always be truthful with me no matter what. I trust you to tell me the truth.”

Sherlock sighed heavily. Caught in a web of his own making. He could practically hear Mary’s cackling laughter behind him.

“I did promise Rosie, but first, are you sure you want an answer to your question? It doesn’t matter what the truth is, it only matters what you believe.” He folded his hands underneath his chin and studied her. “Answer me this Rosamund, what do you believe?”

Rosie sat on the edge of the chair, her nose scrunching up in thought. She knew that if he countered with a question, there was a reason for it.

“I believe in... something,” she hedged. “It’s hard to get into our home and my presents are usually split between my house and here and there’s no reason for Father Christmas to drop presents here. Plus, there is no way one man can get around an entire world in a night without the use of a time and space machine or a teleporter, neither of which have been invented yet.” She looked up at her, her blue eyes watery. “But why do parents tell this story and their kids continue it when they become parents?”

Wasn’t that the question of the hour? He stood up and held out a hand. Rosie climbed from the chair and slid her small hand in his larger one. He led her towards the sitting room window, pulling back the sash and picking her up. She was still light enough that he could do this although her long legs made it difficult to navigate anywhere. Her legs wrapped around his waist and she wrapped her arms around his neck. He stood in front of the uncovered window and nodded towards the picture outside.

“Observe young Watson. What do you see?”

People were bustling around the sidewalks, arms ladened with packages and bags. On the corner was a bundled-up figure ringing a bell next to a red bucket. Several people dropped coins in as they passed. A group of people stopped just in front of the sidewalk across the street and chatted pleasantly for a bit before going their separate ways.

“People talking. Putting money in the bucket. Lots of packages. A pickpocket’s dream really.”

Sherlock laughed loudly, before planting a loud kiss on her temple.

“I adore you Rosie-mine. You have been around me far too much.”

She grinned back at him. Mary’s grin.

“The attempted larceny aside, there’s something about this time of the year that brings out the best in most people. Father Christmas was a real person in the sense that there was a St. Nicholas. But an actual man who rides a sleigh led by eight reindeer that can fly, no.”

Rosie took in his words, her brow furrowed as she stared out the window in contemplation.

“But…why do parents lie?”

Sherlock walked back from the window, Rosie still in his arms, towards his chair. He let her down and she waited only long enough for him to get comfortable before she scrambled up onto his lap.

“It isn’t that they lie Watson,” he began. “Rather the world we live in is cruel and harsh and rife with generally not nice people. Most children see the world not as it is, but as some sort of magical and wonderful place. There’s a kind of magic in the air around this time of the year where people aren’t as cruel or impatient as they would normally be the rest of the year. Your dad just wants you to have that magic as long as you can before real life crushes your soul.”

“So…I shouldn’t be mad at Dad and Aunt Molly and Nana Hudders?”

“Rosie, we all love you and we try very hard to keep you somewhat ignorant of the evil that truly happen out in the real world. They more than I admittedly. You are a very clever young lady and you have an ability to think outside the box that I admit I cannot do at times because I’m jaded. If you tell anyone I said any of that, I will firmly deny it and return your Christmas present.”

Rosie grinned excitedly. “You got my Christmas present? What did you get me?”

“And spoil the surprise? Your Aunt Molly would kill me, and I have cases to solve come the new year.”

Rosie curled up in his lap, resting her head against his chest. His hand came up to stroke her blond hair and pull her snug against him.

“Thank you, Uncle Sherlock. I promise to let Dad think that I still believe in Santa for another year or so.”

“I’d appreciate it, Watson.”

“You’re going to make a great Dad.”

He snorted lightly. “I have you Rosie, I hardly need any other children.”

She tilted her head up to look at him. “But don’t you and Aunt Molly want kids? They won’t be as adorable as me but, they’d still be kind of cool.”

His lips quirked upward as he continued to stroke her hair. “Your Aunt Molly and I are…complicated Rosie, I very much doubt children are anywhere in my near future.’

The door to the flat slammed shut and was followed by heavy footsteps on the staircase.

“Ah, it seems your father is here Watson. Do try to go easy on him.”

Rosie remained where she was as her father ran into the open door of the flat, face red in fear and anger. She felt Sherlock’s grip tighten on her for a mere moment before relaxing as her full name was shouted in terrified exclamation. Reluctantly she slid off Sherlock’s lap and was snatched up in a fierce hug.

“You scared the hell out of me and your Auntie Molly!” John shouted.

“You called Molly?” Sherlock asked as the sound of the main door slammed shut again followed by footsteps.

As Rosie looked over her father’s shoulder to the relieved face of her Godmother as she came into view she thought about what her Godfather had said, how this makeshift family she had loved her and only wanted to protect her and keep her innocent of the terrors that await her as she grew. She held back a knowing smile as she watched Molly shoot a concerned look over their heads to Sherlock and hoped she was here when her Godfather found out what Molly was giving him for Christmas. For all his talk sometimes, he didn’t truly observe what he saw around him. Especially when it was someone close to him.

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#Sherlolly secret santa 2017 #Iamtheno1cumbercookie #Sherlock Holmes #rosie watson

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lifes-a-dick · 7 years

Text

@the-7-percent-solution , I’m starting a new post to respond to your new post, lol, because I carried on a bit and probably went off topic-ish.

“EMP can absolutely coexist with “TFP as John’s TAB” in a way Moffat is known for, and i wish more people considered how mind-blowing it would be if it went that way, and what it would mean for the relationship between John and Sherlock.”

I’m totally on board for this. I’m just brainstorming, so apologies if this sounds insane but...

I see the possibility of a mass-dream, or dreams within dreams (like in Amy’s Choice), as maybe a canon reference to the way Sherlock was written in the canon. What I mean is, in a way, Doyle dreamt up Watson who dreamt up Holmes. The Holmes that we know from canon anyway. So Holmes is the product of two stages of storytelling, or even, two stages of filtering. Sherlock was given to us (mostly) through John’s narration, narration that incorporated John’s repressed bisexuality. And John’s repressed narrative was given to us through the filter of Doyle’s censorship of the true story.

HOLMES: It is the grit in a sensitive instrument ... HOLMES and WATSON (almost simultaneously): ... the crack in the lens. WATSON: Yes. HOLMES: Well, there you are, you see? I’ve said it all before. WATSON: No, I wrote all that. You’re quoting yourself from The Strand Magazine. HOLMES: Well, exactly. WATSON: No, those are my words, not yours! That is the version of you that I present to the public: the brain without a heart; the calculating machine. I write all of that, Holmes, and the readers lap it up, but I do not believe it. HOLMES: Well, I’ve a good mind to write to your editor. WATSON: You are a living, breathing man. You’ve lived a life; you have a past. HOLMES: A what?! WATSON: Well, you must have had ... HOLMES: Had what?(Watson pauses a little awkwardly, then points at his friend.) WATSON: You know. [thank you ArianeDeVere]

Sherlock in this scene has obviously not yet awakened to whose story he’s in, and to any truth beyond the way John has written him. But then shortly after that scene, we get Moriarty paying Sherlock a visit at Baker St, where Sherlock seems now to know that there’s something being kept from him...

Then as we know, this “truth” began to make itself known through the earthquakey sex metaphors that happened next. It’s the landing, Moriarty tells him. But the only version of that story Moriarty knows how to tell is where the landing kills you, because Moriarty represents a love that leads you to your death. Sherlock wakes up on the jet, then wakes again after that on the floor of his flat, when Watson asks “Morphine or Cocaine?”.

Now though, something has shifted from just minutes before, because Sherlock now apparently knows the difference between who he is, and the version of himself that Watson writes...

WATSON (pointing to the syringe): Never on a case. (He breathes in harshly.) You promised me. Never on a case. HOLMES: No, I just said that in one of your stories. (He smiles.) x

So he’s learning, finding those truths that he set out to find, and possibly beginning to discover the way he’ll eventually be able to leave his labyrinth.

If you view EMP as telling us Sherlock’s story within John’s story within Doyle’s story, it could be meant to represent Doyle’s wish for Sherlock to perhaps one day free himself and become who he was meant to be. Which would mean freeing himself first from who and what John thinks he is, and then from how Doyle was limited in writing him.

This could be why our dark!John mirror, Culverton Smith, is the one to attempt to suffocate Sherlock. John’s narration is an oppressive force on Sherlock, silencing him, and he needs to free himself from that first. Then Sherlock needs to save John from himself, which he does in TLD. Culverton’s “confessing” which we already understand is somehow a love confession from John, might then represent Watson getting “caught”, and admitting that he had been hiding things from the public. A murder (and love is murder).

Sherlock’s self-determination begins with him discovering in the first place that his life has been a “lie” in a way, then peeling those layers away and finding the truth underneath.

I think this is how John’s dream comes into it. I think Sherlock has always been inside John’s dream in a way. Until now, that is. I think he is breaking free, and truly needs to separate himself from Watson’s stories, in order to become fully gay, lol. And like I mentioned before, freeing himself also frees John.

All this might explain why ASiP began with John’s POV and the first two seasons were more John’s POV than Sherlock’s, then we had quite an obvious shift to predominantly Sherlock’s POV in series 3, then in TAB we went right into his actual head and stayed there.

In TAB, we see this whole journey again within the one episode - TAB opens with John’s narration but doesn’t end with it, just like the whole five act show will do the same. TAB uses a “framing device” (Watson’s narration from the beginning of A Study in Scarlet), a technique used to introduce a story within a story. Like for example, in The Princess Bride, the Grandpa reading the little boy a story is the framing device, which is also used to close the movie. Normally, like in The Princess Bride, when you begin a film with a framing device, you also end it with the same one (unless it’s a forgotten framing device, or ...just read about it on TV tropes, lol). Did something change over those 90 minutes of TAB as to who is now telling the story? And likewise with the whole show?

When EMP began, the audience was given the opportunity to slip one level deeper into the true story, into the mind of Sherlock himself. From there, Sherlock just needs to wade through the lies and the cover-ups in the telling of his own life, and find the truth inside himself. He’s never known himself, through his own perspective, only through Doyle’s and John’s.

Another thing is that Sherlock’s dream (story) being within John’s dream (story), means that Sherlock’s self-discovery was perhaps triggered by John’s desperate need to understand Sherlock. This is basically spelled out for us when Mrs Hudson’s cute line below that foreshadows TAB and EMP theory, is in response to John’s enquiry about Sherlock’s past and any “impulses” he might have (my annotation in bold):

JOHN (quietly): Listen: has he ever had any kind of ... (he sighs)... girlfriend, boyfriend, a relationship, ever? [John needs to know about the impulses] MRS HUDSON: I don’t know. JOHN (sighing in frustration): How can we not know? MRS HUDSON: He’s Sherlock. How will we ever know what goes on in that funny old head? [Mrs Hudson foreshadows EMP, thanks hudders]

John needs to understand, so down the rabbit hole we go, into Sherlock’s head where John can find out what Sherlock is really thinking. In terms of how this would explain the rest of what we see in S4, I just don’t know right now. This is as far as I’ve gone with the idea. @monikakrasnorada @devoursjohnlock @gosherlocked @ebaeschnbliah @shylockgnomes @loveismyrevolution @tendergingergirl @sarahthecoat @fellshish @darlingtonsubstitution

#emp #i gotta go sleep now #nighty night

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willsherjohnkhan · 7 years

Text

The Homeless Network

Follow up to The League of Red-Headed Gentlemen

RATED: Mature

Chapter 1: The Eyes & Ears of London

***

For all intents and purposes the homeless were invisible. Or at least they were to the many Londoners’ that rushed past them. They moved along as quickly as they could, never making eye contact or sparing a thought as to what would lead someone to choose to live life rough on the streets.

It was this aspect that made The Homeless Network the invaluable asset that they were. They saw and heard all manner of things that they weren’t supposed to.

People were so careless around them. They didn’t care what they said and did in front of them. The homeless they regarded as non-entities, having little to no value.

Sherlock Holmes knew better.

Being one of them for a time had taught him that.

***

Chapter 2: Old Habits

***

DRUG DEN SOMEWHERE IN LONDON – THE PRESENT

It had been three months since he’d last seen her. Not since that night, the night when she had been the one to deduce him and what he’d known about The Red Headed League.

He had tried to talk to her, see her since then. But she’d refused, even going so far as to restrict his access to the morgue at Bart’s so that he wasn’t permitted to enter if it was her shift.

She said she still needed time.

It hadn’t occurred to him how much his unwillingness to share with her what he knew would hurt her. In fact, he still wasn’t sure he understood.

He hadn’t deduced quite how she’d react. He’d been so confident that he could talk her round.

But he couldn’t.

Instead he’d lost her.

“Sheeza,” Billy Wiggins shook the unconscious man with growing urgency. But there was no response.

He lifted a limp wrist, noting the multiple injection sights that resembled a pincushion. The drug had been injected recently, and of a high dosage, if ‘Sheeza’s’ comatose state was anything to go by.

An intervention was needed, and for that Billy was going to need help, and he knew exactly where to go.

***

DR J. H. WATSON’S MEDICAL PRACTICE

John Watson let out a sigh of relief when his last patient for the day left. It had been an extremely busy day, and all he wanted to do was go home to his wife and baby daughter and relax.

What he didn’t need was a possibly drug affected madman barging into his surgery. He was just getting ready to wrestle the man out when the man said.

“Sheeza’s in a bad way Doc. I’m real worried about ‘im.”

He immediately recognised the man as one of Sherlock’s Homeless Network. It was his self-appointed protégé, Wiggins.

Without a second thought John responded. “Take me to him.”

Wiggins eagerly obeyed.

***

DRUG DEN

But when they got there, Sherlock was gone.

The only sign that he’d been there was a hand written note he’d left pinned to the wall.

‘You can’t help me this time John, no one can. Tell Molly I’m sorry, for everything.’ SH

DRUG DEN – AN HOUR EARLIER

As soon as Billy had rushed off, Sherlock knew where he was headed. It was time for him to move on.

He quickly scribbled a note, collected the few belongings he had with him and headed back out on the streets.

***

THE STREET’S OF LONDON

With the drugs still in his system, Sherlock was finding it difficult to concentrate. It usually took him a couple of hours on average to come down from his drug-induced high. But circumstances had meant that he had been forced to leave before he had his cognitive faculties back in order.

