#Culverton Smith

[howdoyouwhiskit]

Once again adding to lists of my posts technically from tiktok but I’m cross posting here.

Can you tell I have a lot of fictional character anger? /s

[eirinstiva]

The most evil man

Today I read the first part of "The Adventure of Charles August Milverton" (thanks to Dr. Watson as always) and in a few lines you can already know the type of adversary he is.

There are many types of antagonists in all Holmes' stories, but those who are smart have a special place in the canon. Let's see some examples:

Irene Adler in "A Scandal in Bohemia" is the rival of Sherlock Holmes in that case. She left so strong impression in the detective that he calls her The Woman. She's smart, charming, beautiful and bit playful character, but above all she is not a villain. All that she does is to run away with her lover husband and start a new life. A smart woman with strong character that outsmarted Holmes.

In "The Adventure of the Dying Detective" we have Culverton Smith as opponent. He use a tropical disease to kill his nephew for money (IIRC) and tries to do the same with Holmes. He's evil because he kills his own family for what he wants and he has the willingness to do it again with whoever dares to search the truth.

Professor James Moriarty from "The Final Problem" is so far the most famous rival of Holmes, mathematics professor and criminal mastermind. Moriarty is essential in every adaptation of the canon and his intelligence is one of his higlights as a character. What makes Moriarty evil? The professor is the one who plans crimes for other people to execute in exchange of money. He doesn't seem the type of person who commits the crime for himself, he perfectly could be in his office, eating fish and chips while his minions do the dirty work. The evil in Moriarty is that he uses his brilliant mind for planning crimes and apparently he loves that.

We just have the first part of this story, but Charles August Milverton seems to be a completely different type of antagonist. He is smart but instead of making many different plans like Moriarty he uses blackmail. Just like Smith he wants money and is ready to take action himself and see the victim. He looks like a harmless person just like Adler but, contrary to all of these examples, Milverton enjoys to see his victims suffering. There's pleasure in watching the blackmailed person begging for a new deal, extra time or whatever they need to keep everything behind the rug. Charles August is the type of villain who wants to see the world on fire.

Speaking in chilean, él es un conchesumadre.

[asherlockstudy]

do you think culverton smith was a mirror for all the worst parts of john :0

Honestly I think in the fourth season Moftiss' writing had deteriorated too much for them to have employed the mirror trope at all. Having said that, I also don’t think mirroring was used as much as generally believed. IMO mostly Irene Adler and Jonathan Small were used as mirrors for Moriarty (some believe Irene was a mirror for Sherlock, I disagree with this take).

Smith was based on a real horrible person, Jimmy Savile. If his need to stop suppressing his truth is what makes you associate him to John, well it was something Savile did as well, he used to allude at what he was doing but as a joke.

Smith’s monologue about what the worst thing you can do to a friend is and then them regretting knowing your secret which you can’t take back could have possibly been partially influenced by the unspoken romance and John’s heteronormativity, however I don’t think the entire character was used as a mirror for him. He’s too terrible for that.

[consult-sherlockholmes]

their -cs makes it look like it's consult-sherlock just like venting LMFAOOOOOO

Time to torture john on anon too............. poor little sherlock. Flinchies. Move too fast. Hands come up, protect his face or stomach after all those gut kicks. <M3 <3 <3

That seems to be Culverton Smith. Or someone impersonating him, which could be possible, given the fact he should be in prison with no internet access. You don't know anything so shut up.

[inevitably-johnlocked]

When people talk about S4 they tend to talk about Culverton being a John mirrror and every time I am like ???

Could you please explain? I don't see any resemblance?

Thanks in advance!

Hey Lovely!

Ah, have they? Aside from them looking similar in the episode, I haven't really seen much meta about them being narrative mirrors, really. Just meta regarding Culverton being part of John's Alibi or being drugged by Culverton.

You can check out my Culverton Smith tag here on my blog for more meta, but yeah, I'd be interested myself for some of those meta to add to my tag, if anyone's got them!

[criminalisticonsultant]

Uhhh it’s getting hot in here; perfect time to come back and watch Mr. Holmes BURN. I’d love to turn him into a thing myself but you can go for it. Just let me watch would you?

-CS

[blistering-typhoons]

watched granada dying detective earlier today and FIRST OF ALL THAT'S JANE BENNET- and secondly, holmes is such a delight in it oh my goodness <3 i loved all his interactions with children, and his general silliness contrasted incredibly well with that INCREDIBLY badass reveal- jeremy brett you will always be famous ✨

[meetinginsamarra]

Fanfics I Really Liked in November 2024

So. Since I keep a list of what I´ve read anyway (there´s always a list), I will rec all the fics I´ve wholly enjoyed on a monthly basis. Old and new, canon or AU, big or small authors, long or short but nearly always Johnlock (-ish).

++++

Sine Nomine by SilentAuror @silentauroriamthereal

As Mycroft reviews the footage from Culverton Smith's morgue, he revisits his original question: whether John Watson would be the making of his brother, or make him worse than ever. He's come to a conclusion, but decides to give John one last chance. So he gives him a choice.

A suspenseful S4 fix-it with a fearsome Mycroft, John's redemption arc and some surprises. Happy ending, of course!

Shallow Grave by SilentAuror @silentauroriamthereal

Starts as Sherlock's plane is taking off at the end of His Last Vow. When he finds out that Moriarty is alive and that he's being recalled from his mission, Sherlock decides that he should have told John how he felt before he left. So he walks off the plane and kisses him.

HLV fix-it with lots of pining and misunderstandings and a happy ending!

