#ineffable twaddle
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DOUGLAS: Could you, for instance, get a hundred otters on board Gerti?
MARTIN: Yes, I reckon you could.
DOUGLAS: And is it a jam-packed RSPCA-nightmare of a plane, or are the otters lounging in relative comfort?
MARTIN: Well, OK, there’s, er, there’s sixteen seats, so, say, two to a seat.
DOUGLAS: They’re good friends, these otters?
MARTIN: Let’s hope so. Then one in each overhead compartment ...
DOUGLAS: Always remembering to open them with care because otters may have shifted during the flight.
ARTHUR: And, er, one under each seat?
DOUGLAS: Yes! Good thinking.
MARTIN: But that’s where the lifejackets are.
DOUGLAS: That’s all right – otters can swim.
#cabin pressure#otter day 2024#ottery st mary#otter#gerti#my art#this was fun#there are only 45 otters in the picture but the rest are in the hold and the galley#(NOT the flight deck!)#ineffable twaddle#aeroplane
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UH OH BESTIES Watson accidentally called Holmes’ writing “ineffable twaddle” and then Holmes insulted Watson’s blorbos!
Can their relationship survive? Tune in next week for—
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Sherlock Holmes: A Study In Scarlet (Part 2)
They are moving into the apartment (and apparently it's quite the cheerful and comfy place too)
Holmes is an early-bird kinda guy. He wakes up, eats breakfast, and leaves home early. But also he rarely is awake after 10 p.m. (what a relatable guy)
Ooh he likes to take walks too!
...Sherlock might be on drugs
So Sherlock's looks (taking notes for future drawing purposes): Slenderman-like proportions, thin nose, and a prominent square-ish jawline. Hands covered in ink and chemical stains, but good with handling delicate stuff (looks like he'd be into miniatures, I dunno)
Watson's life seems to have been quite sad and dull before moving in. Not being able to do much due to his health, and it seems like he rarely had anyone to talk to either.
Watson probably: Sherlock is an extremely smart guy. He knows so many things about various topics. But he's also never heard of Shakespeare.
Oh shoot it's worse than I thought
Sherlock: frankly I don't give a care if Earth is rotating around the Sun or some smug chef in an armoured bug costume
Watson:
Violinist Holmes
Watson how have you not figured out yet that your roommate is some sort of detective (He's literally inviting his clients into your apartment living room)
Watson reading about how to tell someone's deepest secrets via body language: I call bull—
Watson: what ineffable twaddle (his exact words by the way)
Sherlock: ...I wrote that article tho
Watson: YOU—
So apparently Sherlock is a Consulting Detective, which is different from a government detective (makes sense), but also different from a private detective (huh). I'm guessing Lestrade is a government detective? Anyway, Sherlock's job is to basically help out the other detectives if they're stumped or messed up.
Edgar Allan Poe's Dupin?
Sherlock is being mean about Watson's blorbos
The entire part at the end with the man holding the blue envelope is priceless
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Dahlia Travers makes a bargain.
A crossover between Black Butler and P. G. Wodehouse.
"Of course I know I'm to lose my soul, you ineffable blot," said Dahlia Travers tartly. "Do you think I go about summoning demons willy-nilly?"
The morgue was dim and completely empty of movement, save for the gently undulating smoke wafting around the highly shiny shoes of the apparition.
Frowning, Dahlia surveyed the man standing before her. Tall, with neatly combed dark hair and a bowler hat perched upon his head, clothes resembling those of a high-ranking manservant. He'd do.
She took a particular satisfaction in the slight disbelief in the peculiar eyes. "Don't stand and gape like a halibut."
"I beg madam's pardon." The voice was as polished as the shoes.
"Don’t bother. Now listen up, I don't wish to spend all day in here."
An inclination of the head.
"Before you attempt to twaddle me with your nonsense, I wish to inform you that I am perfectly aware of what the bargain I am about to make entails. Furthermore, I do not care."
"Very good, madam."