That and the fact it been several years since he’d last seriously indulged. The Magnussen case didn’t count, he’d made sure that he’d only used enough to give the impression he was back on drugs.

Absently he rubbed his cheek as he remembered Molly’s reaction after she’d performed the drug test John had requested.

ST BART’S PATHOLOGY LAB

The usually sweet, adorable Molly was nowhere to be seen as she let rip, slapping him twice on one cheek, once on the other.

Shaking with an uncontrolled mixture of rage and disappointment, she looked him right in the eye as she vented her feelings. “How dare you throw away the beautiful gifts you were born with, and how dare you betray the love of your friends. Say you’re sorry.”

How he wished she’d reacted the same way when she’d worked out that Irene Adler had been behind The Red Headed League. At least then it would have brought everything to a head.

But as things were, with her unwillingness to see or speak to him about it made him fear that she was withdrawing from him, not just physically but emotionally as well.

When she’d slapped him that day in the lab it had shown absolutely how much she still cared.

And if she no longer did…

The very thought made him stumble to a halt. Leaning against the nearest hard surface, Sherlock allowed his suddenly wobbly legs to collapse under him as he slid down to the cold, hard pavement.

He sat lost in thought.

He needed Molly, wanted her… loved her.

But had he ever told her? Shown her how irreplaceable she was to him?

Damn the drugs, they were making him overly sentimental. He shook his head vigorously in a vain attempt to clear his mind of such thoughts.

What he wouldn’t give now for a case…

***

THE STREET’S OF LONDON – EIGHT YEARS BEFORE

Pain, that told him that he’d been lying in the awkward position for quite some time. The cold, hard, gritty surface that rubbed against his stubbled cheek indicated he was outside. The vibrations of cars as they made there way at regular intervals led to there being only one logical conclusion about his current whereabouts.

Slowly raising his head that felt like it weighed twice what it should, he silently ordered his eyes that preferred to remain ignorant to open and face the harsh reality and inescapable truth.

He way laying facedown in a gutter on the side of the road, with no memory of how he ended up there.

Morphine was his current opiate of choice.

Drug’s helped to calm the constant clamour in his mind. They slowed the chaos going on within his brain. They reduced the loud voices down to a gentle murmur. They relaxed him, and let him sleep.

That is what he told himself over and over as he attempted to focus on his surroundings.

As his vision gradually cleared he became aware of a pair of battered old boots inches from his face.

“You look as if you’re in need of help,” noted the owner of the boots in a gruff but kindly voice. “I think I can help you there.”

***

Chapter 3: A Brother's Account

***

THE DIOGENES CLUB, VISITOR’S ROOM – THE PRESENT

Mycroft Holmes led John into the only room where speaking was permitted before closing the door securely behind them.

He made his way over to a chair in the middle of the room. Before sitting he poured himself a large whisky and indicated for John to sit in the chair opposite.

“What do I owe the honour of this visit?” he asked, though John was certain he already knew.

“Information,” he replied.

“Concerning?” it was clear Mycroft was still miffed over the events of The Red Headed League and was determined to draw things out as long as possible.

Except John wasn’t in the mood to play games. He’d come to get answers and he wasn’t leaving until he got them. “I need to know about Sherlock…”

“I don’t know where he is.”

Refusing to allow Mycroft’s petulant attitude to deter him. John leaned forward and pointed out. “I didn’t ask you where he was Mycroft. And before you say anything further I know bloody well that you do know where he is, you always do.”

Something in the former army doctor’s expression warned Mycroft to tread carefully when he responded. “What is it you want to know?” he finally asked in resignation.

John relaxed back into his chair. “I want to know about Sherlock’s drug addiction. When did it begin, and why?”

Mycroft’s expression became thoughtful as he observed the man sitting opposite him. It was clear that the minor government official was debating how much he should reveal.

“You have to understand John,” he began. “Sherlock and I found it extremely difficult dealing with the average person. We’ve both become more adept at it as adults, but while we were growing up it was incredibly difficult.”

John knew on a rudimentary level the difficulties that child prodigies suffered. But he needed details. Details specific to Sherlock.

“Such as?”

Mycroft let out a dramatic sigh. “The usual,” he began. When John leant forward once again he quickly went into specifics, or at least those details that would be pertinent to John’s understanding of what made Sherlock the way he was. “It may surprise you to learn John, but as a young boy Sherlock was a very sensitive child.”

“Go on.”

“The young Sherlock fully embraced the concept of sentiment, despite my best efforts to educate him on such a folly.”

“I’m sure you did.” John noted wryly.

“Things especially came to a head with Redbeard.”

“Redbeard?”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow in surprise. “He’s never mentioned Redbeard?”

John shook his head.

“Interesting.”

“Who’s Redbeard?”

“You should ask him when you see him next. Suffice it to say that the little boy who dreamed of being a pirate needed a first mate and he found the perfect one in Redbeard.”

“What happened?” John asked, though he was fairly confident he knew the answer.

“Redbeard died,” Mycroft responded. “Heartbroken he came to me to teach him how to block sentiment and all other painful and unnecessary emotions.”

“That was good of you,” John noted, not bothering to hide his sarcasm.

“Sadly Sherlock was not the best of students. I could get him to a certain point and then he’d try to make friends, impress others, and try to be accepted by his peers. It always ended in tears. And then he went off to university.”

“What happened at uni?”

“He was introduced to drugs,” Mycroft stated simply. “They became his solution for distancing himself from the distraction and destructive forces of emotional entanglements.”

“And what did you do about it?”

“Once we became aware of just how bad the situation was he was placed in one of England’s most prestigious rehabilitation facilities.”

“Did it work?”

“To a point.”

“How many times has he relapsed between then and now?”

“A handful of times. But minor in comparison to this latest episode.”

Cautiously John queried. “And what do you put that down to?”

Mycroft smiled coolly. “Since meeting you Sherlock has once again opened himself up to the possibilities offered by sentiment. His recent attachment to Doctor Hooper has certainly made him extremely vulnerable to the emotions surrounding matters of the heart. This is one area for which he has little experience. The emotion not the physical act.”

When John made no comment, Mycroft clarified his statement.

“It amuses me that so many people assume Sherlock is a virgin. But I can assure you that my little brother while high on whatever drug of choice he happened to be on, has had his fair share of sexual encounters. As to whether he remembers the exact details, well I’ll leave that to your… imagination.”

Observing Mycroft’s smug, self-satisfied smirk had John getting up from his seat and without a backward glance leaving the room. If he stayed a moment longer he knew that there was a fair to reasonable chance that he would have done something he knew he wouldn’t have regretted.

***

SALVATION ARMY SOUP KITCHEN – EIGHT YEARS BEFORE

Old Harry as the old man had introduced himself, led Sherlock to a table where they both sat and began to eat the food on their trays.

At least Sherlock attempted to. Except that every mouthful he ate might as well have been sawdust for the lack of taste.

He observed the others around him. Everyone else seemed to be chowing down their meals with relish. Some were even going up to get seconds.

Confused by his inability to taste the food in front of him, his nose soon gave him a clue as it began to twitch with distaste.

It was then that Sherlock became acutely aware of the fragrant hum that permeated the air around him.

It came from the other people who sat at their table.

“Ah now, none of that,” Harry said a little impatiently, having clearly interpreted Sherlock’s thoughts. “We’re all equals here.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to respond but was silenced by the stern expression of his companion.

“There’s a lot you have to learn Sherlock if you want to survive on the streets,” Harry stated firmly. “The first is that you leave your airs and graces behind you, they wont serve you here. The second is acceptance of your fellow street dwellers. You’re now in the same position as them. Treat them with respect and they’ll teach you how to survive. Remember that.”

***

THE STREETS OF LONDON - THE PRESENT

Sherlock was knocked out of his Mind Palace when his head was smacked hard against the building where he was currently sitting.

“Sherlock!” came the desperate plea from a young woman who was crouched down in front of him. She shook him vigorously again to make sure she had his attention.

He instantly recognised her as a member of his Homeless Network.

She looked scared.

“What’s happened Alice?”

Alice got to her feet before pulling Sherlock to his. “This way,” she said as she grabbed hold of his hand and dragged him down the street.

SEVERAL BLOCKS AWAY

Alice led Sherlock to a little park.

“Over there,” she said pointing in the direction of some bushes.

Sherlock made his way over. It didn’t take him long to discover what Alice had brought him to see.

Lying under the bush as if asleep was a homeless man. Pinned to his shirt was a note. It read:

‘The labour of the righteous leads to life; the activity of the wicked leads to sin.’

Sherlock stared at the note for several minutes. Its implications bringing back unwelcome memories.

It was happening again.

***

Chapter 4: Housekeeping

***

HYDE PARK – EIGHT YEARS BEFORE

He knew Harry was dead even before he checked his pulse. The old man’s skin was cold to the touch, so he’d been dead some time.

Sherlock frowned. Harry had recently moved into temporary accommodation provided by The Salvation Army. There was no reason for him to be living rough, yet here he was.

An initial inspection showed that his few personal possessions were not on him. They would have been of no monetary value to anyone wishing to steal them. And anyway, if anyone had attempted to take them Harry would’ve put up a fight for them. Yet it was clear that no such altercation had taken place. There were no marks of violence upon the body that Sherlock could see. In fact in his current position, resting as he was curled up on his side, Harry presented an image of one who was at peace.

Given his age, somewhere between 65-70, coupled with his poor health that Sherlock had deduced had not been good for a number of years and hadn’t been improved by living on the streets, his death could hardly be regarded as suspicious.

And yet… something wasn’t right.

Crouching down, Sherlock began examining the body more closely.

A quick smell of his mouth had Sherlock wrinkling his nose at the telltale scent of vomit. But he could detect no sign of alcohol, Harry’s main vice and the cause of his decent into homelessness.

Sitting back on his haunches Sherlock sat in silent contemplation. There was any number of plausible explanations for the old man’s death. Natural causes, an undiagnosed heart condition.

These explanations were simple, straightforward and to the point.

But wrong.

Why?

Sherlock again leant down over the body, as he did so he caught a whiff of something. It wasn’t aftershave, or perfume, or any type of soap or lotion that he was aware of. The scent tickled at the edges of his consciousness, but before he could name it, it had slipped free, vanishing into the breeze.

His attention was suddenly caught by a slip of paper clutched in the old man’s hand.

A closer examination was enough to convince Sherlock that the paper had been placed in Harry’s hand after death.

Unwilling to disturb the body lest he contaminate any evidence, he attempted to read what had been scribbled on the paper.

‘… feed many, but fools die for lack…’

Sherlock re-read the words several times, but could make little sense of them.

He was certain that they’d been written for a reason, but he was at a loss as to their exact meaning.

What to do then?

The Police he knew would need to be contacted. But would they be concerned over the death of yet another vagrant who chose to live on the street?

There was nothing for it. Official channels needed to be put into action. Sherlock was convinced that once the police saw the note, which in itself indicated that Harry’s death couldn’t be regarded as natural or accidental. That left only one logical explanation. It was murder, premeditated murder.

***

221B BAKER STREET – THE PRESENT

John had no sooner opened the front door than Mrs Hudson came rushing out of her flat.

It was apparent from her crestfallen expression that she’d hoped the one walking through the door would be Sherlock. But she quickly rallied her spirits, ushering the doctor into her flat. “Come in John, come in.”

But no matter how cheerful she tried to sound it was clear she was worried.

“Sit down John,” she insisted as she busied herself with preparing them both a cup of tea. “Any news?” she asked as she brought the cups over to the table where John was seated.

He waited until she had sat down before replying. “Not as yet.”

The hope in the landlady’s eyes died.

“I’m certain Mycroft and Lestrade are keeping an eye out for him and Wiggins is checking with the homeless network. He’ll be found soon and I’m sure he’ll be fine, this is Sherlock we’re talking about,” John attempted to reassure her.

Unfortunately his words had the opposite effect, leaving her looking even more distressed.

John reached over, taking one of her hands in his. “Can you tell me anything about Sherlock’s younger days? Mycroft said he started using drugs at uni…”

“I don’t know that it’s really my place to say,” Mrs Hudson replied.

“I need to understand,” John pleaded.

Mrs Hudson took a deep breath. “Very well, I’ll tell you what I can,” she said. “What do you want to know?”

“The drug use, how bad was it?”

“I don’t know the full details of Sherlock’s drug addiction, what I’ve been told is largely second hand. If you require a more detailed account you need to speak to his mother.”

John nodded. “I understand.”

“University instead of being the ideal solution ended up becoming a total nightmare. Sherlock’s parents thought that by going to university he might finally start making friends. And he did, just not the type they were hoping for,” Mrs Hudson paused to collect her thoughts. “By the time they found out about his drug use, he’d already been experimenting with a wide range. He claimed he was doing it as part of a science experiment, ‘the affects of narcotics on a superior mind’. Then when they got him into rehab he caused a hullabaloo, demanding they give him his drugs because they helped to calm and quieten his mind.”

John had only witnessed Sherlock’s drug use once to his knowledge. But he had seen the affects prolonged drug use had on people and how they behaved when they couldn’t get their next fix.

“Were drugs his only vice?”

“John,” Mrs Hudson admonished gently. “You know the answer to that as well as I do.”

John shrugged. “Just checking. So Sherlock was already putting his deductive skills to use?” he asked distractedly as he remembered Sherlock telling him about his first case, Carl Powers as well as the comments made by one of Sherlock’s former uni associates at the time of the case he’d chronicled under the title The Blind Banker.

“Well he had to put that colossal brain of his to some practical use,” Mrs Hudson noted with a smile. “Though to be fair the idea of turning his rather unorthodox observational skills and using them in a professional manner wasn’t Sherlock’s idea at all.”

This was news to John, the second time that day that he’d heard something about Sherlock that he had no knowledge of. He certainly did appear drawn to people who either had secrets or knew how to keep them.

“So who’s idea was it?” he asked.

“Sherlock did have one friend at university, Victor Trevor. He found Sherlock’s abilities intriguing, where others were made uncomfortable by them.”

“They wouldn’t be the last.” John noted dryly.