My, She Was Yar by blueink3

YAR: adjective (nautical term, of a sailboat) agile, quick, easily manoeuvred

Or, the exact opposite of what Sherlock Holmes is when he stumbles into John Watson's cinema and turns his life upside down.

Lovely different first meeting with a bit of hurt/comfort!

The Skin Over My Heart by standbygo @blogstandbygo

Sherlock and John are still trying to adjust to Sherlock's return from his hiatus when John's friend Bill Murray brings them a case. Someone is targeting the LGBTQA+ members of Bill's unit. John and Sherlock go undercover at the unit, but when they end up having to flirt to flush out the suspect, Sherlock realizes he's in over his head.

Fake boyfriends for a case is always a good start for friends to lovers. LOL

Whispers of Highgate by standbygo @blogstandbygo

During his hiatus, Sherlock is chased into the Paris Catacombs, with unexpected consequences.

A little bit of spookyness and a twist at the end!

Christmas Lights by emma221b

It's tough being homeless, especially at Christmas. When Sherlock finds himself cold and alone on the streets of London, he can see no way back. What he needs now is one more miracle, and he might just be about to find it - even if it's not the one that he thinks that he wants.

I love this young Sherlock and the tragic backstory that made him go homeless. Mycroft is a good big brother. Hurt/comfort.

[47gaslamps]

People who nearly succeeded in killing Sherlock Holmes, ranked in descending order of seriousness

Sebastian Moran (The Empty House). The man had enough vendetta to single-handedly keep Holmes out of London for three years, and didn't wait a day past Holmes' return to Baker Street to make good on the threat. Even after all Holmes' elaborate preparation against it, he still would have killed him if Watson weren't in the same room.

Professor Moriarty (The Final Problem). Extremely serious, as we all know. Very nearly did come off a few times over. But... well, there's no doubt it would have come off, had he acted sooner- at any point before Holmes was on Permanent Red Alert and the whole criminal empire was collapsing about his ears. Put him in the ranks of those who tragically overestimated their opponents. If he were not a challenge and a treat but a part of the ordinary course of business, Holmes would certainly be dead.

Culverton Smith (The Dying Detective). Horrid man. Evil design. The plunging feeling in my stomach would vault him to the top of the list if left to its own devices. But he put all his hopes in sending Holmes a prank jewel-box. As there is no reason one would anonymously send Holmes a real jewel-box, that makes the effort a bit less serious.

Tonga (The Sign of Four). This stood a better chance of working. All he lacks is the ability to shoot accurately while on a riverboat, and it's an ugly way to die. But you can't take Tonga seriously. He is a walking extract from the pages of the Encyclopedia of Obscure Racism, and you can't get past that.

Baron Gruner (The Illustrious Client). Responsible for the greatest actual bodily harm Holmes incurs during the series, but not a full-throated murder attempt. He seems to regard a killing, a maiming and a roughing-up as basically interchangeable ideas.

Alec Cunningham (The Reigate Squires). What do you expect to happen after you've strangled Holmes in the next room from an active police inspector, guy? You think you're getting off that murder charge now? Should've used that energy to run like a bunny.

Sherlock Holmes (The Devil's Foot). What. Were. You. Thinking.

Count Sylvius (The Mazarin Stone). The grade of villainous plot I expect from a literal cartoon.

[anonymousewrites]

A Study of the Heart and Brain (Book 4) Chapter Seventeen

Father Figure! Sherlock Holmes x Teen! Reader

Chapter Seventeen: Favorite Room

Summary: Things have to go wrong before they can go write.

            “Where are we going now?” said Sherlock as Culverton led them through the hospital.

            “I want to show you my favorite room,” said Culverton.

            “No, let’s go in here,” said Sherlock, pausing at an open door and walking in.

            (Y/N) saw that it resembled what Sherlock said Faith had said about her father’s strange meetings with drugs.

            “So, you’ve had another one of your little meetings?” said Sherlock.

            “Oh, it’s just a monthly top-up,” said Culverton casually. “Confession is good for the soul.” He didn’t both to ask how Sherlock knew about the meetings. “Provided you can delete it.”

            John looked at the IV bags. “What’s TD-12?”

            “It’s a memory inhibitor,” said (Y/N).

            “Bliss,” said Culverton with a pleased smirk.

            “Bliss?” said John.

            “Opt-in ignorance,” said Culverton.

            “Makes the world go round,” said Sherlock sarcastically. “Anyone opt-in to remember?”

            “Some people take the drip out,” said Culverton. “Yes, some people have the same urges. Now, come on. Wasting time.”

            “Indeed.” Sherlock looked at his watch. “You have, I estimate, twenty minutes left.”

            “Sorry?” said Culverton, still with a smile as he opened the door.

            “I sent a text from your phone, remember?” said Sherlock. “I was read almost immediately, factoring in a degree of shock, and emotion decision, and a journey time based on the associate address, I’d say that your life as you know it has twenty minutes left to run. Well, no. 17.5, to be precise, but I rounded up for dramatic effect. So please do show us your favorite room. It’ll give you a chance to say goodbye.”

            Culverton just chuckled. “Come along.” He wasn’t concerned in the slightest.

            John looked at (Y/N). They shrugged. That hadn’t been a part of the pan, so even they had no idea what the text meant.

            They followed Culverton into an elevator that descended deep into the hospital.

            “Speaking of serial killers, you know who’s my favorite?” said Culverton.

            “Other than yourself?” said Sherlock.

            Culverton chuckled. “H.H. Holmes. Relative of yours?”

