#HE WANTS WATSON TO STRETCH HIS MIND

[not-equippedforthis]

this little exchange at the beginning of baskervilles warms my heart so much. i could write an entire essay just on this alone. god.

[iminahole247]

For You, I Want to Sing, but I Have No Mouth

A ShockOp plot outline/scenario ideas using songs based on @keferon Mech Pilot AU

This pairing has been eating me alive so I decided to write so I don't have to bottle it up any longer. Enjoy this New Year's gift 🎁

DISCLAIMER: The characterizations are mainly based on collective and selective headcanons and personal views and understanding. Some OCs will be included. Don't take them too seriously.

Also, some songs I skimmed from my playlist will be referenced for scenarios that are brought to mind, not in order of events. I just love the 'what ifs' and what happened in between for this pairing. If there's nothing after a song, then the scenario(s) is self-explanatory.

Using music just helps the creative process you know. There'll be more additions as I straighten my thoughts out.

Est-ce que tu m’aimes - GIMS (the translated lyrics speak for themselves)

Look Around - Under the Boardwalk (it’s a cute song and it could be akin to the Open Arms scenarios)

Run to Me - Clarence Coffe Jr.

Oh My Love - The Score (Orion’s POV)

Would You Fall in Love with Me - EPIC: The Ithaca Saga (Odysseus as SW, Penelope as Orion; probably when they meet in the afterlife or something)

LET THE WORLD BURN - Chris Grey

We Become We - Journey to Bethlehem

Raise This Barn - My Little Pony (A big stretch but this is where the imagination and headcannons comes in. Shockwave was an orphan for a while til he was adopted by a pair of farmers, Leonard and Tommy [Leonard in reference to Lanard Toys for trademarking right to the name for a while during his Bay Movie appearance, and Tommy in reference to Takara Tomy being one of the creators of Transformers]. The farm was his home, even when he went off to pursue his studies in the city, he might not be big on people but he holds his family close enough. Rebuilding after a certain natural disaster brings him home, which knocks out having a family gathering for the next decade cause that’s a lot of relatives he won’t remember but to help his dads is all that matters, especially in their old age)

Can't Help Falling in Love - Kina Grannis

To Build A Home - Patrick Watson (during some quiet moments on the farm when he brings Orion for some fresh air from the that place, Shockwave taking a moment to breathe too, maybe showing his dads’ cows too, Fluffy Ears hitting it off with Orion, watching from the side sending looks at him, oh does his heart get lighter when he returns the same look through eyes that cling to all the hope in the world for the both of them, he pitied and envied for those eyes, at least in a way they were his)

Die With A Smile - Lady Gaga & Bruno Mars (there was no way either of them could, this world doesn’t allow such a luxury, but maybe in another universe, another life)

More Than You Know - Axwell /\ Ingrosso (for the both of them)

Open Arms - EPIC: Cyclops Saga (could symbolize their contrasting outlooks, open arms for a more optimistic future in spite of their situation even for a moment, cause what’s the point if you don’t stop to smell the flowers and admire the stars)

Fix You - Coldplay or Danny Olson & Jadelyn

We'll Meet Again - maruwhat

A Million Miles Away - Belle (from Orion's ghost to Shockwave)

Yuri on ICE - Taro Umebayashi

Magic - Sia (stargazing outside of the mech or outside in the wilderness, where for now the world consists of him Orion and the stars above, but it goes unsaid that they’re each other’s whole world, for better and for worse)

The Line - Twenty One Pilots (they feel JayVik coded to me, like if Viktor survived but couldn’t revive Jayce or something like that)

Happy Ending / Sewer Home - TMNT Mutant Mayhem (some form of happy ending, it feels out of place but they're together at last, somehow)

Wu Ji - Xiao Zhan & WANG YIBO (the YEARNING)

I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For - Scarlett Johansson & Bono

DREAM BOY Album - Morgan Clae

Count Me In - Liv and Maddie

Fantastic - King Princess (iykyk)

Until I Found You - Stephen Sanchez

KISS OF DEATH - Mika Nakashima (pilots with giant mechs, codependency stuff and romance and angst in and out of the cockpit)

Great Balls of Fire - Miles Teller (rare moment of Shockwave singing in the hometown bar, Orion was there singing along with his arms around him, a little bit drunk; Orion might not be able to sing as well later on down the line from deteriorating lung damage, doesn’t mean he won’t get to hear Shockwave sing to him every now and then)

Beautiful Things - Benson Boone

I Think We're Alone Now - Tiffany (that one time they fooled around in the cockpit, luckily no one was there to witness, or not)

More Than Anything (Reprise) - Hazbin Hotel (moments of comfort and reassurance after a trying test or battle)

Good Old Days - Macklemore & Kesha (reminiscing)

Classic - MKTO (Orion’s POV again)

Independent Together - Caleb Hyles & CG

Carnaval Del Barrio - In the Heights (morality at a low but a musical number does wonders, even to progress their relationship)

Accidentally In Love - Counting Crows (Orion’s POV again, cause he fell first and hard)

