#I love the way Holmes and Watson tidy up

[explorersaremadeofhope]

What's your favorite Sherlock Holmes story?

oh no this is so hard!! i apologise in advance for how long this will get

in terms of like, craft and a good story and what i'm maybe most likely to pick up for a reread, cliché answer, but probably hound of the baskervilles. i think doyle was an occasionally really good horror writer, i'd happily have read more stories where he combined horror and sherlock holmes. i love the setting and the spooky descriptions of the moor. and it's got some of my favourite things, like watson getting to play a large role and be a hero in his own right (even if holmes does humiliate him a bit halfway through).

study in scarlet also, because it's so wonderfully character-driven and focused on holmes and watson's relationship (and how focused they are on each other), even though i gotta admit i tend to skip the middle flashback section lmao.

when it comes to the short stories they're so uneven. i think some of them are genuinely good, redheaded league is a good mystery plot and also hilarious; milverton and illustrious client are similar but both great (and feature another of my fav things: Holmes And Watson Sneak Around). musgrave ritual too, i love the riddle and the historical background, and the framing device of watson scolding holmes for not tidying up and holmes bringing out a box of old cases (did you see this comic? it's so good). final problem and empty house are kind of shoe-ins just because [gestures at their everything], but i actually especially like empt for how it shows us watson still being involved in cases on his own! solitary cyclist is solid too (and has the incongruously metal exchange 'she's my wife!' 'no -- she's your widow.')

but SH is a bit like star trek tos for me - some of the plots are thin as hell, but they have good character moments! so e.g. 3 garridebs is just redheaded league recycled, but it has the infamous 'worth the wound' moment which is incredible. blanched soldier and lion's mane are very mid (okay, lion is just bad lmfao) as mysteries go, but they have holmes being extremely dramatique about how watson has Abandoned Him. reigate squires isn't a favourite case of mine but shows holmes having had a literal breakdown and watson looking after him... i'll stop there because this is way too long but tldr, Many of them are Good for Different Reasons

[culttvblog]

Sherlock Holmes: The Blue Carbuncle and Some Podcast Recommendations

This blog post spoils the solution of the mystery

It is entirely possible that I will post again around Christmas because I have a few things running round in my head that may come out in the form of blog posts, but nonetheless this is my official post for the holidays.

For a time this post was going to be about an episode of The Steam Video Company focused on Holmes and Watson in which Watson's wife keeps begging him to spend the evening with her and Holmes goes on their honeymoon with them. However I've plumped for this short story adaptation because it is at least Christmassy. Of course I don't need to tell readers that it is an episode from the hugely wiped 1968 series starring Peter Cushing as Holmes and Nigel Stock as Watson. Cushing is my favourite Holmes: in my opinion he gets the cerebral nature of Homes exactly right and there isn't a trace of the sado-masochistic dynamic Brett's Holmes has with his Watson. To me, this is the adaptation that best represents the characters and atmosphere of the books.

One of the things I like best about The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle is that we see a distinctly ethical and nonforming Holmes: he will have nothing to do with the force and power of the Countess of Morcar. He also makes his own decision to let Ryder escape from the justice of the law. He even explicitly says that he is doing this because it is Christmas. This isn't the Holmes we're used to! In addition to the scene where Watson and Holmes make their deductions from the hat, we also get another sparkling impression of Homes's personality from the scene where he manipulates the man selling geese to tell him where he got it, by fibbing that he's got a bet on. This is what I mean about this series: that I think it brings out a very distinct personality that in my opinion is actually what the 'real' Holmes would have been like in the books, very different from the depiction by any other actor.

It's not just the actual plot that is so perfect about this. Despite the show obviously being completely studio-set, I love the atmosphere and feel of the London it depicts. It accurately brings up the poverty of Victorian London, how the rich were vile and the poor desperate. I love the London village feel of the smallholding where the geese are raised, and the way they make their way through the commerce of the city. It's not just Holmes who is cerebral here, intelligent thought has been given into the way to depict the world in which the story takes place, and it shows.

There are even hints of the different world in which this series was made, and they are delightful. Obviously we have the completely studio-bound production, but I'm specifically thinking of the way you can hear that the incidental music in a couple of places is being played on what we used to call a record. To me, this is delightful, bringing up the obvious picture of the record being played. Unless it was specific to the show, I really don't think you would get music played on a record in film or TV nowadays, do you?

There is a possible criticism of this show if you want, although it's of the plot so is a criticism of Conan Doyle if my memory that the attempted suicide is in the original story. The nature of the set-up, attempted suicide, and Holmes letting the guilty man flee, are rather unsatisfactory in justice and tidiness terms. I have no criticism of the actual production.

Here, have a Christmas pudding recipe from Mrs Beeton because this blog aims to instruct as well as entertain. I am perfectly certain that despite Mrs Beeton's insistence on translating all her dishes into French, pouding de Noel is not a phrase which usually passes through many French lips.

Two Podcast Recommendations

If you're at a loose end over the holidays I have two recommendations for podcasts.

The first is The Peggy Mount Calamity Hour. This is actually about TV, and mainly TV of an age which I remember and you may or may not see here. These guys are hilarious and swear so much that it's actually like meeting me in person. My favourite line was 'You get to thinking, "I'm too old to watch this". No you're fucking not, sit down and watch The Flumps, ya bastard.' Don't listen to it while shopping, like I did, unless you don't mind strange looks. You can hear it here: https://www.peggymountpod.com

The other is The Roys Report Podcast. Julie Roys is an evangelical Christian and a veteran investigative reporter who got the push from her church-related job after asking too many questions, with the inevitable result that she then took a specific professional interest in church abuses and what to do about them. It's fascinating. You can hear it here: https://julieroys.com/podcast/

Happy Holidays to all my readers! Unless you vote Tory, in which case you don't get wished a happy anything.

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[nottoolateforthegame]

Fic authors self-rec! ✨ When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you’ve written, then pass on to at least five other writers 💗

Oh-this is hard. I think I'll pick a favorite from each fandom I've written:

From Now On. My first Buddie (911) fic. Rated Gen, 4737 words. An outburst from Chirstopher on Christmas Eve leads to a happy Buddie ending.

Aim for the Heart. BBC Sherlock, Rated Gen, Drabble. The way it could be Sherlock who was shot when you first start reading. The way it just feels like the John Watson we all knew and loved pre-S4. Ask me again next week and it'll probably be a different one from this fandom, but today, I just really love the way it pulled together in such a tidy package.

The Green Eyed Detective. ACD/More Holmes; Rated M, 2046 words. Written for Holmestice, which is hands down my favorite fic exchange. I love that I pushed my boundaries, trying a new pov and trying to be aware of the quirks that could give away my identity. So much fun to write.

Waking Up. Teen Wolf, Rated Gen, 1081 words. I really enjoyed exploring the relationship between Stiles and his mom, and giving them a moment out of time to just be together.

Lessons in Baking. The Hobbit, Rated Gen, Drabble. Little Frodo teaching Thorin how to bake. I just love reshirement, ya'll.

[classickook]

you don't know him like i do | sherlock holmes

pairing: sherlock holmes x gn!reader

summary: you're sick and tired of constantly hearing insults thrown at sherlock about how he handles his emotions.

warnings: kissing, two dumb idiots in love!, (i tried to make the reader gender-neutral but please let me know if i missed anything).

word count: 1.4k

a/n: i recently started watching bbc sherlock and fell in love with the character (i know i'm like centuries late in starting the show oops) and really wanted to write something for it. ignore any inconsistencies or if the characters seem super ooc, i'm new at this lol.

you’d been at sherlock’s side for months now. ever since he solved a serial murder case that would’ve gotten you killed next, if he hadn’t figured it out just in time, you’d been practically attached to his hip ever since—helping him with cases as best you could, tidying up the flat and running quick errands, handing him his phone and reading his messages out loud to him (when he was perfectly capable of doing so himself, damn him). but you didn’t complain. in fact, you felt honored to be of any assistance to the spectacular sherlock holmes and john watson. you had fun in joining them—running through the city, chasing criminals, solving mysteries—it felt good, making yourself useful and doing something for the greater good. it was dangerous, yes, but you’d never experienced this much adventure in your life, and you couldn’t be in better company. so you were thankful to sherlock—to him saving you, and to him giving you this wonderful opportunity and friendship.

so, of course, you were irritated when others didn’t see sherlock the way you did; beyond frustrated that they hadn’t perceived his character how someone (you) who truly knew him would do so. it had taken you just under six months to develop a great friendship with sherlock, so how was it so difficult for his coworkers who had been working with him for years, relying on him for his genius to fix their problems and solve their worst cases, to appreciate him? it grated on your nerves and, frankly, you were over it.

it took one more snide remark from donovan, something about how emotionless and cold sherlock could be, that really put you over the edge. you snapped, to put it bluntly.

“he cares a great deal more than any of you will ever understand. you think he’s so cold? a machine, was it?” you ask, directing your glare at donovan. “you don’t see it, do you?” your gaze meets the others gathered in front of you—lestrade, anderson, mycroft, some familiar faces you’ve seen milling about scotland yard. you’re angry, fuming even, that nobody seems to appreciate sherlock the way you do. john, of course, and mrs. hudson and molly, sure, but it seems as though sherlock has barely a handful of people in his corner. after all he’s done, all he’s put himself through, to help those around him—solving cases, putting his life on the line, bringing forth justice—and he gets nothing in return but sneers and snide remarks.

“sure, he may process emotions differently than most of us,” you continue, “reacts in somewhat peculiar ways to the common eye, ways we may not understand. and because of this, you think he’s unlovable? unapproachable? inhuman? does that automatically give you all the right to criticize his every move and judge him regardless? i can guarantee that he cares more than any of you realize.” your cheeks feel damp and you become aware of the fact that you’re crying. normally, you would be embarrassed for being so vulnerable in such a public setting. especially your coworkers—if you can even call them that—of all people. but, truthfully, it’s about damn time someone put in any effort, show even an ounce of respect or sympathy toward sherlock. “he’s a great detective and an even better man,” you say, letting the tears flow freely. “but you just don’t realize that, do you? he is, without a doubt, the most incredible man i have ever met, and i consider it a privilege to know him. but you can’t accept that, can you? arseholes.”

john suddenly clears his throat next to you, pulling your attention toward him. he tilts his head off to the side, directing you to the tall figure standing in the corner, messy curls and popped collar making him immediately recognizable, to your dismay. you drop your head. now’s the time to feel embarrassed, you think to yourself. you never would’ve thought sherlock would walk in during your outburst and defense of his character. of course, you don’t regret it whatsoever, you meant every word you said. but for him to witness it? heat creeps up your neck and into your cheeks, and you pray that no one can tell how you’re reacting to his sudden presence, but you know it’s useless.

sherlock approaches your accusation circle, everyone quickly pulling back and making room for the consulting detective, gazes flitting from one person to the next. sherlock pays them no mind, his footsteps quick and sure, until he’s standing right in front of you. your eyes are glued to his scarf when a nimble finger tilts your chin upward, and you’re staring into sherlock’s blue gaze. oceanlike, you think. pretty.

you’re surprised when he presses his thumb to your cheek, collecting a fallen tear and staring oddly at the wetness coating his fingertip. his blue eyes are curious and inquisitive beneath furrowed brows. always the detective, you bemuse to yourself. always looking for clues. suddenly, that look disappears and he’s looking at you thoughtfully, the creases around his eyes softening. “don’t waste these on me, my dear,” he says, voice deep yet gentle.

your heart pounds beneath your ribcage at the term of endearment. it was meant to be endearing, right? you panic internally. what if you’re connecting dots that aren’t even there and jumping to conclusions, just to make an even bigger fool of yourself. certainly, at this point, everyone is sure to know how you feel about the detective. if your sudden outburst wasn’t enough, you probably have hearts in your eyes now.

a grin stretches across sherlock’s face and you know that your reaction hasn’t gone unnoticed by him. typical. can’t hide anything from the man, you think sourly.