"Do stop interrupting me. There's only one question I need to ask- regarding my three wishes. May I wish them for someone else?"
The demon's eyebrow rose a quarter-inch. "Unorthodox, madam, and I would create no seal upon your person, but it could be done."
Dahlia nodded, and pursed her lips. This could be perfectly handled, then.
Read the rest here
#kuroshitsuji#black butler#jeeves and wooster#p g wodehouse#p. g. wodehouse#pg wodehouse#reginald jeeves#dahlia travers#bertie wooster#bertram wooster#demon jeeves
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Alright
I have two pages (about 7 minutes, once it’s edited some) left to read, but it’s getting late, so I’ll stop disturbing my neighbours by saying “What ineffable twaddle!” over and over again, haha
I’ll finish it in the morning, and certainly post the Chapter 2 video tomorrow
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Bastard (romantic)
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Pardon me, but is the “Ineffable Twaddle” in your bio a reference to a Sherlock Holmes book? Because I read that very phrase and I quote it daily.
What-ho! Yes indeed, I got that phrase from A Study In Scarlet! I like nothing better than a good Sherlockian reference!!
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Myrtle: “Oh, you cannot be serious. What ineffable twaddle!”
Mr. Grove: “Well, you certainly seem to be having a troubling morning.”
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finished Great Ace Attorney game 1; some scattered thoughts
((gonna be the last post on this for a while, because i REALLY need to get some other shit done for a week or two before i start game 2, lol))
* that’s... the end? of the game?? i mean, okay i know i can technically start playing #2 right away, but that wasn’t the case at the time of this game’s release, and GOD i’d be pissed if i thought that was all i was getting. like, we still don’t know Kazuma’s mission? the importance of that Baskervilles manuscript? (and how the fuck Susato knew about it?) what made Holmes all cynical on London? fuck’s sake, we don’t even know van Zieks’s deal yet! normally Figuring Out The Prosecutor is the beating heart of an AA game, and here it’s like... “we’ll vaguely hint at some deal with him and Kazuma in the last five seconds” and that’s it. (not that i’m opposed to the games changing up the formula, but none of the other major relationships are fleshed out enough to replace it... Sholmes is delightful but spends a lot of time off-stage, Susato’s charming but we just don’t know much about her, and i think those are basically the only viable candidates, lol.)
basically it feels like Takumi conceived the whole game as an extended prologue... idk, feels similar to the error he made in AA4, where he’s just plain keeping too many cards close to his chest. that game suffered hugely from never really digging into Klavier (despite setting up the best potential plot hooks on the planet)... c’mon Takumi you don’t have to play the long game every time; this is supposed to be entertaining video game nonsense :P
er, okay, NOW THAT I’VE GOT THE COMPLAINING PART OUT OF THE WAY:
* pulling a fucking Edward Snowden in the middle of a courtroom, while the proto-GCHQ is yapping “STOP STOP” and the judge just shrugs like “well what do you want me to do about it, i can’t stop lawyers from lawyering,” was SO fun. perfect combo of “absurd” and “badass” and “just plain fun,” which is indeed these games’ sweet spot.
* the level of polish in this game is absurd and makes it so viscerally fun to play. the animations are delightful (in a way that, say, FE3H could stand to learn from, cough cough). the music is fantastic. the feel of stuff like cross-examinations, the “logic and reasoning spectaculars”, and jury examinations, is so satisfying. reminds me of some of the joy of playing Persona 5; just a really lovingly- and carefully-crafted thing
* sholmes is, of course, fantastic. whether he’s cheerfully blackmailing randos to book express trains, or stealing all the credit for your accomplishments like Your Neighborhood Dudebro Project Manager, or declaring life to be a joyless farce due to “not practicing violin for a long time and thus becoming bad at it, how cosmically unjust” (HIGHLY relatable bit, that), he’s just the perfect final form of Energetic Big Loud Dumb Excitable Occasional Genius
* all math departments should be renamed “LOGIC AND REASONING SPECTACULAR.” next time i’m debugging code with a coworker i’m calling it a “LOGIC AND REASONING SPECTACULAR.” those are so fun oh my god i just want to run out into the street and find things to LOGIC AND REASON ABOUT
* amazing how many times this games caused me to curse the concept of democracy itself. started with that lol-worthy Reverse Twelve Angry Men in the first fifteen minutes of 1-3 and just did not stop. god. those juries. the pain
* so many fun old-timey britishisms. gotta figure out how to incorporate “what ineffable twaddle” into my vocabulary
* Iris and that eight-year-old chick in Leif Enger’s Peace Like a River should form a Club for Absurdly Precocious Preadolescent Girls. who would win...