Had I Not Seen the Sun - Robin, Chevy (post-battle moment, surviving another day, )

~~~~~

Headcannons and scenarios (I know most of these are not as angsty but the lot of you can make it up tenfold so how about some more soft stuff):

- For living in civilization for all his life, Orion isn’t up to date with the ‘pop culture’ but at least he has Shockwave to show him the good tunes, like classical and synth

- That one time when Orion got him a stuffed cow teddy with a recording of Fluffy Ears’s moos for his birthday. Since when did he have the time to acquire he still doesn’t know

- In their mech, they’re a beast on the battlefield. It might not have been amazing compared to the current mechs and pilots, but they’ve lasted this far with just the two of them for a reason. Got a marksman’s eye and the strength to rip the faces off those tentacled fuckers. Sometimes Orion forgets to take it down a notch outside the battlefield.

- Afters years of piloting evolving mechs, it takes a toll on the both of them, especially for Orion. Fatigue and back pains riddle him, along with a certain accident that caused him to wear a mask to not further damage his lungs. It also made his voice more deep with a certain timbre that gives Shockwave a soothing feeling compared to Orion youthful and lighter voice before.

- When Shockwave isn’t in piloting, he’d be in a lab overseeing the other operations on mech tech and poking at the Quintesson corpses. Orion had Ironhide to converse with and try as he might, he hasn’t had a chance to successfully evade Ratchet hawk like supervision. When Shockwave was working on the down times from attacks, there would be a myriad of medical tests and checks that would be at best tedious and “unpleasant” at worst. Post-medical exam cuddles are mandatory for them, behind closed doors of course.

===

I’ll add more when I’ve gathered my thoughts and straightened them out. You have other songs for them or any other headcannons for Shockwave and/or Orion Pax, share what additions you have for these tragic old gays.

[cattlemons]

Third Fifth Time's A Charm

| You and Megumi have been dating for quite some time now. Almost half a year, give or take. Upsettingly enough, he has yet to say his ‘I love you's. This bugs him a bit too much so Megumi is now a man on a mission and that mission just so happens to be about confessing his love to you. Basically the four times Megumi almost dropped the “L” word and the one time that he did. I mean come on, fifth time’s a charm, right?

TW: None, I think? I wrote it with college!au in mind but can be read as just a normal jujutsu kaisen fic Just fluff after posting angst, megumi gets chased by a duck? idk what counts as a tw pls let me know if I should add anything, also actual big boy writing cus word count is 3k.

---

Crumbs, ducks and hold on a minute... 

It was around October when the leaves were finally falling and the air was brisk. Megumi had decided to take you out for a mini-date before finals week whisks the both of you away, each secluded in their own world of ink and paper. 

It had honestly gone mostly ok and as planned. The usual schtick, really. Compliment your pretty outfit, exchange loving banters on the way there, get to the park and enjoy your time together. Simple and easy, right? 

Wrong. 

Megumi and you had just finished eating the sandwiches he’s prepared for the picnic. They were wrapped so neatly in pink patterned paper that you can’t help but swoon at the time and effort it must’ve taken for him to prepare it all. 

Megumi took to the toilet a bit after that, or, he planned to. What he didn’t see coming is the fact that ducks started chasing him around right as he walked past the pond. You soon learned that they were chasing him because of the bread crumbs falling off of his jeans. 

After a few bouts of running on Megumi’s part (and giggles from yours), the ducks finally stopped following him. Opting to squawk at the couple on the other side of the pond that’s actually trying to feed them crumbs and seeds. 

Megumi soon found relief as he sat back down beside you still huffing and puffing from the unexpected marathon he ran. Of course, you being the compassionate girlfriend that you are, did not let him off easy. At least, not without teasing him a bit. 

“You know those ducks have really good taste in men,” you quipped. A few beats of silence pass before the two of you erupt into a fit of laughter. 

You were nearly in tears as you continued to giggle uncontrollably at the mental image of Megumi getting chased and flirted with by ducks. Though you probably won't find your laughing any special, Megumi found it absolutely breathtaking. 

From the way your eyes brighten at the hilarious image to the sound of your held-in guffaws, Megumi just can’t get enough of it. He wants to hear it over and over again. He absolutely loves it. 

And he absolutely loves you.

Wait, huh?

Watson, how do you say “I love you”?

“Finally! No more stuffy libraries and definitely no more books! I’m so happy it’s over,” you yelled as you stretched out your tired back. 

Finals are over and you can now rest without worrying. However, it’s a whole other story for Megumi. He is still stressed out of his mind but not because of the reason you might think. No, he is stressed because he has yet confessed the feelings hidden deep in the recesses of his heart.

I love you. 

Who knew such simple words could drive one mad. Megumi never would’ve thought the stress his feelings would bring could trump the amount of stress an exam would bring but he supposes that he can only be so many times. 

Megumi has decided that maybe he should tell you the three words that have been plaguing his mind. So a few days after some much-needed rest, Megumi proposes a little trip to the art museum. Who were you to refuse such a sweet request?

Dressed in his most academic-looking attire, Megumi readies himself for his little confession, going so far as to script it. 

Yes, today he will confess!

Today he did not confess.

It really was the perfect moment. Megumi feels absolutely horrible for letting such perfect timing pass him by but nothing could be done about it now. 

The perfect timing came by when you were nearing the end of the date. It was a really fun date, possibly one of the best ones so far! Megumi had shown you around the museum, giving fun tidbits of information on each art he sees. You were about to point out how knowledgeable your boyfriend was before it finally clicked. 

“Ah! My dear Watson, I think I’ve solved the mystery. It turns out the Duke of Information, Megumi Noritoshi, has done ample research before this date! Proof in the pudding, Watson, look at his palms,” you teased as you took his hands into yours and pushed back his sweater sleeves to see smeared notes on his earlier “fun facts”.

Megumi’s face turned pink as he flushed at your exposing of his secret. Muttering a small, “Blimey, I’ve been caught!” in response to your little skit. 

Seeing him blush and flustered has you grinning (not that anyone could blame you, it really is a cute sight). Taking your chance, you decide to tease him a bit more. Opting for light nudges of your elbow and soft kisses all over his face. This, of course, did nothing to ease the red spilling all over his cheeks. If anything it painted more colors on his face. 

Once the teasing died down, you decided to maybe be a bit more heartfelt. After all, he did prepare for your date and put in so much effort to learn these facts and information. 

“I might not say this enough but I absolutely appreciate you putting this much effort into our dates… maybe I have not been vocal enough  about these things but I hope you know I really do appreciate you doing this and… I love you,” you mumbled a tad bit quieter than you usually would. You’re even caught sporting a light blush of your own despite you trying your best to keep a nonchalant front. This isn’t your first time telling him you love him but, still, being so heartfelt like this has you blushing.

Megumi smiled at his usually unbothered girlfriend being so, well, bothered. 

Wrapping his hands around your waist, he goes to give you a small peck on the crown of your head before leaning in a bit more to whisper his confession. 

I love you!

Yet the words did not seem to tumble out. Although a bit disappointed in his lack of confidence, Megumi recovered quickly and instead leaned in for a sweet kiss. 

I wonder if fishes have confessions too?

“Megumi look! They’re so pretty,” you exclaimed excitedly as you pointed at a jellyfish swimming past. Megumi nods in agreement though he is honestly paying more attention to you than the exhibit.

Megumi has taken it upon himself to set up another good date  to confess on. Truth be told, he’s had far too many nightmare-ish thoughts about his recent failures in confessing and how he’ll never be able to say it. So, to take action, Megumi decides to take you on another date. This time he decided that maybe visiting an aquarium would be fun!

He is sorely mistaken, unfortunately.

As you continue to walk through the exhibit, you fail to notice Megumi lagging a bit behind you in the aquarium tunnel. Your attention was so fixated by the fishes swimming over your head and on each of your sides, that you missed the sight of your boyfriend darkly muttering (and struggling) on his confession script. 

Or so he thought...

“Honestly, why can’t I just be a fish-”

“Why would you want to be a fish though?” you asked as you leaned in towards him. 

Megumi’s eyes widen in surprise at your sudden intrusion. Megumi supposes that he’s been too lost to the world. He shook his head and just muttered a quiet “never mind”. 

The day continued as you enjoyed your day. You feast your eyes on magnificent sea creatures both great and small; you can’t help but awe at them as a child would. Not that Megumi minded, he thinks you look absolutely adorable when you coo at the sharks or clap at the seals when they would do a trick. However, Megumi couldn’t say he’s enjoying today as much because he continued to struggle with his little confession script, either chickening out at the last minute or completely missing the perfect timing. 

By the end of the day, Megumi decided enough is enough. Under the dim lights of the empty “deep sea” sector of the zoo, Megumi closed his eyes and steeled himself. Summoning every bit of courage he had within him, he blurted out his confession. It was a bit aggressive and loud, perhaps even a bit rushed. 

But he did it-

-not.

Megumi opened his eyes, to be greeted not by your soft smile. It wasn’t even your frown. Instead, he was greeted by a fish staring directly at him through the aquarium glass. It seems to be mocking him, almost. And as for you, you were already at the other side of the area, lining up to pay for a souvenir that caught your eyes. 

Ugh, why can’t he just be a fish and blow bubbles at you to show his love? 

Wine is a  poetic mood-setter, right?

Although tired and defeated by his numerous failed attempts, Megumi is not one to give up. This is especially true when it comes to you. So, if one plan fails then best be known he is already running back to the drawing board to come up with a new one.

This time around Megumi decided to pull up on all the stops. Sparing no expense, he reserved a table at one of the city’s most high-end restaurants. I mean what could be more romantic than a late-night wine-and-dine?

To Megumi it’s not the pricey menus that are troubling, nor is it the number of strings he had to pull to get the reservation. Nope. What’s troubling him is the confession he is secretly building up to. You see, it’s been a good handful of months since Megumi came to the realization that he absolutely adores you. 

He loves you.

Yet, somehow, saying it out loud is a whole different league than thinking and coming to terms with it. Something about admitting it and posing vulnerable seems so jarring to him. Of course, you’ve never given him any reason to fear being honest with you. He supposes that if anything were to cause him to be this certain way, then it’s probably the lack of touchy-feely emotions in his childhood. That aside, Megumi is still as determined as ever to tell you that he loves you. This brings us to the current situation. 

Megumi is seated opposite of you, decked in his slickest suit and tie. You had admitted that he looks ridiculously good in his outfit before the dinner (he blushes at the comment). Naturally, you were also in a rather stunning number yourself, with the scandalous-looking outfit only you could possibly pull off. 

As much as Megumi would love to just admire you and enjoy the amazing atmosphere, he has other things currently occupying his head. At first glance, you might’ve thought that he was flustered by your choice of outfit for the night if you didn’t know any better. This is, of course, one of the reasons why Megumi was a bit dazed but sadly that’s not the only reason why. 

You didn’t really connect the dots right away. There are a bunch of little crumbs and pieces that could’ve contributed to Megumi’s flustered and jumpy attitude in this particular evening but nothing defining. 

The evening progressed and more telltale signs showed themselves to you. You could honestly write a meter-long list but to keep it concise, the things you have noticed include Megumi’s inability to look you directly in the eye, the rather incessant twiddling of his thumbs, the stutter that accompanied his usually leveled voice, and finally (and the most telling) is his avoidance of the word “love”. 

Of course, it could all be a coincidence but you think not. Although you didn’t do much to garner his “suspicion”, you’re not daft nor were you ignorant. You knew of his struggles in dropping a particular “L” word. You had honestly known for a while. It’s not that you were a psychic or anything of that sort, it was actually because Megumi had not been the most secretive of his plans. You suppose he intended for it to be a “hush-hush” plan but unfortunately for Megumi, he had a tendency to think out loud when stressed. 

Though you were originally planning to let Megumi off the hook and let him figure things out on his own, you decided that leaving him to wallow on his own is doing more harm than good. So when Megumi choked rather aggressively at his pasta when you said the word “love”, you chose to bring up the topic. 

“So, when are you gonna tell me what’s been cooking up in that head of yours… hmm?”

Megumi’s eyes widened at the question you’ve just asked, though it seems more like a prompt than a question. Megumi looked down to his lap for a second before facing you again, this time sporting an embarrassed flush on his cheeks. 