“while i certainly appreciate you defending my character,” he begins, “there’s no need to fret and most definitely no need to cry. not over me,” he says the last bit with an ounce of remorse in his tone. your heart cracks, knowing how hard he is on himself, how judgmental he is even of his own character, let alone how others respond to his peculiarities.

his large palm rests against your cheek and then adjusts slightly, just enough to cup the back of your neck securely, intimately. you feel safe in his hands—hands that are strong enough to pull the trigger of a gun, yet gentle enough to pluck the strings of his violin.

sherlock isn’t usually handsy, per se. you start to wonder why the sudden display of—affection, is it?—when he leans forward and presses his lips to yours. his lips are slightly chapped from the brisk winter air but they’re soft and warm against yours. never in a million years, although you certainly dreamt it, would you have thought you’d be kissing sherlock holmes—the world’s best (and only) consulting detective, and your greatest friend. he’s holding you so securely, tilting your head a fraction to deepen the kiss, tongue meeting yours until you’re practically making out in a scotland yard conference room with an audience, but you couldn’t care less at this point.

sherlock pulls away and you unconsciously follow his lips with the movement, not wanting to stop just yet. god, you could kiss him for hours, you think unabashedly. you vaguely hear gagging noises coming from anderson, but you tune him out, your full focus directed at the man in front of you. the unruly curls atop his head have become even messier, if possible, and his cheeks are flushed and his ears are red. it’s so endearing to see him like this, you feel a laugh bubble up inside you.

“what?” he asks, a tinge of self-consciousness creeping into his tone, and his hands slowly fall from your neck to rest on your shoulders. “why are you laughing? normally in a situation like this, the other party wouldn’t be laughing, correct? or am i doing something wrong? i haven’t received complaints in the past, although there was this one time—”

you tug on the lapels of his jacket and pull sherlock in for another kiss, cutting off his rambling spree as his arms wrap tightly around your waist. “i like you, idiot,” you mutter against his lips.

sherlock's breath catches slightly, just barely noticeable, but then a peculiar glint reaches his eyes. “i suppose i am expected to say that i like you, too?” he teases.

you gasp in mock hurt and the two of you erupt in a fit of laughter, the air around you bubbly and light. his laughter dies down but he's still smiling at you. “i do like you,” he says, earnestly, “truly. i adore you, my dear.”

your audience had departed from the conference room just moments earlier to allow for some…privacy, with john shaking his head at you two in amusement as he closed the door on his way out. “about damn time.”

[topsyturvy-turtely]

(Rosie's) Elephant in the Room

Fandom: Sherlock (TV)

Words: 4491 (on ao3)

Summary: John Watson loves Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock Holmes loves John Watson. John Watson’s daughter loves her giant elephant plushie.

This is the story how the two men finally jump over their shadows and confess their feelings. All because of an elephant plushie.

---

Rosamund Mary Watson owned one thing she was incredibly proud of: her gigantic elephant plushie.

Name: Ellie Phant Astic

Gender: female

Age: 1 year 24 weeks and 5 days

Material: very soft fabric

Strengths: very good at hugging and listening. The best plushie in the whole wide world.

Weaknesses: shy, not talkative (only talks to Rosie Watson).

“Hi, Rosie, sweetie. What are you writing down?”, her dad (John Watson) asked, as he dropped his bag to the floor after he came home from work.

“Key data of Ellie Phant Astic. Look!”, proudly the girl showed off her scrawly handwriting to her dad, who squated down to kiss his daughter’s top of the head and review her professional plush toy data. Seven years old, exceedingly smart and good at social interactions as long as it only includes herself, her way too big elephant plushie and family, Rosie reminded John more of Sherlock than of himself. Writing down key data of a plush toy? Definitely a thing Sherlock did as a kid!

“Wow, that’s truly elephant-astic”, John joked and winked. Rosie giggled.

“I believe you call that a dad-joke, John”, Sherlock said leaning in the door frame, dressing gown over his sweatpants and a white T-shirt and a cup of coffee in his hand.

“Well,” John stood up and his spine made a clicking noise. “I am a dad, so I am allowed to make those.” John smiles. “How was your day with the little one?”

“Oh, it was quite ‘elephant-astic’, wouldn’t you agree, Watson?”, he said, making air-quotes when saying the really not that funny word.

Enthusiastically Rosie nodded her head. ��Yessss! Phantie and Lock and me went to the pond in the park and fed the ducks and then we came home and played Cluedo and then I had to go down to Granny, because Lock was angry, because he wasn’t playing according to the rules but that’s okay because Phantie, Granny and I made cookies and they were delicious and I ate soooo much!”

“That sounds like quite a busy day, Rosie. But, I suggest you don’t play Cluedo with Lock anymore, he is extremely bad at it.”, the doctor said with a smirk directed at his flatmate.

Rosie laughed, looked at the tall detective, then at the 3 foot stuffed animal and finally whispered into John’s ear, “Phantie agrees.”

Knowing full well his Watsons were whispering and giggling over him, Sherlock countered, “I am not bad at Cluedo. This game is simply illogical.”

“Yeah, sure it is, Sherlock.”, John said and Rosie fell into a giggling fit. With a pout, Sherlock turned around and walked back into the kitchen.

Still smiling, John turned to Rosie. “I’ll be taking a shower and be right down. Will you be alright with Mr. Pouty-Face over there?”

Giggling, Rosie nodded and pointed at the giant elephant next to her, “Phantie and I can handle him.”

“Probably even better than I can, sweetheart.”, John said, gave Rosie another kiss and left to take a shower.

Upstairs John was overwhelmed by the chaotic mess of a room screaming at him. He used to have a very tidy room, apart from the occasional pants or jumper laying one day too long on the floor. That had changed when Rosie came and Mary had died. John had moved back in with Sherlock and was since then sharing his room with a little girl: Plushies everywhere, pirate costumes over his bed, a magnifying glass with a bunch of sheets with a kid’s colourful handwriting, on and around the desk. The closet door wide open, half of the clothes falling out.

This room was getting definitely too small for a little girl living her wildest dreams. Let alone a little girl and her father. Said girl wasn’t even that little anymore. They had two small singles now, instead of the queen sized bed, because Rosie was kicking like crazy in her sleep. John’s nightmares had gotten better with her close to him, but on bad nights he had to sleep on the couch downstairs, as to not disturb her. Or blankly stare onto the ceiling hoping sleep would make John its slave at some point. Thankfully Rosie slept like a stone most days.

And as much as it pained him and would for sure pain his daughter: John would have to move out soon, if he ever wanted to live like a grown man again. If he ever wanted Rosie to become not dependent on her father. They both needed their own space. For their own sakes.

John sighed, grabbed some fresh clothes and left the messy room to take a shower. Tomorrow. He would tell Sherlock they’d move out tomorrow.

Continue on Ao3 ;)

[teawaffles]

It Happened One Night: Chapter 1

T/N: Takes place after the Scandal in the British Empire arc (Chapters 17-23 of the manga).

Baker Street was full of people as usual. But in contrast to the hubbub, the entire street was enveloped in a vaguely unnatural, lonely atmosphere.

It looked like it was going to rain. That was what John H Watson thought as he walked down the street, gazing up at the heavily clouded sky.

“We should get back quickly, Sherlock.”

Saying that, he looked at the man beside him — Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock squinted and sniffed the air, as if trying to detect the smell of rain, and agreed with him.

“Right. And I also have some things here I don’t want to get drenched.”

Then Sherlock looked down at the items he was carrying. They each bore a large paper bag, stuffed to the brim with food and other sundry goods.

John furrowed his brows.

“Sherlock, haven’t you bought too many personal items? We’re even more broke than usual, you know,” he reminded.

But Sherlock wasn’t perturbed.

“They might be useless to you, John, but to me these are necessities of life. Please overlook this just once.”

“It’s no use, huh……”

It was better to avoid cigarettes at times like this, but John knew it was pointless to say that — hence instead of going on at length, he just gave a small sigh. Somehow, it felt like the bag in his arms had grown heavier.

As the two men walked on like this, they eventually drew near the flat where they lived. 221B Baker Street. This was the very place from which the great detective Sherlock Holmes, and his assistant, John H Watson, unravelled Britain’s mysteries.

However, they walked past their lodgings, not once slowing down. As they passed by, John glanced toward their flat.

There, remained the scars of appalling destruction. The building itself had retained its original structure, but the flat in which they’d lived had its windows all blown out; from what he could see through them, the walls and ceilings had been scorched to a miserable crisp.

They’d been unexpectedly drawn into the “Scandal of the British Empire” case, in which Sherlock had devised a bold strategy — blowing up their own apartment — in order to save Irene Adler.

They had achieved their goal, but at the cost of losing their home for the time being. As such, Sherlock and John, together with their landlady Miss Hudson, were staying in cheap accommodation a little ways from here until the apartment repairs were complete.

As they headed to their temporary lodgings, John’s shoulders drooped.

“Although all of us had agreed on it, in the end, it’s still tough to see the place you’ve gotten used to living in become like that.”

“Sorry about that. I had no other option back then.”

Sherlock kept his eyes forward as he apologised with sincerity. To that, John smiled gently.

“I don’t really mind — In any case, I’ve been put through many reckless situations like this before……. Oh—”

Right then, a drop of water splashed on his palm. Just as he registered that icy sensation, more raindrops came pouring down.

Sherlock looked at him.

“It arrived earlier than I thought.”

“Yeah, let’s run for it.”

Then, carrying their bags with both arms, the two men half-ran to their hotel.