“No,” Mrs Hudson agreed. “Anyway, Victor had told his father all about Sherlock, and his father was likewise curious about these amazing abilities. So at term break Mr Trevor invited Sherlock to accompany Victor to the family home. It was Victor’s father who spotted a potential career choice for the gifts that up until then Sherlock used mainly to relieve boredom.”

“Well at least we now know who to blame,” John joked, but immediately became serious when he saw Mrs Hudson’s expression.

“What happened?” he asked.

“Mr Trevor may have had an ulterior motive for asking Sherlock to visit. It turned out that he had become the victim of a blackmailer, someone he knew from his younger days.”

“Was Sherlock able to help out?”

“I believe so,” Mrs Hudson nodded. “But not before Mr Trevor died. The probable cause was a stress related heart attack.”

“Was Sherlock involved in many cases after that?”

“The odd one or two. After university he moved to London and rented a flat in Montague Street. It was while there that another former university associate, Reginald Musgrave engaged him concerning the disappearance of an employee.”

“How did that case turn out?”

“Not well for the employee, he was found dead. He’d come across a family heirloom belonging to the Musgrave family. Something called The Musgrave Ritual. To Reg and previous generations of his family it was nothing more than a silly children’s nursery rhyme. But this employee realised that the words of the rhyme were in fact directions.”

“To what?”

“Buried treasure.”

“You’re kidding me!” John exclaimed.

“No dear,” Mrs Hudson shook her head. “All true. And what’s more, they found it.”

“What was it?”

“I believe it was the crown of Charles I, but you’d need to verify that with Sherlock.”

Mrs Hudson got up, collected their cups and took them over to the sink.

“So that’s how Sherlock became a consulting detective,” John mused aloud.

“Oh no,” Mrs Hudson corrected. “That happened about, oh, eight years or so ago. Sherlock was using drugs again and was living on the streets at the time. I seem to remember there was something about the death of an elderly homeless man. If you want more details you might want to speak to Inspector Lestrade, its how they met.”

John got up and walked over to his former landlady and gave her a kiss on the cheek, before heading out. “Thanks Mrs H, I’ll do that.”

“Keep me informed if you hear anything,” Mrs Hudson called out after him.

“Will do,” John replied.

***

Chapter 5: The Police Report

***

NEW SCOTLAND YARD – THE PRESENT

When John walked into Lestrade’s office, the detective inspector remarked. “I wondered when you’d get to me.”

“How did you…?” John began as he took a seat opposite.

Lestrade snorted in annoyance. “I have been in the Police Force over twenty years, John,” he remarked. “I may not possess Sherlock’s particular skill-set, but I am perfectly capable of working out certain things, especially when they concern me as well,” he paused briefly before continuing. “You’re concerned about Sherlock, and you’ve been attempting to understand the man before you knew him, in the hope that it will help to make sense of why he has chosen to go back to a life on the streets.”

“Is that how you first met him?” John asked, genuinely curious. “On the streets.”

***

HYDE PARK – EIGHT YEARS BEFORE

Sherlock stood guard over Harry’s body, having sent another homeless person to fetch the police.

But when the Police eventually turned up, Sherlock was left disappointed and dismayed by their lack of professionalism.

After almost completely trampling the ground around the body, and a brief examination of Old Harry’s body, the detective in charge was of the opinion that the death was not suspicious. Detective Jones was satisfied that it was clearly an open and shut case of suicide, nothing more.

Before Sherlock could point out the features of interest that his own examination had found, the police had departed the scene, far quicker than the time it had taken them to arrive.

Sherlock stood where he was a moment, completely stunned.

But once Harry’s body was taken away Sherlock was determined that his mentor and friend would receive justice.

***

NEW SCOTLAND YARD – EIGHT YEARS BEFORE

Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade had just settled into his chair in his new office when he became aware of a commotion. Sighing in resignation he reluctantly got up from his seat and went to investigate the ruckus.

What he found was a couple of constables attempting to restrain a young homeless man. But it was clear he was not your regular deadbeat down-and-out. This young man was tall, with a mass of unruly curly hair, had a bearing and grace about him. He also possessed a very commanding voice and attitude. Clearly someone used to getting his own way.

“Anyone with eyes can see it wasn’t suicide,” the man stated in growing agitation.

Detective Jones looked at the man with unconcealed contempt. The last thing he needed was some posh git, who clearly dabbled a bit too often with illegal narcotics, cocaine would be his guess, trying to lord it over him. It was clear that despite his current situation he’d come from a well-to-do upbringing. As far as Jones was concerned all the young man’s airs and graces, and so-called connections stood for naught compared to the facts at hand.

“It was suicide,” he snarled. “Life had become too hard on the street…”

“He’d moved into accommodation provided by the Salvation Army.”

“He’d left a note.”

“Some random quote from the Bible, not written in his own hand.”

“He’d overdosed.”

“Alcohol was Harry’s vice, not drugs.”

The young man intrigued Lestrade. He was clearly intelligent, but his attitude would likely see him being charged, with insubordination and thrown in the slammer, if Jones’ expression was anything to go by.

Stepping forward Lestrade addressed his comments to the young man. “Why don’t we take this conversation into my office, yeah?”

The man looked at Lestrade, assessing him and his sincerity. Whatever he read had him relaxing and nodding his head in agreement.

The constables immediately released him and he followed Lestrade into his office.

***

NEW SCOTLAND YARD – THE PRESENT

“So was it suicide?” John asked.

“That was the official finding. But Sherlock never believed it.”

“Well he wouldn’t, would he?”

“No,” Lestrade replied, though it was clear he was lost in thought.

John got to his feet. “Thanks Greg. Let me know if you hear anything.”

“Yeah, will do.” Lestrade responded as he too got to his feet and lead John to the door.

Ten minutes after John left, Sherlock barged into his office.

“It’s happening again Lestrade. We have to do something.”

Apart from his clothes and his unkempt appearance, Sherlock appeared no different than his normal demanding self. A little agitated maybe…

“I’m fine Lestrade,” Sherlock snapped quickly becoming frustrated with the detective inspectors lack of response to his request.

Lestrade shook his head ruefully. ‘Yep, same old Sherlock.’ “What’s happening again?”

As Sherlock finished his explanation, Lestrade’s mobile rang.

“Yeah, right. We’ll be there shortly.” Putting his phone away, he grabbed his jacket. “Your homeless person has been taken to the morgue at Barts. Coming?”

Instead of barging off ahead as was usual with Sherlock, he hung back. Lestrade knew why the consulting detective was hesitating. Going to Barts meant seeing Molly. Lestrade had absolutely no idea what had gone wrong with Sherlock and Molly’s relationship. Neither of them would talk about it. But it is clear that being apart wasn’t making either of them any happier.

“You can’t avoid her forever Sherlock,” he said. “At some point you’re going to have to face Molly, and it might as well be now.”

***

Chapter 6: Straight to the Heart

***

BART’S MORGUE – THE PRESENT

Molly waited anxiously for Lestrade and Sherlock to arrive. Greg had texted her that they were on their way.

She hadn’t seen Sherlock for several months. She’d needed time to get over the hurt she had felt on realising that he had known all along that Irene Adler had been behind The Red-Headed League. At the time she’d convinced herself she was justified, but as weeks turned into months she realised that she may have overreacted. At the very least she should have allowed Sherlock to explain.

At that moment a dishevelled and clearly uncomfortable Sherlock entered the morgue in the company of Lestrade, Molly thought her heart would break, he looked so lost, so unsure of himself. Without hesitation she made her way over to Sherlock and drew him aside so they could speak in private.

Sherlock braced himself, remembering clearly the last time he’d faced Molly when he’d temporarily returned to using drugs. At least then it had been for a case.

But her response to his appearance this time had nothing to do with anger.

“I’m so sorry, Sherlock for the way I behaved,” she began.

“You’re…you’re sorry?” the consulting detective responded, clearly taken aback by her words.

“Yes,” she confirmed as tears welled up in her expressive eyes. “Can you forgive me for the way I acted? I have no excuse other than that I was afraid…”

‘Afraid?’

This was not at all how he’d imagined this conversation would go. He’d been so certain that Molly would be disgusted by him and angry that he slipped back into substance abuse. Instead she was pleading for his forgiveness.

“Afraid? Why were you afraid?” he queried, his voice cracking with emotions so long suppressed. Then a worrying thought occurred to him. “Not of me…?”

“No! No, no,” Molly hastily assured him.

“Then why?” he asked, now genuinely confused.

“I shouldn’t have walked out that night, after The League of Red-Headed Gentlemen case had been sorted. I should have had more faith in you… Trusted you.”

Though Molly had started her explanation calmly, she soon became more emotional.

“I was afraid that you would tire of me before our relationship ever got a chance to develop. I was so certain that you’d get bored with me, and had even convinced myself that that was possibly why our relationship hadn’t gone any further…intimately speaking.”

Molly cringed as she heard the words she was speaking aloud. It all sounded so ridiculous, but she conceded that’s what happened when you allowed your insecurities to take control. Taking a deep breath she finished her explanation. “It seemed to be the only explanation for your not confiding in me about…” She paused briefly, glancing over at Lestrade, who was doing a terrible job of trying to not look like he was watching the couple. “That woman,” she finished quietly, so that only Sherlock could hear.

“You can’t honestly believe that I would ever leave you for…” Sherlock responded in disbelief.

But the look on Molly’s face brought him up short. And he instantly berated himself for not recognising Molly’s need for a little reassurance. In his defence he was still very new to the whole relationship thing. His previous encounters nothing more than sexual liaisons, a means to ridding himself of pent up sexual frustration without the emotional entanglements associated with developing a loving relationship with a significant other. And that too was probably why their relationship hadn’t gone any further than kissing and cuddling. He’d feared that once they’d become sexually intimate, ‘made love’, then that would be the trigger for him to pull away before he became too emotionally involved.

With a rueful laugh, Sherlock gathered Molly into his arms. “Oh Molly mine,” he murmured into her ear. “What fools we’ve been.”

Molly released a sigh of heartfelt relief and nodded her head in agreement as she wrapped her arms around his waist and snuggled up against the reassuring beat of his heart.

A subtle clearing of a throat was enough to remind Sherlock that he was at Barts for a reason. With great reluctance he released his hold on Molly and stepped back.

“So,” he said, as he cleared his throat and made his way over to the covered corpse, and waited for Molly to join him.

“I’ll let you know my findings,” Molly promised him. “And I’ll compare what I find with what appeared in the pathology reports from the original case.”

Sherlock turned to Lestrade. It was clear from the cheeky grin he received from the Detective Inspector that he’d contacted Molly before their arrival.

He turned back to Molly. “Well I’ll leave things in your capable hands, while I head bake to Baker Street to change.”

“And have a bath,” Molly added.

Sherlock glared at her, but there was a mischievous glint in his eye. Then to Molly, and Lestrade’s complete surprise Sherlock pulled Molly into his arms and snogged her breathless, before turning to sweep dramatically out of the morgue.

The World’s Only Consulting Detective was back.

***

Chapter 7: Turning Detective

***

221B BAKER STREET – THE PRESENT

When John entered Sherlock’s flat the telltale sound of running water alerted him to the consulting detective’s current location.

Flopping down into his old chair, the former army doctor pulled out his mobile phone and re-read the text he’d received twenty minutes earlier.

Meet me at Baker St. SH

It was the first communication he’d had from his friend following the fallout from the conclusion of The League of Red-Headed Gentlemen case; the brief note left at the drug den notwithstanding.

He was just putting his phone back in his pocket when Sherlock emerged from the bathroom. Though clean-shaven and impeccably dressed, his gaunt appearance spoke volumes about the toll that this latest relapse into addiction had taken on him physically, and no doubt emotionally.

But before John could question him, an agitated Billy Wiggins burst into the room.

“You was right Sheeza.”

In the blink of an eye Sherlock was once again the hard-edged criminal investigator, as he brusquely demanded. “Which one?”

“All three,” came the reply.

Rubbing his hands together, the detective responded excitedly. “Ohhh! Better and better.”

John looked from one to the other in complete and utter confusion, hoping that an explanation would soon be forthcoming. When it became clear that this wasn’t going to happen he decided to remind both men of his presence. “Care to share?”

Sherlock immediately fired off the necessary facts. “The three main suspects in a series of unexplained deaths from eight years ago have returned to the scene of the crime, at the precise moment that more deaths have started occurring.”

John watched his friend closely. There was something about this case that differed from others they’d worked together on. He recalled Greg’s story about the homeless man who’d apparently suicided several years before.

Choosing to test a theory, John finally surmised. “So, someone’s killing homeless people again?”

If Sherlock was surprised he didn’t show it, simply responding “Very good John. I see Lestrade has told you about how The Homeless Network came into being.”

“Not all, but some.” John admitted.

Impatient as he was to get on with his investigation Sherlock knew a brief explanation, for the time being, was needed. “Eight years ago a homeless man I knew died, in somewhat suspicious circumstances.” Though his explanation began calmly enough, the memory of that time caused the usually unflappable detective to become emotional. “Most of the fools at Scotland Yard dismissed the death as suicide. As far as they were concerned it was one less individual living rough for them to worry about. It was clear that the only way to get anything done was to investigate the case myself. To that end I decided to set up a network that I could use to assist me in investigating his death as well as those of other homeless men and women whose deaths all took place around the same time. The obvious choice was those people that these deaths most affected, and it grew from there…”

***

OUTSIDE NEW SCOTLAND YARD – EIGHT YEARS BEFORE

Sherlock was furious when he emerged from New Scotland Yard.

They were all idiots, lazy, incompetent…

Though, to be fair there had been one, Inspector Lestrade, who appeared to be a more than reasonable man, and an above average policeman. But for all that he failed to grasp the gravity of the situation, or the significance of what Sherlock had informed Scotland Yard with regards to his knowledge of the victim and the particular something that, admittedly he still couldn’t place, but for which he was absolutely certain would prove beyond a doubt that Old Harry’s death was due to foul play, and not an open and shut suicide.

But just how he could prove it, that was the problem.

HYDE PARK

As Sherlock approached where he’d found Old Harry it was clear that all signs of the police’s involvement had been meticulously removed. In its place a small shrine of flowers had emerged.

Harry had been well respected amongst the homeless. His unexpected death had left many devastated.

A flash of inspiration suddenly took a hold of him. If Scotland Yard wouldn’t investigate, maybe those who had a vested interest in seeing justice done should.