Megumi struggled to confess before letting out a defeated sigh and a small apology. This caused you to shake your head, not in a dismissive way but in a way to tell him that there’s nothing to be sorry for. 

“Megumi, I know you know I know so I’ll just say it outright,” you huffed before continuing, “I love you’s aren’t something you can or should force out. I’ve said it to you on countless accounts because it comes naturally to me, love. I’m sorry if I’ve ever made you feel cornered into saying it but please know that I don’t mind you taking your time, ok?”

Your little speech was met with a relieved sigh and soon followed by a laugh. You look up to see Megumi’s genuine grin in place, you can’t help but smile at the endearing sight. 

“Ahh, I should’ve known not to stress over these kinds of things when it’s with you, huh? Thanks. I’ll definitely take my time with it.” 

You nodded in agreement at his newfound determination. As much as you wanted to hear those three words tumble out of his lips and uttered to you, you knew better than to rush him into it. And besides, hearing it in full sincerity will definitely be better than hearing a rushed one. With all that said, you and Megumi enjoyed the rest of the evening with wine glasses raised and the air filled with happy chatters and laughs. 

And I thought it was difficult, huh?

A streak of light shone through the gaps in the curtains, making it known to you that it is time to get up already. Or, at least, it would be time to get up had it been a weekday. Thankfully, however, it is the weekend so you can take your time in getting up. While your boyfriend slept soundly beside you, his hand draped loosely over your figure, you can’t help but admire his features. As you did so, thoughts on what happened a while back popped into your head. 

 It’s been a few months since your last dinner date with Megumi and things have calmed down quite a bit. Although Megumi still feels a twinge of guilt from his lack of response whenever you whisper an “I love you”, he does remember your take on this situation, and those few words you spared have done immense work in calming him down. 

As you continue to reminisce on the events that have transpired in the last few months, you failed to notice Megumi stirring awake beside you. You only notice that he’s awake when he’s poking your cheek, asking, no, demanding petulantly for his morning kisses. 

Deciding to tease him a bit while he’s still in his morning daze, you uttered, “Sorry, love. Morning breath.” You went as far as sniffing at his general direction and fanning your hands over your nose and scrunched your nose up in fake disgust. 

Still in a sleepy stupor, Megumi pouts at you and goes to get out of bed. You decide to let your curiosity win and end up following your boyfriend to the bathroom, the cold linoleum tiles doing wonders in waking the two of you up immediately. 

Though he is now much more awake now than a few minutes ago, it didn’t dampen his pout one bit. With the handle of his toothbrush hanging out of his mouth, Megumi babbled on about how his day is now ruined because you wouldn’t let him start it off with a kiss. You only giggled in response, your own toothbrush poking out of your lips. 

Being the menace that you are, you decided to playfully smear Megumi’s face with some toothpaste foam. One thing led to another and soon you two are on the bathroom floor laughing aloud. Somehow his laugh and expressions egged yours on and yours did his which caused a new bout of laughter to erupt every time you’d both fall silent. It went on like this for quite some time but neither of you minded it one bit.  

Now that the laughter has died down a bit, you both exchanged mini banters here and there, still seated on the floor with both your shoulders touching; with toothpaste in your hair and on his cheek. As you giggled at a particular joke Megumi muttered, he felt that odd feeling in his heart again, just like the time in the park and all those other dates he stressed over but this time, before he could stop it, he whispered…

“I love you.”

Your laughter immediately ceased only to be replaced by the happiest grin you’ve ever mustered. With new buzzing energy coursing through you, you tackled Megumi into a hug which effectively knocked the two of you down to the ground but neither you nor Megumi minded.

With his newfound confidence, Megumi repeated the foreign sentence over and over again as if he’s testing it out. He finds that he likes saying it. 

He likes it because your smile widens a bit more when he says it. 

He likes it because you’d give him kisses whenever he says it.

And he absolutely loves it because you’d always say it back to him.

With a wobbly and lovesick grin, Megumi says it one more time for good measure. 

“I love you.” 

a.n. I did not really proofread this bcs I had classes today and it KO'd me :"(

Hope you liked it!

[its-warm-in-here]

Grilled Cheese

In which V and Johnny grill a cheese. 1970 words!

“Grilled cheese.” 

This does not pull V from her feed. She ignores the engram, a practice she was getting pretty good at, and scrolls through the net. Silverhand was getting... a bit too familiar in her skull. Lingering where he wasn’t wanted, interjecting nasty comments about, pretty much, everything. Now, he’s lounged out on her mattress just around the corner, one leg hanging off the bed, fingers tapping to some unheard beat against the plastic frame. V turns the K-Techno song up a notch and clicks to the next page on the feed. Oooh, Panam and Mitch will be in town this weekend, good to know. 

After a moment, he speaks again. “Think you can manage that?” 

Huffing, she pulled away from the net, spinning the chair around, and peered out into the little apartment.  “Manage what?” 

“A grilled cheese,” Johnny asks again, more to the ceiling, than to her. “Even a gonk like you has a hot plate. Bread’s still a thing in NC?”

That makes her short circuit. Who the hell needed a hot plate anymore? She’d just stocked up the vendor in her apartment, there were sandwiches included in her latest package, why the hell would she need a hot plate? And where the hell would she even keep it? The little apartment in Watson wasn’t outfitted with a counter, let alone a kitchen.  “Yeah, it is. But, uh, no. I don’t.” 

Johnny leans around the little wall separating them in disbelief, before glitching in and out of existence to dwell mournfully in the doorway to her computer space. “There’s more use to a hot plate than just cooking V. Its an essential part of any grifter’s apartment. What, next you’ll tell me you don’t have a pan either? Feed me any more of that ‘sashimi’ crap and I’ll puke.” 

Her mouth goes dry. Sure, some folks in Night City knew how to cook. V would kill for a pot of Mama Wells’ pozole, and the jambalaya that River and his sister had served was preem. But cooking was reserved for those in luxury or for those too impoverished to afford the instant foods that Night City had on offer. V was neither. 

Reading her face (and mind), Johnny hung his head, “Sad, V.”

Scowling, she turns back to the screen, “Like you’ve ever cooked a single thing in your fucking life. Probably had your groupies do it. Entitled prick like you probably threw a fit if they got you wheat bread instead of rye.”  V says the words like she knows what they mean. Most of the bread Night City had on offer was the foamy tasting white stuff that either went stale immediately after opening or it lasted wayyy past the expiration date making one wonder if the bread had taken on some form of sentients before it was tossed into the bin. 

“Maybe,” he admits, disappearing from view, then glitching back so he’s partway between V and her screen, “It came with the lifestyle. But even I could handle myself with something this basic. Bread, a smear of butter and slices of pepperjack and sharp cheddar? Cooked over high heat, till the bread’s charred and cheese is molten like a volcano. Hell, mouth’s drooling just thinking about it.” 

And it is. V can't even recall when, if ever, she’d ever had a grilled cheese sandwich, but Johnny sure the hell can. She can almost taste the savory crunch, the stretch of melted cheese on the back of her tongue. Johnny’s mouth turns up at the memory. “You’re not letting this go, are you?” 

He shakes his head, grin taking hold, “It's not like I'm even asking for a smoke this time.” Johnny leans against her desk, getting in close and making her optics fragment. “Come on, V. What do you say?”

---

It's raining in Night City when she finally decides to track this down. The electrically charged sky was grey, blotting out holograms that hung in the air and for once the stench of Dogtown didn't reach her nose. On her way back from a gig from Mr. Hands, V spots a pawn shop sporting a slew of old tech. Most of its junk: tape decks, out of date processing units, instruments that needed to be tuned up, but there's a handful of kitchen gadgets. Finding a glass hot plate with the proper hook up wasn’t too hard and there was even a frying pan for a reasonable price. She hits up Tom’s Diner to bum the rest of the supplies. The ingredients are hardly anything  but he had several types of cheese on hand, so it’ll have to do. 

Shaking the water from her jacket, V shrugs it off, draping it at the entrance of her little apartment, before setting the hot plate up on her coffee table and setting it to medium heat. She then turns to the mirror, stripping off her waterlogged eyeliner before returning to the couch. Johnny was already in his normal spot, one leg crossed over the other, brown eyes hidden behind aviators to hide the judgment in his stare. It didn't work. “Couldn't even spring for the good shit?”

“It's grilled cheese. Not yellowfin tuna,” she fires back, smearing the butter on the almost stale bread. “Now walk me through this.” 

“Never had to cook for yourself?” Johnny muses, leaning forward to observe her amature technique of peeling neon orange cheese from the sleeve of plastic. 

V scowles at him and plops the bread onto the pan with a sizzle. “If I burn this shit, it’ll be your fault.” At that, Johnny scoots closer so he’s leaning over her shoulder. The engram isn't really there, but the hoops her brain jumps through to make sense of another being residing in it certainly makes him feel real. She can feel the air move to make space for the rockerboy, the brush of his chrome shoulder against hers.

“Put three slices on,” he insists, making her unwrap another. “Now the other one.” Following his instructions, she places the other buttered piece atop the cheese.

“Think I'm good to flip it?”

“Don’t rush it,” Johnny says. It shouldn't be this easy to slip into domesticity with the engram, but it feels natural. Like they fit together. He nods at her, she jiggles the pan, freeing the crisped bread from the non-stick surface then uses a wrist flick to knock the sandwich into the air. It hangs there for a moment and for a split second, a burst of panic shoots through her at the thought that it couldn't complete the turn and come crashing back down into a sloppy, burney mess. But the sandwich lands with a satisfying plop. The cooked side is a crispy golden and cheese is starting to melt out the sides. 

“Smells great.” 

There's a swell of pride in her chest at his words. “Don’t say anything till I’m done. Could still burn it.” 

“It’s better burned. Gives it some flavor. Kicks it up a notch.” 

Neither speaks for a moment, she doesn't even bother turning the TV on. Instead opting to observe the bread, just in case it burst into flames. There is a little smoke from the cheese melting but it's not ruined yet. She moved the pan again, making sure it does not stick. V knew very little about cooking, but if this came out alright, maybe it was something she could actually get good at. Using a fork, she lifts to check. 

“Well? Does the curtain match the drapes?” He is always so crass. 

V makes a face. “That does not even make sense. But, yeah, its done.” She slides the bread onto a paper plate before finally relaxing back. The  sandwich is too hot yet and V flicks on the tv. Zoning out. There’s nothing on TV, but it's kind of nice. Just chilling at home, no pressing missions, just waiting on a call from Reed. She curls her legs under her and leans her cheek against the low back of the couch. If Johnny had any real mass to him, she’d be resting against his shoulder. He’s stretched out, one arm slung over the couch, a boot resting on her coffee table as he has a pre-emptive ghost cigarette. There’s no real smoke, but the memory of the nicotine stings her nose. 

After a moment, she slides the paper plate closer, testing the heat with her fingers before biting down into the cheap meal. The bread is crunchy, the char covering any staleness, and the cheese has a salty, funky, melty flavor. Not too bad for her first pass. She hums, satisfied. 

“Any good?” Johnny presses. 

It’ll be a good few minutes before her brain relays the taste to him. She nods, wishing she could just pass him the sandwich. ��Not half bad.” She takes another bite, the smell of charred sandwich mixing with the acrid smell of his cigarette. “Ask nicely and maybe I’ll make another some time.” Johnny lets a single laugh resonate in his chest. Damn, she loved that sound. Not that she’d ever tell Johnny that. 

Hell, he probably already knew. 

V is about half way through the meal and Johnny is done with his cigarette, but the smoke smell continues to hang in the air. If anything, it's getting worse. There's a haze. V glances again at the engram, nope, he hadn't lit up another. So where was---?

Above, the holo screens flash red and an alarm blares through the apartment. “FIRE. IMMEDIATELY EXIT THE APARTMENT. FIRE.” The screens show a dramatized version of her little apartment with directions on how to exit with little anime chickens on fire darting around the edges. 

She crushed her palms over her ears, eyes wildly darting around the apartment before landing on the smoldering pan on the still very hot hotplate. The residue of melted cheese and breadcrumbs had transformed into a ball of carbon and smoke, the little plastic fort she’s used in improvised spatula had begun to liquify and seal onto the pan, setting off the oversensitive fire system. “Shit, shit, shit!” Leaping to action, V grabs the pan by the handle, drops it into the bathroom sink and turns on the water. It vaporizes to steam the moment it hits the pan, ruining it, but the water stops it from smoking. If she didn't get this smoke out now, the sprinkler system would trip any second. She punches the button to open the windows and, using the pillow from her bed, she stands on her tiptoes and waves it back and forth, forcing the air to circulate. Johnny’s laughter cuts through the alarms, as he watches her scramble.  Scorn zips through her, but she does not have time to express her contempt. The air is moving through the apartment though, and after minutes of waving her arms like a gonk, the alarm finally turns off and her screens return to their stream of content. She drops back onto the couch, groaning and drapes her forearm over her eyes. V sinks low, catching her breath. 