When they arrived, they shook their heads slightly to rid the water from their hair, then walked past the front desk to their room.

After putting down their bags and opening the door, they found Miss Hudson standing in the doorway.

John tilted his head in confusion.

“Miss Hudson, what brings you here?”

As it would be improper for them to share a room with a lady, the two men chose to rent out a separate room despite the steep cost. Hence, John thought she would be in her own room now — why was she in theirs?

She smiled back awkwardly.

“Mr Mycroft’s here.”

“What?”

Instantly, Sherlock’s face morphed into one of displeasure. Without asking the details, he took up his shopping and walked into the room. Seated on a chair near the wall was his older brother Mycroft, looking out the window.

“……Damn you, Mycroft. Coming all the way to this hotel — what you do want?”

Distinctly uncomfortable dealing with his own elder brother, Sherlock spoke up first, his tone sour. But Mycroft simply turned to look at him, and responded without haste.

“That attitude again as always, Sherly. How about subverting my expectations sometimes and acting like a gentleman for once? Or rather, is it that you’re so frustrated by a case you forgot your manners?”

“Ugh……”

Mycroft looked around the cramped interior as he spoke, and the corners of Sherlock’s mouth twitched as he let out a groan. He didn’t regret blowing up their apartment itself, but hearing Mycroft’s calm, pointed comments forced him to remember his own helplessness back then.

“……Did you come all the way here just to make a fool of me?” he retorted, trying to defend himself. But Mycroft simply shrugged his shoulders in resignation, and got straight to the point.

“If you’re having trouble with accommodation, there’s a country house in the Cotswolds I can introduce you to.”

“……What’s this, all of a sudden?”

Country houses were often built by nobles and wealthy landowners as status symbols on their own land: it was ridiculous to suggest that someone would simply lend theirs out. Sherlock raised an eyebrow in suspicion.

“Isn’t it natural for an older brother to want to help his younger sibling in his time of need? Furthermore, although I’m sure they’d agreed to your plan, it pains me to think how Dr Watson and Miss Hudson have been caught up in it.”

“We don’t need your concern. We’ll do what we want, so just get the hell out of here.” Sherlock made a shooing motion with his hand, in a bid to chase Mycroft out, but was soon admonished by John, who’d entered the room afterward. John then calmly turned to Mycroft, seeming eager to listen.

“Do you mean that, you would be willing to lend us an apartment? Thank you very much for your offer — could you tell us more?”

Mycroft was smiling as he nodded.

“Actually, an acquaintance of mine — a noble — intends to stay in London for a week. They’re looking for someone to look after their mansion in the meantime, hence I thought it would align perfectly with your situation, Doctor.”

John nodded in understanding.

“I see. However, if that’s the case, why not ask their employees to stay behind?”

“From what I’d heard, they felt it would be a good opportunity to give their hardworking employees a vacation as well. Although if you aren’t able to accept, Doctor, they did say they would ask some of them to remain in the house……”

“In other words, if we were to take up the offer, then their employees would be able to take a break. Moreover, the three of us would be in charge of the mansion’s upkeep during our stay.”

“Not exactly,” Mycroft clarified, “They said you won’t have to concern yourselves with the maintenance and such. As long as it stays reasonably tidy, you are free to enjoy yourselves while keeping an eye on the house.”

It was a very generous offer, so generous it invited suspicion of an ulterior motive; however, since it came from Mycroft, perhaps it could be trusted. John wanted very much to accept — he couldn’t say he was entirely pleased with their current arrangement — but he knew his partner didn’t view it that simply.

As expected, Sherlock tutted in disapproval.

“This place suits us just fine: I don’t want to live in some boring mansion in the middle of nowhere. Anyway, I wouldn’t be able to take on clients when I’m away.”

Sherlock himself did harbour some guilt at making the two of them endure their present lifestyle, but following his brother’s opinion was simply anathema to him. As such, he couldn’t help but bite back in reply.

John understood that, but admonished him regardless.

“Sherlock, you shouldn’t talk to your own brother like that. Mr Mycroft was just looking out for us when he made that suggestion.”

“Pay no mind, Doctor. He’s been like this for a long time.”

Mycroft gave them a wide smile. Then, he directed a question to Miss Hudson, who had been keeping an eye on them from behind.

“We’ve heard what my little brother thinks, but how about you, Miss Hudson?”

“Eh? A-Ah~……”

Having suddenly been addressed, she responded in a faltering tone.

“Well, um…… To me, I think, it would certainly be helpful.”

In an effort to consider Sherlock’s feelings on the matter, she ended up replying in a roundabout way — but it was clear that she was in favour as well.

Mycroft turned to John.

“How about you, Doctor?”

For a moment, John was at a loss for words, but when he heard the floorboards creaking underneath his feet, he made up his mind. He looked at Sherlock as he nodded slowly.

“I think, that the country house might be more pleasant, compared to our current circumstances. Moreover, we could always receive clients via post.”

“…………”

Both of them had answered in the affirmative. Now, only Sherlock remained.

Despite the apparent obstacles being cleared, he still had his reservations. But eventually, Sherlock looked at the ceiling in resignation.

“Ah, bollocks. It would just be selfish of me to refuse at this point, now wouldn’t it? Alright. Please let us stay at that country house until the apartment is fixed.”

At that reply, Mycroft smiled in satisfaction, and Sherlock turned away to hide his frustration from those eyes.

The three of them drew up some agreements on their new living arrangements, and with that, until the flat at Baker Street was fixed, they would proceed to stay at a noble’s mansion out in the country.

Footnotes:

[1] The Cotswolds is a large hilly area to the northwest of London, further than Oxford and dotted with villages. (Wikipedia)

T/N: After the angst from the last story, I just remembered how much I love the Baker Street gang 😉

[ren-therose]

It Was Always You

Dr. John Watson X F!Reader (3.9k words)

Summary: You walk into 221B, knowing full well that Sherlock, a colleague of yours, isn’t there; however, his flatmate John is. In his own jealousy and anger at Sherlock, a misunderstanding occurs, and you attempt to resolve it. 