            Sherlock and (Y/N) rolled their eyes. “Not as far as we know,” said Sherlock.

            “You should check,” said Culverton. He opened the doors of his favorite room.

            The chill air of the morgue washed over them.

            “Everybody out,” said Culverton.

            “Mr. Smith, we’re actually in the middle of something,” said a morgue attendant, standing in front of a body ready for autopsy.

            “Saheed, isn’t it?” said Culverton, voice growing cold just as it had with Cornish.

            “Saheed, yes.” Saheed nodded hesitantly.

            “How long have you been working here now?” said Culverton.

            “Four years,” said Saheed.

            “Four years. That’s a long time, isn’t it?” Again, the threat of losing one’s job was unspoken but present. “Four years.”

            Saheed swallowed and looked at his coworkers. “Okay, everyone. Five minutes?”

            “Come back in ten,” said Culverton coldly.

            The workers filed out.

            “Saheed,” said Culverton before he left. “This time, knock.”

            Saheed walked quickly out of the room.

            “How can you do that?” said John. “How…How are you even allowed in here?”

            “Oh, I can go anywhere I like,” said Culverton. He fished a ring of keys out of his pocket. “Anywhere at all.”

            John stared. “They gave you the keys?” That was a huge liability.

            “They presented them to me,” said Culverton. “There was a ceremony. You can watch that on YouTube. The Home Secretary was there.”

            “So, your favorite room. The mortuary,” said (Y/N), sick and tired of hearing his smug crowing.

            “What do you think?” said Culverton.

            “Tough crowd,” said Sherlock.

            “Oh, I don’t know.” Culverton approached the body on the slab. “You know, I’ve always found them quite pliable.” He touched the woman’s jaw and made it open.

            “Don’t do that,” said John sharply.

            “She’s fine,” said Culverton. “She’s dead.”

            (Y/N) narrowed their eyes. They weren’t one to respect a lot of people, but Culverton’s way of dismissing the humanity of the person before him was something they didn’t stand for. They despised him.

            “H.H. Holmes loved the dead. He mass-produced them,” said Culverton.

            “Serial killer, active during the Chicago Fair,” said Sherlock.

            “You know what he did?” said Culverton. “He built a hotel, a special hotel, just to kill people. You know, with a hanging room, gas chamber, specially adapted furnace. You know, like Sweeny Todd. ‘Without the pies.’ Stupid. So stupid.” He let go of the woman, and John covered her face honorably.

            “Why stupid?” said John.

            “Well, all that effort,” said Culverton. “You don’t build a beach if you want to hide a pebble. You just find a beach and…If you wanna hide a murder, you wanna hide lots and lots of murders, just find a…hospital.”

            This was his murder hotel—his serial killing hidden in plain sight. (Y/N) disliked his smugness. They’d certainly enjoy taking him down. Because they and Sherlock would.

            John sucked in a breath. He saw the evil Sherlock and (Y/N) had seen in Culverton. It was plain. “Can we be clear? Are you confessing?”

            “To what?” Unfortunately, it wouldn’t be that easy.

            “The way you’re talking,” said John.

            “Oh, yes.” Culverton grinned. “You mean, am I a serial killer? Or am I just trying to mess with your funny little head?”

            “From my experience, the two aren’t mutually exclusive,” said (Y/N) coldly. “And I’ve dealt with people more dangerous than you.”

            Culverton’s cold gaze landed on them. “More dangerous?” He didn’t like the idea of others with more power than him.

            “Yes. You’re not special,” said (Y/N) with a snakelike smile.

            Culverton tsked. “Maybe not special. But am I what he says I am?” Culverton gestured to Sherlock. “Is that the real question? Hmm. Well, let me ask this—are you really a doctor?” He looked at John.

            “Yeah, of course I am,” said John.

            “No, a medical doctor, not just feet or media studies or something,” said Culverton.

            “I’m a doctor,” said John, completely self-assured. Sherlock teased him, but John knew his own abilities and was capable at his jobs (which were first being a doctor and second keeping Sherlock’s ego in check).

            “Are you serious?” said Culverton. “No, really. Are you? Are you, are you actually serious? I played along with this joke. It’s not funny any more.” He was no longer smiling pleasantly. “You know, look at him.” Culverton gestured to Sherlock. “Go ahead, look at him, Dr. Watson. Hm? Oh, no, I’ll lay it out for you. There are two possible explanations for what’s going on here. Either I’m a serial killer or Sherlock Holmes is off his tits on drugs. Hmm?! Delusional paranoia about a public personality. That’s not so special. That’s not even new.” He looked at (Y/N). “And you’re just a teenager with clear mental issues that made you so unstable you’d believe a man on drugs.”

            (Y/N)’s expression didn’t change, didn’t falter, didn’t give any indicated his words affected them. That’s what he wanted, and (Y/N) wouldn’t give it to him.

            “I think you need to tell your faithful little friend that you’re both wasting his time because your brain doesn’t work correctly and you’re too high to know what’s real anymore,” sneered Culverton. He stepped away, and there was a pause.

            “I apologize.” Sherlock spoke quietly. “I-I miscalculated. I forgot to factor in the traffic.” He looked at his watch, and his voice grew steady. “19.5 minutes.” Down the hall, the sound of the door creaking open echoed to them. “Ah, the footsteps you’re about to hear will be very familiar to you, not least because there’ll be three impacts instead of two. The third, of course, will be the end of a walking cane. You daughter Faith’s walking cane.”

            Why did he text her? thought (Y/N). Sherlock had explained his meeting with her when he disappeared from 221B against the rules, but she hadn’t been a major part of their plan. It seemed Sherlock was trying to speed things up.