“Smooth one, V.” 

Before he can add any more to that sentence, she cuts him off with her middle finger. “Not another fucking word, Silverhand.” He keeps his mouth shut and she risks glancing at him. If Johnny didn't look stoic or broody, he was smug. And this is the smuggest she’d ever seen the rockerboy. “What?”

Johnny’s brown eyes go between her and the half eaten grilled cheese on the table. “Gonna finish that?” 

V growles, grabs the sandwich and throws it at him. The bread phases right through, probably making a mess of her couch. He flips her off in turn, laughs then glitches away to some spot at the edge of her brain and out of sight. 

Asshole.  

[sandcobangevent]

Conjecture

by @subtlehysteria and @shinymoonforest

Sitting. Thinking.

Detective Holmes scrolled through his phone while eating a bowl of cereal, comparing details on his screen to printed-out photos in front of him. Their current case had captured him and Doctor Watson as of late, the puzzling details excited Sherlock’s mind and made him slightly more fixated than normal. Not that John or Mariana minded, of course. They knew how he was with his fixations; the three had been operating together for quite some time now, having just celebrated their first podcast anniversary last October.

Which made John’s smile and bright energy, albeit a bit higher than the norm, seem all the more perfectly ordinary to Sherlock. That smile, the little stretch, and scratch at his scruff, humming a tune as he brushed his teeth… Little details were not noticed by all but taken in each and every morning by the detective, who admired these quirky traits of the doctor. His doctor.

“Goooood morning, Sherlock~!”

Watson’s cheery tune, continuing for a few moments even after his morning bathroom routine, brought a smile to Sherlock’s face.

“Good morning to you too, Watson. Feeling chipper today?”

“Indeed I am, hmhmHMhmm~! Quite a lovely day, isn’t it?”

Despite seemingly looking for something for a few moments, whatever curious thoughts John may have been having were interrupted by Archie running up to his owner, tail wagging and all. Sherlock, deducting that he had been looking for his dog, given the positive reaction and lack of follow-up, dismissed any thoughts of worry over John’s brief flash of confusion.

“Lovely indeed, Watson. Lovely and jubbly indeed.”

Or… what he assumed was confusion, anyway. Sherlock was never the best at reading emotions.

The morning went along quietly, peacefully, just the two of them (and Archie) enjoying the moment, talking briefly about the case when the detective muttered something to himself but otherwise focusing more on their respective meals. Until--

“Wh--? Sherlock?”

“Market, Watson. Now.”

The doctor seemed to perk up at Sherlock’s sudden jolt out of his chair, the choice of words… Quickly following behind, microphone in hand, he grabbed his coat and made sure Archie was alright before closing the door behind the two of them.

“Oh-! Good morning you two, how did you sleep?”

“Fine, talk later.” 

While the detective’s grin and mindset were focused on the papers he held, doing his best to rush down the stairs as his mind fired off deductions, John lingered for a few moments to answer Mariana’s greeting question.

“Ah, morning Mariana! I slept quite alright, as did Sherlock it seems with how adamant he is to-”

“WATSON!”

“BE THERE IN A MOMENT!” He sighed as she laughed at the two’s interaction, rolling his eyes a bit at the insistence (and quite frankly impatience) that he had to deal with. Then again, however, this is what he signed up for, in some sense… 

Especially now that the two were partners.

“S-Ssorry-;;”

“It’s fine, John. Go, you two have fun, yes?”

“We will, we will!”

Down the stairs went Doctor Watson, legs moving a bit swifter today due to his lack of bodily pains. What a wonderful day it was indeed, sleeping well AND not being forced to use his cane! How joyous! It brought a smile to his face, just as more of Mariana’s yelling did upon reaching the staircase’s bottom.

“Don’t forget to be back for dinner!!”

“We won’t!!”

“Took you long enough.”

“Well, you can’t just brush past someone when they're trying to talk to you, mate. I was only being polite, you know--”

“Car. Now.”

“Alright, alright, I’ll get in! Jesus, heh-!”

-

“Care to explain why we’re at the market again?”

The doctor, struggling to keep up with his detective, tried to keep his voice at a reasonable volume amongst the crowd and chatter. He was surprised Sherlock had wanted to go to the popup market at all, honestly, even if it was for a case. An odd side effect of those fixations, he assumed. “The assailants that rushed her through this very marketplace, she didn’t remember much of their appearances, yes? Rather, she remembered their clothes instead, the logo in particular. A logo that matches one of the stalls that is always in the same spot.”

“Same spot?? Mate--” John groaned, raising his speed to keep up with the current leader of their duo, who was now running. Excited, seemingly, according to past instances like this one. “Sherlock, it’s called a pop-up for a reason, it doesn’t reappear-!”

“Most don’t reappear, yes Watson, you’re correct. Certain stalls, however, tend to come back year after year holding essentials for all guests. These stalls keep their setup within a general area for easy access, such as first aid, event assistance, and-”

“Concessions-!”

And right as he finished the other’s sentence, a spark lighting up in both their eyes, there it was: one of the concessions stand, with its logo matching the client’s description and hints of a path visible behind the stall itself.

“Bingo.”

Instead of an immediate response, however, the doctor seemed… on edge. Looking around, distracted, as if looking for something in particular. Watson had been this way just about all day, looking around at different items, sweets, and the like. He had been doing so the past few days, too, so it couldn’t have just been hunger…

Was it something he wanted? Was he simply getting distracted? Did the case bore him?

Sherlock, although curious as to what it could be, put these thoughts in the back of his mind for now. He had to continue the current train of thought, lest new ideas and deductions concerning the case fall upon deaf ears.

“Watson? Were you-”

“Mmh? Oh-!! Yeah- Yeah, I saw, sorry-- Just- I just thought I.. saw something, is all.”

“You… thought you saw something?”

“Mhm- B-But -- But it’s nothing you need to worry about, I--”

“Right, something for you to explain later, should you remember. Back to the case, yes?”

The podcaster’s face, albeit scrunched up and… odd-looking (Confused? Disbelief? What was this expression…?), relaxed after a few moments of resignation and a slow, hesitant nod.

“...Yeah,” sighed Watson, forcing a small smile as the two walked into the alleyway. Smiling while letting the darkness embrace him and his partner in anticipation of the new clues to be discovered. “Yeah, alright, back to the case..”

“Excellent! Let's hop to it,’ Watson! The game is afoot!”

“Pff-- You already said that when we started it- Oii, Sherlock! Wait up!”

“I can say it again can’t I? The game is afoot! The game!! Is!! Afoot!!”

“BaahAAHAHAAhh-!! Sherloooock!”

-

It had been quite a fascinating day, truly. New clues found in the market had led the crime-solving duo to grow closer and closer to solving this case. Each step towards the solution simultaneously allowed Sherlock to make new deductions and keep him stimulated enough to still be solving the case. A rare feat, in some cases, and yet even with this exciting new information, John still seemed on edge.

Skittish, uncertain, distracted… It was almost as if he didn’t care for the case at all. Which, logically, Sherlock knew not to be true. They were both quite invested when it started, after all, it was just the past couple of days that his partner had seemed distracted. But why now…?

Perhaps he would look into things after dinner. Despite simply wanting to order food and continue work on the case remotely, John had insisted on making it home in time for Mariana’s dinner to be ready. Unfavorable at first, with how fixated the detective was on solving the case, but he couldn’t exactly deny Ms. Hudson’s food, either.

That same expression from earlier snuck its way onto the doctor’s face again, somewhat expectant of… something, and the look fading into resignation upon not finding it. The hard-to-read facial feelings were soon eased, however, by Archie happily welcoming his owner home with barks and ecstatic tail wags, followed by a hug from Mariana.

“Everything alright today?”

“Ahh, yep, just- just found some new details on those crooks that chased the client.”

“Quite peculiar details, in fact, and ones that have opened a window of different pathways that 

this case could go down. Fascinating, really, how-”

“Alllllright there, Master Detective, let’s save the details for a few seconds so I can get you and the birthday boy some food. I was able to find a recipe for the dish you showed me last week, John! I… don’t know how accurate it is, but I did my best to follow the recipe.”

…Oh. Oh God.

“Awwe, really? You shouldn’t have, Mariana, that’s so sweet..!”

Tuning out the two’s conversation temporarily, Sherlock checked his phone with an expression of concern, thoughts beginning to race once more as theory became reality.

He couldn’t believe it. He forgot. He forgot.

It was May 22nd. John’s birthday. 

And he, Sherlock Holmes - his boyfriend - had completely lost track of that fact. 

How could he have been so foolish, with the signs right in front of him? The looking for treats, expecting a surprise around the corner, not getting even so much as a greeting from his own darling first thing in the morning? No wonder John was acting so strangely, he thought Sherlock didn’t care about his birthday. Even though, especially with how particular he was about holiday planning, Sherlock did care. He cared very much in fact, more so now that he felt that he had been a bad partner by letting down Watson on this important occasion. 

What to do, what to do…

These thoughts ate at the detective throughout dinner, resulting in him being abnormally quiet. He expressed that he was thinking upon being asked, but did not specify what exactly, allowing John and Mariana to continue their conversation.

After the meal was over - one of Watson’s favorite meals, in fact - Sherlock made sure John was elsewhere in the flat before pulling Mariana to the side. From there, he explained the situation, how he had gotten so fixated on the current case that he, foolishly, had completely forgotten Watson’s birthday. How he desperately wanted to do something, anything he could to make up for this fact, but with many shops closed for the night, he wasn’t sure what to do. 

Mariana, however, did.

“John?” she called out, leaving Sherlock to pace around the dining table. “Did you want to come with me to the store real quick? I swear I put the lighter for the candles in one of the drawers, but I can’t find it anywhere-”

“Hmm? Oh- ahh, yeah! Yeah, sure, I’ll just grab my cane- Sherlock, love, did you-” “Thinking.”

“..Oh- Ahh- Alright, then, we’ll see you when we get back! Make sure Archie doesn’t try and get to the cake!”

And then, with the birthday man ushered out by a smirking Miss Hudson, Sherlock was alone. Alone and free to begin his plan to give John a proper birthday party. …Even if it was just the three of them. And Archie.

Rummaging through a box of holiday supplies mentioned mere moments ago, Sherlock began to take things out at seemingly random as his thoughts raced almost as fast as they would with the earlier case. Almost. 

What mattered was that it was enough to figure out a quick plan with the limited supplies he had to, hopefully, get everything situated by the time Mariana and John returned.

…Or “Jonk” rather, as the cake said. Miss Hudson did quite the job of making said cake, he had to admit.

…

A knock at the door.

“Sherlock? Are you ready in there?”

The sudden noise, an interruption to the detective’s thought process, caused a bit of stumbling as final adjustments were made. Was it the best Sherlock could have done? No, of course not; he’d want to plan and execute much more properly and fitting for someone as important as John Watson. Everything was measured precisely, planned, and executed without the last-minute rushing to make sure the room felt perfectly balanced.

“Yes, Miss Hudsons. Everything is… as ready as it can be.”

“Perfect! Oh- Here he comes-”

But alas, Sherlock did not have that privilege at the moment, so this would have to do. Now, what to do when the two came in… Should he hide? No, no, he wouldn’t want to scare Watson; the detective himself would hate if anyone did that to him, anyway. Perhaps simply… stand and gesture? Yes, Yes that could work…

“pFFf-- What are you covering my eyes for, Mariana?” “You’ll see, you’ll see… Sherlock, can you open the door?”A nod as he quickly shuffled to the door, even if none were around to witness it said motion. As soon as the two were safely situated, he closed and locked 221B, got into position, and…

“Surprise!...” Sherlock stood next to the couch table, spreading his arms to gesture at the decorations he had set up. 

Fairy lights with dangling balloons underneath them had been set up across one wall, their soft glow adding a welcoming feeling to the scene. Streamers of all sorts of colors hung from the light above Mr. Holmes, adding color to the ceiling. On hand-cut pieces of yellow paper were the little banners strung over a poster above the flat’s fireplace, each one having a letter written in marker that spelled out “HAPPY BIRTHDAY.” Next to the fireplace was the flat’s plant with a party hat placed on top of it, and spare paper streamers wrapped around its leaves. On the couch table itself was a nicely wrapped gift and a cake, which was complete with an additional frosting border along the edges, the word “JONK” written along the front, and the appropriate candles - the numbers 3 and 6 - lit and standing tall. While, yes, the flat didn’t have a communal lighter, Sherlock was able to use his own after he had ensured the cake was properly positioned.

John didn’t say much at first, mouth agape in shock, causing both Mariana and his dear detective to wait in anticipation for any sort of reaction. 