Warnings: angst, fluff, jealousy, smut 18+, thigh riding, oral (m receiving), unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), this mans sexy hands ( dont @ me)

~~~~~~~~~~~

Mrs. Hudson was kind enough to let me into 221 Baker Street, knowing that no one else would ever answer the door except her. When she opened it, she was taken aback to see me standing there, still in my work clothes with an envelope in hand. 

“Oh hello dear! I thought you were Sherlock. That man always seems to lose the keys to the flat. I have had to make so many copies for him. Just the other day, I caught him trying to slip his hand through the mail slot and, oh! Anyway, that’s probably not why you are here- you must be here to see Sherlock! If you’re looking for him, he isn’t here love, but you might be able to find him-”

I cut her off, grabbing her hands and pulling her in to give her a tight hug, landing a peck on her cheek as I pulled away. I loved the boys landlady, but Mrs. Hudson had a way of going on incredibly long and irrelevant tangents. She made the best biscuits in all of London though. 

“No Mrs. Hudson, I’m not here to see Sherlock....I...I-I’m actually here to see John,” I said sheepishly, looking down at the envelope in my hands. I shook my head, trying not to get caught up in my own stress, and stretched the envelope out to her. “Mrs. Hudson, before I go up, I have a present for you. Two tickets to the opera, and a handsome man waiting for you there. I know he is the one that has been bringing you those gorgeous roses,” I said, looking behind her to see the vase on the entry table. Her eyes widened as she shifts slightly, stealing a glance at the flowers, as if she was checking to see if they were still there. She turned, taking the envelope and pulled out the tickets to the Royal Opera House, only to immediately shove them back in. She tried to push the envelope into my hands again, but I declined, making a surrendering gesture and backing away. We quarreled for a few moments, pivoting around the tiny entry until I finally made it up a few of the steps, asserting my dominance to show the unwillingness I held. 

“Ms. Y/N, you are quite the meddler,” she said with a shake of her head, opening the envelope once more. “...what time does the show start....my goodness! I have to change now!” Mrs. Hudson exclaims. Lucky for her, my plan was already in motion.

“You have 15 minutes until the private car will come to pick you up, ma’am, but you always look lovely,” I reply with a wink. 

“Wear red!” I call back to her, as I climb the stairs to the second floor, hearing her coo as she made her way back into her flat. 

The door of 221B was unlatched, and I didn’t think John would mind the intrusion. He too would probably just assume it was Sherlock waltzing in. I opened the door to see the doctor, sitting in his usual spot, typing away on a new blog post. He had today's morning paper next to him, as though he needed to cite another source about his own adventure with the famous Mr. Holmes. He didn’t look up, but instead called out, “I thought you weren’t coming back tonight. Something to do with some new case? Or was it perhaps Mycroft? I can’t keep track of you anymore, though I’m sure you care little for my location and/or well-being if it doesn’t affect a case”. He was clearly in a mood, but it was my fault Sherlock was out. He may be a genius, but he didn’t seem to realize that Molly and I had played him. He would be busy playing with cadavers all evening. 

I took off my coat and hung it on the rack by the door, as well as my scarf. My work clothes were not usually something I would wear around their flat, but I had come straight from the university where I teach and research human behavior, attitude and persuasion. The button up blouse and navy blue skirt were a staple to my wardrobe of simplistic outfits. The only bits character I would add to my looks were my shoes. Today, I had settled on well-loved, leather loafers with a good sized heel that matched my tweed coat. I kicked off the shoes and walked behind him into the kitchen, looking for something to defrost the chill I had caught from walking across town. Or maybe it was the nerves. 

“You better not be placing any more human remains in our fridge Sherlock. I’m tired of the disembodied heads, an-and, and, singular eyeballs! It’s like they are staring into my soul...” his words trailed off. “Y/N?” he asked with a hint of fear, as well as amusement. He knew it was me, but it was hard to tell from the outfit and position I was in. I could very well be a murderer, client, or complete stranger, rummaging through his fridge. But it was me. I was bent over in the fridge, looking for cream, and I hadn’t noticed him stand and turn back towards the kitchen. As my arse stuck out from the behind the door of the fridge, I called back to him. “Do you want a drink? I feel like a tea,” I exclaimed, standing up right to look at him with bottle of creamer in hand. I could see him relax as he looked me over, checking to make sure I wasn’t in any distress. My hair was in a French-twist of sorts, but by this time of day, it usually fell around my face and would lose its form, becoming a messy blob. I brushed the hair out of my face, giving him a smile as I set the creamer down on the meth-lab of a kitchen island. I often acted manic around them, trying to control my own obsessions and addictions, but they both looked out for me. John enjoyed caring for people, especially Sherlock and I. 

He shook his head, complete with his mental examination of me. “I didn’t know you were coming over. You know that Sherlock isn’t-”

I pounded my fist on the counter, not hard enough to be angry, but enough to show my irritation. “Why does everyone think I have come to see Sherlock? Even Mrs. Hudson had assumed!” I exclaimed, walking across the kitchen. Huffily, I grabbed the kettle and began to fill it with tap water, leaning over the sink as I lifted my heels, back and forth, shifting my weight. 

“Well,” he began, rubbing the back of his neck, looking off to the side. “The two of you work closely together, I just assumed that you would want to pick his brain about some new theory you’re trying to publish,” he murmured.

“Jesus John, you make it sound so salacious,” I laugh, reaching up to get the mugs. “What do you think we are doing at my office, or when we are gone?”  I had to go on my tip toes, especially since I had taken off my heels. As I reached, I didn’t notice that John had been looking over my stocking covered legs, taking in the tone of my calves as I struggled to grasp a mug. 

“Here, let me help you Y/N,” John said, rushing over to help grab the cups. I had already grabbed them, but his hands wrapped around mine, supporting the mugs and me. He was so close, my chest mere inches from his, the drinkware between us. He looked down between us, then back at me, a look in his eyes that gave my stomach butterflies. 

Before I could get ahead of myself, I stepped back to put the mugs on the island next to us. “John, Sherlock is merely a colleague with an annoyingly witty brain that can help me with my publication. I can’t stand the bastard most of the time,” I say, pouring an ungodly amount of sugar into my cup. 

“Well, that makes two of us. I just thought you fancied him, especially since you come over and help take care of the place quite a bit.”

It was true. Anytime I came over to ask them about the latest case and the actions of the killer, I found myself tidying up, doing dishes, and even making meals. But it wasn’t for Sherlock. 

“No John, that’s not why I help out,” I say tentatively. My body was facing the many bottles and beakers on the counter in the center of the kitchen, while he stood next to me, leaning his side against the counter, still looking down at me. Taking a deep breath, I turn to face him. “John, it’s because I-”

Before I could finish, we hear the familiar owl-like call from Mrs. Hudson to vocalize her entrance. “Hoo Hoo! Y/N, thank you again for these tickets. However will I repay you?” the woman asks as she wraps her arms around me for a hug. 

“Oh Mrs. Hudson, consider it an early gift!” I say, squeezing her back.

“There is no holiday coming up,” John says inquisitively.

“Sometimes, there isn’t a reason, John,” I say with a little edge to my voice. “Give my best to your handsome admirer!”

“I will love, I will. See you later tonight!” she chirped as she walked out. 

“Or not,” I mumble with a small snicker. 

“Heard that!” She calls out behind her. For an older woman, her hearing can be remarkable. I laugh, and John emits a slight chuckle as well. We look to each other once more, smiling with content, though I can see John’s brain trying to solve the question of why I gave her the tickets. But before he could interrogate me, the kettle begins to whistle. 

“Tea’s ready. Earl Grey or Black Tea?” I ask, quickly moving past him to the tin. 

“I know you know what I like,” he says, arms crossed as he watches me pick out the bags. 

“I just thought I’d give you an option,” I say, bringing the bags back and dropping them in the mugs. “But I know not to ask about the sugar,” I say with a wink, a sense of my more relaxed self peeking through. I turn to grab the kettle, but John has already done so. I am standing in front of the mugs, when he comes up behind me, pouring the water from around. He is close to me, but not touching. His other hand is just barely ghosting over mine, hanging by my side. 

“I’m so sorry, I could move,” I manage to say, stepping off to the side. 

“No, no, you’re no bother,” he softly says. I can smell the aftershave on his skin, a smell I had often found so comforting. This new proximity, however, allowed me to better isolate the smell of pine, a hint of mint, and a spice I couldn’t name. 

I stirred our drinks, pulling the teabags out now that they had steeped. Adding a dash of cream to mine, I hold it the cup up, signaling a toast. 

“To knowing one another.”

“To knowing one another,” he responds. 

We clink our cups, taking a sip, not breaking eye contact. I lower my mug, breaking the stare, as I look down at the light brown color of the tea. John clears his throat, moving slightly closer as he looks down at the contents of his own drink.

“Umm..should we, maybe, er, sit?” I say, sounding as though I hadn’t just barged in there several minutes before like I owned the place.

“Yeah, that sounds like a good idea,” he replies. 

I was the first to move, coming around to his chair and sitting in the warm seat. 

“Yeah, no, get up that’s my spot,” he says, shaking his head as he comes to stand in front of me. 

“Sherlock isn’t here, why can’t you sit in his seat?” I ask, pulling my legs up into the cushion, tucking them under my bum. 

“I can, but I was in the middle of writing something,” he says, hesitantly sitting down in his friends leather chair. 

“I’ll proof it before you continue,” I say, picking up his laptop to put in my lap. He sighs across from me, clearly annoyed. I toss the paper at him. “Here, do the word puzzle or something. Sherlock can’t bother us “ordinary” people about it if we solve it without him around,” I say, scrolling to the beginning of his post. 

He picks up the pencil next to the chair, searching the pages for the crossword. As I begin reading, I can’t help but look up to steal glances at the doctor across from me, a man who is constantly overshadowed by the genius he solves crimes with. Sherlock had once told me that while he solves crimes, Watson saves lives. I wonder if he will need to save that for a speech one day, but for now, it reminds me of what an incredible man John is. He has saved my life on many occasions, probably not even knowing, though if he did, probably never taking the credit. 

“John, this might be your best entry yet,” I exclaim. Though I felt he was too humble in his writing, he did a wonderful job of painting a picture for the reader and giving us a map inside the detectives thought process. 

“No no, it was all Sherlock. He is always the one who solves it,” he says without looking up. 

I set the laptop down beside me, pulling my legs down to be crossed over one another at the ankles.

“John, you don’t think very highly of yourself and...well.... it breaks my heart. Truly. Sherlock can’t do these things without you,” I say, looking at the newspaper that hides his face. 

“Well, it isn’t without your help around here that I don’t kill him. You’re my saving grace, Y/N,” he says softly. My breathing hitches in my throat. Now was as good a time as any. He still hasn’t moved the paper, as if afraid to see me reaction. Quietly, I slip from the chair to my knees. I move towards him and my place a hand on the top of his leg. He lowers the paper, looking into my bright eyes. As he sets the paper down beside him, John sits up a bit more, leaning in to me. I straighten up, bringing my face closer to his. My hand goes to his cheek, rubbing it softly with my thumb. 

“John, it’s always been you,” I whisper. 

I slide my hand to the nape of his neck, drawing him. He leans down with parted lips, grabbing my face with both of his hands and kisses me. 

Years of knowing the two men, and all I could think of was this moment, the one I never knew if I could have. Our lips fit like puzzle pieces, one on top of the other, allowing for us to feel the buzz of our connection as it lingered on. My other hand had gone to his sweater and was now gripping it, the only thing left grounding me to the earth. As we pulled away, our eyes met, as they had so many times, and the look that we saw finally had a name: desire. 

I pulled him back in again, this time with more passion and the need to truly feel that he was mine. His hands had moved from my face down to my waist, and pulled me up onto his lap. My skirt rode up so that I could straddle him, and I prayed it wouldn’t rip (but if it did, i wouldn’t feel too bad).The feeling of his grip around my torso brought back the butterflies, as we gave sharp, open mouthed kisses, our bodies closer than they had ever been. His mouth started to trail from my mine, down to my jaw, under to my neck, causes little hiccup-like gasps to escape me. My hands were on his neck and in his hair, scratching softly to encourage this. As he came down to my collarbone, he stopped abruptly and pulled back to look at me. 

“Is something wrong?” I asked, worry clouding my face. I start to get off of him when his arms pull me back, holding me in his lap. 

“No no, it’s just...we are in Sherlock's chair,” he says awkwardly. 

“Do you think I care whose chair it is John? Besides it’s a bit better for sitting on you and I don’t think I want to get off you anytime soon,” I say smuggly, dragging my hands down to his chest. 

“Oh you like sitting in my lap,” he responds, looking quite proud of himself. In response, I rolled my hips against him, feeling him grow underneath me. I bite my lip as I lean to whisper “feels like you do too”. I lick the shell of his ear, exhaling softly. 

A low groan comes from his throat and he places his hands on my waist, giving them a pull that causes my body to roll against him once more. I shiver, dropping my head back as I do so. I don’t think either of us have done something like this since we were quite young, but the friction of it, matched with our tension we had stored for years felt so good. 

As he continued to roll my hips against his, I leaned back down to kiss him, this time, allowing for him to search my mouth. My hands went to his sweater as I peeled it off of him. I then started unbuttoning his shirt, dragging my nails as I did so. This caused him to buck up into me and I let out a yelp, grinding down against him. 

“Here,” he said, lifting me from his lap to his knee. “I want you to ride it for me, could you love?”

How could I say no? Immediately, I rocked against him, feeling myself grow wetter. My skirt was still up around my waist, but as he undid my blouse, He could see that I had a matching set of lingerie underneath. He smirked with a low growl, wrapping his arm around me again, letting my blouse hang freely as he pulled my chest to his mouth. He left love bites on the tops of my chest, suckling and licking as he pulled my bra away from my nipples. They were already perked up from the way I was still grinding onto his knee, but the moment his mouth latched onto my right nipple, I couldn’t help but pull at his hair. He moaned against my breast, causing a vibration that ripped through my body. 

“John, I’m so close, please help me,” I gasp, rocking myself in a rhythm I could barely keep. He removes his mouth from my chest, and I drop my forehead to his, as he moves his hands to take control of my waist once more. He tenses his thigh underneath me, creating a new pressure against my clit. I cry out, wrapping my arms tighter around his neck. 

“Right there John, please don’t stop,” I choke, trying to breathe a little deeper for fear I might hyperventilate. 

He plants a kiss on my lips, pulling my lip away from between his teeth. My legs begin to shake as my orgasm takes my body, releasing my fluids onto his thigh as he continues to roll my hips through it. I can barely sit up, as he lays me down to rest against his chest, drawing on my back with his finger. 

“That was so good, Y/N, you did so good for me,” he whispers. I smile, kissing his neck. His eyes flutter closed as I continue to kiss and suck at his neck. As I swing my leg off of him so that I am once again between his legs, I slowly start kissing down to his chest, licking up, and then continuing to kiss back down. 

“Jesus, love, you’re gonna be the death of me he says, a hand on his forehead as he looks down to see me biting at his pelvic bone, while my hands creep up his thighs to his belt. I can feel his hard on against my boner, and I feel bad for neglecting it during my ride, but I know how to make it up to him. Once I undid his pants, I started shimming them down him. Pulling his swollen cock out from his trousers, I can already see the beads of precum seeping from his slit. I involuntarily lick my lips, before I give his cock a slow stroke. 

John groans above me, his head rolled back and to the side, looking at me with a smile. I smile back, maintaining eye contact as I lean down to plant a kiss on the tip of his dick. His mouth parts lightly as his breathing becomes more shallow, waiting to see what I will do next. I kiss my way down his shaft, all the way to his balls, holding them in one hand while I continued to slowly pump his member in my other. I sucked at them for a moment, releasing them with a pop, causing him to buck up into my hand. I open my mouth and let my tongue drag all the way up the underside of his cock, until I reach the top. I wrap my lips around him, slowly pushing my head down as far as I could take him. His hand goes for my hair, which at this point had fallen out of my usual work-do, so that he could see my face. 

“Oh...you know what you’re doing. Keep going love,” he groans out, desperate for more. 

I begin to bob my head up and down, taking the rest of shaft in my hand. I use my tongue as well to swipe of his dick as I messily blow the doctor above me. It was no surprise to learn that he had jerked off to this very thought many times, but to actually have it happen was a dream come true for him. As I continue to work his cock, the wetness of my vagina continues to throb at the thought that he could be inside me. I can feel him getting closer as his moans become more strained and grip on my hair tightens. 

“Oh, oh, Y/N, you’re gonna have to stop love, I wanna be inside you when I finish,” he says, looking down on me, signaling our next move. I look up at him as I go down as far as I can, gagging on his dick while little tears prick at the corner of my eyes. He pulls me off of him by my hair, leaning down to kiss me sloppily. I had never seen the army doctor so disheveled before, but I loved this different side of him. I stood up to straddle him once more, and as I sat, he took his fingers and ran them through my slit. I hissed at the action, not wanting his fingers when I was ready for his cock. But he took the cum and slickness from my first orgasm and rubbed it onto his cock, preparing me for it. As I sat up, he held his tip to my entrance, looking into my eyes for the green light. I slid down onto him, my mouth gaping open with a sharp inhale as he filled me. 

“Jesus Christ...” was all he could say, as I sat with him inside me, both of us half dressed in his living room. 

I rolled my hips as I had when I first sat on him, shivering at the girth of his member. I found a rhythm to pace myself with, causing us to pant and groan in unison. As I bounced on him, he brushed my hair behind my ears, cupping my face while I braced myself with my hands on his chest. 

He slid down a little shifting the angle of him inside me, causing him to hit my g-spot. 

“Jesus, John, that’s it, right there,” I cry, rolling my hips against him. His hands move to wrap around my waist once more, as he takes control, pounding up into me. I shouted, leaning forward with one hand on the back of the chair, the other supporting his neck. Although my mouth was on his, all I could do was moan into him as he relentless hit spot that needed him most. 

“Touch yourself,” he demanded. It was a voice he used when he needed to be taken seriously and I wasn’t about to go against him. I snaked my hand between us and made tight circles are my clit, rolling against him and my hand.

“John, please, I can’t, I’m gonna cu-”

He cut me off by sitting up a bit more and replacing my hand with his. I shouted as I gripped his shoulders, riding his cock as the tension broke. I began to pulse around him as I cried out his name over and over. My orgasm ripped through me, and before I could stop myself, I was squirting on top of Dr. John Watson. 

He groaned out, “Y/n, Y/n, oh my god, good girl,” as he bucked up into me, coating my walls with his cum. 

We rode out our high, forehead to forehead, trying to catch our breaths as our eyes remained close. After a few moments passed, we opened our eyes, looking to see if what we had done was a mistake. But there was no trace of regret in either of our faces. 

“I’m yours, Dr. Watson,” I say, taking his face in my hand. He leans into me, then turning to kiss the inside of my hand. “I was always yours”. 

Still inside me, we look around. Nothing had changed, except for maybe our relationship status. 

“Do you think he will know?” I ask. 

“There is not a doubt in my mind,” John replies. 

“But do you think he will know we did it in his chair?” I laugh. 

“Not if we clean it well enough,” he says, leaning in to rub his nose against mine. 

We get up and begin cleaning, though it was hard to bend over, as my knees buckled nearly every time. By the time we had cleaned the room and ourselves up, it was nearly one in the morning. I moved my clothes into Johns room so that Sherlock wouldn’t notice if I slipped out the next morning. All the dishes had been dried and put away so that there was no trace of a guest. 

As John and I lay in bed together, waiting for Sherlock to come home, John leans over and asks cautiously, “is this why you gave Mrs. Hudson those opera tickets?”

I freeze for a moment, knowing that I had been caught. 

“I just needed her to not interrupt when I told you how I felt. I didn’t know it would lead to...well, this,” I giggle. 

He laughs, pulling me towards him to kiss my forehead. “God, I love you.”

He freezes against my forehead, realizing it was the first time we had ever even said the word love to one another, even as friends. 

I pull him down by the chin, to kiss him softly on the lips. “I love you too”.

---

A few hours after we had fallen asleep, we were awoken to the bedroom door being swung open and slammed against the wall. 

“On my chair, John?!”