            “Why would she be here?” asked Culverton.

            “You invited her,” said Sherlock. “You sent her a text. Or, or, technically I sent her a text, but she’s not to know. Um, let’s see if I can recall. ‘Faith, I can stand it no longer, I’ve confessed to my crimes. Please forgive me.’ ”

            “How would that have any effect?” said Culverton. “You don’t know her.”

            “Oh, but I do,” said Sherlock. “I spent a whole evening with her. We had chips. I think she liked me.”

            “You don’t know Faith. You simply do not,” said Culverton.

            “I know you care about her deeply,” said Sherlock. “I know you invited her to one of your special board meetings. You care what she thinks. You maintain an impressive façade. I think it’s about the break. She came to Baker Street.”

            “No, she didn’t,” said Culverton.

            “She came to see me because she was scared of her daddy,” said Sherlock

            “Never happened,” said Culverton. “Is this another one of your drug-fueled fantasies?”

            “Well, let’s see, shall we?” said Sherlock. “Faith, stop loitering at the door and come in. This is your father’s favorite room.”

            The doors opened, and Faith walked through.

            “Come and meet his best friends.” Sherlock turned to face Faith, and (Y/N) saw his expression fall into confusion, like he didn’t recognize her.

            “Dad? What’s happening?” asked Faith. “What was that text? Another one of your jokes?” She laughed.

            Sherlock just stared at her, legitimately confused.

            She looked at Sherlock. “Who are you?”

            (Y/N) kept their face calm but frowned internally. Dad said he met her. So what…?

            “Who the hell are you?” said Sherlock, blinking.

            “Sherlock Holmes. Surely you recognize him,” said Culverton to Faith.

            “Oh my god.” Faith smiled. “Sherlock Holmes? I love your blog.”

            “You’re not her. You’re not the woman who came to Baker Street,” muttered Sherlock.

            “Erm, well, no. Never been there,” said Faith.

            What is going on? (Y/N) was rarely confused, yet they were at the moment.

            “Sorry, I’m not sure I completely understand,” said Sherlock.

            “Understand what?” asked Faith, now growing confused herself.

            “But I thought you two were-were old friends,” said Culverton, seizing upon the chance to humiliate and discredit Sherlock.

            “No, we’ve never met,” said Faith, smiling politely. “Have we?”

            “Oh, dear.” Culverton laughed.

            “Sherlock?” said John.

            “Dad?” said (Y/N), glancing at him.

            “So who came to my flat…?” murmured Sherlock.

            “Well, it wasn’t me,” said Faith.

            “You look different,” said Sherlock.

            Come on, just get on with the plan. We’ll work this out later, thought (Y/N), but they just kept watching him in concern. They believed he had seen someone, but how—how did this fit anything? How was it possible? (Y/N) didn’t want to entertain the idea that the drugs had altered his head so much. They’d been careful.

            “I’m sorry, I wasn’t there,” said Faith while Culverton kept laughing. “I don’t think I’ve ever been anywhere near your flat.”

            “Oh, dear. Oh, no.” Culverton was just too pleased by this turn of events. “Oh, no, no!”

            Sherlock shook his head frantically to clear it.

            Please, just go with the plan! (Y/N) took a step back from him as he shook his hands and head erratically. Please, Dad! They couldn’t watch him like this.

            “Sherlock, you alright? Sherlock, you okay?” said John. He put a grounding hand on (Y/N)’s shoulder as he saw them just staring blankly at Sherlock. This was no act.

            “Watch him, he’s got a knife!” said Sherlock.

            “What?” scoffed Culverton.

            “Got a scalpel. You picked it up from that table,” said Sherlock. “I saw you take it.”

            (Y/N) relaxed minutely. Back on track. Sherlock wasn’t losing it. Dad’s okay. Dad’s okay. Dad’s okay.

            “I certainly did not!” said Culverton.

            “Look behind his back!” said Sherlock. “I saw you! I saw you take it!” He pointed at Culverton and revealed the scalpel in his hands.

            Everyone, even Culverton, reacted with gasps and whoas.

            “Sherlock, put that down,” said John, stepping up.

            “Oh my god, oh my god!” cried Faith.

            “Dad,” said (Y/N), not having to force the waver of their voice too much unfortunately.

            “Put it down,” repeated John firmly.

            “Stop laughing at me,” said Sherlock, glaring at Culverton.

            “I’m not laughing,” said Culverton.

            “He’s not laughing, Sherlock,” said John.

            “Stop laughing at me!” shouted Sherlock. He lunged.

            John grabbed his arm and hit it. The scalpel clattered to the floor. He pushed Sherlock into the lockers.

            “Sherlock!” he snapped. “Stop it! Stop it now!” He slapped Sherlock. “What are you doing?! Wake up!” Sherlock just stared. John reared back and punched him. (Y/N) winced. “Is this a game?! A bloody game.”

            Nurses finally heard the commotion, ran in, and pulled John away from Sherlock.

            “Please, please, please, no violence,” said Culverton, already playing his façade perfectly. “Thank you, Dr. Watson. I don’t think he’s a danger anymore. Leave him be.” He spoke magnanimously, like a pretend saint.

            “No, it’s okay. Let him do what he wants. He’s entitled.” Sherlock looked up at John. “I killed his wife.”

            (Y/N)’s gaze softened, and John swallowed.

            “Yes, you did,” said John.

            Sherlock looked at the floor. (Y/N) didn’t speak. What could anyone say to that?