But then, he just… smiled.

A big, warm, sparkly-eyed smile that they all knew perfectly well meant that he was truly, truly happy. That and a small chuckle, of course, from finally processing that the cake said “JONK” instead of “JOHN.” A joke amongst his fans, in the Discord and otherwise.

“Y-You guys… Thank you, really.” The doctor stifled a tear, letting a sniffle take its place.

“Of course, John, but I can’t take all the credit here, you know.”

“You-! Sherlock, did you do all of this?” “Of course, Watson,” he started, finally letting his arms rest in their typical dinosaur-esq position. “I… admittedly, did forget about today being your birthday, dear, and I am very, very sorry about forgetting such an important event due to being so hyper-fixated on our current case. As such, I requested Miss Hudson’s assistance in removing you from the flat for a suitable amount of time to allow me to decorate.-”

Watson’s smile only grew as Holmes talked more and more, slowly getting closer with the help of his cane until he was able to pull the taller of the two into a kiss. Sherlock was a bit surprised by this motion, at first, but it certainly wasn’t unwelcome. The exchange only lasted a few moments, however, before transitioning into a simple hug. Mariana joined in, not afraid to show her smug smile from seeing the two express their rapport moments ago.

“God-- God you both are bloody wonderful…”

“Only the best for you, John…Happy birthday, by the way. I love you, and I apologize for not saying so earlier.”

“HahAah! It’s fine, dear, honestly- If there’s one thing I’ve learned from living with you, it’s that you always mean well one way or another. Oh-! And I love you too, by the way.”

“You could say that again… Now, let’s get into this cake.”

“Let’s.”

“A little party and everything,” hummed John, leaning on Sherlock a bit as the three took their spots on the couch; John sat in the center, Mariana on his left, and Sherlock on his right. Archie, despite trying to come up and sit with the trio, was encouraged to stay down lest he try and eat some of the cake.

“Of course, Watson. You deserve nothing but the best on a day like today.”

“Awee, Sherlock…”

Another kiss on the cheek from his doctor, another victory for Sherlock Holmes.

“Thank you, both of you. This is… honestly, the best birthday present I could ask for. Just… Just  a happy night with some of the people I care for the most.”

“...I’m glad you like it, John.”

As Sherlock reciprocated John’s lean with one of his own, Mariana began to sing, soon followed by the party’s decorator after he had picked up on the cue. Applause and little barks soon sounded within the jovial walls of 221B Baker Street, ones that would not be soon forgotten.

A memory cherished, untainted by the fickle conditions of the mind and its structure.

A memory of family.

[vynegar]

Any guesses how will global translate Vyn explaining how he came up with his name instead of using Mo Yi? 🤔

i've been thinking about this ever since reading the card!! i don't envy the translators at all and this is one of those moments where i'm really glad this is just fan stuff and i can use footnotes as much as as i want xD the explanation he gives is based entirely on the meaning of the character Yi (弈), so yeah...

the best guess i have right now is saying that the letters in his name Vyn represent something; either V (only word coming to mind rn that connects to the original explanation is "irreVersible"... or bc the letter looks like a fork in the road, and Vyn was deciding his future at the time) or Y (i guess you could even stretch it to the original "Yi", or it could be a reminder "Why" he became a psychiatrist, or also a fork in the road...?) i do think the letter "y" in his name stands out as the greatest deviation from his existing name (Vilhelm) and has some more potential for reasoning

can you imagine if they just didn't try to adapt it at all. Luke Threads of Time "What do you think of 'Peanut'? It's a good match for 'Watson', isn't it?" 🥴

[holmesxwatson]

The Television Sherlock Holmes by Peter Haining

[The Television Sherlock Holmes by Peter Haining, hardcover 1986.] (x)

I found a used, hardcover copy of this beautiful book with special thanks to one of the previous owners who lovingly wrapped it in a dustjacket, it's in really great shape! It's coffee-table size with lots of info on the history of Sherlock Holmes adaptations on stage, screen and tv, with tons of behind the scenes stuff on the Granada production. There's a foreward by Jeremy Brett and two afterwords by David Burke and Edward Hardwicke. It also includes a 15-page interview with Jeremy Brett that took place during the filming of an episode. Here's a pdf of the table of contents, in case you have your eye on a copy, but want to know what you're getting first. It looks like there were a few subsequent editions with different covers to coincide with later seasons as well.

Excerpt from the interview with Jeremy Brett included in The Television Sherlock Holmes:

"‘But the most important thing of all I discovered was the relationship with Watson. He wasn't the doddering plodder following behind as is so often shown. He had the compassion to stay with Holmes, picking him up. It is one of the great friendships of literature.’

Jeremy's understanding of this relationship undoubtedly started when he played Watson in 1981 in The Crucifer of Blood. ‘If you look at it from Watson's side, Holmes emerges as about the loneliest man in literature,’ he said.

‘Really, Watson is much more my kind of part than Holmes – Holmes is a big stretch. I don't like working alone. I'm not a one-man band, so when I took on Holmes I came to rely on Watson as much as I could without bending the willow.’

'Holmes is a very private man, a tragic genius. But Watson has his friends and his surgery. He's not a dull man, he's an ordinary, good man of great compassion, warmth and consideration. He's a gentleman. Everybody would like a friend like Watson.’

‘The relationship between them is terribly British. Holmes has a great deal of trouble saying such simple things as "Help!", “Thank you” and "I'd be lost without you". Watson sees beyond that. He's fascinated by Holmes and his intuitive leaps. And he realizes that if he stays away from Holmes for too long the man will overdose.’

'Yes, there is no doubt in my mind that it is Holmes who needs Watson and not the other way round. I didn't see any of that in the earlier films, nor did I see anything of the vulnerability of Holmes. So that's why I set out right from the beginning to show the insecurity and to explore the amazing friendship between those two men.'

Jeremy's evident understanding of both sides of this partnership helped me fit another piece into the jig-saw of how he has achieved his outstanding performance as Holmes. This also seemed like a suitable moment to discuss the two men who had partnered him as Watson, David Burke and Edward Hardwicke.

Jeremy's face broke into a smile at the mention of David Burke's name. 'We made a very good odd couple,' he chuckled throatily. 'Of course it was a terrific gamble that we would be able to work together, that we would see our parts in a compatible way. But in fact there was no cause to worry because we soon found we got on so well.’

‘David is debonair with an attractiveness about him that proved to be unusual and appealing in a Watson. That was a real bonus and helped to break the traditional mould,' Jeremy added.

Just as Jeremy's Holmes had thrown a whole new perspective on the detective, so David Burke's Watson had shattered the old image of the bumbling and rather comic doctor. How did he feel, though, when David decided against making The Return of Sherlock Holmes.

‘I was very sorry, naturally.' Jeremy stretched his lean frame further out from the chair and contemplated the fireplace. ‘But being an actor I quite understood. And if it had to happen, that was the right time between Holmes’ disappearance in The Final Problem and his reappearance three years later in The Empty House. Looking back, I think the change has been very useful.'

Jeremy closes his eyes for a moment as if selecting his next words carefully. ‘The thing is,’ he says after a pause, ‘if you work together with the same person it becomes almost like a marriage. However fresh you try to be on a day-to-day basis it becomes a known way. So for me the change of Watsons was like a breath of fresh air, a shot of adrenalin in the arm.’

Whether Jeremy had intended the pun or not, his face remains unchanged as he continues. ‘What happened was a chemical change – and it is a chemical change – of a new person adding a new element to the friendship. Remember that three years have passed since the two men last met, so things have happened to them both which enabled us to restart the friendship at a different angle.’

‘It was revitalizing for me, though not easy for Edward. But he is an immensely sensitive person and a brilliant actor so it really did not take us long to find our way into a new relationship.’

‘I have this feeling that The Return of Sherlock Holmes is better even than the first 13 stories. I can't quite tell you why that is – It is to do with some shift of emphasis, some confidence, some chemistry between Edward and me. But there is definitely something.'

Jeremy has clearly been re-charged not only by this change, but others that have taken place during the series. ‘You can so easily fall into a kind of complacency if things don't change,’ he went on. ‘It's something to do with the human animal. So I have enjoyed new directors, new actors in guest roles, even a new lighting cameraman or technician joining the team. On a long series you become terribly aware of new faces, but if you are trying to continue being creative then you need them, for each new face brings in new ideas. All the time the format is changing ever so slightly and that is terribly important, I think.’

I found Jeremy's examination of his art a fascinating insight into the man himself, and it seemed appropriate at that moment that he should be called to play another scene. He invited me to come and watch."

[dross-the-fish]

Can we get a drabble of a post serum/lucid Larry transformation?

sure! ....

As his bones cracked, thickened and grew, Larry’s stomach roiled. His human skin split and gave way to fur, turning to dust as it peeled from his body. His groans turned to growls as he stretched out once his transformation finished, he sagged in the chair, panting.  

“No signs of aggression yet, can you understand me, Lad?” Edward asked moving in closer, notebook in hand.

Lawrence nodded, tongue lolling from his muzzle. He felt none of the usual bloodlust that came with turning into a wolf, for the first time his mind was clear.

Edward took a moment to examine the inside of his mouth, taking the risk to hold it open with his hand. “Discoloration of the tongue. Thick, viscous saliva That might be a side effect of the serum. Anything else feel different?”

With a low whine Larry shook his head. He felt fine, good even, there was a new strength in his limbs and he could feel his sharpened senses picking up new sounds and smells all around him.

“Hmm, we’ll have to keep an eye on your symptoms. This batch of the serum definitely worked but we want to monitor for side effects.”

Hyde frantically scratched away at his notebook, the sound of the pen hitting the page so hard Larry wondered that it didn’t tear. He tried carefully to rise to his feet, after Hyde unstrapped him. Watson, who had been waiting nearby caught him when he stumbled and he helped ease Larry onto the sofa, taking his pulse and checking his eyes with a pen light.

“His pupils are dilated, his skin is hot to the touch, he’s also got bleeding around his gums but that could be from the human teeth falling out and his wolf teeth coming back in. Hard to say how much of this is normal post-transformation or side effects of the serum,” Watson pulled a frown and handed Larry a bowl of water to lap at. Larry grabbed the bowl with a clawed hand and dove in, splashing water around his muzzle as he drank greedily, suddenly aware of how thirsty he was.

“Mr. Harker is making a pest of himself. He wanted to be here when you turned but Mr. Hyde and I thought perhaps it was best if we let you get settled first. I’ll give your friend this, he’s a good and loyal chap, hasn’t slept a wink and still insisted on seeing you.”

Larry smiled tiredly and gave a low chuff, his ears perking up at Quincey’s name. He gestured at the door to indicate that he wanted Quincey to come in.

Watson nodded and rose to go and open the door. Behind him Hyde carefully scraped the chair of dust from the shed human skin into a tube for study and collected a sample of Larry’s spilled blood.

“What do you think you’ll get from all that?” Watson asked, pausing with his hand on the door knob.

“Well, I won’t know until I get it in the lab and run some tests, now, will I?!” Hyde snapped irritably.

Mustache bristling in indignation it was all Watson could do to bite his tongue at Hyde’s attitude. He’d never get used to it, that brazen rudeness. As long as he lived, he swore he’d never seen someone so antithetical to the image of a proper English gentleman as Edward Hyde. He was, however, an undeniably gifted chemist and Watson had to afford him due respect…however grudging. Allowing himself a single huff he opened the door.

The door had barely cracked an inch before Quincey burst into the room, nearly climbing over Watson to get to Larry.

“Larry! Are you alright? Are you yourself? Did the serum work?” he babbled taking Larry’s lupin head in his hands and running his fingers through the fluff on Larry’s cheeks.

Larry snorted at him and gave his cheek a lick. Though he didn’t like expressing himself with such typically doggish gestures he wasn’t sure how else to indicate to Quincey that all was well.

Tilting his head, he examined his friend curiously. How strange…he marveled at how much smaller Quincey seemed, almost fragile. Larry was so accustomed to being the weaker of the two that he couldn’t resist laying a heavy hand on Quincey’s cheek to compare the size. When he rose to his feet he towered over his friend. He couldn’t deny there was something intriguing in the change. Quince seemed unbothered by the difference and threw his arms around Larry’s furred waist.

Watson’s eyes gave a knowing and affectionate crinkle, the corners of his mustache lifting as he smiled. He nudged Edward. Hyde grumbled and looked up from his samples. When he noticed what Watson was indicating he gave a disgusted scoff, “Much as I hate to break up your precious little moment, I still need to confirm that Mr. Talbot fit to be released for the night, so if you can pry yourself off of him, Mr. Harker, I’ll finish my examination and then the two of you are free bugger off.”