~~~~~~~~~~~

If you can’t tell, Martin Freeman rules my life and I have a deep and passionate love for him. I hope you enjoyed and look out for more of this because I am on a ROLL! xoxo

[laughingpinecone]

Yuletide recs!

Belated but heartfelt. My wonderful gifts (Dark Souls, Ghost Trick, Pyre) + 20 more enthusiastic recs for Twin Peaks, Final Fantasy VI, Untitled Goose Game, Mushishi, A Study in Emerald, Russian Doll, Omar Rayyan, The Sandman, Tacoma, Dinotopia, Cowboy Bebop, Earthsea, 4′33′‘ (roughly in reverse reading order, ie pretty much random).

    rise in perfect light (Dark Souls, Solaire & ensemble) honors Solaire’s death and goes back to look at his life, from his time in Astora, the journey to Lordran and several meetings with various other NPCs, prominently featuring my darling onions!

     A Matter of Trust (Ghost Trick: Phantom Detective, Alma/Jowd/Cabanela) is a fantastic exploration of what comes after the much-headcanoned moment when Jowd spills the beans about the other timeline to Alma and Cabanela. Braving uncharted territories with a lot of warmth and eye for character.

     The Long History (Pyre, Volfred&/Tariq) has Volfred ask Tariq about the Scribes in a perfectly indirect way and builds a great atmosphere in the Moonlit Alcove. They talk around each other like the pros they are and it’s beautiful.

     The Ghost of a Ghost (Twin Peaks, Albert & blue rose & co) Reading outside of one’s echo chamber, it’s hard to pass 500w of TP fic without stumbling across diverging theories/headcanons and this fic is a solid 16k. By which I mean it’s 16k and also really, really solid: there’s lots and lots to love in here regardless of where one is coming from and I ended up sold on a few additional readings. Tammy stands out for me and so does Gordon.

     Four Drinks (Twin Peaks, Harry&Frank) broke my heart with these Trumans. Four moments throughout the brothers’ lives, just brimming with intensity and nuance and echoes and wow.

     Poisons (Final Fantasy VI, Sabin & ensemble) A collection of drabbles, every single one of them stellar, built around the discarded possibility for Sabin to die at Tzen. They’re all fantastic and the whole is greater than the sum of its parts.

     The Path They Travel (Final Fantasy VI, Cyan&Sabin&Gau) The Serpent Trench has an atmosphere of its own and this fic works it into a great character moment mostly focused on Cyan&Sabin, their mirrored losses, Sabin’s kindness, but with stellar moments for Gau as well

     Mantra (Final Fantasy VI, Sabin&Terra&Gau&Mobliz crew) A brilliant character study for everyone involved, built upon the question of what the threshold for magic is, what has disappeared from the world and what has not.

     Untitled Romance Story (Featuring A Goose) (Untitled Goose Game, Tidy Neighbour/Messy Neighbour) fun village slice of life with great dialogue! It makes the whole village feel lived-in and it’s real snappy and fun!

     The Adventure of the Horrible Goose (Untitled Goose Game+Sherlock Holmes) exactly the kind of crack-treated-seriously prose I was hoping for in this canon, with the added seriousness of a Holmes pastiche. Delightful.

     The Parched Tendrils (Mushishi, Ginko&OCs) Mushishi ‘casefic’ for the soul :’) as chill and evocative as one would expect, great concept for the mushi du jour.

     The Assam Adventure (A Study in Emerald, Holmes/Watson) exciting casefic with deductions, disguises and wild hopes!

     beneath closed eyelids I do not cease to guard this (A Study in Emerald, Holmes/Watson) Watson character study with several great moments and a killer ending.

     Commence! (Russian Doll, Nadia&/Alan&ensemble) absolutely fantastic postcanon victory lap, or at least that’s how it felt to me, in all the best ways. The energy, the nuance, the dialogue!

     Tea and Tempests  (Tea in the Tempest - Omar Rayyan) this feels like a Rayyan painting! A fantastic little original story in its own right and one that really feels like it comes from the same paintbrush as its canon! Not a whole lot of art Yuletide this year but I’m so happy for this one.

     An Explorer of Delirium (Sandman, Delirium&OC) Delirium short story! Tiny and imaginative and perfect!

     Wings to the Weak, Grace to the Strong (Tacoma, ensemble) the perfect postcanon ‘please take my feelings about where this story left these characters and put them into words’ fic I needed when I finished the game! Instead I found it this Yuletide. I’m so glad.

     Dinosaur Dentistry: The Tooth Hurts (Dinotopia, OCs) dinosaur dentistry worldbuilding. What it says on the tin. It’s a great tin and a great fic, intensely Dinotopian and with lovable characters and cameos.

     Blue in Green (Cowboy Bebop, Spike&Jet) jazzy and canon-like in tone, a cool take on their first meeting.

     The Colors of Lorbanery (Earthsea, the Dyer of Lorbanery) I don’t remember canon’s details enough to comment but I do remember canon’s tone and this fic nails it. Great read.

     273 Moments of Silence. (4′33′’) For lovers of microfiction and/or evocative descriptions. I was simply stunned by the imagery and how it kept going and going. Coming up with 273 distinct ideas for Yuletide is a tall order, and yet this fic delivers like a champ.

     The Moment Echos  (4′33′’) A different take on ‘let’s write down the silence’, more structured, in a way that really worked for me. Amazing structure, amazing... idk, texture of the whole thing.

     4'33" (4′33′‘) aleatoric fic, which is a very cool thing to learn about (the process is explained in the reply to the first comment). I keep thinking about this one when I think about the great 4′33′‘ output, I love how it relates to the work.

[sophiaholmes221b]

Sophia Holmes and the Study in Pink

Chapter Four

After I score top marks in dad's observation quiz, we head over to Scotland Yard to hand in our statements to PC Jane Downing: the wife of the murder victim and the lead officer on his case.