Taglist:

@stilesstilinskiforlife-blog

@im-making-an-effort

@ilse235

@schrodingers-intelligence

@awsedrftgyhujikol

@lxserthxngzzz

@forever1313

@mentallyunstablemanlover

@roo024

@ohimjustagirlidrathetnotbe

@snowy-violet

[consult-sherlockholmes]

Prison is getting boring Mr. Holmes, I need to get back to my murder hospital. However- it’s probably not the same is it? I want to turn people into things again. Starting with you would be EXCELLENT. Maybe I’m not that far away from that.

-CS

Culverton Smith, speak of the devil. Quite literally, because you are most likely the closest really existing thing resembling the devil. You will never leave prison, you are imprisoned for life after all you did. No parole, no pardon. However, how did you get internet access? I do not think that someone like you, one of the biggest serial killers in UK history, would deserve any privileges in prison. No matter if you used to be rich, your money does not matter in prison. Hope you are having a nice time dealing with the other prisones, they sure love to get out all their pent up frustration at the capitalistic system on someone who used to be one of the richest people. You preyed on the weak and sick before, but can you deal with strong violent prisoners who are not incapacitated? But if you want to make people into things, why not start with yourself?

[theguildwriter]

Neil Gaiman: A Monster Among Men

I wasn't sure if I was going to write anything about this. In a way, I'm still processing it but feel that putting my thoughts to paper may help that process along. I am not the sort of person that dwells on most current events or suffers from the kind of parasocialism that gives me faith in people I've never met. Often, when a celebrity falls from grace, I pay attention to the story, frown, and shake my head in disappointment, but the investment stops there. Even when I enjoy their work, I don't translate their talent to morality, and I don't mistake their charisma in interviews for anything tangible, certainly not intimacy.

There have been stories that have disturbed me, and for the sake of the crimes and the victims, I have felt outrage, sympathy, passion. But I never took personal offense from the perpetrator. Never felt let down or wronged in any capacity. Yesterday, that changed.

I discovered Neil Gaiman late in life. I had heard of Coraline, but I had been easily frightened as a kid and didn't discover a love for horror until my teens. I had skipped over tales like Coraline and jumped directly into the deep end with IT, Carrie, The Shining, etc. King had my heart first and still does. Then, when it came to fantasy, well, I was the Potter generation. I went from Rowling to Lewis to Paolini to Tolkien to McKinley and on and on I went.

It wasn't until the pandemic that I stumbled across Gaiman. I had been gifted a Masterclass subscription for Christmas and had found his class on Storytelling. I decided to try the first video and was instantly charmed by his calm, measured speech, that lullaby of a voice that taught storytelling as if it was an arcane art. His approach to writing connected with something deep in my soul and dissolved a block I didn't know I had.

After finishing his class, I bought countless books of his. I started with Coraline, then American Gods, then Trigger Warning, then Good Omens, and on and on. I consumed as much of his content as I could get my hands on. I watched lectures online, found interviews on podcasts, and attended one of his events in 2022. My husband listened to him that night and was drawn in as well and spoke admirably of him in the years that followed. We read The Sandman comics together.

I felt that Gaiman was a generational talent. I, unfortunately, still feel that. He is a well of creativity, and his sins do nothing to take that away from him. In fact, his sins do all but take it away from him. They instead tarnish it, fill the well with toxic, gurgling sludge that poisons all that once drank from it and riddles us with this feverish disgust and contempt.

Headlines of major publications won't use the word, so I will: rape. What he did, to call it "assault" feels a violation in and of itself. That cannot encompass the vileness of what he did. He raped those women. He did it with a casualness that feels sociopathic. He brings to mind that quote from Sherlock villain, Culverton Smith: "I like to turn people into things. Then you can own them (Season 4, Episode 2)." The approach he had to these women reeks of that sentiment; he handled them as toys, as a pretty inheritance the world owed him simply for the grace of his presence.

I'll admit that when the allegations first were announced last summer, I was hesitant to believe them. I had, at the time, little information about them beyond their existence and had heard (at the time) his claims that he would be cooperating with the police. I remembered the storm that initially brewed around Johnny Depp when he was first accused by his ex-wife, Amber Heard. I decided to wait for more information and, until then, pause my consumption of any new work.

I almost forgot about it. In my initial binge of Gaiman's work, I had overstuffed myself, had purchased all the books I had planned to until new releases, had moved on to other authors I had discovered since him or, even, through him (Terry Pratchett, a god amongst writers). I caught up on Sanderson's works in time for Wind and Truth, did a horror-genre stint by re-reading IT for Halloween and washing it down with Motherthing by Ainslie Hogarth, and started 2025 with Normal People by Sally Rooney and A Little Life by Hanya Yanagihara. When I opened Instagram on January 13th and saw an account refer to the article, I could only stare. These weren't mild allegations (if any sexual assault allegations can, in fact, be mild, but, hopefully, you understand my meaning); this was aggressive, deplorable, dehumanizing rape.

I searched for the article (non-paywall link here) to read it for myself. Not only did the allegations have solid sources, detail, pictures to establish timelines, a consistent story from women across the globe who have never met one another, and the existence of payoffs and NDAs, but it was written with care and diligence by the author, Lila Shapiro. This is someone who had not only done her homework but seemed to understand -- if not have, at one point, felt it herself -- the love fans had for this author and the gravity of his career on the literary world.

If you're here for a summary of the article, you're in the wrong place. I have no wish to repeat it. The things this man did to women in their most vulnerable states are, to put it simply, shockingly vile. They were in the interest of his inflation to godhood and the reduction of his victims to sub-human. "Call me Master," he told them. I can hear it now, in that velvety voice he used to read poetry and tell of the magic of stories. But the lighting has changed, the camera angle has shifted, and the music, once the soothing melody of a gentle hero now dips to sinister tones that tell of a villain.