“Tactless,” Watson muttered at him out of the side of his mouth.

“Kiss my arse, they can cuddle on their own time,” Hyde replied, though Watson didn’t miss the lack of his usual spite.

Hyde was brisk in his examination and once he was satisfied, he nodded. Quincey seized Larry’s arm and lead him out into the hallway. Chatting excitedly at him with no more awkwardness than he did when Larry was human and could talk back.

“Shouldn’t surprise me that you’re the sappy type,” Hyde sneered at Watson as he carefully packed his samples and tucked them into his pocket.

“Have you never enjoyed being young and in love, Mr. Hyde?”

Edward stared at him, “Wasn’t love I was looking for when I was young. It was skirt…lots of skirt and the occasional discreet gentleman who didn’t mind some rough fumbling in dark alleys,” he practically purred at the memory.

Watson grimaced, “Must you make everything sound so crude? What of wooing? Of courtship? I daresay that’s the best part of the dance.”

“Oh, come off it! Love-" he spat the word as though it tasted foul on his tongue "-isn’t for the likes of me. Coo over the youngsters tripping all over themselves if you want but I have long since ceased to find it amusing.” As Hyde exited the room and strolled down the corridor, he passed Quincey and Larry. Quincey had his arms around Larry’s neck and was rubbing his cheek against the tuft of fur on Larry’s head, weeping with relief.

To be accepted by your beloved, no matter how monstrous the form you take…. that must be a wonderful feeling, he thought miserably as he shut himself away in his lab, unable to bear the sight.

[mariana-oconnor]

The Empty House pt 2

Last time on Letters from Watson: a gambler was shot in a locked room, a detective rose from the dead and brandy once more proved itself the true panacea.

This time, we are eagerly awaiting the explanation for Holmes' miraculous reappearance.

"He drew no weapon, but he rushed at me and threw his long arms around me."

So romantic.

"We tottered together upon the brink of the fall."

Look... tottered is not an ominous word. It just isn't. It brings to mind small children, the elderly, and drunk people. 'Tottered' is an amusing word. It amuses me. Usually these descriptions are very visceral and dramatic and moving, but the word 'tottered' just throws me right out.

"I have some knowledge, however, of baritsu, or the Japanese system of wrestling, which has more than once been very useful to me."

Or maybe you're referring to bartitsu? Which is an 'actual' martial art. Or... at the very least the British approximation at one.

I always thought this was made up, honestly, until not very long ago when I learnt there was an actual thing made up for English gentlemen. the pictures are very silly.

"With my face over the brink I saw him fall for a long way. Then he struck a rock, bounded off, and splashed into the water.”

"So rapidly does the brain act that I believe I had thought this all out before Professor Moriarty had reached the bottom of the Reichenbach Fall."

I see being dead did nothing for your ego, Holmes. It has survived completely intact.

"I might, it is true, have reversed my boots, as I have done on similar occasions"

I want to know how this works. Feet are very much... feet shaped. Ankles are definitively at one end of the foot. Boots are designed with this in mind. How does one put on a pair of boots backwards. Walking backwards, I can see, but putting your shoes on so the toe is at the heel? Maybe if you're wearing ballet pumps or something like that with a very wide opening. But walking boots?

How?

"There I was stretched when you, my dear Watson, and all your following were investigating in the most sympathetic and inefficient manner the circumstances of my death. “At last, when you had all formed your inevitable and totally erroneous conclusions, you departed for the hotel and I was left alone."

Not even death can prevent Holmes from throwing shade at other investigators. 'inefficient'? "Erroneous" They're coming to the conclusions you arranged for them to come to.

"I took to my heels, did ten miles over the mountains in the darkness...,"

Don't try this at home, kids.

No really... do not attempt to make a ten mile trek over the alps in the dark. Just don't. Mountain rescue will not thank you.

"As to Mycroft, I had to confide in him in order to obtain the money which I needed."

You mean with your prodigious skills and intellect you couldn't work out any other way to make money. Like... get a job? Also, literally the first thing everyone knows about faking your own death is that you don't contact anyone from your old life. It's rule number one. Don't do it. This is basic stuff, Holmes. I expected better of you.

Always nice to get a Mycroft reference, though.

Florence, Tibet, Persia, Khartoum, Montpelier, Holmes really was out there doing the world tour on his family money while Watson thought he was dead. Classic. It's like canoe man all over again.

"I came over at once to London, called in my own person at Baker Street, threw Mrs. Hudson into violent hysterics, and found that Mycroft had preserved my rooms and my papers exactly as they had always been."

Let me get this straight.

You're in contact with your brother the whole time, who is sending you money

You do high profile things that are relevant to your previous interests (visiting the Dalai Lama/exploration under the name of Sigerson/short but interesting visit to the Khalifa of Khartoum that the foreign office needs to know about/scientific research in Montpelier)

The first thing you do when you're back in the country is go to your former residence with no disguise and reveal your not-dead status to your landlady (poor Mrs Hudson does not deserve this).

There is no way anyone other than Watson thinks you're dead at this point. You have literally checked every box of the 'How Not to Survive Witness Protection' checklist. Congratulations, Holmes. You are bad at being dead. Just casually putting up posters everywhere you go that say 'Sherlock Holmes woz ere'.

I don't know how he survived three years, smh.

Also, the fact that he had already thrown Mrs Hudson into 'violent hysterics' and then went and made Watson faint makes that whole thing worse. I get that it's at least in part misogyny, but did you really need to repeat that experiment, Holmes?

In some manner he had learned of my own sad bereavement, and his sympathy was shown in his manner rather than in his words.

RIP Mary Watson (nee Morstan), we hardly knew you. And honestly, neither did your husband.

I observed that as he stepped out he gave a most searching glance to right and left, and at every subsequent street corner he took the utmost pains to assure that he was not followed.

You literally went to Baker Street, Holmes. This is too little, too late. The horse has already bolted, stop locking the doors. I do know that this is all part of your master plan, but given that you were stupid about secrecy the entire time you were away, it's difficult to tell where you started laying a trap and when you were just being dumb.

As my eyes fell upon it I gave a gasp and a cry of amazement. The blind was down and a strong light was burning in the room. The shadow of a man who was seated in a chair within was thrown in hard, black outline upon the luminous screen of the window.

“The credit of the execution is due to Monsieur Oscar Meunier, of Grenoble, who spent some days in doing the moulding. It is a bust in wax.”

Sherlock Holmes here to remind you to always credit the original artist.

"You must remember that they knew, and only they knew, that I was still alive."

And yet they somehow did not keep track of Mycroft sending money overseas? I get that the Holmes boys are geniuses, but still. As previously mentioned, Holmes has not been subtle here. The bad guys are bad at their jobs. Shame on them. Shame on their cows.

"But I cared a great deal for the much more formidable person who was behind him, the bosom friend of Moriarty, the man who dropped the rocks over the cliff, the most cunning and dangerous criminal in London."

Who knew you were alive, but still somehow couldn't put together the myriad clues you were joyously dropping all over the planet for him. Full offence, but he's not that cunning.

"That is the man who is after me to-night, Watson, and that is the man who is quite unaware that we are after him.”

Anybody have a kernel of suspicion about who that might be?

[quill-of-thoth]

Letters from Watson backlog special: Holmes' birthday

So Sherlock Holmes' birthday is often interpreted as January 6th, but why? Well, there have been a BUNCH of different scholars considering every aspect of the Sherlock Holmes stories over the years, and the common motivation among them is being considered a "Holmes Scholar" instead of a mere fan.

The evidence, as it has been presented over the years, has only one source that uh, has any connection to the actual text: The works of William Stuart Baring-Gould, best known for his only partially definitive Sherlock Holmes chronology. (AKA: The dead guy I have ongoing beef with and whose work in dating the Holmes stories I have been reviewing sporadically for the past year.) However, Baring-Gould is not automatically wrong, so let's follow his chain of logic, such as it is.

The final Holmes novel, Valley of Fear (1914-1915) starts on January 7th with Holmes being a bit tetchy

No boring Doylist explanation for Holmes' bad moods need apply.

No Watsonian explanation that Holmes is not always a good-natured roommate or considerate friend need apply either. No, Holmes, known for having no sleep schedule, no tolerance for his own failure, and no moderation in terms of taking mood altering substances more unusual than alcohol, must be hungover

Why would Holmes be hungover? He must have been up late celebrating.

What could he have been celebrating by drinking alone? His birthday! Therefore yesterday (January 6th) is his birthday! Case closed!

This conclusion is, kindly, a stretch, but in this fandom we love having answers almost as much as we love being the one to provide the answer. We must have rituals to keep a fandom alive over a hundred years, and celebrating Holmes' birthday on Jan 6 is as good as any other. I merely want to point out alternatives to the dates and timelines established by Baring-Gould like any good peer reviewer. Alternative speculation under the cut.

So... why, on his birthday, would Holmes have been celebrating by drinking alone, instead of drinking with Watson? Or going to the opera (alone or with Watson?) There is no indication at the beginning of Valley of Fear that it takes place when Holmes and Watson are living separately. They're having breakfast together. Or rather, Watson has long since finished breakfast, and Holmes has yet to start, which lends better support to the hangover theory than his momentary brusqueness, but not by a lot since the man is known to forget to eat. Reading it over without Baring Gould's conclusions in mind, I think very few fans would find this scene out of the ordinary for 221 Baker street, but since I'm willing to play along with Gould: what if the event that Holmes is celebrating privately isn't one that Watson would wholeheartedly accompany him for? What events occur on Jan 6th that Watson, the average victorian man, would not be a part of? Epiphany. No, that's literally the name of the holiday, part of the christmas season. It's cited as the date of the Wise Men's arrival to bring Jesus presents (er. presents but also you know, expensive dire omens regarding his eventual death, if you've never been forced to sing all the verses of "We Three Kings of Orient Are," which becomes grimmer as you go on.) It's the last of the 12 days of christmas and the "Twelfth Night" referenced in that one shakespeare comedy. It's not commonly celebrated in the modern (united states) conception of christianity, whether devoutly practicing or cultural. It was a great reason for the Victorians to party, however. ... which doesn't exclude Watson. Unless we imagine Watson as having been invited to an epiphany party and Holmes, either uninvited or uninterested in a party atmosphere, staying home, which is possible.

But this doesn't result in a revelation about Holmes' identity, so in the spirt of going out on a supported but not definiitive limb, I propose that Holmes is Catholic. (Not, most likely, practicing in any major way at this point in his life. There's belief and practice, and then there's culture, and if your only idea of growing up Catholic is John Mulaney skits about god not hearing you if you don't sing loud enough... well, it's far more complicated than that if you're a Victorian.) - Catholic celebration of the Epiphany has historically taken on a more somber tone than Protestant or Anglican celebration. (See: we've all had fun here during Advent and Christmas but you're obligated to remember that Jesus is gonna die. By mid spring. By the way, Ash Wednesday and Lent are coming up so if you got candy, eat it, you'll be giving it up in a month.) - Holmes' general slight out-of-step-ness with the general Victorian shared expectations and culture could be partially explained by being raised in a different iteration of Christianity. - And his reticence regarding his family history could be explained by growing up experiencing social rejection due to the anti-catholic sentiments that were absolutely all over England in the 1850's to 90's (and well the hell into more modern times too) - Anti-catholocism isn't something he could dodge by simply not actually practicing the religion he was raised in either. - Holmes' references to a french side of the family could indicate that he has, at the very least, catholic close-ish relatives, as that was the most common religion in france. - Enough scholarship has been written on "is Holmes secretly Irish?" given his surname and Doyle's background as an Irishman that I think we should spend at least a minute considering that these points could also be taken to mean that Holmes is Catholic.

People (Anglican descended Puritans, for example) were complaining about the secularized parts of christmas by the 1700's, (Meaning: any celebration that was not prayer inside the church) and the Victorian celebration of Christmas is the direct ancestor of the US and England's current Culturally Christian but not necessarily religious practice related celebrations, so I don't see Holmes having any difficulty fitting in with buying a goose, having a nice dinner, or listening to carols. But there's a chance that if he wanted to celebrate Epiphany with any family traditions, regardless of how far they were removed from actual religious practice, he might not invite Watson.