* can’t believe i didn’t make the Natsume-Soseki-you-know-like-the-irl-Natsume-Soseki connection until i finished playing. amazing. love nerds throwin in their fave novelist as an OC
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Writer’s Month August 2020 - Day 13
Day thirteen of the challenge...I’m beyond late now, so I’ll just...leave this here and...back away, back into the shadows.
Day 13, Prompt: Music
Fandom: Good Omens (The tv-show as the book is still on my “to read” list.)
Ship: Ineffable Husbands
Rating: General audiences
Summary: Crowley doesn’t care for Aziraphale’s taste in music but he does care about Az...Nothing. He cares about nothing and no one. Absolute truth. 100%.
Excerpt: Aziraphale looked up for a moment, the song having set something wistful and yearning in his eyes, meeting Crowley’s unguardedly. The demon’s heart skipped like a record needle losing traction, skittering in his chest, stuttering over the sounds, reality losing touch. While the smooth males’ voices began crooning again, the angel’s eyes closed once more and Crowley gulped down wine, turning away from the sight.
Tags: PINING
1968
“I know I said you should update your taste in music from Bach but what in Hell’s name is this twaddle?” Crowley asked as he sank down into the plush armchair, his limbs spread like he was more liquid than solid.
“Buddy Holly. Delightful man.” Aziraphale moved his head back and forth with the beat, the cheery chorus of “Oh Boy” spreading from the record player. His eyes were closed, a small smile on his face.
The demon made a derisive noise and pushed himself to his feet. Swaggering to the record stand he flipped through them, his lips curling.
“The Righteous Brothers? The Drifters? Ruby Murray?”
Aziraphale’s eyes snapped open. “Oh! Let’s listen to Unchained Melody!”
“Absolutely not. Where’s The Kinks, The Rolling Stones, The Who?”
“Hmm? Who?”
“No, no, The Who. The band.”
“I don’t know, why are you asking me?”
“I’m not asking you, it’s the name of the band. The Who.”
The blonde blinked, a small frown forming. “But…”
“Of for…I’ll translate for you, angel,” Crowley sneered. “They’re using the definite marker “the” before a relative pronoun to indicate the appellation of the group.” The demon looked like he’d eaten something unpleasant and then gulped back more wine.
Aziraphale’s face cleared and softened. “I see.”
“Stop looking at me like that, I just rephrased what I’d just said.”
The angel tilted his head. “Yes, but in a way you knew I would understand. Not everyone has the empathy to be able to translate themselves so efficiently to others. It takes a great deal of considerati-”
“Don’t you dare finish that sentence, angel,” the demon hissed, an accusatory finger pointed at him while the rest remained wrapped around his glass. Wine sloshed precariously close to the rim.
The angel pulled primly at his linen slacks to prevent the fabric creasing where he sat. “Still.” He cleared his throat gently. “In any event, those don’t sound like very nice bands.”
“They’re not, that’s the whole point. They make...real music.” Crowley gestured with his full wine glass. The Bordeaux swirled in response and almost splashed onto the carpet. The angel was still sober enough to wince at the prospect and carefully he miracled a stack of books out of harm’s way on the floor to the overloaded desk. “It’s...visceral, primal…Instinct, rather than this orchestrated...drivel.”
Snapping his fingers, the record magically changed to play the soft piano intro to Unchained Melody. “Drivel? I find it rather beautiful.”