It's approaching seven o'clock when we leave, and the heavy traffic still hanging on from rush hour is making our commute back to Baker Street is making us dangerously close to being late, but I hop out of the taxi just as Dr Watson limps down the street. Oblivious to us, he steps forwards and knocks on the door before dad calls to him from behind.

"Hello," dad says cheerily as he steps out and hands the cabbie our fare with a "thank you."

Watson turns around, holding out his hand as we approach. "Ah, Mr Holmes."

"Sherlock, please," he insists, wringing the doctor's hand.

Watson looks to me and offers his hand. "And Sophia, isn't it?"

I nod politely and shrug as I take it. "Or Sophie, I don't mind."

John nods and looks around. "Well, this is a prime spot. Must be expensive."

"Oh, Mrs Hudson, the landlady, she's giving me a special deal. Owes me a favour. A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out."

I smile, remembering the old man. I can now place where I remember Mrs Hudson from. Mr Hudson was an abusive husband who ran a drug cartel and sexually exploited his wife and the other exotic dancers he had in his club.

"Sorry, you stopped her husband being executed?"

Dad smiles at John, who is, at the moment, looking fairly impressed.

"Oh no. I ensured it."

John gives dad a puzzled look as the door opens, and Mrs Hudson opens her arms for both of us with a broad smile.

"Sherlock, Sophia, hello." We step into her embrace briefly before dad steps back to present John to her.

"Mrs Hudson, Doctor John Watson."

"Hello,"

"How y'do?"

Mrs Hudson gestures us in, smiling happily. From her body language and the way she's treating him, it's clear she thinks Doctor Watson is dad's partner. "Come in."

"Thank you."

"Shall we?" Dad asks as John doesn't move forward.

"Yeah," Mrs Hudson mutters and holds the door open for us as we go through.

Dad pushes past and lopes upstairs, then pauses as he waits for us to catch up. Doctor Watson is hobbling up the stairs in front of me and there isn't enough room to push up on through, so I follow up slowly behind. As we finally reach the landing, dad swings the living room door open dramatically and walks in, Dr Watson and I following a few steps behind.

"Well, this could be very nice. Very nice indeed," Dr Watson says, looking around impressed.

"Yes. Yes, I think so. My thoughts precisely," dad looks happily around the flat, "So I went straight ahead and moved in."

"Soon as we get all this rubbish cleaned out ..." he finishes, simultaneously. I grimace and John looks around at me awkwardly. "Oh. So this is all ..."

"Well, obviously I can, um, straighten things up a bit," dad says, walking across the room and half-heartedly throws some of my school folders back into a box whilst I attempt to tidy up by piling up a stack of books. I don't know much about the Holmes family, but I don't think tidiness has ever been one of its strengths.

John looks around and notices Billy, the skull, sat on the mantelpiece and he lifts his walking stick to point at it. "That's a skull."

"Friend of mine. When I say 'friend' ..." His only friend, or at least, the closest I've ever known him to have.

Mrs Hudson finally makes an entrance, and I watch as she picks up the cup and saucer dad was drinking from yesterday. Scanning for a book in one of the boxes, I sit down to read, taking off my greatcoat and scarf and throwing it into the kitchen. I might pick it up later.

"What do you think, then, Doctor Watson?" Mrs Hudson asks as she continues to flit around the room. "There's another bedroom upstairs if you'll be needing two bedrooms."

Again, I find myself having to stifle a grimace.

"Of course we'll be needing two." Doctor Watson says, looking confused.

"Oh, don't worry; there's all sorts round here. Mrs Turner next door's got married ones," she says, sounding confident. As if dad would get involved in such trivial matters such as love, let alone marriage. Not now, anyway.

Doctor Watson looks to dad for him confirm they aren't involved in that sort of business, but he seems oblivious. Mrs Hudson walks across the room and into the kitchen, then turns back to frown at me and dad.

"Oh, Sherlock, Sophia. The mess you've made." I bite my lip and raise my eyebrows as she picks up my coat and scarf and hangs it up, then starts tidying up our science equipment.

As Doctor Watson walks over to the armchair closest to the kitchen and sits down opposite the chair dad favours, I look over my book and scan him over, seeing if I can dig up more facts about him. Lives alone (obvious), traumatic past (obvious), and unwealthy (again, obvious - why else would he be looking for a flatshare?)

He looks up to dad who is still tidying up. "I looked you both up on the internet last night," John says, out of the blue. Dad turns around and my head snaps up.

"Anything interesting?"

"Found your website, The Science of Deduction."

I chuckle, whilst dad smiles proudly. "What did you think?" John sends him a disbelieving look, and dad looks comically hurt. It's our website, to be fair, but I don't update it half as much as dad does. I only tend to use it to drop the odd observation that dad misses from the case summary, but that doesn't happen often.

"You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb," Doctor Watson recalls, and I laugh again. It's quite a simple deduction, and the airline pilot is primary school knowledge.

"Yes; and I can read your military career in your face and your leg, and your brother's drinking habits in your mobile phone."

"How?" Watson questions, but dad smiles and turns away. People who ask us that are rarely satisfied with the answers we give: it's usually better if we don't explain ourselves.

Mrs Hudson comes back through from the kitchen, holding a newspaper that she found on the table. "What about these suicides then, Sherlock? I thought that'd be right up your street. Three exactly the same."

Dad walks over to the window and looks out as a car rumbles to a stop outside. There's been a fourth - but something's different about this one.

"Four," dad states looking down at the police car, its blue lights flashing against the opposite wall. It seems Lestrade has decided to contact us at last, but he wouldn't have come so soon unless something was different. "There's been a fourth. And there's something different this time."

I stand, placing my book on the table as the door opens downstairs.

"A fourth?" Mrs Hudson gasps, confused.

Dad turns to face Lestrade who he watches trot up the stairs.

"Where?"

Lestrade looks to me before answering. "Brixton, Lauriston Gardens,"

A small gasp slips through my lips. That was where I was found after I ran away.

Dad ignores this. "What's new about this one? You wouldn't have come to get me if there wasn't something different."

"You know how they never leave notes?"

"Yeah."

"This one did. Will you come?"

"Who's on forensics?"

"It's Anderson," Lestrade answers, anticipating our reaction and I groan. It never ceases to amaze me how low Scotland Yard's standards must have been to employ Anderson. Then again, I wouldn't exactly describe the rest of the force as particularly bright.

"Anderson won't work with me."

"Well, he won't be your assistant," Lestrade answers, as if that makes it okay.

"I need an assistant." dad mutters.

"What about Sophie?" Lestrade asks, gesturing towards me. I make sure I look keen, but I know I'll come either way.

"No, she'll come as well, but I need someone with medical experience."

"Will you come?"

"Not in a police car. We'll be right behind."

"Thank you," Lestrade says sincerely, before casting a quick look at Doctor Watson and Mrs Hudson and hurrying back down the stairs.

Dad waits until Lestrade has closed the front door before he leaps into the air, his fists clenched in exuberance, and twirls on the spot. I watch him with a wide grin - sometimes he really can be a bigger kid than me.

"Brilliant!" dad cries. "Yes! Ah, four serial suicides, and now a note! Oh, it's Christmas!" I throw dad his coat and scarf before retrieving mine from the hook in the kitchen. "Mrs Hudson, we'll be late. Might need some food."

"I'm your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper." Mrs Hudson sighs.

Dad opens the cupboard drawer closest to the kettle and pulls out the ID card he swiped from Lestrade last week and I tap my pocket to make sure I have mine. I might need to pickpocket Donovon again sometime. "Something cold will do. John, have a cup of tea, make yourself at home. Don't wait up!"

"Bye!" I call, giving them a quick wave before I follow after dad. I get as far as the front door before it clicks. "Wait, Sherlock!" He glances back. "John Watson is an army doctor. His experience is exactly what we need."

His eyes widen, and he sprints back upstairs, almost knocking Mrs Hudson over in his haste to go up. I consider going after him but can't be bothered to exert the extra energy so instead, I lean against the wall, straining my eyes to listen to the conversation.

It doesn't take long; Watson appears at the top of the stairs just a few seconds later.

"Sorry, Mrs Hudson," he calls, coming down the stairs behind dad. "I'll skip the tea. Off out."

Mrs Hudson reappears at her door and glances at me before coming out, looking disappointed. "All of you?"

I make to move towards the door, but dad spins around on his heel and walks back towards her. "Impossible suicides? Four of them? There's no point sitting at home when there's finally something fun going on!" He takes her by the shoulders and kisses her on the cheek.

"Look at you, all happy," she says, smiling. "It's not decent."

"Who cares about decent? The game, Mrs Hudson, is on!" Dad pushes past me and races through the door and onto the street in time to hail an approaching cab. As it pulls up in front of us, I follow dad into the back and pull the rear-facing seat down, allowing Doctor Watson easy access to the seat beside dad.

Going on past experience, I know the journey to Brixton will take around three-quarters of an hour, depending on London traffic so I pull out my phone to keep me occupied. Dad copies me, pulling out his own before starting to update our website with the recent developments.

I become aware, ever-so-often, of Doctor Watson stealing nervous glances at me and dad. It must be strange for him: we only met this afternoon and he knows very little about us, but already he has moved in. Now he's joining two strangers on a long taxi ride to a location on the other side of London. He's braver than most, I'll give him that.

Eventually, dad gets the point and lowers his phone. "Okay, you've got questions."

"Yeah, where are we going?"

"Crime scene. Next?"

"Who are you? What do you do?"

Dad looks at him. "What do you think?"

"I'd say private detective ..." Doctor Watson begins but trails off.

"But?"

"... but the police don't go to private detectives. And they definitely don't let their daughters tag along."

"I'm a consulting detective," dad explains. "Only one in the world. I invented the job. Sophia is training up to be the second."

"What does that mean?"

"It means when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me."

"The police don't consult amateurs."

I choke on my laugh, and dad sends him a hurt look. He's going to prove his point if it kills him.

"When I met you for the first time yesterday, I said, 'Afghanistan or Iraq?' You looked surprised."

"Yes, how did you know?"

"I didn't know, I saw." I look up, curiously. Time to check my deductions. "Your haircut, the way you hold yourself says military. But your conversation as you entered the room said trained at Bart's, so Army doctor – obvious. Your face is tanned but no tan above the wrists. You've been abroad, but not sunbathing. Your limp's really bad when you walk but you don't ask for a chair when you stand, like you've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan – Afghanistan or Iraq." All right so far.

"You said I had a therapist."

"You've got a psychosomatic limp – of course you've got a therapist. Then there's your brother."

This was where he lost me in Bart's yesterday: I assumed he got that information from Watson's phone which I didn't get to see.