Sherlock felt a growing excitement the more he thought about it, The Homeless Network, perfect! They could go anywhere virtually unseen, or more correctly ignored by the public in general.

A determined glint appeared in his eyes, as he nodded to himself. ‘Yes! This could actually work.’

TWO WEEKS LATER…

It had taken Sherlock longer than he’d anticipated, due in part to his not having developed the level of trust and respect that those living rough had for Old Harry.

But once it got around that Sherlock was actively investigating Harry’s case, a number of homeless offered their assistance.

As with any criminal investigation, there was a set of procedures that were rigorously followed and adhered to.

Harry’s movements 24 hours before his death were reconstructed in detail.

Anyone who had seen him during that period was interviewed, with any relevant information carefully noted down.

As information was accumulated it was discovered that the circumstances of Harry’s death strongly resembled those of several other homeless people who had passed away in questionable circumstances over the previous eight weeks.

Sherlock, confident that he now possessed enough information to get a formal police investigation underway, was left frustrated and angry when he efforts were still dismissed.

Only Detective Inspector Lestrade showed any interest and empathy with his efforts, proving himself a trusted ally by allowing Sherlock access to the autopsy reports. Unfortunately whoever had written the report was completely incompetent, with only a cursory investigation into the cause of death. In conclusion the report agreed with the police finding, and simply verified death by suicide.

Sherlock refused to be defeated, he knew there was more to these deaths than met the eye.

As his investigation continued, three people continued to pop up as persons of interest. Sherlock was certain it couldn’t be a coincidence. And if they were involved, were they working separately, or together?

***

221B BAKER STREET – THE PRESENT

“So your suspects were a preacher, a social worker and a evangelistic homeless man,” John clarified.

“Yes.”

“And they came up on your radar why?”

“It’s difficult to put into words,” Sherlock freely admitted. “You just got the feeling that something was off when you were around them, like they had an agenda…”

“A higher calling perhaps,” John suggested.

“Yes, that’s it! That’s it precisely,” Sherlock exclaimed excitedly.

John nodded with growing understanding. He’d heard of similar cases within the medical profession. Rogue doctors performing unethical, and in many cases illegal procedures, under the belief that because of who they were that they had the right.

“Were you not able to get any information into their backgrounds?”

Sherlock shook his head. “As helpful as Lestrade was, he wasn’t prepared to order a background check purely based on the word of a homeless, junkie tosser like me.”

As he spoke Sherlock collected his belstaff and put it on.

John noted the spring was back in his step, and when the consulting detective turned back to him, there was a definite twinkle in his eye.

“It’s a good thing my word carries more weight these days,” Sherlock remarked before he turned and headed out the door with Billy Wiggins trailing after him.

John shook his head in rueful resignation as he got up from the chair and made his way down the stairs.

The game was once again on.

***

Chapter 8: Justice For All

***

SCOTLAND YARD – THE PRESENT

By the time Sherlock, John and Wiggins arrived at his office Lestrade had requested the background checks Sherlock had wanted, but they had not as yet arrived. In the meanwhile he had retrieved the files relating to Old Harry’s death and the others from eight years ago.

Reading through each file it didn’t take Sherlock long to find exactly what he was expecting to see.

“Look here,” he pointed out to the others. “And here, and here, and here.”

All the victims had been found with a note, with a quote from the Bible. All the notes had been handwritten, and even to the untrained eye, now that they were all together, it was clear to see that they were written in the same hand.

So if they’d been written in the same hand? That meant only one thing. “None of these deaths were caused by natural causes or the result of suicide.”

John was now reading through the medical examination. “There were no signs of violence on any of the bodies,” he noted.

“These deaths were planned. And the victims were more than likely poisoned by someone they knew, and trusted.”

“But surely if they’d been poisoned, it would have shown up in the autopsy reports?” Lestrade argued.

“Depends on the type of poison used, and how it was administered.”

At that moment Sherlock’s mobile pinged. It was a text from Molly.

Come to the Barts. Mx

“Send those reports I asked for to Barts Morgue,” Sherlock instructed as he John and Wiggins headed out the door.

***

BART’S MORGUE

Sherlock swept in and immediately made his way over to where Molly stood.

“You’ve found something,” he correctly surmised, indicating the body she’d completed the autopsy on.

“Yes,” Molly responded. “And based on what I’ve read in the autopsy reports on the other victims, they were all killed the same way.”

Sherlock felt vindicated, and relieved. Here was proof that he had been right, Old Harry and the others had been the victims of murder.

“Cause of death?”

“Tellurium.”

Sherlock’s eyebrow shot up in surprise.

“Or to be more specific,” Molly continued. “Tellurium was used first, before a minuscule dose of sodium-tellurite was introduced into their systems. Over a period of time the toxins built up, leading to internal bleeding and ultimately respiratory failure.”

Sherlock nodded his head thoughtfully. “Clever,” he noted softly.

“Clever?” John queried.

“Obviously,” Sherlock replied. When John continued to look slightly perplexed, Sherlock shook his head demanding with some irritation. “You’re a doctor are you not?”

Before John could retaliate at the jibe, Sherlock went into full deductive mode.

“Tellurium in its elemental form at least is not particularly toxic. But the impact from consuming it leads to certain side effects, most notably bad breath and body odour. As the homeless and poor hygiene have become fairly synonymous to the general public, any homeless person showing these symptoms wouldn’t be regarded as cause for concern.”

“Okay,” John readily acknowledged.

“So it would then be easy to now up the ante and change to sodium tellurite which is far more dangerous, yet the effects from its poisoning could be put down to alcoholic poisoning or a drug overdose.”

John nodded in understanding. “So how come it wasn’t picked up in the original autopsy reports eight years ago?”

“Incompetence,” was the detective’s bitter response.

“Testing for a wider range of poisons has advanced considerably over the last eight years,” Molly pointed out feeling a need to defend a former fellow colleague, though she couldn’t quite meet Sherlock’s eye as she said it.

At that moment Lestrade entered the morgue with the background checks Sherlock wanted.

“You didn’t have to bring them yourself Lestrade.”

“Yeah well, decided I might as well,” the inspector said. “On the off chance you found something in here that could lead to an immediate arrest.”

Sherlock took the files. Glancing through them he immediately dismissed Father Francis O’Leary and Capt. Harold Elliott of the Salvation Army as likely suspects.

But the file relating to Dennis Murray, an evangelistic homeless man caught his attention.

Murray had worked for a company that manufactured DVD-Rs and Blurays. After losing his job, he’d had a few run-ins with the police: drunkenness, involved in fights and stalking...

“Well this looks suggestive,” Sherlock remarked. “He’s had access to tellurium, and has an interesting rap sheet. If nothing else it will be enough to bring him in for questioning.”

“But just because he worked in an industry that uses tellurium doesn’t explain how he was able to purchase it. It’s not like you can just buy it at the local supermarket?” Molly pointed out.

“He may still have contacts within the company,” Sherlock noted. “Or he got it through the black market, or possibly the dark web.”

He handed the report back to Lestrade. “The only way we’ll know for certain is to find him. The network still has eyes on him?” he confirmed as he turned to Wiggins.

Wiggins nodded in the affirmative.

“Then I think it’s time for a little chat with Mr Murray.”

***

CHURCH GRAVEYARD – SEVERAL HOURS LATER

She found him standing before the unmarked grave where Old Harry had been buried. He turned as she approached, and she marvelled at the soft look that came into his eyes, a special expression reserved solely for her.

“He confessed?”

Sherlock nodded. “Murray became fanatically religious after the death of his girlfriend, hoping that religion would give him the answers he sought.”

“Answers to what?”

“He was looking for a way to punish whoever killed her, refusing to believe the courts finding of accidental death. He became so obsessed with the notion that he ended up losing his job.”

“And that was how he ended up homeless?”

“No I think that was a deliberate decision. His girlfriend worked at a soup kitchen that helped feed the homeless. He got it into his head that it must have been a homeless person who killed her. By becoming one, he hoped to learn who was responsible,” he paused briefly. “But somewhere along the way, the need to find a potential murderer was overridden by a need to kill those that wouldn’t be missed.”

“So what happens now?” Molly asked, drawing him away from thoughts of a thoroughly disturbed individual.

Sherlock smiled softly. “Now I intend to have Harry’s remains moved and to be buried properly with a decent headstone.”

Molly looked at where Harry currently rested, and she gave silent thanks to the man who had befriended Sherlock all those years ago, certain that if he hadn’t taken him under his wing, Sherlock would not be where he was today.

As they exited the cemetery Molly noted that something about the case still troubled Sherlock.

“What’s wrong?” she queried softly. “You’ve finally been able to prove that the deaths were murder, and have caught the person responsible.”

“When I found Harry’s body, I detected a scent, but couldn’t place it. Now that we know what killed him and the others, and the signs. How was it possible that I couldn’t identify what it was?”

Taking his arm as they walked along, Molly pointed out. “To be fair Sherlock, you were, as I understand it, using heavily at that time with a variety of drugs.”

“Drugs have helped in the past to heighten my thought processes...” Sherlock began.

But Molly had not finished her explanation. “By all means tell yourself that all you want. But I’m not talking about deductive reasoning. I’m talking about your sense of smell that can be affected depending on the type of drug you’re on.”

To this Sherlock had to concede that it was a possibility.

As they reached the main road, Sherlock hailed a passing taxi.

“Where to guv?” the taxi driver asked.

Sherlock was about to respond when Molly got in before him, “221B Baker Street, please.”

***

Chapter 9: Moving Forward

***

221B BAKER ST – SHERLOCK’S BEDROOM

A fine sheen of sweat coated the two naked bodies that lay intimately entwined on the bed.

Molly’s hips surged up, her hands grasping Sherlock’s taut buttocks, as Sherlock’s kisses grew desperate, hips now pumped wildly as he thrust in and out in an increasingly frantic rhythm, before he reared up abruptly, his arms taking his full weight. The new angle drove his cock deeper into her welcoming warmth, causing them to moan at the exquisite sensation.

But just as they were about to reach completion, Sherlock paused to savour the incredible feeling of Molly’s body as it clamped possessively around his rigidly hard penis, he marvelled at how her lips felt on his, the softness of her skin, her intoxicatingly musky scent as he’d plied her sensitive clit with his tongue...

A well-aimed slap to his buttocks abruptly snapped him from his musings.

“Catalogue and update your Mind Palace later,” Molly panted impatiently, though Sherlock noted the hint of an endearingly impish grin as she wrapped her legs around his waist, before pulling his head down so she could plant a sinfully passionate kiss upon his willing lips.

Back and forth, then side to side, Sherlock’s hips kept up their determined and relentless rhythm. He was a man possessed.

“Yes, yes right there,” Molly cried encouragingly, and then “Oh my God, Sherlock!”

Molly came, her head thrown back as she screamed in ecstasy. Moments later Sherlock found his own release, coming with a guttural growl. The tension in his body immediately giving way to euphoric lethargy, before collapsing on top of an equally boneless Molly, his body totally spent.

They lay where they were, catching their breath. Then Sherlock rolled off Molly, pulling her close, wrapping his arms securely around her as she happily snuggled into him.

Several minutes later with still not a word spoken Molly grew concerned. Sitting up, she turned to Sherlock, and what she saw had her pulling him into her arms, his head coming to rest in the crook of her shoulder.

“Bit overwhelming isn’t it,” she said softly, as tears flowed freely down his cheeks.

Sherlock nodded, initially unable to find the words to accurately describe what he was feeling. And then “Understatement,” he mumbled. The embarrassment he felt at his uncharacteristic show on emotion all too clear.

Molly knew Sherlock had not been a virgin, yet their coupling had clearly had a profound effect on him. Brushing his sweat slicked curls out of his eyes, she queried gently. “And this was different.”

Sherlock sat up, and pulled Molly onto his lap. He threaded his fingers through her hair before taking her face in his hands, his thumbs gently caressing her cheeks, resting his forehead against hers as he looked her directly in the eyes. “So different,” he murmured, a luminous glow appearing in his storm-tossed eyes. “This was the first time my heart was fully involved. This wasn’t about getting laid. This was all about love, making love, and loving the woman who will always matter the most to me. “

Molly could feel tears beginning to well up in her own eyes.

“Not good?” Sherlock asked, becoming more than a little worried.

Molly laughed, whipping her tears away. “On the contrary,” she assured him. “It’s the very best actually.”

Sherlock visibly relaxed.

“So, what do you suggest we do now?” his innocent expression totally at odds with the way he was dragging Molly back under the covers.

Molly’s laughter was filled with pure joy as she playfully pushed Sherlock onto his back and straddled him. “I’m sure we can come up with something,” she responded playfully.

Sherlock wholeheartedly agreed.

***

#Sherlolly #How the homeless network came into being #Sherlock back using drugs #Someone is killing the homeless #John learning what Sherlock was like before he met him #A work in progress...#Now Complete

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possiblyimbiassed · 5 years

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What happened to Sherlock? Part VII – The Importance of Being Earnest (2)

This is the direct (and lengthy) continuation of Part VII in my meta series “What happened to Sherlock?”. You can find the first post of this installment here. I’m now going to continue testing my Hypothesis #7, which goes like this:

Hypothesis #7. By TFP Sherlock has managed to figure out some essential things about John and the importance of staying alive, and he has managed to get in touch with his own repressed emotions.

In the first post I tried to verify the two first statements of this hypothesis, and here I’ll focus on the third statement about repressed emotions. After the hug in TLD, Therapist!Sherlock (assuming Eurus=Sherlock) thought that John felt ‘so much better’. But then Detective!Sherlock noticed that something was still wrong; his client seemed to be channelling Satan and Faith’s note was actually ‘real’. The scenario ended with Therapist!Sherlock shooting John in the face, but in TFP we learn that this was done with a tranquilizer, so John survived. Which brings us right into:

Prediction #2: If Hypothesis #7 is true, Sherlock will have to confront his childhood trauma and the context where he chose to repress his emotions.