Crowley snorted. “You would.”
Noticing the angel’s closed eyes, Crowley’s features softened as he watched him hum quietly under his breath. A little beatific smile played on Aziraphale’s lips and his fingers strummed against his knee. A quiet sigh escaped him and the demon soundlessly moved back to the record player. When the song began to fade, he lifted the needle back to the start of the track. Aziraphale looked up for a moment, the song having set something wistful and yearning in his eyes, meeting Crowley’s unguardedly. The demon’s heart skipped like a record needle losing traction, skittering in his chest, stuttering over the sounds, reality losing touch. While the smooth males’ voices began crooning again, the angel’s eyes closed once more and Crowley gulped down wine, turning away from the sight.
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Chapters: 1/1
Words: 2368
Fandom: Good Omens (TV)
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Characters: Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley (Good Omens)
Additional Tags: Talking, Asexual Relationship, Asexual Crowley (Good Omens), Asexual Aziraphale (Good Omens), Getting Together, Friends to Lovers, Post-Canon, Footnotes
Series: Part 2 of Ineffable Seasons
Summary:
Aziraphale and Crowley finally talk about their relationship.
Though this is an interlude to the Ineffable Seasons series, this story can be read as a standalone.
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“I want to spend the rest of my life with you, did you know?”
A few bottles into the evening, the words are a bit slurred, but Crowley realizes their importance as soon as they are uttered by the being he loves most in this world. They are words he’s hoped to hear for almost four thousand years, give or take a few hundred.
From the start, he’d been intrigued by the angel who had given away his sword. Aziraphale’s love is pure, real, nothing like what most of heaven’s inhabitants ascribe to. He’s a bit selfish, and a hedonist to be sure, but he is also the brightest part of Crowley’s very long life, the star he looks to when he is lost and wants to find home. He’s the star and the home. But with Aziraphale trying to toe the party line for so long, Crowley had given up hope that the angel would return his sentiments, at least out loud. He knows, has known for at least a thousand years, that Aziraphale loves him in a way that’s different from the way he loves all of God’s creations, but he’d mostly lost faith that he will ever hear that sentiment out loud. And he’s decided he’s fine with it. He still gets to enjoy his best friend’s company, and that’s worth so much.
But here’s Aziraphale now, saying these words, though he’s deep in his cups, so who knows how much truth they hold. Crowley decides to sober up, and moments later he can sit without leaning against the sofa arm.
“How do you mean?” he asks carefully. He refuses to hope just yet. But oh, how he wants to.
“I tried not to believe it for so long, that you’re my best friend,” Aziraphale says, nodding in that very serious way drunk people do. “You would do anything for me, and I’d do anything for you. I learned that during the …”
Crowley tries not to find it endearing how such a bibliophile loses his words when drunk. “Week from Hell?” he supplies helpfully.
“Yes. That one.” Aziraphale points emphatically at him. “I like that we can finish each other’s … sa- sandwiches.”
“Don’t you mean sentences?”
“Oh, yes, I reckon that too. But I have finished your sandwich on more than one occasion. And cakes. And … lots of other things. I like that.” His demeanor shifts, and he glares at Crowley. “I’m onto you, you wily serpent. You order things, take a few bites, then let me pilfer the rest. It’s naughty of you to tempt an angel so.”
Read the rest below the cut or on ao3.
The left side of Crowley’s mouth decides to smile, and the right side soon joins it. If he was the type to use the word ‘adorable,’ he would think that Aziraphale was exactly that, just now.[1]
[1] He has in fact used the word ‘adorable’ on one other occasion. In 1972, when he spent some time in the states. He’d answered the door that Halloween to a group of small humans, including a round-faced child with dimples and blond curls dressed as an angel. He’d hastily miracled up some sweets, though he’d previously told himself he wouldn’t support any of this manufactured-not-really-spooky twaddle shilled by the American candy companies. He’d booked a flight back to London the next day.
“I reckon I can’t help myself,” Crowley finally says. “You enjoy food so much. I like seeing you happy.”