Though Gaiman is not responsible for his upbringing, I did find his work for the church of Scientology in his teen years to be of note. He was raised by people who had cultivated a talent for sniffing out the vulnerabilities in others, in prodding at the right places and luring them into their caves. And, in his adolescence, he had excelled working for them, had gotten to exhibit all that he had learned and had been called "ambitious" and "precocious." Instead of breaking the cycle of abuse, Gaiman had learned how to spin it to his advantage.

As I read the article (aloud, to my husband, who sat with an expression that darkened with every sentence), I felt many things: disgust, anger, sorrow, even pain at certain points, but the one thing I never felt was disbelief. Reflecting on this, I realize that had there been any doubt in my mind that these events happened the way they were recounted, I would have felt some disbelief. But there was something about him that communicated this darkness, something that your gut knows even if it doesn't let your brain in on the secret. It's the same instinct that finds faces in the shadows and tunes in to small sounds in the woods. It's the most basic instinct that searches for predators in our peripheries.

I feel a part of me wasn't surprised because I had learned that a love and talent for art, philosophy, and beautiful words did not make one an angel. The devil has been known to wield these well in stories told since mankind's beginning. I thought of The Judge from Cormac McCarthy's Blood Meridian. Though Gaiman is no murderer, I felt a connection between the two entities: predators that felt they were gods walking amongst men, felt that their talents had earned them power and that power granted them the right to any fleeting desire. The Judge has beautiful monologues in the book; he is an educated man, the owner of a tongue not of silver but of gold. Yet he is Pennywise in a book filled with Henry Bowerses. He is the thing all things were born to watch the shadows for, the ultimate monster.

For what worse monster is there than one that speaks like an angel?

These past two days, I've caught glimpses of his name on my shelves and felt a horrible, sinking feeling in my stomach. I kept flashing back to the things I had read, kept hearing that voice say, "I'm a very wealthy man, and I'm used to getting what I want." I went out to our living room, where our bookcases with some of my favorite books were out in the gleaming mid-morning light, and I pulled one after the other off the shelf. He had been sharing one with Terry Pratchett and Brandon Sanderson. I left three books: a beautiful hardcover of American Gods, a Barnes & Noble Classics hardcover print of Anansi Boys, and the box set of The Sandman. These things I left because all were gifts, and all three are beautiful to display. I could at least treasure the love they had been given with and the joy I had gotten reading them. The others were brought to shelves at the back of the house, wedged out of immediate sight. Still, they seemed to leer at me throughout the day.

The question before me now is: where do I go from here? The answer: anywhere. I am freed of any admiration or obligation I once felt to an author I would have died to get to pay my work a compliment. I now shift into a phase that has been long coming: one where my work seeks no validation. One where my work is a joy to create and brings satisfaction solely through existing. I wish that the death of an idol had not been necessary, but I see now as Harry Potter once had that once this entity had fallen, he was just a man (Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, p. 744).

I'll quote here some words from Kieran Healy, who posted on Threads under @kieran_edits_stuff:

"Regarding Neil Gaiman, I recently read 'Monsters: A Fan's Dilemma' by Claire Dederer, and the question posed by that book essentially is "Is it okay to consume the art of a monster? Is there a line?" It's a difficult question...

Am I complicit in their depravity? Does their work retroactively suffer? Dederer called it "the stain."

[...]

Personally, I think the answer is mostly "no." Will I buy another Neil Gaiman book? Probably not. But it doesn't mean that "The Sandman" wasn't revelatory and an awakening for me... I'm still going to love "The Ocean at the End of the Lane..." and I'm going to hope every artist I love who turns out to be a fucker gets caught and (threadacted)."

This may not be the approach for everyone. Some may feel that I am not doing enough, that I am not taking enough of a stand against a monster who stands to profit from the content I consume. To that I say: the books are bought. I do not plan to buy more. The good and true things he has written up until now are still good and true, even having come from him. Despite the evil that he has put out into the world, he has rippled out good as well. He has inspired us to be brave, has encouraged us to seek magic, and has told us that we deserve love. Though it seems he has believed none of these things and certainly has practiced none of them, he has affected us all the same. These stories have made us better than he could ever dream to be, and that hoard of gold he sits upon now will do nothing to scrub his soul.

I will pass on the good and true things to my children, remind them that monstrous men will say things they don't believe and yet they will speak truth in spite of themselves. I will remind them that the art they consume can inspire good while not being made by people who practice it. Gaiman was only discovered after decades of this behavior. There are many whose work we love who may do evil that we will never uncover. But we can fight back. We can be the good they could only dream to be.

[faithful-grigori]

“#crimes against humanity again i'm afraid, #human experimentation, #self poisoning for reasons of being an extreme dumbass, #look another story i coincidentally have professional knowledge vaguely related to”

Letters from Watson: The Dying Detective

Crimes in context:

Medical History Sorry in advance for the medical grossness. Please skip to the cut if you never want to see the words open sores ever again. First, to piece together Culverton Smith's crimes against humanity and also the murder. Culverton Smith appears to have gone to Sumatra to make a living planting, with the labor primarily done by indentured servants or low wage workers, possibly slaves, from the local population. (I say slaves because although slavery was not officially legal in England or it's colonies at this time, there have been historically a lot of situations that are essentially slavery with some thin veneer of justification, especially when you're occupying a country, and you can make any law you want about requiring people to work for you for nothing, or the next thing to nothing.) To top this off, he was either experimenting on these workers with his favorite tropical disease, or using them to incubate it so that he could keep a stock of the infectious material on hand.