Sherlock really needs to stay alive for John’s sake. But how can you stay alive when Emotions are killing you? Sherlock might think the only solution is to bring them on and face them, try to beat them ‘in a death-defying act’. Which means Sherlock must go deeper still into his own mind, to face his demons.

i actually think this is the single bravest thing Sherlock does in the whole show this far. And in order to face his demons and traumatic memories, he needs to perform his Mind Theatre experiments on himself. But who’s the scientist then - who is setting up the experiments? I believe this is done by Sherlock letting someone impersonate a side of himself that he has been hiding and neglecting for a very long time, and who therefore appears to be a cold, calculating psychopath to be feared and avoided: Sister Sentiment.

@beingallmysterious said it in their very brilliant meta about Eurus representing Emotion (my bolding, the link also contains the additions):

“The final problem then is reason vs sentiment. How do we live with emotions? Should we lock them up as Mycroft recommends? Sherlock has tried this and it didn’t work. So what’s Sherlock’s solution in the end? He lives with her. He accepts her. He becomes whole again. Reason and sentiment”.

This is, basically, what I think TFP is about. Sherlock might believe he has to defeat and disarm Eurus, but this story tells him (and us) that he rather has to embrace her, accept her as a valid part of himself. So let’s keep on running the scenarios.

TFP, Scenario 1: What happened back then?

Inspiration: It seems like this scenario starts when Mycroft is forced to talk about his and Sherlock’s upbringing and their ‘lost sister’ Eurus. We go back to their childhood and the mansion where the Holmes family used to live. So some of this might be based upon Sherlock’s real memories. But there’s also a resemblance to certain horror movies, which I doubt is a coincidence. I rather believe this is Sherlock’s way of deflecting traumatic memories he’d rather not get into. He uses characters from these movies as ‘actors’, with scary, supernatural powers representing Eurus, such as Orphan:

Or The Ring:

As a bonus, this girl from The Ring (Samara is her name, by the way) also happens to come out of a well (see discussion on the 5th scenario of TFP at the end of this post) and she climbs through the screen of the telly, a bit like Eurus slips through the suddenly non-existent glass wall at Sherrinford.

[Running a scenario where Sherlock and John scare Mycroft into telling the truth about their childhood, when Sherlock used to play pirates with his dog while little Eurus played alone, and they had ‘honey for tea’ at Musgrave Hall. But Eurus seemed to want Sherlock dead and set the mansion on fire, and in present time 221B gets blown up by Eurus’ ‘patience grenade’]

Result: We learn that little Eurus (=Sherlock) set the house on fire and was then ‘taken away’ to some un-named ‘suitable place’, where she started a new fire. And then Uncle Rudy ‘took care of things’; she was declared dead but secretly sent to Sherrinford. In spite of all the absurd creepiness (bizarre clowns, explosions etc), present day Sherlock’s search for his sister leads them to Sherrinford, an isolated prison island way out at sea, where she is (supposedly) locked up. And since John was only sedated at the end of TLD, he’s now with Sherlock again. But well there, the nightmare continues; Sister Sentiment takes over their free will pretty quickly.

Discussion: @sagestreet has made an interesting analysis based on the idea that the memory sticks that keep popping up every now and then in the show represent Sherlock’s “’lost’ memory (about his traumatic past and subsequently repressed gay identity)” @sagestreet theorizes that this ‘lost’ memory might be based on the experience that “Sherlock’s dad was in a gay relationship with his best friend and something went very, very wrong”. And, furthermore, what if this friend was ‘Uncle Rudy’, possibly the brother of Sherlock’s mother?

This idea would be interesting to explore further, and I replied to @sagestreet‘s meta with some more speculation: A triangle drama like this might have had an emotional impact on the kids, perhaps enough to make the older Mycroft ‘abandon’ his own feelings and try to make his little brother do the same. But if little Sherlock (=Eurus) had a too emotional personality to even manage to distinguish one feeling from the other in this mess...

...he might have confused the situation of jealousy, guilt, anger, betrayal etc. in the family with his Dad’s sexual orientation. And it all might have been mixed up into internalized homophobia, where Sherlock would blame himself for having the same kind of feelings as his Dad, which would make him think he risked dragging others into pain and misery.

So what did actually happen? I don’t think we (and Sherlock) really get the answers in TFP, but we do get to feel some of the emotions connected to it, and that’s at least a beginning. Was there a suicide in Sherlock’s family, connected to a possible triangle drama? Or was an impending ‘scandal’ with secret-keeping in a chaotic family situation enough to mess up Sherlock’s emotional life? Was young Sherlock sent to a boarding school? Mental institution? Well, I do hope S5 will offer satisfactory answers to this.

TFP, Scenario 2: Is caring an advantage?

Inspiration: I think this is a key question for Sherlock, something he has been mulling over since he realized that his attitude doesn’t sit well with John, and maybe was the last straw in making John abandon him for someone else. John has been questioning Sherlock’s humanity at least since TGG, and possibly even earlier. If Sherlock did indeed ruin himself on drugs while reading John’s blog after the wedding (as I suggested earlier in this meta series), I think it’s relevant that this is how he came across on the blog after TGG:

So yes - this is one of the main problems that Sherlock needs to investigate in his Mind Theatre to find out what went wrong between him and John.

But Sherlock’s statement is contradictory (which I believe John tends to miss, at least consciously). Because trying to save people’s lives already means caring. Sherlock’s actions prove that he already does care about people - why otherwise would he work on crime solving? There are many less humanity-serving ‘games’ he could play and puzzles he could solve to keep himself entertained. So Sherlock definitely does care, but I think his real problem is that he doesn’t permit himself to feel it. Because feeling compassion means exposing himself to other people’s suffering - and his own. Sister Sentiment will make him suffer.

This is what Sherlock has been told, probably by Mycroft, in an attempt to protect his overly emotional little brother from the cruelty of life. The question is, though: Not an advantage for whom? Caring certainly is an advantage for the people you care about. It’s just that it might make you suffer.

[Running the scenario. For the first time in this story Sherlock exposes himself to his own experiments, rather than someone else. These are ethical dilemmas and he finally gets to the point where he’s sincere enough with himself to really face these demons. Because he used to hide from them before, which has deprived him of John. And - as @beingallmysterious said in their meta about Eurus - this is what Sentiment does to you: “Eurus puts Sherlock through torturous mind games. Doesn’t emotion do the exact same thing?” ]

Results and discussion: In Sister Sentiment’s first experiment Sherlock is supposed to make John shoot the Governor of Sherrinford, supposedly to stop Eurus from murdering his wife (which reminds me of a manipulation scheme from the mentalist Derren Brown (X). In his show ‘Push’ Brown tries to manipulate a guy, by group think and submission to authority figures, to ‘commit murder’ and push someone off a building). Sherlock seems very pragmatic about this; we don’t see him hesitate and he’s not even trying to refuse. He keeps playing entirely 'by the rules’:

But what if the ‘rules’ are wrong? I think this mirrors how Sherlock, in a way, made John shoot the cabbie through the window in ASiP. If Sherlock had turned in the serial killer to the police instead of joining him to play mind games and prove himself clever, John wouldn’t have had to kill a person, which is a heavy weight to bear. In this scenario it gets clear that John doesn’t want to shoot someone, not even for the ‘greater good’. And in the end the Governor shoots himself to save his wife (who subsequently gets shot anyway). But the link to ASiP is clearly there, in my opinion; why else would they show us this bullet hole, which very much resembles the one where John shot the cabbie?

The next experiment is the three Garrideb brothers who are kept tied-up and dangling over the abyss. This is (supposedly) about solving a crime puzzle, and Sherlock quickly deduces who of the three brothers had committed the murder. But it doesn’t matter to Euros who the guilty is; she kills all three Garridebs anyway. Which resembles the result when Sherlock in TGG focuses a bit too much on the puzzles, without considering the victims (which enrages John). The blind lady had to spend a long time suffering in complete agony, so maybe she could no longer think clearly and started describing the criminal, who then detonated the bomb. Caring about the victim might have been an advantage for solving the case, and I think the important thing was that Sherlock’s cleverness wasn’t enough; the lady and a whole lot of other innocent people died anyway. But at least his compassion might have lessened the time of suffering for the victim. What would have happened if Sherlock had refused to condemn any of the Garridebs? We don’t know, because he thought he could save two of them by solving the puzzle and condemning the guilty one.

In the end it didn’t matter what Sherlock’s brain told him to do in these ‘experiments’; the victims died anyway. Which means caring about them at least wouldn’t have hurt. But I have a feeling that showing compassion in TGG would have solved much of the communication problems between Sherlock and John. Which I hope Sherlock finally begins to understand after TFP.

TFP, Scenario 3: What will happen if Sherlock confesses his love to John?

inspiration: I think this is one of Sherlock’s hardest tasks, because he has nothing to draw from. I think he knows - subconsciously - from TLD that he can’t bring John to ‘confess’ his feelings for Sherlock, unless Sherlock takes the first step. But having repressed his feelings for so long, this isn’t easy for Sherlock. He needs to learn to say the words, yes, but this isn’t enough; he has to actually mean it. Because if he tries to fool John in any way (like he cowardly did in the underground case in TEH), or slip away from it as in the Tarmac scene in HLV, it’s only going to hurt John further and destroy his trust. So that’s why I think Eurus (=Sherlock) sets up this experiment. He needs Molly as a mirror for John, because he isn’t ready to admit this to John’s face just yet.

[Running the scenario, involving a phone call to Molly with a threat of blowing her up if Sherlock can’t have a confession from her]

Result: It turns out that Molly (=John) won’t have any of this BS any more; it’s time for Sherlock to come clean.

This is not about protecting John, or any other practical or ‘external’ reason for committing to him. It’s the point of no return, the moment of pure and simple honesty. “Tell John the truth” – that’s the mission. And finally, he does.

Discussion: This scenario is where I think the quote from Oscar Wilde might come in handy.

The title of the story that John, Mycroft and Sherlock are talking about is ‘The importance of being Earnest’. I’m not a native English speaker, but the word ‘earnest’ has several meanings, as far as I know. For example serious-minded, solemn, sober. But also heartfelt, sincere and impassioned. And Earnest is also the (false) name of the two protagonists in Wilde’s story, hence the wordplay in the title. In this work, Wilde is depicting two friends that keep lying about who they really are and what’s their real name, in order to escape social obligations. But the subtext is quite loud that this is rather about their relationship than the women they are (supposedly) courting.

The play premiered in London in 1895, the same year as Oscar Wilde was imprisoned and sentenced to two years of hard labour for “gross indecency” (= basically for being gay). And also the same year that has been re-hashed in this show since John’s blog got stuck on 1895 hits in ASiB.

Anyway, this scenario is a key point; it’s where I believe Sherlock finally breaks and starts allowing himself to feel and react emotionally. Sherlock sees 'I love you’ as a defeat and Eurus tells him that he has made more harm than good. But I think he’s on the right track now, because he’s letting himself feel.

And smashing the coffin might mean that he has actually found the way to save John Watson. Save him from suicide, because that’s what I believe the coffin means, symbolically: the death of John.

TFP, Scenario 4: Heart or brain?

Inspiration: I’m not sure where exactly Sherlock draws from with this one, but this seems to be a nagging question that he has been wrestling with for some time now. In Eurus’ fourth experiment in Sherrinford, Sherlock still keeps playing the game on her terms, by accepting to choose between John and Mycroft; metaphorically heart vs brain. It seems like Sherlock has to either keep his brilliant brain and cut off his heart again, or go by his heart, which will make him lose his head and go insane.

[running the fourth model, involving a gun and a choice]

Result: For a moment, it looks like Sherlock is actually going to choose the heart option and shoot Mycroft, who tries to provoke him to do this. But Sherlock now - for the first time in this story - skips the game and goes for a third option instead: killing himself. Again. Which seems to very much be Moriarty’s (= homophobia’s) goal with this.

But it doesn’t work, because taking his own life is not the solution Eurus wants, so she doesn’t let him. Sherlock gets sedated, and his choice (to keep both brain and heart) only leads to another prison, where he’s surrounded by old family photos and a dog bowl (=memories). But breaking free from this and solving the Musgrave Ritual is (apparently) the solution.

Discussion: This choice could have been lengthy, but since Eurus (=Sherlock) aborts this scenario rather quickly, let’s just jump to the next one.

Scenario 5: How can Sherlock find the Truth?

The little girl on the plane, whom Sherlock has been trying to communicate with since early on in the episode, is lonely and desperate, and Sherlock is supposed to talk her down, to guide her towards the ground so she can land safely. But we also know that Mycroft (=Sherlock’s brain) was actually planning to let her crash the plane ‘for the greater good’ of other people’s safety.

So, are you telling the truth, Sherlock? I’m not so sure about that actually... And did the grown-ups really tell you the truth about certain things when you were a kid? You do seem to doubt it.

Inspiration: Well, once again I suspect that Oscar Wilde might have been an inspiration for this experiment; “Truth is rarely pure and never simple”. But the girl on the plane might also be very much representing how Sherlock is feeling; he might have been withhold truth in his past, so he opted to seek for it himself, always, by using his brain and powers of deduction. But he feels alone and scared, up in his ‘ivory tower’.

[Running a scenario involving a puzzle based on Eurus’ song; is it the solution to this puzzle?]

Result: The little girl is, it turns out, actually Eurus (=Sherlock), who is feeling lost high up in the sky, unable to land with a sleeping driver. Finding Eurus’ “room” by solving the song puzzle means finding the truth. Which means Sherlock can finally save John from the well he’s drowning in.

Discussion: [Ironically enough, in the midst of all this (righteous) rage over the big ‘Purge’ of tumblr, I stumbled over something that I wonder if it’s not a double irony? Or a triple irony?

The thing is, that seeing this post about the tumblr censors flagging a 19:th century painting of the “Truth coming out of her well to shame mankind” (X), actually happened to give me something of an epiphany.]

This painting is from 1896 and it’s made by the French artist Jean-Léon Gérôme. You can read more about Gérôme’s work and see this and other of his paintings in this article here. This is the story (my bolding):

“At this time, Gérôme painted a series of works showing the personification of Truth. First, she was shown as a nude at the bottom of a well, either lying on the ground, or standing with a mirror in her hand.”