“And this is why I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Even though that could be thousands and thousands and thousands of years from now. In fact, I dearly hope it’s many more than that.”
“Angel, that’s very sweet, but we’ve been drinking for a while, are you sure–”
“As if I don’t know my own mind, backwards and forwards and soaked in wine. Really, Crowley. I’ll prove it.” Moments later, he wrinkles his nose and smacks his lips as he always does after sobering up. It does leave a terrible aftertaste. Sort of like licorice and rotten grapes. He gives Crowley a haughty look.[2] “See?”
[2] As only an angel can do. Crowley tried it once in the mirror, but he mostly looked constipated.
Crowley raises his eyebrows, but says nothing, too afraid to ask.
Aziraphale sighs and looks more put-upon than when the Oxford English dictionary came out with its last two editions. The first one was perfectly fine, thank you very much. Crowley has never got up the nerve to even mention the online version.
“My dear. I know I’ve been slow to catch up, but you can’t imagine I’d want anything else at this point. I helped you raise the—albeit wrong—Antichrist. I refused to fight on Heaven’s side when Armageddon was looming. I possessed a human to make sure I could get back to you. This isn’t some game.”
Crowley shrugs as he looks down at his lap. He knows these things, but he still worries. What would an angel such as Aziraphale want with a demon like him? “We were the only full-time Earthly agents for each of our sides–”
“They aren’t our sides anymore,” Aziraphale mutters, which does raise Crowley’s spirits just a bit.
Pushing his sunglasses up off his face, he continues. “Maybe you only think you feel close to me because I was your only option, if you wanted company that would last longer than a few decades. Just because I’m here and fit in with my former side as poorly as you do yours doesn’t mean–”
“But it does!” Aziraphale replies emphatically. “We could have met that single time in the garden, and then never talked again. We could have each stayed a few steps away from humanity and earthly things, away from each other. It’s what I’m sure each of our very former sides would have expected from us, when they assigned us to Earth. We were meant to observe humanity, up close yes, but we weren’t meant to get involved. But we both did. We both fell in love with everything earthly and human. And we also love each other because of that, because neither of us could be coldly distant with humans or with each other.” He pauses, brow wrinkled, then continues. “If I hadn’t given away my sword, back in the beginning, would you have bothered to talk to me again?”
Crowley doesn’t even have to think about it. Aziraphale’s bending of the rules that first time had been what Crowley has hung his hopes on ever since then. He knows what the angel could be, if given a big enough kick in the arse. And he’s kept coming back to him, waiting for that day to come.
“No,” Crowley admits quietly. “If you’d had been like any of the others … I wouldn’t have.” His chest hurts, thinking about not having Aziraphale to share the last six thousand years with, even if they’d rarely talked for the first four thousand or so, and given that he’d only figured out his feelings after the first two. Just knowing that a slightly roguish angel was out there was enough to give him hope.
“And if you hadn’t admitted your worry about doing the right thing by temping Eve to eat the apple, I wouldn’t have given you the time of day if we’d ever met again. Talking to you then, I felt like, for the first time, I had someone who was like me. And I hate that it’s taken me so long to admit that we’re on the same side. But we are the same. And we’re also very different. And I think that’s a wonderful recipe for a more long-term relationship, don’t you?”
Crowley isn’t sure if he wants to even question anything, worried that if he asks, Aziraphale will realize they aren’t as good together as he’s just claimed. But Crowley is nothing if not a questioner. “How exactly do you mean ‘together’?”
Aziraphale frowns. “What do you mean?”
Crowley cares nothing for some of the physical intimacies that, by human standards at least, come with a close, emotionally intimate relationship. He’d tried them a couple of times, once in the fourteenth century, because it had been so dreadfully boring with Aziraphale out of the country, and again in 1863, and he refuses to think about his reasons for doing so that time.[3] But he’d found he didn’t care for it. That’s not to say he wouldn’t try to Make an Effort for his angel asked, but he’s all for sloth, so if he can avoid making any sort of effort, capitalized or not, he will.