This is how Smallpox stock used to be carried overseas: A chain of people would be infected with a diluted or weakened virus. When one person's symptoms would start to wane, the fluids from their open sore would be transferred via a cut in the skin to the next person in line, who would carry the infection until they began to recover. In the transfer of smallpox for the purposes of creating vaccinations and inoculations, these were volunteers. The carriers also benefitted in many cases from being inoculated in the process, since these cases of smallpox were milder than the wild variants, and being a carrier would give you about the same immunity as an inoculation of the day. Now, we have refrigeration, glycerol stocks, the ability to use only portions of viruses (usually the proteins in their outer shell) in vaccines and most importantly, sterile fucking needles. I will never be leaving this century, even though we do have covid. All this to say that Culverton Smith can rot in hell, but I also wanted to cover Watson: why did he write this case up?

Watson's Writing

For those of you who have made it this far into my reread without knowing what is to come: The Final Problem, in which Holmes dies, will occur in April of 1891. All Holmes short stories, and the remaining two novels, were published after this date. Presuming that my date of 1890 is correct for this story (which we can, and will, revisit later as it was NOT my initial impression of the timeline), we can presume that Watson had reasons for not publishing it in his initial collection of 24 short stories, likely grief. Thinking back on this time would have been extremely painful from a variety of directions: as the months go on and on he's further convinced that Holmes is not faking it this time, and Watson probably desperately wished that he was.

Then too, despite the fact that Watson closes the story abruptly without describing his emotions at Holmes' deception, we can deduce them. He's insulted - despite Holmes' words that he never doubted his professional abilities, just his ability to lie, Holmes still disparaged him. He's angry - Holmes has shut him out of his plans and made him believe for the better part of three or four hours that he was about to lose his best friend. He's frustrated because despite the illness being an act Holmes is still harming himself with his denial of his body's limits, i.e. that a human can die if they're dehydrated for three days, and also his casual use of poisons. Belladonna, it turns out, is not good for your eyes, which is why we don't use it anymore, aside from the hideous toxicity.

Watson has been a prop in Holmes' stagings of case conclusions before, but there's a vast difference between being framed for breaking a bowl and playing along, and being deceived, berated, insulted, and isolated to ensure that you play the part correctly. There is a definite possibility that they did have a fight over this - even Baring-Gould's timeline has a gap of over a month between this and the next recorded case. It isn't an unusual amount of time, as no doubt Holmes did not always have cases that were cinematic enough to make the cut, and also Watson had a business and a household to attend to, but it's enough time for them to pointedly not see each other, and for Watson to forgive him and come around for a post Christmas visit.

Ask a microbiologist: WTF is Smith doing with his jars of bacteria?

Hello Tumblr, I grow germs for a living. And based on the description of Smith's lab / study I have a few questions, namely, how is he storing his bacteria? Based on the jars and bottles that he refers to as his "prisons" he's keeping them at uncontrolled room temperature. This probably tracks with best practice at this time, as refrigeration was based on putting things in a box with ice, and iirc although bacteria were known to be the drivers of spoilage, the idea that they would grow, and die, slower at lower temperatures was not part of professional microbiology at the time. Also based on Smith's own words, he's storing the bacterial colonies in agar, which matches with modern methods... sort of. Agar is solid at room temperature, and when it's liquid (at about 100 Celsius), it's too hot for most bacteria to survive in. This is important because the description of these jars and bottles appears to imply that they are filled with solidified agar, and there's really no reason Smith needs a full jar of solid agar to keep his bacteria in: when we keep bacteria in a liquid it's called a broth and does not have agar in it, because we want it to remain a liquid. Yes, Smith could be doing a fairly standard setup where he pours a quarter inch of agar into a vessel and, when the agar is solid, "plates" bacteria on top of it. The description does not unambiguously rule it out. But if he's trying to preserve his bacteria by entombing them in solid agar, and then melting the agar to retrieve them, it's a lot funnier. Mostly because it would mean that his pet bioweapon from Sumatra isn't viable anymore.

[gregorovitch-adler]

Heartfelt

Sherlock,

Where do I even begin? I suppose I should start with an apology.

I'm sorry. Sorry for blaming you for Mary's death. It was her decision and you couldn't have done anything about it.

Sorry for cutting you out of my life and abandoning you when you needed me the most. I was a bloody idiot for ignoring that arsehole Culverton Smith when he talked about taking you to his 'favourite room'. You shouldn't have ended up at that place at all. It was my fault.

Finally, I cannot apologise enough for beating you up and physically assaulting you relentlessly that day. You had done nothing to deserve that. Nothing.

Least of all from someone like me. Me - the guy who ended up having a text affair with some random woman when Mary was alive, and the same guy who can't take care of his own daughter and relapses into alcoholism at any inconvenience in his life? Absolutely not.

I'm a horrible, horrible person who once happened to fall in love with the best and the kindest and the wisest man I'd ever known - you.

Yeah, that's true. I know it would be hard to believe, almost impossible, but it's true.

It is damn time I admitted it. I fell in love with you as soon as we met. And I'm still in love with you. I would like to elaborate more on that in person, but I'll leave it here, right now.

It's unbelievable that you're still kind enough to continue being my friend after that day. Anyone else would have called the police on me, or would have cut me out of their life, and I would've bloody deserved that.

I don't deserve you, that's for sure.