“Truth Coming out of her Well to Shame Mankind (1896) is based on a quotation from Democritus, “Of a truth we know nothing, for truth is in a well” (or, more literally, ‘in an abyss’), but knowing that reference is of little help in understanding these paintings. Gérôme had given one of the earlier paintings the title of Mendacibus et histrionibus occisa in puteo jacet alma Veritas, which translates as ‘The nurturer Truth lies in a well, having been killed by liars and actors’. In this last version, she has climbed out of the well, and instead of bearing the customary mirror, she brandishes a whip with which to scourge us.”

How many mirrors have we seen in this show by now? I think I lost count already in the unaired Pilot, but I wood guess at least some 50-ish. The point I want to make here, however, is that I believe the Truth Coming Out is central in BBC Sherlock. And in this fifth scenario we have two characters that are trapped in a well, keeping Truth hidden to the world:

Young Victor Trevor (Sherlock’s mate from college in ACD canon)...

...and adult John Watson.

One of them never came out; he was ‘killed by liars and actors’, people who refused to see the Truth. So something might have happened with Victor, which contributed to Sherlock shutting down his emotions.

But the other one did come out, didn’t he?

He literally did come out of his well, and he did it with Sherlock’s help. John isn’t exactly naked at the end of TFP, and he isn’t brandishing a whip (that’s Sherlock’s job - right? ;) ), so apparently John isn’t going to shame us. But John is indeed Sherlock’s Truth. If Sherlock is honest with himself, if he’s earnest, i think he must sooner or later admit exactly what John means to him. And John is wearing a blanket, just as Sherlock was after John Saved him in ASiP.

So if John is going to come out in S5, I think it’s perfectly foreshadowed here. And if he does, he’ll bring Truth with him, the true character of their relationship (which is also signaled by the codes of this episode). But it has to be with Sherlock’s help; Sherlock needs to take the first step to help him. This is the first time in S4 that Sherlock actually seems to manage to save John Watson. And he solves the puzzle by realizing that the girl on the plane is Eurus, who desperately needs a hug. Sherlock needs to embrace his own emotions, be OK with them and let them exist at the pair of his rational thinking.

Scenario #6: Does it matter who you really are?

Inspiration: A DVD is in focus here - not a memory stick this time - and it carries a message from ‘Mary’, just like the one at the end of TST, and the ‘unsolved’ (stabbed) case on Sherlock’s mantelpiece in TLD. But should Sherlock actually listen to her?

[The last scenario is a sort of ‘epilogue’ to the events in Sherrinford, where things seem to have ‘straightened up’ again.]

Result: After Musgrave, Eurus is locked up in Sherrinford again; apparently Sherlock still considers his emotional self as being too dangerous to let loose, and now she can’t even speak any more. But we also see Sherlock in a process of healing; he rebuilds 221B with the help of John, and he starts meeting Sister Sentiment regularly, communicating with her directly through the violin. And, as @loveismyrevolution commented here, the beautiful piece they are playing together is called “Who you really are”(X).

“What I try to say is that Sherlock’s emotions are that intense that they must be kept in charge and they are still locked within himself (Sherrinford), but he’s aware of them, is in contact with them, acknowledges them to the outside world and it makes him whole again”.

Discussion: 221B now has a slightly new dressing; some furniture have more rounded edges, and there’s an infant to take care of. Sherlock and John both seems happy with this. Both Greg and Molly pop in, and apparently Sherlock and John are solving crimes together again. But why is Mrs Hudson going around spraying the flat with aerosol?

The last (and only) time we saw aerosol in this show was the poisonous, fear-inducing fog at Baskerville and Dewer’s Hollow in THoB. Does this mean that the poisonous homophobia is still around? (I’m going by the metaphors in @sagestreet‘s Follow-the-dog meta here, that the hallucinogenic fog in THoB represents homophobia). Well, to me it definitely seems so, since this important issue still isn’t addressed - far from it, actually. And what about Sherlock facing Death (=Appointment in Samara)? The skull on the wall still seems to be glowing in one of the dull colours it was displaying before 221B got blown up, and John still appears concerned:

While I still believe, on both the meta level and as in-show ‘reality’, that the Holmes character is dying, at least Sherlock now seems to have faced his demons and thereby got in touch with his own, buried, emotions. But the scenario is very much dominated by ‘Mary’, whose message is two-edged:

On the one hand she is hinting at what John and Sherlock could become without her. But on the other hand she claims that it doesn’t matter who they really are, and then she calls them “My Baker Street Boys”. Which I take to mean, that we could have our Holmes character two ways: Either we can keep it on a closeted, ‘myths-and-legends’ level as ‘Mary’ says, where Sherlock Holmes is an immortal, indestructible character. But if he can’t die, and he can’t fall in love, neither does he truly appear to be alive, right? The other option is that Sherlock and John need to get rid of her once and for all. Once 'Mary’s messages are no longer dominating, a time may come when Sherlock and John can become something very different from the emotionally repressed characters they remain until the end of this scenario, which has them frozen in time. They might actually come to life far more than in any adaptation this far. There’s a potential there, but also a threat. If it indeed matters ‘who you really are’, I believe this conflict has to be tackled in the next upcoming episodes.

OK, sorry for this meta-marathon, I hop it was at least barely readable. :) In the next installment I’ll analyse ‘Mary’s role more in-depth, trying to test predictions from this hypothesis:

Hypothesis #8. John is not the father of ‘Mary’s baby.

Tagging some people who might be interested: @raggedyblue @ebaeschnbliah @sarahthecoat @gosherlocked @loveismyrevolution @sagestreet @tjlcisthenewsexy @elldotsee @88thparallel @devoursjohnlock @sherlock-overflow-error

#TFP #what happened to Sherlock?#truth is in a well

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sciencevillain · 7 years

Text

I just finished reading Lacuna by @johnandsherlocks and now I absolutely have to write a fix-it for the ending -- which was a fine ending, by the way -- I just need to make the scene I’ve been waiting for all along actually happen. You guessed it. The memories are coming back.

(Wordcount: 3,000)

~~~

John walked by the Lacuna clinic every once in a while. Not on purpose, heavens no, purely by chance.

Every time he did, he thought about what he’d done. About the pieces of him that were never coming back. Sherlock could tell him over and over again how they’d first met, really first met, and he could close his eyes and try to imagine it, but it would never be the same.

He’d written quite a few blog posts since they’d gotten the blog set back up. He really shouldn’t have worried about it. But the idea of missing any memory with Sherlock, even if he said it was fine, even if he... well, he still had a lost look on his face whenever it came up. Sherlock still wanted him to remember. They had talked for hours trying to trigger memories, and he would get them back in dreams sometimes... but never enough.

They were happy. They were so perfectly happy, he hated to dwell on the loose ends. Everyone’s life had regrets. But every so often, he’d walk by Lacuna clinic, and have half a mind to barge in there and demand they do whatever brain-mapping thing they’d done in the first place, and reverse the process. Give him his memories back. He didn’t really need them, but they were like jewels -- every memory so precious, every moment even better than the last. And he wanted all of them. Not just the new ones.

Other times when he walked by the clinic, he was afraid. What if he hadn’t wiped his memories? Would they have ever gotten as far as they did? Or would he have ignored and denied and justified things until it was too late to confess how he felt?

If he had his old memories, would he feel the same? Or would it wedge some distance between the inseparable; he and Sherlock? On those days he felt lucky to have lost them. Because he couldn’t imagine things working out any differently than they had. Even if it was a painful path to walk down, it was worth every kiss.

One day when he walked up the stairs to 221B Baker Street, Sherlock caught him reminiscing. Their eyes met, and he could tell immediately that Sherlock knew what he’d been thinking about.

“Alright?” Sherlock asked. Usually he’d be working on some ridiculous experiment, but in the past week or so he’d taken to waiting in his armchair for John to come home from the ER. He’d told John that he sat down at precisely the time he knew John was leaving the clinic, and devoted that time to sorting out John in his mind palace.

“Oh really?” John had asked, amused. His eyes glimmered with and what are you sorting me out for in that head of yours?

Sherlock had smirked and glanced downwards, blushing a little. He’d glanced back up to meet John’s eyes and said, “I spend an inordinate amount of time tending to my mind, John. When I think of you, I’m tending to my heart.”

John had grinned with the sheer delight and surprise of yet another of Sherlock’s eloquent, heart-warming platitudes that he insisted were sheer expressions of the truth, without so-called “embellishments”.

In the here and now, John blinked. “Alright? Yeah. Yeah. I was just-”

“I know,” Sherlock interrupted, standing. “I’m sorry.”

John shook his head. “It’s nothing. I’ve-- We’ve made more than enough memories. I was just... being...” he shook his head again. “It’s fine.”

Sherlock touched the side of his face. “I must be honest with you.” He looked so serious, John tensed immediately.

“I’ve been researching memory loss. Cases, of... loss, and recovery.”

John raised his eyebrows. “You have?”

Sherlock smiled. “I thought, if you’re still searching for those memories, I might as well help.”

They smirked at each other. “Damn you, I tried to keep that a secret,” John said playfully.

“Oh, please,” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “trying to hide it made it that much more obvious.”

John simply shrugged. When you lived with a detective, you lived with a detective.

Sherlock cleared his throat. “And... I think I might have found something.”

(what are you waiting for? keep reading the story!)

John’s heart went cold. He could hardly dare to believe it. “What?”

“It’s a long shot, I’ll warn you... but there are a few cases of success. After 20 years of business, Lacuna inevitably had unhappy customers, and a certain process was developed to reverse it... by one of the patients themselves, in fact...”

~~~

He’d taken the day off work. His heart couldn’t shut up. It wouldn’t hold still. He imagined each of his dreams -- the good ones -- and tried to picture them coming back as memories. Real memories. Not just Sherlock’s retelling, but the emotions and smells and tastes and reactions attached to them. The exact position of each object in every room in every memory. The exact tone of voice, and feeling of terrifying lightness whenever he looked at Sherlock’s face. He had to know what it felt like the first time. He had to know.

Sherlock squeezed his hand. They walked down the street. By now, it was common knowledge which bed each of them slept in. The press had rumor mills, and these turned into facts once Sherlock confirmed them, with that totally unconcerned and bored face that greeted any press member who so much as snapped a picture of them. John grinned at the memory. Nowadays, he had a lot of memories to smile at.

But not all of them.

once at the building, they rang the doorbell. A mousy woman opened the door. “Is this John Watson, here for the reversal?”

“It is,” John said, stepping forward and shaking her hand firmly. “Let’s get started.”

The woman spoke with a slight lisp, and had fingernails that curved downwards instead of growing straight out. “I had my memories removed once.”

John followed her into the building. It really was quite small. He coughed. What smell was this? All of them? He could count at least twelve differently-scented candles burning in this room alone. He turned back to look at Sherlock, just to see his face wrinkle in disgust. “Lovely,” he whispered. John grinned.

“Oh?” John prompted.

The woman nodded, leading them into a room that looked as white and sterile as any dentist’s office. “Not through Lacuna. It was only an accident. Caused by trauma, or whatnot. I searched for years for a solution.”

She patted a machine that looked like an upside-down bowl attached to a chair, roughly speaking. If the bowl were a piece of highly expensive machinery. “This was my solution. Turns out, I hadn’t forgotten much. It was only my absence of memory making me imagine new things I might have forgot.”

“I had lost people, you understand.” She waved for John to sit down in the chair. “People I didn’t want to lose. Memories like that make you do anything.”

Sherlock was examining the machine with keen interest. “...even the impossible.”

She nodded. “They told me it was impossible.”

“Who?” John asked politely.

“Everyone.” She lowered the bowl around John’s head. He looked down at his hand and realized it was trembling. Just like old times. He realized he didn’t want to lose any more memories of Sherlock. And what if this went wrong? Then how would they possibly--

No. He couldn’t worry. He didn’t need to worry. He’d already lost everything once, and hadn’t they gotten back together, even better than the first time? In any place or time, no matter what memories he did or didn’t have, he would always, always be with Sherlock Holmes. Perhaps this knowledge was what made Sherlock look so calm as the woman fastened the device to his head.

They both knew what they meant to each other. On a level deeper than any specific memory, they knew they would never leave each other, even if they became strangers, even if they died, they would always be inseparable. After all, Sherlock had come back to life for him. For him.

“Yes, I even thought it was impossible myself. But then I realized, no memory can truly be erased. All you have to do is connect the mind to the heart.”

Sherlock winked at John. “Lacuna took a piece of your mind. But everything related to love, and people, and emotions, is connected to a deeper part of the brain, apart from your frontal cortex.”

“Your heart,” the woman clarified. “They are buried in your heart. How else could you remember in dreams, and feel familiarity where logically there should be none?”

John nodded.

“I am Dr. Corazon. To do this process properly, we must put you in a hypnotic state. I will connect you to your subconscious. Are you ready?”

John nodded again.

She did some hypnotic techniques -- not the bull of sensational stories, but the few proven tactics that simply relaxed a patient into a sort of almost-asleep state of calm.

“Do you feel comfortable?” Dr. Corazon asked.

“Mm,” John murmured.

“I want you to close your eyes, John Watson, and forget Sherlock Holmes.”

A jolt of panic flew through hs body. “No!”

“It’s part of the process. You cannot truly forget him. Remember that.”

John clenched his fists. “No!”

She sighed. “Alright. Remember that this is to bring you closer to the place beyond memories. To remember him, you must forget.”

He bit his lip.

“Do not forget Sherlock Holmes. Instead, forget everyone you know.”

John tried. It was odd, because in order to actively attempt to forget a person, you had to remember that the person existed, and think about the memories you had of them, and by then it really was like trying to tell someone not to think of a pink elephant...

“Let your mind think of feelings, and not of people. Not of experiences. Only of your deepest self.”

John furrowed his brow, feeling a bit silly. Sherlock seemed to believe in the tactic, but it sounded more like some kind of bizarre therapy tactic than true science. Then again, most science sounded like that when it was first introduced to the world.

He felt so distant. His eyelids slipped shut. As if from across a street, he heard Dr. Corazon tell Sherlock, “He’s going to fall asleep now. He has the best chances of accepting the treatment when his brain is most relaxed.”