[3] It certainly had nothing to do with his need to prove he could ‘fraternize’ as well as a certain drama queen angel.
“I mean … what are your expectations for our relationship?”
“Well, just as I said, to spend our lives together. Perhaps we might relocate to a single building and cohabitate. Though, that might get a little claustrophobic, given our general lifespans. Perhaps the same city block? I just want to be able to pop into whatever room you’re in when I have something I want to tell you. I know you say that new-fangled phone of yours would allow that, but I still don’t trust those things. There are no buttons! How am I meant to work something with no buttons?”
“Angel,” Crowley cuts in. “Back to the topic at hand, if you will?”
“Right, yes. Apologies, my dear. Mostly what I want is to know that we’ll always be there for each other, for as long as this planet lasts, and maybe far beyond that.” He cocks his head in thought for a moment. “And then there’s the physical intimacy.”
Crowley tenses, waiting for it.
“Sometimes I say something, and you just get this look on your face … as if what I’ve said makes you happy. And when you look like that, I just want to hug you, but I know how you worry about your image. But if we were—what do the kids say—life partners, then it would be okay to hug, wouldn’t it? Or hold hands as we walk through the park. Like we did that one time, when we took the bus back from Tadfield.[4] That was nice.” He smiles softly.
[4] As if Crowley could forget a single millisecond from the moment Aziraphale had reached for his hand as he sat down in his bus seat until he let go when they exited in London. But because it was never talked about after, Crowley had assumed Aziraphale was ashamed to even need the physical comfort of a demon, even if they were friends. Still, he’d thought it was nice, while it lasted, and he’s treasured the memory ever since.
“That’s all?”
Aziraphale’s brow wrinkles. “What else … Oh! You’re referring to sex, aren’t you?” He ponders for a moment. “I’ve always assumed that you were too lazy to Make an Effort, and I tend to think I’m the same. I’d much rather read a book. Much less … sticky, that. Or eat a good pudding—which is sticky, but confined in area—oh, do you remember that flan we had in Spain? Far better than sex. I told Oscar that, and he just laughed and called me queer. He was a dear, though.”
Crowley points a finger at Aziraphale in triumph. “I knew it. The way you go on about him, something had to have happened.”
Aziraphale scoffs in that drama queen way he does. “Really, dear boy. What was I meant to do? I hadn’t heard from you in over twenty years! I was bored. And just a little curious. It is very nice, but …” He shrugs. “I think I’ll leave it to the humans, if that’s alright with you.”
“Mmm,” Crowley agrees with a nod. “Happened to me in the fourteenth century. The most boring hundred years ever. I tried everything to stave off the ennui. It didn’t work.”
“Was that when I was in Cyprus? You were quite cross with me for staying away so long, though I did bring you some absolutely divine sweets when I came back.” He waves a hand. “In any case, it’s the twenty-first century we’re discussing now. Do you think … you’d want …”
“To stay by your side for eternity?” Crowley smiles tentatively as a thrill runs through him.
Aziraphale nods, for some reason suddenly looking shy, and his hands fiddle with his cuffs.
“Oh, angel, there’s nothing I’d like more.”
Aziraphale practically glows with happiness, and Crowley loves that he’s made his angel look like that. He scoots to the side a little and pats the sofa cushion next to him. Aziraphale looks confused. Crowley rolls his eyes.
“I believe you asked for more hugging. Get over here.”
“Oh!”
If possible, Aziraphale glows even more. But unlike so many times in the past, instead of hiding behind his sunglasses, Crowley allows his unshaded eyes to drown in the brilliance. Aziraphale wiggles out of his chair and settles in next to Crowley.
“How do we …”
“Come here, angel.” Crowley tries to sound at least a little long-suffering, but he doesn’t think he manages it through his grin. He lifts an arm, and Aziraphale dives in, putting both arms around Crowley’s middle, and laying his head on his shoulder. Crowley rests his own head on the angel’s and lets out the most contented sigh ever.