And if Watson knows, he has, loyally, not written a word.

[calaisreno]

Consequences

Prompt: Family

This is a small sequel to While You Were Dead . It might be a bit confusing if you haven't read that story, so here's a very brief summary: While Sherlock is dead, John, working a late shift at the A&E, meets a much younger Sherlock who has inadvertently time-travelled to 2012. They sort out a few things.

This story happens after Mycroft picks Sherlock up from the A&E.

...

Mycroft takes him home. 

“Little brother.” He’s given the speech many times, understands the futility. But he can’t not tell him what he needs to hear, even if he refuses to listen. “Mummy will be told. Last time I swore I would, and I always keep my promises.”

Sherlock doesn’t speak. He’s probably still coming down off whatever it was this time. He’ll read the doctor’s notes later. It’s not the what so much as how often. It’s becoming a habit that will eventually destroy his younger brother. 

He gives Sherlock a sidelong glance. No earphones, so he must have lost his device again. Mummy will buy him a new one; for some reason she always thinks that kindness is the best consequence. He accepts that it’s the lot of the older brother never to see the younger one held to the same standards. Parents are like that; the firstborn is raised by strict principles, never indulged. Not that Mycroft ever wanted indulgence. His own life is turning out well, thanks to self-discipline. Coddling doesn’t teach that.

But Sherlock is an amalgam of different traits: impetuous, withdrawn, needy, with a restless brilliance that is in some ways more impressive than Mycroft’s. He hates to think of such an extraordinary mind wasted on things like drugs. And caring. 

“You know what will happen now,” he says. 

Sherlock turns his head, focusing those pale eyes on Mycroft. He looks sleepy, almost confused. Presses his lips together, thinking. “I’d like to go to rehab.”

Mycroft maintains control of the car. “You would like to? Why?”

His eyes are closed now, his head leaning back against the headrest. “Maybe… things can be different.”

“It won’t be easy, brother mine.”

“I know. But it might be worth it.”

“You surprise me. What’s changed?”

He opens his eyes, turns to Mycroft, smiling. “Sentiment. Caring. You’re so fond of telling me those things don’t matter. But maybe they’re the things that matter most. I don’t believe I’ll ever be perfect, but I care enough to become better than I am.”

They ride in silence for some minutes. Mycroft pulls up in front of his building. “You’ll stay with me until I make arrangements.”

Sherlock nods, steps out onto the pavement. He looks tired, Mycroft thinks, but not as unhealthy as the last time he saw him. Something has changed.

Inside, he drinks the cup of tea that Mycroft makes him. Yawning, he begins pulling off his clothes, dropping them on the floor as he makes his way to the bath. 

Once he hears the water start, Mycroft opens the envelope with the discharge papers. 

Cocaine, obviously. Not an overdose; he brought himself to the A&E. Dehydration, skin pallor, nausea. No seizures, confusion or anxiety. Slight tachycardia, BP and temp normal. He was given fluids, the doctor noted, and observed for several hours. 

Doctor’s signature: John Watson, MD. Dated: 20 November 2012

He frowns at the date. A tired, overworked doctor might misdate a record, substituting a digit or turning two around. But to write a date that’s fifteen years in the future… 

He makes a note to himself. Contact Dr John Watson. Maybe it won’t be worth the time it takes to find him and question him, but Mycroft doesn’t like untidy details. 

On the other hand, Sherlock has agreed to rehab, a hopeful development. Perhaps he shouldn’t probe. Ordinary goldfish do make mistakes. 

Wearily, he rubs his eyes. Sherlock, wrapped in a blanket and nothing else, is stretching out on the sofa, preparing to sleep. He works himself into a comfortable position and gives a great sigh. “You worry too much,” he mumbles.

Mycroft stands and stretches. A long day, and tomorrow starts early. He’ll think about this later, when he’s more rested. He heads towards the bedroom, picking up Sherlock’s discarded clothing. Piling it on a chair, he studies the lump on the sofa that is his brother.

“Good night, Sherlock.”

There’s no reply, only deep breathing. 

@lisbeth-kk @meetinginsamarra @raina-at @bertytravelsfar @momma2boys @jrow @helloliriels @the-reading-lemon @totallysilvergirl @keirgreeneyes @elwinglyre @mydogwatson @thetimemoves @jobooksncoffee @lhrinchelsea @peanitbear @gregorovitchworld @7-percent

[sanguinarysanguinity]

I’m majorly retooling the most recent chapter of Langstroth on Bees; below is a section I’m deleting, as it no longer fits the tone and trajectory of the section. However, I like it too well to just drop it into a deletions file and never look at it again, so here, have some beekeeping angst!

Set during Last Bow, when Holmes has taken off for America and left Watson in charge of his bees. You may think of this as a companion piece to “From Allegany,” if you like.

~

After breakfast, I suited up in Holmes' beekeeping gear and loaded his barrow with his apiarist's notebook, his smoker, and a collection of empty supers, and proceeded to the copse that held his apiary.

I was still agitated in my mind, however, a state to which his bees must have objected, for I was stung while installing the supers -- my first sting while working with Holmes' hives. I swore and stalked off beyond the edge of the copse, yanking off my gauntlet to get at the welt on my wrist, lifting my veil and twisting my arm this way and that against the sky in an attempt to see the stinger. My arms were not long enough to see the stinger without a glass, but I scraped at the cursed thing with my hive tool, succeeding only in smearing my wrist with propolis and in no way preventing the stinger from pumping its full load of venom into me. The thing smarted abominably. Holmes would have said a few words of sentimental eulogy for the bee who had died for my sins, but I could only summon up a hatred for the wretched creature and all its brethren.

All seemed futile in that moment; I lay back in the tall grasses of the Downs, just below the lip of the hollow that cradled Holmes' apiary, and sucked at my wrist in hopes of drawing the venom out. I only succeeded in coating my front teeth with propolis. Frustrated, I bit at the welt viciously, so that one pain might supersede the other. I should have gone back to the cottage for a chip of ice for my wound, or barring that, back to the apiary to close up the hive box and retrieve my beekeeping equipment, but I did neither, laying back and watching the clouds scuttle across the sky while I chewed at my wrist.

It occurred to me, as I watched the sky, that the editor of the Bee Journal might know Holmes' location; that Holmes, in communicating with him, had trusted his fellow apiarist where he had not trusted me. Or Holmes might only have sent his letter to some trusted intermediary to forward to the Journal: his brother or Captain Kell, or perhaps a now-grown Irregular. It would not be the first time he had trusted his brother or an Irregular before trusting me.

It was useless to speculate on Holmes' methods. The upshot was that Holmes did not wish me to know where he was. I would only drive myself mad brooding upon it. Mad and bee-stung, both, apparently.

But as I gazed upon the warm blue sky, I thought of Holmes, laying aside his false persona and Irish accent to write a letter about his beloved bees. Perhaps he did so even now, in the pink, cold light of an American dawn, while his criminal compatriots still slept. Did he miss his bees? Did he wish, as I did, for the opportunity to lay here beside me near his apiary, the both of us watching the clouds together? Would he have teased me for my first sting, or earnestly scolded me for it? Would he have gently tended to my wound? Would he have treated it as a badge of honour?

Even as I thought on such things, I tried to summon the bitter thought that if he was lonely in America he had no one to blame for it but himself. But I knew that to be a lie. He had never wanted this case; I had pressed him to take it. His preference would have been to bask in his retirement, with his bees before him and me at his side, as we had done the long summer before.

For a single summer, I, too, had been content with that. Another long summer stretched before me, and it seemed impossible that I should be content with it again.

By this time the welt on my wrist was bruised and riddled with tooth marks; the damage the bee had wrought on me was minor compared to what I had done to myself. Holmes would certainly have scolded me for it had he been there to see it. 

I missed him, then, missed him with a fierce, simple longing, unsullied by my resentment at being left behind. 

But even as I longed for him, there was no solace to be found: Holmes was in America, possibly in peril of his life, but certainly unreachable. Meanwhile, I was stranded in Sussex, pretending to be a beekeeper.

It was all wrong, all of it.

I took up my veil and gauntlet, and went to see to his bees.

[thekittyfox2999]

Re: Hands - I don't know if you already thought about this, but I think Holmes playing the violin must be heaven and torture for Watson at once XD

alright. Anon, you have awoken something in me. Now have this little silly hands oneshot

Holmes sat by the fire as I walked in after my stroll to the shops. His legs were crossed as he held up a letter from our latest case. I took out the tobacco I had purchased and laid it down on my desk. I greeted my friend quietly and he hummend in response. I sat down on the sofa and calmed my body. The weather turned grey. The winds chilled me to my bones. The days grew shorter and I felt tired and downcast. None of my interests could deter me from the outside gloom and I felt unmotivated and lost. Now I usually spend my days near the fire and on the sofa. Staying warm and hydrated.

Holmes has obviously observed this and decided to keep me and my feelings company. He stays near the sofa, within arms reach if my joints were to ache and I would need something. Even if he wasn’t in the best of moods, he’d try to keep up in my ramblings, keeping my mind occupied. Holmes is someone I didn’t think could be so comforting.

“Anything of interest popped up?” Holmes shook his head and closed the letter, putting it back in its envelope.

“No, nothing new to my leads.” I could hear the frustration in his voice.

“I believe you must be tired, Holmes. Come take a seat and rest your mind.” He ignored my request and stood up. Cracking his knuckles and stretching out like a cat he reached for his prized violin.

“I believe I need to rest my eyes. I’ll simply turn the letter in my mind. Would you like anything special played?” I shook my head and tried to look away.

I’ve always had a fascination for the skill Holmes hands possessed. While his mind is clear and loud with pride and wit, his hands are delicate and quiet, but quick and proficient. I find myself regularly taking close inspection on his hands at work.

He is coordinated unlike anything I've seen.

A slow melody started playing. I reclined in the sofa and laid my head down on the nearest pillow.

Holmes swayed from side to side, his fingers masterfully playing difficult chords as his eyes were still closed. I felt free to observe his talent just then.

I don’t want to admit to criminal activity, but these hands have driven me over the edge far too many times. The amount of expertise Holmes has just pushes my feelings into a spiral. The thoughts of his hands keep my mind awake when I should retire to my chambers. The master and craft in his projects is fantastical, yet I fear my mind is going far beyond where it should be. Iäm stepping over the invisible line between friendship and felony.

Holmes stopped playing for a second. His eyelids flutter open. I pull my eyes to look into his.

We stared for a solid minute in silence before he continued with a faster paced tune, someone I recognized.

“Anything of interest you want me to know, Watson?” I shook my head and looked down shamefully.

“Oh please. I know you’ve deduced something with my hands, mind telling me?”

[shimmer-like-agirl]

WIP Wednesday

Tagged by @wanderingaldecaldo to share something I'm working on. Do you know how long it's been since I've actually written something worth posting??? Spoiler alert, it's been an incredibly long time! This wasn't helped at all by Darisha deciding she wasn't actually a V after all and making me rework everything I'd written. I still love her dearly, despite the recent curveball

Anyway, enough rambling. Here's Darisha's introduction to Night City in all its glory. I don't think this piece is done yet, it's really only a first chapter, but she'll tell me when it's done (I hope)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Untapped Goldmine

Northside, Watson, Night City

Saturday, May 22, 2077

Applause.

It wasn't a stretch to say it was her lifeblood. To Darisha's mind, there was very little difference between it and the air she needed to breathe. On a good night, the applause, the symbol of validation from the crowd, wrapped her in an embrace of acceptance and appreciation. Its warmth mingled with that of the spotlights, almost tangible, like she could reach out and grab a handful to save for the colder, less giving nights.

Nights like this one.

The Untapped Goldmine was either a grossly accurate name or an absolute misnomer. She wasn't sure which, but after a week of performing to embarrassingly small crowds in an area that didn't come close to fitting her music's demographics, she no longer cared to unravel that particular mystery. Even her brand of sidewalk stomping self-marketing, imbued with her not-insignificant charm, had failed to make a mark in a territory owned by a borged-out gang with questionable musical tastes. Thankfully, this particular run was nearly over. The final notes of music faded into the ether. Darisha forced a weak smile in response to a smattering of applause, mumbled a few insincere thanks, and turned abruptly on her to leave the stage. She paused briefly when she passed by her long-time drummer, another relationship ending tonight. "When you return to Atlanta, tell Remy I hope he chokes on his own dick. And I mean that sincerely."

Descending the short flight of stairs that led to a ridiculously long hallway to her tiny dressing room, she pulled out her phone. Seven voicemails, one for each day she'd been in Night City, and a considerable number of increasingly aggressive text messages from Remy. She hadn't had the strength to face him during the last week, but she was now as ready as she would ever be.