Dad confirms my assumptions in his next breath. "Your phone. It's expensive, e-mail enabled, MP3 player, but you're looking for a flatshare – you wouldn't waste money on this. It's a gift, then." He holds his hand out expectantly for the phone and John gives it to him. "Scratches. Not one, many over time," he says, pointing to the screen. "It's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The man sitting next to me wouldn't treat his one luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner. Next bit's easy. You know it already."

"The engraving."

Dad flips the phone over to show me the words on the back.

'Harry Watson

From Clara

xxx'

A gift from a family member - a female, going by the nail marks underneath the protective cover. I can't be sure, though. While it's not impossible that 'Harry' is a nickname and they are in a homosexual relationship with this 'Clara', it is statistically more probable that they are heterosexual and that 'Harry' just has slightly longer nails than the average male. It's clear dad is convinced Harry is male, but even so, something is niggling at me telling me that's not the case. There's no way to tell for certain without a microscope

"Harry Watson: clearly a family member who's given you his old phone," dad continues as I hand the phone back. "Not your father, this is a young man's gadget. Could be a cousin, but you're a war hero who can't find a place to live. Unlikely you've got an extended family, certainly not one you're close to, so brother it is. Now, Clara. Who's Clara? Three kisses says it's a romantic attachment. The expense of the phone says wife, not girlfriend. She must have given it to him recently – this model's only six months old. Marriage in trouble then – six months on he's just given it away. If she'd left him, he would have kept it. People do – sentiment. But no, he wanted rid of it. He left her. He gave the phone to you: that says he wants you to stay in touch. You're looking for cheap accommodation, but you're not going to your brother for help: that says you've got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife; maybe you don't like his drinking."

"How can you possibly know about the drinking?" Doctor Watson asks slowly looking confused and a little upset.

Dad smiles. I think I can see where he's coming from. "Shot in the dark. Good one, though. Power connection: tiny little scuff marks around the edge of it. Every night he goes to plug it in to charge but his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man's phone; never see a drunk's without them. There you go, you see – you were right."

"I was right?" John repeats, sceptically. "Right about what?"

"The police don't consult amateurs."

I hold my breath as silence fills the cab. This is the moment that will either make or break our relationship, the moment that so often turns sour.

"That ... was amazing."

I turn to the doctor in surprise. While there have been a few people who haven't punched dad in the face after he has deduced them, an expression of fascination is extremely rare. I wasn't quite sure what to expect from the army doctor, but that wasn't it.

Dad's seems so surprised that he's physically unable to answer for almost four seconds, his eyes blinking rapidly as he tries to compute what John has just said. "Do you think so?"

"Of course it was. It was extraordinary; it was quite extraordinary."

"That's not what people normally say," I say, quietly.

"What do people normally say?"

"'Piss off'!" Dad says, smiling at John for a moment before the doctor turns towards the window, smiling madly.

I watch him with puzzlement for a few seconds before nudging dad with my foot.

He looks up at me, confused. "What?" he mouths.

"You've got to stop doing that," I say in a low voice, glancing over at John whose back is still turned to us.

"Why?"

"Because it freaks people out!"

Dad rolls his eyes. "That doesn't matter. I need an audience for my genius: I'm a show-off - that's what we do!"

I shake my head in disbelief, but can't help but give him a small smile until the cab makes a turn and I realise where we are.

The taxi drops us at the opposite end of the road to the crime scene and turns, heading back the way it came. As I look around at the narrow street, the memories come flooding back. If I remember correctly, there is an old abandoned house a short walk down this road; around about where that police tape is...

"Did I get anything wrong?" dad asks Doctor Watson as he gets out.

"Harry and me don't get on, never have," Watson confirms. "Clara and Harry split up three months ago and they're getting a divorce; and Harry is a drinker."

Dad smiles to himself, obviously impressed with himself. "Spot on, then. I didn't expect to be right about everything."

"And Harry's short for Harriet." Dad and I stop in our tracks. A smile creeps onto my face at the realisation that I picked up on something dad didn't.

"Harry's your sister," dad realises.

Doctor Watson continues walking. "Look, what exactly am I supposed to be doing here?"

"Sister!" Dad says furiously through gritted teeth while I start walking forward again, catching up to John within seconds.

"No, seriously, what am I doing here?"

"We need you to check something out," I tell him as we approach the tape, being deliberately vague so as not to deter him.

"There's always something," dad mutters to himself from behind us and I roll my eyes. I'm really regretting not voicing my theory: just imagine the bragging rights I could have had if I did.

"Hello, freaks," Donovan greets us in the friendly manner that makes her so characteristically endearing.

"We're here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade," dad says as he catches up.

"Why?"

"We were invited."

"Why?" she repeats, purposely getting on dad's nerves.

"I think he wants us to take a look," dad retorts, sarcastically.

"Well, you know what I think, don't you?"

Dad lifts the tape for me to swing under, then follows. "Always, Sally." He inhales deeply and I take his lead, doing the same and picking up on a distinct scent. She's wearing a different deodorant to usual - one marketed towards men. It's a familiar brand. "I even know you didn't make it home last night."

"I don't ... " I smirk happily at her loss of words, so she looks over to Doctor Watson. "Er, who's this?"

"Colleague of mine, Doctor Watson," he turns to John, "Doctor Watson, Sergeant Sally Donovan. Old friend," dad says, his voice sprinkled with sarcasm.

"A colleague?" Donovan asks sceptically, "How do you get a colleague?!" She turns to Doctor Watson. "What, did he follow you home?"

"Would it be better if I just waited and ..."

Dad gives him a look and lifts the tape. "No."

As Watson ducks under the tape, Donovan lifts her radio to her mouth. "The Freaks are here. Bringing them in."

She leads us over to the crime scene and my stomach tightens as I realise it's the house I was found in after mother died. I feared it would be when Lestrade first mentioned Lauriston Gardens.

I decide to distract myself and bury my feelings once more - I can't let them get to me, especially when I'm on a case. Fortunately, a distraction steps out of the house as we reach the pavement.

As Anderson approaches in one of the awful coveralls, I inhale through my nose again to confirm my theory and smile as I identify the same scent on him as was on Donovan.

"Ah, Anderson," dad sighs. "Here we are again."

Anderson looks at us with distaste and reluctance. "It's a crime scene. I don't want it contaminated. Are we clear on that?"

Dad nods and I hear him inhale. "Quite clear. And is your wife away for long?"

"Oh, don't pretend you worked that out," Anderson scoffs. "Somebody told you that."

"Your deodorant told me that."

"My deodorant?"

"It's for men," dad says sarcastically.

"Well, of course it's for men! I'm wearing it!" Anderson retorts and I roll my eyes. It worries me that the lead officer on forensics is oblivious to such obvious observations.

"So's Sergeant Donovan," dad answers, and Anderson pales.

Dad sniffs again. "Ooh, and I think it just vaporised. May I go in?"

Anderson points at us, fury etched upon his face. How cute. "Now look: whatever you're trying to imply ..."

"I'm not implying anything," dad says as we walk past, heading for the front door. "I'm sure Sally came round for a nice little chat, and just happened to stay over." He turns back and scans Donovan over, so I do the same. "And I assume she scrubbed your floors, going by the state of her knees."

They look back at dad in horror, earning them a smug smile as we turn and head inside.

[ladyherenya]

Books read in September

I fell down a couple of rabbit holes -- that’s my metaphor of choice for when I ignore my TBR list and get distracted reading other things, usually in a search for comfort reading.

Also, I clicked the wrong thing in the Kindle app at 1am and now I have a free trial of Kindle Unlimited so I decided I might as well make use of it.

Favourite cover: A Conspiracy in Belgravia.

Reread: Obsidio by Amie Kaufman and Jay Kristoff, Penric’s Mission and Mira’s Last Dance by Lois McMaster Bujold and Exit Strategy by Martha Wells.

Still reading: The Princess Who Flew with Dragons by Stephanie Burgis.

Next up: Pumpkinheads by Rainbow Rowell and Faith Erin Hicks.

(Longer reviews and ratings are on LibraryThing. And also Dreamwidth.)

The Bride Test by Helen Hoang: Khai hasn’t found a girlfriend, so his mother arranges for a young woman from Vietnam to come to California for the summer, to see if she and Khai will suit each other. This is romance, a genre which doesn’t always share my narrative priorities -- some things are resolved too neatly, and I’d have liked more of Esme’s relationship with her daughter and of her adult education classes -- but I enjoyed reading this, so I’m not complaining. I liked how Hoang portrays Khai’s autism. He has a greater capacity for love than he realises, he just needs support to understand his feelings.

Secrets of a Sun King by Emma Carroll (narrated by Victoria Fox): I read this because I love the narrator and really liked Carroll’s Letters From the Lighthouse. This book is set post-WWI, and involves friendship, family secrets and the discovery of Tutankhamun’s tomb. Lil’s grandfather is in hospital and she becomes convinced that his recovery depends upon her solving the mystery surrounding the package sent to him by a famous and now-deceased Egyptologist. I predicted the twists, but I can see how this would strongly appeal to children who want a blend of history, adventure and mystery with a hint of fantasy. (Where was this when I was twelve?)

The Spirit Ring by Lois McMaster Bujold: Fantasy set in Renaissance Italy. Fiametta, daughter of a master mage and goldsmith, witnesses a violent coup. She flees -- and meets Thur, a guardsmen’s younger brother coming to Montefolgia for an apprenticeship. This was published in 1992, after Bujold had published several Vorkosigan books and won a few Hugos, so I wasn’t expecting it to feel so, well, rough by comparison. That said, bits of it still shine! The plot makes every detail count, the final confrontation is memorable and I liked the characters. And it’s interesting to consider this as a precursor to Bujold’s World of the Five Gods.

A Royal Pain by Meg Mulry: This turned up when I was searching Overdrive for something else (Goodness knows why, none of my search words are its title or description). It sounded like it might be entertaining, maybe a bit like The Princess Diaries. It isn’t, at least not enough for me. Two-thirds through I decided to abandon it -- and then a bit later I decided I might as well skim read to the end and see how everything turned out. I don’t feel qualified to say anything insightful, I just wandered in here by mistake...

The Enchanted April (1922) by Elizabeth von Armin (narrated by Nadia May): Four women respond to a newspaper advertisement and rent a house in Italy for the month of April. This is delightfully funny and observant, with idyllic descriptions of spring in Italy. I liked the friendships which develop between four very different women, and the way they are challenged -- or inspired -- to reconsider their opinions about others. The ending is, unsurprisingly, very tidy and conventional. (Not many options for happy endings a 1920s novelist could easily give to unhappily married women.) Reading nothing but sunshine and fairytale endings would become unsatisfying, no matter how wonderful the prose, but sometimes it’s just want one wants.