And then darkness.

~~~

John woke up slowly. He hadn’t had dreams, or at least, he hadn’t remembered any. There was a kink in his back and neck from sleeping in an odd position.

Hang on... he was at the memory-retrieval place. That’s why his head was cool from the touch of metal, and he could smell thick scents of too many candles all at once. And Sherlock -- where was he?

The first face he saw was Dr. Corazon’s. “I traced your neural pathways and located the damaged portions. If you don’t already remember, the healed neuron pathways should be firing up soon. I simply re-connected the places leading to Sherlock Holmes.”

Simply. Simply. Simply. John tried to remember, but he couldn’t. Sherlock’s stories -- memories -- might as well have never happened.

Dr. Corazon was unhooking the device from atop his head. “Of course, there is no full guarantee. Lacuna has always worked to make their process more and more infallible. They do call it permanent.”

John couldn’t help but feel crushing disappointment. He smiled tightly at the doctor, and thanked her. For what? He paused. “Sherlock?”

Dr. Corazon nodded towards the room with too many candles, and too-soft couches. “He’s been waiting in there.”

When John came in, Sherlock sat bolt upright. His face said it all. Those wide eyes, his nervously clenched jaw...

John shook his head.

Sherlock deflated. “I’m sorry.”

John shrugged. “I’ve still got that memory of the first time.”

“Oh John,” Sherlock protested.

He smirked. “I don’t care what you say. It was perfect.”

“It was perfect. I simply... you still didn’t know. I hate to dwell on the dishonesty that took place in those weeks.”

John pulled Sherlock closer by his belt as they walked out to the car. “Remember that James Bond movie?”

Sherlock looked at him sideways. “Carrying you upstairs beforehand was the worse of the two.”

John pecked him on the cheek. “Whatever happened beforehand, the second time over was much more satisfying, as a beginning.”

“You mean you got into my pants faster?”

“I seem to remember you telling me you never got into my pants the first time ‘round.”

They arrived at the car and got in. “Shut up.”

John stroked his hair. “Let’s forget about the old memories, Sherlock.”

“I can’t.”

“No, I mean... don’t try to bring them back for me anymore. Please. We’ll forget what we have. We’ll obsess over the things we don’t.”

Sherlock was quiet. “That was only one attempt, John. Surely you agree that there’s no point in starting something only to give up at the first notion of discouragement.”

John sighed. He’d said the wrong thing. Now Sherlock would be more determined than ever. “I just don’t want to lose you again.”

Sherlock tightened his hands on the steering wheel. “Of course not.”

“To the other me, I mean. I don’t want you to fall in love with him more than me.”

“John, for all the ridiculous things you’ve said, that by far wins the gold medal. I love all of you. Every single one of you. Back then... we didn’t know each other. Not enough to realize how we felt. Do you really think I would want to go back to pretending to be just friends?”

John, in turn, was quiet for a moment. “No, but... if you’re doing this for me, then shouldn’t you give up if I ask you to? For me?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I suppose that resembles some form of logic.”

Phew.

John tried to squash the disappointment of the missing memories for ther est of the ride home. He knew Sherlock knew he felt disappointed, no matter what he said. But searching for some past self felt dangerous, somehow. Like in mental patients who ruminated over and over certain past events until they became distorted and larger-than-life. He didn’t want their love to be like that. He wanted it to stay in the here and now.

That night, he couldn’t sleep. Things kept running through his mind, running and running and running, until sometime in the early morning hours -- and then he slept.

~~~

The name is Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221 B Baker Street.

Heart Palpitations.

Swish. The scene changed. Not even truly a scene... just a dream of a story. Not a true memory. His mind trying to reenact Sherlock’s memories until they became his own.

This time, he was standing in a dark place. It crackled and sizzled softly. He turned his head, and saw a dying fire, flickering just enough to see shadows cast on the dark, cold woods around him.

A machine gun rattled off in the distance. Immediately John leapt to the ground, tasting dirt as he screamed.

The sound didn’t come out. In dreams, in nightmares, it rarely did. No one could ever hear him except his attackers. Not even himself.

So now he knew a sniper was coming. Not through any true intuition... only through that strange dream logic. He knew. He just knew.

The sniper’s footsteps echoed like metal clanking. It made no sense, out here in a forest...

He tried to find safety, a place to hide, anywhere to escape... but when he dove into a child’s hide-out made from planks of wood nailed together and a shoddy blanket tossed over it, the footsteps only grew closer. He pulled a phone out from nowhere and flung it into the blackness. The sniper was tracking him through it. He knew that too, for no reason other than that he was dreaming and he knew. It was a strange phone. A blackberry, with the tedious keyboard and little scroller ball in the center. Well worn. He tried to remember details of it, but couldn’t. Suddenly he could. It was a phone with a cartoonish heart as the lock screen. A piece of clipart reminiscent of early computer programs.

Suddenly he wasn’t in Afghanistan anymore. He was standing in a dark hallway. Clipart hearts rotated around and around him, flickering like TV static. He felt fear rise up uncontrollably in his throat. The sniper. The sniper.

A gun emerged from nowhere. No -- a joint corridor. From around a corner he hadn’t known existed. Handling the gun was a man with a mad looking grin. A man he had never seen before. He had black hair and a pale face, and an oddly high-pitched, taunting voice. “Got youuuuu, John Watson. Got. You.”

He raised his eyebrows and widened his eyes. They didn’t stop. The eyes grew to monstrous proportions. John backed away, but couldn’t move. The man reached out and grabbed him by the shirt. “You don’t even remember him.”

John looked around the room at the spinning animated hearts.

“You don’t even REMEMBER HIM!” The man yelled, dissolving into hysterical laughter. “But you remember me.”

A name flickered into John’s mind. Moriarty. The man who escaped the law’s grasp. He and Lestrade had... no, Sherlock had been involved... he just didn’t remember... how had he been involved? the memory was so clear! He and Lestrade poring over evidence. But then that made no sense. He wasn’t a detective. He wasn’t clever. He was just a doctor. An ordinary, bumbling doctor. He didn’t fight crimes. He wasn’t like that. Only Sherlock could have done what he remembered doing all by himself.

“I killed him,” Moriarty whispered in his ear. It felt intimate, and sent a shudder of repulsion down John’s spine. “I’ll kill you. I triiiiied to.”

John tried to run away once again, but his feet wouldn’t lift. It was just a silly leg-movement like some kind of dance, or like running through taffy. Moriarty lifted his gun. He could feel the aim of the gun on his back. The back of his shoulder. The bullet struck, and he felt white hot pain sweep through him so potent, it blinded him. He fell to the ground, and tasted mud before he could close his mouth. The surroundings became unbearably loud. He had fallen into the old memory. The terror-inducing flashback. That was all. That was all. No Moriarty. No Sherlock. Just the old fears.

A fellow soldier turned to John and screamed for him to keep moving. Keep moving. Keep moving. He couldn’t lift a single finger. He was trembling too hard. The soldier knelt down, panting from adrenaline, and lifted John with a little heave. His shoulder screamed with pain. He blacked out.

A voice. Remember me? No. No. But I wish. I wish I could.

You do. No I don’t. You don’t understand. I erased you. I’m sorry. I am so sorry. How could I ever. I don’t know how I ever-

Shut up. What? Shut up. You’re not listening. Why? Listen to me!

There was a rattle. The sound of a car driving in the rain. It was a cab. He watched as if in third person, yet at the same time from directly out of his memory self’s eyes. John looked down, and realized he was holding that same blackberry phone. The one he’d never seen before. It had a lockscreen that said “I am _ _ _ _ locked”. SHER. He typed in the letters, and the screen caught fire.

“Huh?” John turned to notice Sherlock was beside him in the cab. Talking very very fast. Deducing something. He looked at the phone in John’s hands and deduced his sister. His relationships. His superficial details.

Then Sherlock looked him directly in the eyes. “You found me.”

“What?”

“Come.”

They took each other’s hands and walked into Angelo’s. But not Angelo’s. It didn’t look like the place he knew, but through his dream self, he simply knew this was Angelo’s. Albeit with film flickering, projected against walls upon walls where the dining tables should have been. So many different films, he-

He stopped dead.

“This place doesn’t exist.”

Sherlock kissed John’s hand. “It’s your memories.”

“No. It’s a dreamscape of my memories. An imaginary... an...”

His gut churned. John collapsed, clinging to Sherlock with all his might. It hurt so much, his eyes watered. Sherlock crouched down. “Do you remember the last thing you said to me?”

John almost drifted into unconsciousness within the dream. But he did remember. “I said we had to hide you where the mappers wouldn’t find us.”

“Correct. And you did. Everyone always does.”

John shook his head, uncomprehending. “But-”

“To hide from the mappers, I had to hide from yourself. Deeper than your conscious thought, deeper than your subconscious thought. In all respects and for all purposes, dead.”

John sat bolt upright, screamed with pain, and flopped back down to the floor again, shuddering. “My head-”

Sherlock grimaced. “It’s going to hurt. But you brought me back. My John, my conductor of light, my source of light, like the sun beaming against all darkness... you found me.”

Moriarty lurked in the background, knocking rapidly on the door to Angelo’s. He kicked at the door. He slammed his hands against it. John’s heartbeat quickened. “It’s just in my head. I won’t remember. I never-”

Sherlock, with all the urgency in the world, leaned in and gave John a firm kiss on the lips. The pressure felt like electric shock.

John sat up. The covers scrunched back, and Sherlock sat up beside him. “You alright?”

John pursed his lips, unable to reply. He tried to fight it. He tried- and he yelled out, quivering all over. Sherlock jumped out of bed and switched the lights on. John shied away from them. “OFF!” he bellowed.

Sherlock complied instantly. “Dream?” he asked.

John moaned like he was dying -- it felt like he was dying -- and dug his fingers into the sheets, goign back and forth between clenching his entire body into a tight ball and twisting side to side with discomfort.

Sherlock reached out through the darkness to hold his face firmly. “John!”

He tried to hold still amidst the head-splitting pain.

Sherlock let go of his face and sucked in a gasp. He began pacing back and forth while John struggled against the urge to claw his nerves out. His breathing was so heavy, but he tried to breathe faster, as if more air would alleviate this... this...

“ER,” Sherlock said at once, and started dialing.

John couldn’t say anything one way or the other. He simply blacked out from the intense pain.

~~~

Beep. Beep.

John opened his eyes. A heart rate monitor. Beep. Beep.

Sherlock.

His brain felt like collapsing into a million shards and fragments. A distinct image flashed through his head. He knew exactly when and where, although Sherlock had never told him the story of it. Another and another. Flash. Flash. Flash. I’d be lost without my blogger. Flash. Baker Street would be in shambles without Mrs. Hudson. Flash. Dull. Tedious. I say, could you pass me a pen?

John sat bolt upright in bed, and laughed. The pain increased with the movements, but he couldn’t have stopped himself if his life depended on it. The laugh was loud. It died out, and then came the tears. He was sobbing. Sobbing into his hands out of sheer relief. He was laughing again. Or, no -- both. He was shaking, whimpering intermittently from the pain -- but so, so alive.

How had he gone for so long without these memories?

~~~

Sherlock had to force himself not to run into John’s hospital room. He hadn’t gotten one ounce of sleep the night before, and walking beside the decidedly elderly nurse taking him there was so excruciating, he found himself unable to breathe.

Something was building in his chest. Was John alright? Or had Mycroft somehow bribed the entire hospital into pretending John was alive so that Sherlock could “found out for himself”? Or was John alright in the relative sense, such as “he’s not dead, he’s merely in a deep, irreversible coma”.

They arrived at John’s room, and Sherlock burst through the door.

John had been crying. It clearly hurt to sit up, but he was sitting up anyway. His entire face structure seemed... different, somehow.

“I remember.”

Sherlock’s brain shut down.

Impossible.

He stared blankly. He felt his enormous brain go completely quiet for once.

No. They failed. It couldn’t have worked.

He couldn’t get his hopes up. It would kill him all over again to hope....

But.

John’s face said it all.

“Sherlock,” John said. Tenderly. But like addressing someone new. Someone lost, and then discovered. “When we first met, I reached into your pocket and I swear you were flirting, but then you said you were married to your work, but you’d winked at me, but you were a social imbecile, and I loved you, but you would never love me back, you didn’t work that way, you wouldn’t accept me that way, and I didn’t want to lose you, I didn’t want to... you... you saved me.”

Finally, Sherlock snapped out of his stupor. An inexpressible feeling swelled in his chest.

“Sherlock. I remember how lost I felt without you, I remember walking into that clinic and oh, oh, oh, you’re alive, you, I am so glad- ah- ow!”

Sherlock touched John’s forehead. “Shh.” He kissed John’s forehead. “Shh.”

“But SHERLOCK!” John wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s neck, dragging him closer to the hospital bed.

“There are cameras in here!” Sherlock protested.

John held him tight, looking deeply into his eyes, and his face, and his very soul. Those eyes searched him like seeing a dead man resurrected. Like seeing the Christ for a Christian, or a long lost piece of himself. In me? Sherlock stared intently back, memorizing this new John. No. No.

This wasn’t new John. He had always been and will always be the same John.

“You will always be my John,” Sherlock whispered tenderly. To make sure he knew.

“You will always, always be my Sherlock,” John replied in a whisper of his own.

Suddenly he felt a pang of anxiety. “Do you remember me differently now?”

John laughed. “No. I just have a thousand more moments to remember why I love you.”

Sherlock relaxed. “Then-”

He was interrupted by the ping of a text message. It was Lestrade.

“Triple murder,” he read with a smirk. “Like old times.”

“No,” John said fervently. “Not like old times.” And he pulled Sherlock in all the way for a kiss.

#johnlock #lacuna #johnandsherlocks #fanfic #sherlock #ficlet #in which I spend WAY too much time writing an increasingly too-long story based on a story based on a TV show based on a series of stories b #and stay up way too late writing it too! and don't bother to spellcheck or ANYTHING!#but it was fun to write so #yeah

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magicalthoughtsendinterriblefics · 7 years

Text

Experiment #4 - Request

Requested by: you know the sinners.

Summary: Sherlock and reader hold a Series of Experiments in which they test out several smutty theories with practise. Who thought science would be so fun?

Pairing: Sherlock x reader

Word count: 2,973

Warnings: Rough smut - un-protected, over-stimulation, oral, fingering.

A/N: Dear lord from Heaven, please forgive me.

Enjoy!

| One | Two | Three |

“(Y/N),” Sherlock called, “I need you to hand me the silver knife inside of the freezer, please.”