I beg for you to forgive me for real. I don't deserve to be forgiven, but you sure as hell deserve to hear an apology. So, there.

I don't expect you to return my feelings. I just want to be with you in any way you'd have me. It's an honour being your friend. I leave the rest to you.

Your friend (still, I hope),

John.

--

That was the e-mail John had been composing the whole morning - with the interruptions of spilling tears here and there or pressing backspace to delete the draft altogether.

John went through the final one and decided this was good enough as a heartfelt apology. The tone was a bit informal for an e-mail, but he was not applying for a job. It was Sherlock - John hoped he would understand.

John bent over his study table in the sitting room to click on 'send' with his trembling hand and furrowed brows.

Sitting on a wooden chair, he shut the lid of the laptop and swallowed as he wrapped his arms around himself.

Was it good enough? He sincerely hoped it was, even though he knew what he did to Sherlock - the man he was supposedly in love with - was unforgiveable.

***

Sherlock September Challenge.

Prompt: Heartfelt by @onesmallfamily

Tags: @helloliriels @topsyturvy-turtely @gaylilsherlock @lisbeth-kk @keirgreeneyes @missdeliadili @lookingforlifeoutthere @a-victorian-girl @peanitbear @calaisreno @curlyjohnlock @kettykika78 .

[victorianpining]

Apologies for another question that you may have heard many times before!

As (seemingly) a non-Brit, do you get that the lines "Jim... will you fix it for me to..." etc. in BBC Sherlock's 'The Great Game' are a reference to old TV programme 'Jim'll Fix It?' I've always wondered! 😆 And I'm reading through From A Drop of Water just now and saw you repeat it!

When I first heard the lines in the show I immediately had to google when the Jimmy Saville stuff all came out to triple check the episode aired years beforehand but dear lord would the BBC not have dared otherwise! 🙃

This is not a criticism of your writing though, it's either inspired by the show (likely to my mind) or literally just words that make sense for someone to say.

If you haven't heard of the Saville scandal, either don't google it, or brace yourself. He was a monster, not that far from the show's Culverton Smith.

X

When I started TJLC Explained no, I had never heard of Jimmy Saville, though people were quick to inform me that the reference had gone right over my head the first time I talked about the pool scene in TGG. It wasn't something I had time to dig into in 2016 so it didn't really factor into my reading at the time even after that. At this point I that connection makes the whole storyteller Jim Moriarty angle even more fascinating, and as you said it clearly had some bearing on TLD. But I'm also a lot more flexible on nearly everything relating to BBC Sherlock these days!

[consult-johnhwatson]

Many New Beginnings

I hardly feel I deserve so many. Multiple times in my life have I made some truly, awful, mistakes. In the past I always found myself trailing after Sherlock, and being fulfilled in ways I never thought would be possible again after Afghanistan. The very first time I was caught up in the shadow that was Sherlock, I ended up following after him - after he continuously abandoned me! I might add - only to save his arse.

So, for a long time, our relationship was as follows; He might give me a vague hint on where he would dash off to next, I'd scurry to catch up, only to find if he would have waited for me or communicate with me, the situation would have went far smoother!

I'm not sure when it started changing, or originally. If I had to pin point, it might have been around the time we first got up close and personal with a Mr. Jim Moriarty.

Sherlock must have realized, the value in communication. Something that, on surface level we managed well. On a deeper level, you've all seen us struggle with ourselves emotionally. We only grew closer, until-

The fall, everyone loves to dub it.

I had fallen into such devastation by this betrayal of trust and communication, the only thing I felt I could once trust in Sherlock, I simply forgot that this man was suffering the same as I was. That he was completely alone for those two years as well.

Only, I wasn't truly alone. I met Mary, and I would not be here today without her. I know that. So would it be a crime when I say to keep it polite about her? I loved her and she was my life. Just as much as Sherlock is my life.

Sherlock forced me to accept his apology that day in the train, but it was as genuine as I can be. This anger's always been so hard to ignore, it would come out at Mary, and it's only grown over time. Sherlock would always try to communicate, he always spoke to me. Even if it was something so unbelievable, I trusted him. For awhile, he understood. He couldn't run off without me.

This was years ago still. I know it all started declining after... Well, Culverton Smith. I wonder if I properly wrote up that case, there was so much we would love to have forgotten. Sherlock and I.

I almost lost him, and not only by the hand of Mr. Smith.

Our relationship since, has been rocky at best. I never gave up, and in his own ways neither did he. Somewhere, we fell back into this dynamic. He runs off without me, and I let him. Neither of us would have been able to tell you who started it, but relationships are 50/50, you know.

When I finally had, so hesitatingly, just gotten this relationship? I wasn't prepared, but I'd have been out of my mind to not accept what we'd always worked on wanting.

Only to see him run off with Mr. Jim Moriarty, the man who single handedly started our path of love and destruction. The fall is a sore subject, a raw wound barely treated. I was so overwhelmed with - I wasn't there to protect him! - danger, betrayal, mistrust, lack of communication, all over again!

I said and did things that are unacceptable, and I'll be remorseful for them for as long as I live. This anger, I can't guarantee I'll get rid of it completely, and I've found I was in need of professional help in this regard. It may still come out, but I am working on this. We are working on this. I am working on making sure this will not be a repeated event; but this includes working on the communication between Sherlock and I again.

I stepped back to work on this, on myself, but now I am willing to open up and look back on this space. Where we can go forward, together, in this new time. I hope that, while it's not been a long amount of time, but two months away from this all has really helped thus far. I'm happy to be back here with you, and to grow by Sherlock's side once more.