“Oh, that’s quite nice, isn’t it?” Aziraphale says lowly, and Crowley feels the vibrations in his bones.
“I could get used to it.”
“Always so worried about your reputation,” but it’s said with a fond tone, so Crowley doesn’t protest.
“What would you say to a little holiday?” He murmurs it without moving an inch, happy to stay in the arms of the loveliest angel in all of creation.[5]
[5] He’s not the least biased.
“Did you have something in mind?”
“I came across this little bookshop in Sussex once. I think you’d like it. There’s a quaint café just across the street.”
“I think a holiday sounds perfect.”
“Tomorrow then?”
“Tomorrow.”
For now, they’re content to stay just as they are.
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Snoopadoop the cockapoo, noblest of hounds
#cabin pressure#otter day 2024#ottery st mary#carolyn knapp shappey#herc shipwright#snoopadoop#dog#my art#ineffable twaddle
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Where are you on the scale from “leaving books your boyfriend wrote left open with corrections in the margins” to “picking up an article your roommate wrote and calling it ineffable twaddle in front of him”
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Aziraphale: It's ineffable. You can't second-guess ineffability, I always say.
Dirk Gently: Let's think the unthinkable, let's do the undoable. Let's eff the ineffable!
Dr Watson: What ineffable twaddle!
Me:
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Will I ever stop finding things to be delighted about in A Study in Scarlet?
No. The answer is no.
So right near the beginning of STUD, there is this passage where Watson, not yet knowing about Holmes’ profession (and definitely not spending his every waking moment thinking and wondering and writing lists about the guy at all), finds an article in one of Holmes’ magazines:
“What ineffable twaddle!” I cried, slapping the magazine down on the table, “I never read such rubbish in my life.”
“What is it?” asked Sherlock Holmes.
“Why, this article,” I said, pointing at it with my egg spoon as I sat down to my breakfast. “I see that you have read it since you have marked it. I don't deny that it is smartly written. It irritates me though. It is evidently the theory of some arm-chair lounger who evolves all these neat little paradoxes in the seclusion of his own study. It is not practical. I should like to see him clapped down in a third class carriage on the Underground, and asked to give the trades of all his fellow-travellers. I would lay a thousand to one against him.”
“You would lose your money,” Sherlock Holmes remarked calmly. “As for the article I wrote it myself.”
Holmes then gives Watson a demonstration of his talents and finally explain to him that he is a detective.
But more to the point: Holmes wrote this article and got it published. I would posit that Watson is wrong in his understandable assumption that Holmes marked the article in the paper because he read it – clearly, he would already know what it says. He might have marked it because it’s his and he liked seeing it published… or, perhaps, even because he wanted Watson to find it? And to, once he found it, assume Holmes must have read it, and thus feel invited to start a conversation about it?
Has Holmes just been waiting around in vain for Watson to finally open his mouth and just ask him all his burning questions about his profession -- with Holmes being equally burning to tell him all about it (as he clearly loves talking about his work), but not wanting to press the issue or come on too strongly for fear of bothering Watson, just as Watson fears his own curiosity forcing a confidence or invading Holmes’ privacy (I mean, THEY SERIOUSLY JUST SPEND WEEKS TOO ANXIOUSLY POLITE TO EVEN TALK ABOUT ANYTHING, GOOD GOD), so finally Holmes resorts to leaving marked papers with his writing in it lying around in the hopes that Watson might take him up on it?
#acd holmes#a study in scarlet#stud#p#this was supposed to be me taking up that long-abandoned dyslexia meta again#but i got sort of stuck in stud because stud is SO SWEET and theyr're honestly just THE SWEETEST#ah well
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Whilst pondering a Sherlock Holmes chapter for The Bookshop, decided to re-read some of the original stories to see what inspiration I could get.
“What ineffable twaddle!” I cried, slapping the magazine down on the table, “I never read such rubbish in my life.”
Sherlock Holmes, canonically confirmed as ineffable by Watson.
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