“I’m literally at the other side of London!” She argued through the phone.

“Oh, don’t worry, there’s no hurry.” She hung up and Sherlock breathed out a laugh as he placed his phone at the tiny coffee table by his side.

“You really think she’s coming?”

“Of course she is. She never fails.” Sherlock answered confidently, and then both of them waited patiently for her arrival.

As predicted, she got there in record timing. Sherlock was utterly impressed at how fast she had gotten to Baker Street, but he didn’t let it show.

“I told you.” The detective cocked an eyebrow sassily.

“Sher, what the…? Mycroft, hi.” She fixed her hair nervously. “You didn’t tell me your brother was here.”

Half a second after, Lestrade strolled through the door, as well as John. “Sherlock, what is it?” Lestrade asked as he entered the flat.

“I was at the other end of the city!” John complained.

“Apologies, dear fellows.” Mycroft spoke solemnly as he stood up to kiss (Y/N)’s hand and bow as a greeting to the two men. “My brother and I made a bet I’m afraid I lost.”

“What kind of bet?” Lestrade inquired, alternating his gaze between the two Holmes.

“I bet him that my colleagues would get here as fast as possible if asked.” Sherlock explained with a smug grin on his face.

“Why?” John asked. He was done with Sherlock and his annoying experiments.

“Because he wanted to prove that his colleagues are more loyal than mine.” Mycroft said as he took his wallet out. The man took the exact amount of money and handed it to his brother.

“Yeah, you know… Us colleagues are loyal as can be… right, boys?” (Y/N) muttered. John gave her the typical puppy eyes that meant he knew the impact of Sherlock’s label on her, but didn’t say anything related to it. “I guess you don’t need the knife, then.”

“So you don’t want to discuss the case?” Lestrade inquired.

“And you don’t want to consider coming on holiday with me and Mary?” John furrowed.

Sherlock chuckled and shook his head. “I’m afraid not. Gavin, I already solved the case and the files are on the desk. John, I have plans for the holidays but I will join you eventually. (Y/N), I don’t need the knife but do stay here. Any questions?”

“No.” John breathed out a heavy sigh and left after a dry good-bye. Lestrade followed soon after taking the files and (Y/N) remained frozen in the exact spot of the flat in which she had been standing.

“Dear brother, please leave. My assistant and I must resolve some things.” Sherlock commanded his brother, giving him a fake smile.

“I must return to the palace anyway. Good to see you, (Y/N).” Mycroft nodded her way and then left, closing the door behind him.

Sherlock took a confident step towards (Y/N). His hands were inside his pockets and his messy curls fell over his face. His smug smirk had changed to a warm smile, and his blue eyes were tender.

“I’m sorry I made you come all the way here in so little time. Mycroft was very insistent.” He apologised.

“I know for a fact that he didn’t have to insist that much. You take any chance you can to have him lose.” (Y/N) commented calmly.

Sherlock chuckled and nodded. “I can’t let him win.”

“I know.” Sherlock tilted his head.

“Is everything all right?” He asked carefully.

“Yes, why do you ask?” Sherlock thought his answer for a second before dismissing it with a head shake.

They remained quiet for a few seconds in which Sherlock stepped even closer. He cupped her cheeks, making her look at him and his beautiful, cold eyes before he pressed a soft kiss on her lips.

(Y/N) knew she had to back off, set her limits straight and clear for once and for all what their relationship was. He had called her a colleague, therefore she would behave like so.

“What’s wrong?” Sherlock asked. His breath fanned over her lips.

“I was just trying to figure out which case is this related to.” She answered instantly.

“I didn’t know you needed a case to…”

“And I didn’t think you’d forget our thing is professional-only.” She interrupted. Sherlock took a step back in utter embarrassment.

“If you need a case, then check the top papers on the middle drawer. You’ll find them… stimulating.” Sherlock ordered.

“I hope it’s not pornography.” She joked, trying to alleviate the tension she had created on her own.

“I don’t need pornography, John does. But I’m afraid he took all of it to his new house with Mary. I wonder what she thinks of it.” Sherlock commented; as he fought the urge to stare at her tiny figure bending down to get the papers.

“Maybe they watch it together.” (Y/N) suggested, taking a black folder out of the drawer and opening it. “Died during intercourse,” she read out loud, “husband is guilty of murder, life insurance, unhappy marriage, blab la blab la.

“The man is innocent, but I can’t prove that he is because they believe he killed her on purpose.” Sherlock explained.

“So you want to kill me to prove a point. Why am I not impressed?” She put the folder away.

“Unimpressed.” Sherlock corrected, “I don’t want to kill you; I just need to make sure he is an innocent.”

“Do you take sex-related cases to get laid?” (Y/N) inquired suddenly, making Sherlock chuckle.

“No, although it is a great perhaps.” Sherlock answered and then walked over to the kitchen. “Cup of tea, dear?”

“That would be lovely, thank you.” (Y/N) replied, joining him and sitting at the nearest chair. “Tell me a bit more about your idea.”

Not only had Sherlock asked shamelessly to try and over stimulate her. He had also asked her to try a brand new position, one known for being distant. Whatever was in the detective’s mind was far for romantic.

Of course, (Y/N) knew they weren’t in a relationship – she had clarified it before – but she expected a bit of passion nonetheless. Sherlock had shown her a side of him that promised to grow into something more; but apparently, Sherlock Holmes would continue to be the cold man everyone knew and despised.

(Y/N), however, was willing to take whatever was given, even if it was only sex for the sake of science. Her love towards Sherlock was far too strong to push him away completely; and that decision had taken her to his room, where she was bent down with her arse up and aligned with Sherlock’s hips.

“Remember our safe word?” Sherlock inquired.

“Of course I do.” She blurted; it was hard to talk with her head so close from the pillows.

“Good.” Sherlock said nonchalantly.

He leaned closer and started placing a black mask in front of her eyes. “What are you doing?”

“Eyes can blind the rest of the senses,” Sherlock explained as he tied a not at the back, “in fact, old witches used to take their eyes out in order to have better senses. If I want you to over stimulate, I must blind you, just so you focus on the rest of the stimuli.”

“So Christian Grey possessed you, great.” She joked. Truth was, she was nervous and was trying to distract her mind from the on-coming events.

She felt tickles in her stomach, and her core has started to get a bit moist at the though. Her mind was dizzy and her heart was fighting against the anxiety that forced it to beat faster. Her palms were sweating and she had started biting her lips in anticipation.

“Don’t be nervous, I won’t hurt you. I promise.” Sherlock begged calmly.

“If you do…”

“We’ll stop this forever.” Sherlock finished, “I know, and I would never think of hurting you.”

Although his words were soft and calming, (Y/N) couldn’t help but to feel doubtful. Sherlock was a good man, but after stating that there was no connection between them other than the colleague one… Well, (Y/N) wasn’t feeling that comfortable anymore. Not that she wanted to push him, or anything, but because one doesn’t take of a colleague the same way one takes care of a loved one.

As far as she knew, if Sherlock’s life was in danger, she would give hers in exchange; meanwhile, if her life was in danger, Sherlock would try to find a solution that didn’t involve his own life.

“Ready?” Sherlock’s words dragged her out of her thoughts.

“I was born ready.” She stated.

A cold hand travelled from her hip to her wet lips. He caressed every inch of skin on his way, creating goose bumps that traced the exact path he had traced. A slim finger slid between her fold, teasing her, all the way down to her clitoris in an agonizingly slow pace.

Her back arched instantly, giving Sherlock a better view of her. His finger slid up and down her folds multiple times, making sure her wetness spread evenly before moving on to the next step.

Once she was wet enough, Sherlock slid the same finger inside of her, making sure to go as deep as he could. (Y/N)’s back arched even more and her head fell to the front as she let out a heavy sigh.

Sherlock moved his finger inside of her, looking for the right spot and, when he found it, he pressed it slightly, just enough to make her tense. Then, he took his finger out and slid another one in.

He moved that last finger out and then slid both of them in, going further and faster. (Y/N)’s walls clenched slightly around his fingers. She was wet and warm – welcoming. Sherlock groaned softly at the feeling of her.

He moved his fingers in an out, touching her sweet spot over and over again, making sure not to hurt her, but still going a bit rough. (Y/N)’s breathing became heavier as a thin layer of sweat started forming on her forehead and back.

With his free hand, he caressed her bum all the way to the arch of her back. He used the right amount of pressure to give her chills. Then, he slipped his fingers in and then out one more time before his lips touched her wet folds.

He swirled his tongue all over gently, taking his time with each part. Then, he slid his tongue inside her, moving it in circles. His hands had travelled to each one of her butt cheeks, holding her hips just so she didn’t move away because of the arousal.

(Y/N) started moaning, surrendering to his touch. Sherlock licked her completely, and then pulled away a bit and then thrusted into her; he then repeated the same action over and over again. (Y/N)’s face fell to a pillow, which she bit harshly in order to contain herself for a little longer.

Sherlock pulled away. He rubbed her clit once again as he prepared to thrust into her.

“You know…” (Y/N) panted, “Girls have more than one sensitive part.”

Sherlock chuckled. “I know.”

Without further notice, Sherlock thrusted into her. (Y/N) cried a loud moan, lifting her head as her back arched once more. He had been careful, so she wasn’t hurt, but it had been rough either way.

His hands travelled to her breasts, pinching her hard nipples as he continued to pound into her. Sherlock had never been so rough with her, and it was both exciting and frightening.

The darkness in which (Y/N) was submerged was a huge add up to the whole situation. Sherlock was right, she felt everything ten times more than she did when her eyes were uncovered. She was drunk with him.

Sherlock pounded further, pushing her hips forwards which made her face bury in the pillows. Sherlock was groaning, moaning and panting as he got off with her. He was using her, but at least he was being careful, and it was so good that (Y/N) couldn’t really think of anything else.

Sherlock moved one hand from her nipples and to her clit. He rubbed circles around it as his other hand continued to stimulate her nipples. (Y/N)’s moans were constant and each louder than the other. Her mouth was numb into an O and her eyes were shut tightly under the mask.

Her hands were clenched around the soft fabric of Sherlock’s bed-sheets, her feet were curled and her back was arched. She pushed her hips back, crashing against his.

Sherlock moved his hand from her clit and up to her arse. He squeezed her cheek roughly and then rubbed it to ease the pain before slapping it. Sherlock was letting himself go wild, and (Y/N) was nervous to see how that ended.

He was pounding into her, overwhelming each and every single one of her senses. Her mind was dizzy, unable to contain the dripping orgasm that got to her. Sherlock’s hands were tight around her hips and his lips were biting marks at the back of her shoulders.

She was trembling, trying to pronounce the safe word. It was nearly impossible, but she tried her best to remember it and say it; not because she wanted him to stop, but because she felt like she would faint soon. Her heart was beating faster than ever, she could hear her blood pumping, and the air inside her lungs didn’t feel like enough.

“JOHN!” She shouted, but Sherlock didn’t stop. Her voice wasn’t loud enough. “JOHN! JOHN! JOHN! GOD, JOHN!”

Sherlock finally recognized his friend’s name as the safe word and stopped abruptly. (Y/N) took in a deep breath and then she fell to the pillow, unconscious.

“Was she… Shouting my name?” John inquired. He was checking (Y/N), minutes after she had fainted.

“That’s our safe word.” Sherlock replied nonchalantly. His eyes were glued to her.

“Why did you choose my name as your safe word?” John insisted.

“We both know that the only way to stop me is by ruining the mood.” Sherlock explained, “When will she wake up?”

“I don’t know, but you should let her rest.” John said, “And you should also reconsider this whole… Series of Experiments.”

“Why would we? It’s science, John.” Sherlock whined. John rolled his eyes and dragged Sherlock out of the room, shutting the door behind him.

“Sherlock, sex isn’t supposed to be… THIS!” John argued in a whisper, “You’re supposed to do it with someone you have feelings for.”

“First of all, (Y/N) is someone I estimate dearly; second of all, there’s people out there who do it just because they…” Sherlock argued but John interrupted.

“People like Irene?” The detective nodded, “It’s different. Besides, I’m sure she only played with those who she felt attracted for. I’m not saying that you must be in love, but there has to be some kind of deeper affection that just… colleagues.”

“What is wrong with being colleagues?” Sherlock cocked an eyebrow.

“(Y/N) is someone who deserves more than that, don’t you think?”

“Yes, I am fully conscious of that. What is your point?” John groaned in desperation.

“Unless you are planning to give her the full spot by your side, I’d say you stop playing with her. She doesn’t deserve to be your… Your toy!”

“She is not my toy.” Sherlock stated.

“Then what is she?”

(Y/N) stretched as she woke up. She had forgotten all about her experiment, and it wasn’t until she felt Sherlock’s cold hand on the lower part of her back that all of the memories returned to her.

“Did it work?” She asked with a raspy voice.

“It did.” Sherlock answered.

“You don’t sound very convinced.” She flirted.

In fact, Sherlock wasn’t convinced at all. John had made him think things through, and he had gotten to the realization that there were limits to be set, boundaries and maybe even rules. But first of all, they had to label whatever was going on between them.

“The experiment worked perfectly. I proved a point and you still breathe.” Sherlock spoke numbly.

“Then what is causing you trouble?” She asked, finally opening her eyes to meet with his.

Sherlock looked strange. There was something off about him; something sad and embarrassed, but (Y/N) didn’t know what it was. In fact, she started fearing that she had ruined things.

“We must talk.” Sherlock whispered.

“All right, let’s talk.” She granted, trying to get up. She noticed Sherlock had dressed her with one of his silk shirts. “What is it?” She asked as she sat up in bed.

“What are we?”

Masterlist.

Sherlock Tags: @resurrection-huntress @oaisara @charlottemalfoy @zena-dukmak @just-a-blog00 @wefracturedmotivation @beccamullz @newts-fan-case @sugarshai @vancepter @roseyhxnt @thisisjessicatalking @foureyedsiopao @nicole-pierce @captain-sherlockomg @kissed-by-white-wolf @samanthasmileys @love-charmer-sketch @givemeamemoryicanuse @diesintheshower @demonminnion3 @thatmoodindigo @sexyporntime @jennajoseh @destiel5100 @peachyoshi64 @1enchantedfantasy1

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