Despite the repeated calls and messages, her call to him remained unanswered. Typical Remy and his power balance bullshit, she thought to herself. Conversations had to be on his terms, his timelines, so he had complete control of the narrative. She wasn't going to give him the satisfaction. Not this time.

The smooth baritone of his voicemail greeting gave her momentary pause. It threatened to surface good memories when all she wanted to focus on was bad. There was more than enough of the latter to fuel a raging inferno. She blinked back a couple of errant tears and set her mouth in a firm line, waiting for his casually scripted spiel to end.

"Fuck you, Remy," she spit to start her message. "Even for you, this is fucking low. You could've booked me anywhere in this city, but you had to have the last word. You just had to show me how little you cared for me by booking me into the shittiest shithole on the west coast."

Rolling her eyes at the indignant expression on the face of the backstage manager who was waiting just outside her dressing room, she momentarily turned her attention to him. "Don't give me that look. You know it's fucking true." She raised a slender finger to quiet anything he might say in response and turned her ire back to her one-sided conversation. "So yeah, fuck you, Remy. You got what you wanted. I'm out of your greasy, grimy clutches and your life. You're free to go fuck whoever you want and promise them all the same things you promised me and never delivered." She paused for a calming breath. "As for your beloved Rayfield, I had it filled with cement and dropped to the bottom of the ocean. Good luck getting it back."

The last word now hers, Darisha tossed the phone to the ground and smashed it forcefully, and more than a little therapeutically, with her heeled foot. With that handled, she turned her attention to the silently fuming and petulant backstage manager. "What!?"

"This isn't a shithole."

"All evidence to the contrary," she retorted with an eye roll.

"Are all Brits massive cunts like you?"

"Yes. Every single British person in the world is a massive cuntbag. I'm the nice one, so tread carefully if you meet another." She waited for him to move out of her way, sighing exasperatedly. "Anything else? I kinda want to get out of here."

"Someone is waiting in your dressing room." Eyes now downcast, he appeared to be deeply studying his shoes. "Said they know you."

Darisha crouched down slightly until she could look him in the eye again. "Naturally, you took them at their word and let them into my personal space. What harm could there possibly be in letting a stranger in Night City into your performer's dressing room?"

His answering shrug was irritating, more so when he turned to walk away without a word. Darisha grimaced, reached for the door handle, paused, and turned to yell after his quickly retreating form. "If I die in there, I promise to come back specifically to haunt you. And it won't be the fun kind, either. I'm talking blood pouring from the ceiling, disembodied screams while you shower, and a cold wind up your spine that'll make sure you lose your erection whenever you're about to fuck!"

Satisfied with her threat but still guarded, she stepped into the tiny room that had been her only area of respite for the last week. She let out a relieved breath upon recognizing the face of her mysterious and unannounced visitor. How could she not? Aside from cybernetics, they shared the same face, the same warm, dark skin, the same violet eyes, and the same fabulous Afro, although it was a darker blue rather than Darisha's vibrant purple. "Hello, Val," she greeted her sister quietly, relief giving way to anxiety. She hadn't spoken to her twin in over three years.

"I'm going by V now. Didn't you get the memo?" Even after a decade, she wasn't quite used to hearing her sister's American accent.

"I must've missed it. That tends to happen when one doesn't return her sister's phone calls."

V shrugged, unbothered, and changed the subject as was her way. "Who the fuck is Remy?"

There was so much she could say in answer to that. Three years of her life. Amazing highs, depressing lows, and never a mundane middle. "Ex-manager. Ex-input. Big mistake. Small dick."

"You're better off without him." Her sister wasn't wrong, but it had taken her the better part of a year to discover herself. V folded herself into the singular armchair in the room and directed a pointed look in her direction. "Speaking of things you're better than…Why are you still clinging to that fucking posh accent?"

"Because it's my fucking posh accent." Try as she might, she would never convince her sister that coming to America didn't mean evolving into a total American. "It's the only thing I have left of home." 

"You sound ridiculous," twin voices, though differently accented, chimed in unison before dissolving into shared laughter. In that instant, the years apart melted away, along with any resentment either might have felt. There was no way to explain it, but it was the way they'd always been.

"So….," V trailed off, looking at the surrounding area, taking in all her sister's belongings in a single room. "It sounds like you have no future plans? You feel like hangin' out in Night City awhile?"

She hadn't planned for the future beyond just getting through the week. "Better here than Atlanta, I guess. Gotta rebuild somewhere and here is as good a place as any." She looked around the tiny room that had doubled as a makeshift hotel during her stay. "Just not 'here'. I've had enough of this dump. I don't suppose you have an empty spot on your floor I could crash on until I get my feet under me?"

"Got something even better," her sister beamed. "What would you say to your own apartment, not far from here, paid up for the next two months by your favourite sister?"

"What's the catch?"

"Why's there gotta be a catch?"

"You're my sister, V. I know you. There's always a catch."

After a considerate silence, V nodded and shuffled over on the chair to give Darisha room to sit next to her. "I…uh fucked up pretty bad, and I need help. Your help, specifically."

"That doesn't sound ominous at all." She slid into the empty seat so that they were sitting shoulder to shoulder, leaning against each other for support as they'd done when they were kids. "How much trouble are you in?"

"Enough." Her sigh came heavily weighted. "Kinda life or death sitch. You know me, go big or go home." She sighed again and pressed her shoulder more firmly against that of her sister. "Mum always said I was my own worst enemy. Turns out she was right."

The story V proceeded to unravel would have been unbelievable to Darisha if it had come from the lips of anyone but her twin. A tale of a heist gone horribly wrong and a ticking time bomb of an engram in her head would seem far-fetched if it weren't for the absolute certainty in the eyes of her sister. 

"I've built a decent rep in this city, up until this fucking heist tanked, at least. There's shit I need to do to try and excise this tapeworm I've been saddled with. Problem is, I need the better rep and eddies that merc work gets me. All of that takes time and it's time that I don't got."

"What do you need me to do?" She asked the question without hesitation. 

"Be me. For a little while, at least. I've got good relationships with a fixer in Watson, and I can funnel the gigs I would take from her to you. You do them; we split the eddies. I get the rep I need, and you can keep whatever eddies you find while you do the job."

"I'm not killing anyone. You know I don't work like that." 

"I know, I know, you're a puppy-loving pacifist. I won't send you anything that requires ending someone's life. You can deal with the gigs however you want and keep your conscience clean. You don't even have to talk to the fixer or the client. I'll do all that and take my cut of the eddies."

The answer would have been no if it were anyone else in any other situation. Darisha hadn't done merc work in years, not since she'd started on her journey of becoming a singer. But this was her sister. Her twin's life was on the line, and she couldn't leave her hanging.

"We'll negotiate on the cut, but you've got a deal. I assume I can do whatever the fuck I want in my downtime. If I'm gonna be a part-time V, I'll need something to fill the rest of my time. May as well line up a few club gigs while I'm here." She'd need to find a new band and maybe a new manager, one that she wouldn't fall in love with this time. She could start writing songs again, which Remy had repeatedly discouraged her from doing, preferring her to perform covers rather than her original work. Her mind whirled with a dozen things to add to her to-do list, but she tamped them all down. First, she needed to get settled and help her sister. Then she could focus on herself.

[nils-elmark]

Don't write another Modesty Blaise story

I was picking up a copy of what I thought was the London Evening Standard at Victoria Station when I realized the paper had changed its name to The London Standard and had been given a new design.

"Yes, it’s different," said a gentleman in a cotton coat standing next to me. He had just picked up his copy too. He was about my age but looked older, in the way your parents did when they were your age. He had heavy black glasses—Michael Caine style—not too much greyish hair, a blue V-neck jumper, and behind it, a white shirt with, to be honest, a tasteless tie. He looked like the kind of man Paul McCartney could have had in mind when he wrote “When I’m Sixty-Four.”

"Funny, I looked for The Evening Standard yesterday at a couple of tube stations but couldn’t find it," I answered.

"It’s become weekly now," the stranger said. "Actually, this is the first issue of the new Standard. It’s been launched today. The last version of the London Evening Standard was published last Friday."

I looked at the front page of the new Standard, featuring an AI-generated picture of Keir Starmer, who apparently wants to make London the "AI Capital of the World." I bet he got that from Tony Blair, who, as Prime Minister, had coined the term "London Tech City" some 20-odd years ago. That turned out pretty well.

"It’s a shame people don’t want to read real newspapers anymore," I said, sounding like a grumpy old man. "As a young journalist, I worked on a newspaper, and it started a lifelong attraction to the smell of freshly printed papers."

"Well, circulation has been dropping for five years. What else should the old spy do?" He smiled. (The Standard is owned by the former Russian intelligence officer turned oligarch Alexander Lebedev)

"I worked for the Evening Standard for 38 years," he continued, still smiling. "I wrote a cartoon strip called Modesty Blaise. 10,183 strips in all—I can hardly believe it myself. I also wrote 13 books about her."

Seeing my astonishment, he explained further.

"In 1962, the cartoon editor at the Daily Express asked me to develop a female adventurous cartoon character—this was when James Bond had just emerged. For nine months, I worked on the idea with the artist Jim Holdaway. We came up with Modesty Blaise—a refugee girl from the Middle East who had fought for her life in the desert from childhood until, as a teenager, she established her own criminal network in Tangier, alongside her sidekick, the knife-throwing Cockney, Willie Garvin. Then she left crime and settled down in a penthouse on Park Lane, London."

"The Daily Express didn’t want to go ahead with the cartoon because of Modesty’s criminal past, but the Evening Standard did, and on May 13, 1963, Modesty Blaise was born as a cartoon heroine. In 1965, I wrote the first book."

"That’s amazing!" I almost shouted. "You must be Peter O'Donnell!"

I was blown away. I’m a lifelong fan of his. I read his first book as a teenager, and I have five of the original strips from the Standard framed on the wall in my office. I’ve read all his books—several times. I was even carrying A Taste for Death in my bag. I couldn’t believe it. What were the chances of meeting him at Victoria Station with a copy of his book in my bag?

"You’ve read my stories," he said. "They’re full of strange coincidences and people with amazing abilities. Exploring men and women and events that stretch the borders of normal life is where mystery begins and where you start to feel alive."

"I’m thrilled to meet you!" I exclaimed. "For the last ten years, I’ve had this idea of writing a new Modesty Blaise story. Bringing her out of the sixties and into modern times. Sherlock Holmes and Watson have been reimagined in films and books countless times over the last 25 years—some quite successfully. Why not Modesty Blaise and Willie Garvin?"

Peter O'Donnell looked at me with tired eyes. "Please don’t," he said. "I’m not questioning your ability as a writer, but Modesty and Willie have had their time. I honestly didn’t create Modesty she created me as a writer and storyteller. It’s not about action, it’s about character. My last strip in the Evening Standard was on Wednesday, April 11, 2001. I was 81 years old then and felt it was time to stop while I was still relatively sharp. It had to end, so I let Modesty and Willie be killed in The Cobra Trap."

"I know," I replied. "The Cobra Trap is the only story of yours I haven’t read. I refuse to read it."

"Do it!" he encouraged. "I think you should create a universe of your own instead—bring new and unique characters to life. Let them form the fiction writer you have the potential to be. Don’t get trapped by my books or copy me; you can most likely write something much better by being yourself. It’s also more fun," he added with a smile. "Personally, I wouldn’t want to write a book with second-hand characters."

ChatGPT's first go at Modesty Blaise fighting over a copy of the new London Standard at Victoria Station

There, at Victoria Station, I realized Peter O'Donnell was right. I felt embarrassed. In a London heading for global AI supremacy, any robot would soon be able to read 10,183 cartoon strips and 13 books and create a new Modesty Blaise story—or hundreds. But they would lack originality and aura. AI could bring Modesty from the sixties into the future far better than I could—my job, like O'Donnell’s, was to create something human and original, not imitate the past through a filtered lens.

The old man had politely guided me away from a cobra trap that my creative laziness had almost led me into. I turned to thank the old writer, but he had already left, with The London Standard lying on the ground.

He must have taken the 5:16 Southern train to Brighton.