The “Lady Sherlock” series by Sherry Thomas:

A Conspiracy in Belgravia: Disgraced Charlotte Holmes has found a home with the widowed Mrs Watson and an income under the persona of “Sherlock Holmes”. Her latest case sounds simple but is complicated by connections to the wife of Charlotte’s closest friend and Charlotte’s half-brother. Meanwhile, Charlotte has a marriage proposal to consider, ciphers to crack, and a murder victim to identify. I like the way certain qualities of Doyle’s characters are assigned to different characters -- so Charlotte’s sister Livia is writing stories about Sherlock, and Mrs Watson’s niece has medical training. I enjoyed reading this and immediately embarked on the next book.

The Hollow of Fear: I could not put this book down -- the stakes are so high and personal! But in the end I didn’t find this a wholly satisfying mystery because much of the tension is the result of Charlotte concealing a lot about her suspicions and plans. It’s fun watching Charlotte in disguise, and I don’t mind some misdirection, nor Charlotte keeping thoughts to herself. That fits with her character. But the extent of it felt contrived. Disappointment aside, I liked the journey, thought one of the twists was handled with particular deftness, and I am eager to read the sequel.

The Huntress by Kate Quinn (narrated by Saskia Maarlveld): A long, complex, powerful three-stranded story about war and its aftermath. In Boston in 1946, Jordan, a teenager passionate about photography, is suspicious of her new stepmother. In Germany in 1950, war correspondent Ian now hunts war criminals. And in Siberia before the war, Nina becomes a pilot. From the beginning, this was interesting, with tense scenes. But I wasn’t strongly invested, and I was unsure of the narrative’s structure. As the story continued, I discovered that it is richer and more nuanced because of its structure --  and that I was becoming very attached to these characters. Surprisingly so.

The “Dear Professor” series by Penny Reid

Kissing Galileo: The description made me curious, so I looked at the sample chapters... and, unexpectedly, was convinced I should read this book. Because it’s smart and funny! And I liked how the characters deal with an awkward and potentially very problematic situation. (Emily works as a lingerie model, and when her professor visits the store, he doesn’t recognise her.) I really enjoyed the progression of their relationship -- how obviously they like each other’s company and care about each other, how they have an intellectual connection that goes hand-in-hand physical attraction, how they learn to understand each other better.

Kissing Tolstoy: The first book is about Emily’s friend Anna, who signs up for a Russian literature class, unaware that the professor is someone she accidentally had an almost-date with. This is a shorter than Kissing Galileo, nearly novella-length, and because I read them back-to-back, suffered somewhat in comparison -- it’s less complex, and features a professor who doesn’t deal quite so well with being attracted to one of his students. I wasn’t so convinced their relationship was a good idea. But there’s some entertaining awkwardness and people being opinionated about Russian literature. I liked Anna’s nerdy interests and her friendship with Emily.

Marriage of Inconvenience by Penny Reid: I was curious what else Reid has written and sometimes I like fake relationships stories.  This book makes a convoluted set-up feel plausible. I liked how Kat and Dan’s relationship developed, I liked the ratio of romance to plot, and I liked how involved and supportive all their friends were. But my enjoyment ebbed as I read, which is probably a reflection on what I want from this sort of story rather than on this book’s merits. I don’t find the corporate city setting very interesting or appealing.

Dr. Strange Beard by Penny Reid: I enjoy stories where characters are passionate about their interests.  In this, one of the characters is a vet but his job had no real presence in the story. What a waste.

A Desperate Fortune by Susanna Kearsley: Sara accepts a job decoding a ciphered diary from 1732. The diary is written by Mary, a half-Scottish woman raised in France, who agrees to disguise an Englishman by pretending to be his sister. I like how these two stories sit together. There’s a gentleness to Sara’s, as she discovers things she likes, including the sensory delights of winter in France and people who accept her. In contrast, Mary’s is full of danger, deception and the discomfort of travel. But there’s also subtle, common threads running throughout: life-changing choices and trusting people. I liked so many things in this book.

Echo in Onyx by Sharon Shinn: Brianna becomes the maid for the governor’s daughter, who has three “echoes”. When one of Marguerite's echoes is killed defending Marguerite, Brianna disguises herself as the echo so that they can conceal the incident. The concept of echoes is unusual and Shinn has clearly given careful thought to how they would affect society and daily life for those who have them, as well as reasons for their existence.  I wasn’t surprised by the final twists, because I know how Shinn usually deals with injustice, but parts were still quite tense. And I liked Brianna’s attitude -- so sunny and resourceful and loyal.

A House of Rage and Sorrow by Sangu Mandanna: I really liked A Spark of White Fire so I was surprised by my reaction to this sequel. Halfway through, I was pushing myself to stay focused and just wanted to cross it off the list. So I left it there. I don’t know if there was something in the pacing or the first book’s ending which stopped me from caring -- or if I just wasn’t in the mood to read about rage and sorrow and things going to hell in a handbasket. I might try again one day. I did like the first one.

[fizzingwizard]

I reread the Sherlock Holmes stories at least once a year. Every time, I’m impressed with something new. I’ve really got to start a Holmesian side blog.

For now, enjoy what is basically me live-tweeting “The Problem of Thor Bridge,” although I actually read it a few days ago. Holmes is in his late 40s.

The story in short: A woman has been killed, and the family’s governess is accused, because the woman’s jackass husband is totally into her.

It was a wild morning in October, and I observed as I was dressing how the last remaining leaves were being whirled from the solitary plane tree which graces the yard behind our house. I descended to breakfast prepared to find my companion in depressed spirits, for, like all great artists, he was easily impressed by his surroundings.

We start off with an image of the moody, artistic, disconsolate Holmes, and a depiction of Watson, the guy who knows everything about him.

On the contrary, I found that... his mood was particularly bright and joyous, with that somewhat sinister cheerfulness which was characteristic of his lighter moments.

"You have a case, Holmes?" I remarked.

"The faculty of deduction is certainly contagious, Watson," he answered.

Every. Little. Thing.

Also, please note, sinister cheerfulness.

Watson: Holmes, you’re... happy. Good Lord, who’s been murdered!?

"... We may discuss it when you have consumed the two hard-boiled eggs with which our new cook has favoured us. Their condition may not be unconnected with the copy of the Family Herald which I observed yesterday upon the hall-table. Even so trivial a matter as cooking an egg demands an attention which is conscious of the passage of time and incompatible with the love romance in that excellent periodical."

Ooh. Victorian burn!

"I am getting into your involved habit, Watson, of telling a story backward."

Holmes’s pastime - casually insulting Watson.

Watson’s probable reaction:

By the way, let’s keep track of Holmes burns, shall we? So far he’s roasted both Watson and the poor cook at Baker Street.

"... A revolver with one discharged chamber and a calibre which corresponded with the bullet was found on the floor of her wardrobe." His eyes fixed and he repeated in broken words, "On—the—floor—of—her—wardrobe." Then he sank into silence.

Sherlock Holmes abruptly cutting off, repeating himself in staccato, then getting lost in thought and forgetting he was talking to someone. Just a day in the life of Dr. Watson.

When this sort of thing happens for a prolonged time, Watson has a habit of... falling asleep. Lol. Not that I blame him

Enter Bates, who is a manager for today’s client, Gibson, a gold mining magnate. Bates does not like Gibson.

"Those public charities are a screen to cover his private iniquities."

A breakdown of big business if I ever saw one.

Holmes doesn’t like Gibson either.

"What the devil do you mean by this, Mr. Holmes? Do you dismiss my case?"

"Well, Mr. Gibson, at least I dismiss you."

Holmes Burn Count: 3.

I sprang to my feet, for the expression upon the millionaire's face was fiendish in its intensity, and he had raised his great knotted fist. 

Gasp! Someone makes a threatening gesture at Sherlock Holmes, something that surely happens with regularity!

Watson:

We learn Gibson has a crush on his governess, who is accused of killing his wife.

"I could not live under the same roof with such a woman and in daily contact with her without feeling a passionate regard for her. Do you blame me, Mr. Holmes?"

"I do not blame you for feeling it. I should blame you if you expressed it, since this young lady was in a sense under your protection."

Holy cheese whiz, Batman! Don’t hit on your employees! See! Even in a world without bills against sexual harassment in the workplace, this was understood!

"I've been a man that reached out his hand for what he wanted, and I never wanted anything more than the love and possession of that woman. I told her so."

"Oh, you did, did you?"

Holmes could look very formidable when he was moved.

Sherlock Holmes:

"I said that money was no object and that all I could do to make her happy and comfortable would be done."

"Very generous, I am sure," said Holmes with a sneer.

Holmes Burn Count: 4

On a side note, more Holmes actors should sneer.

"Some of you rich men have to be taught that all the world cannot be bribed into condoning your offences."

PREACH IT BROTHER.

"And women lead an inward life and may do things beyond the judgement of a man."

I love how this is just accepted in this time period. Gibson is speaking, and Holmes and Watson are gentlemen, but no one’s going to contradict this statement.

Man: does something completely against his character. Everyone else: How strange! There must be some reason. Meanwhile, Woman: does something completely against her character. Everyone: Well, she’s an illogical woman, what do you expect?

I mean dude. They talk this way in the original Star Trek, which had female character working in high-level positions (albeit not starship captain). And the “illogical woman” line appeared pretty much every time a plot involved a woman. It’s crazy how persistent a stereotype this was. At least “female hysteria” was still considered a Thing in Holmes’s time - by Star Trek’s time it had been dropped since the 1950s.

Anyway, I can’t understand a thing men do.

"[My wife] was crazy with hatred and the heat of the Amazon was always in her blood."

Whenever a character isn’t English, they are assigned some ethnic trait that usually makes them more passionate and unreasonable than English people. The English don’t escape critique, but foreigners definitely feel the burn the greatest. If an excuse can be found to blame something on a character being “tropical” or “fiery” because they’re from the Mediterranean or overseas, it will be used. And it’s usually a female character. (Though probably the one who gets it the worst is the poor Andaman Islander in The Sign of Four, who is a man, but barely even afforded humanity by the text.)

Holmes and Watson travel out to investigate. They meet the local police, who’s grateful to work with Holmes.

"And your friend, Dr. Watson, can be trusted, I know."

This is just how you react when Holmes shows up with Watson, since Holmes’s modus operandi is “Anything you say to me will eventually get back to Watson anyway.”

"Well now, Watson, suppose for a moment that we visualise you in the character of a woman who, in a cold, premeditated fashion, is about to get rid of a rival..."

So there’s an episode of House MD where House asks Wilson to envision himself as his patient, who is a middle-aged Chinese woman. Wilson is like “ok” and House says “Say it.” So Wilson says “I’m a middle-aged Chinese woman.” And House is like, “good.” And clearly it’s from “Thor Bridge” bwahahahaha.

"Your best friends would hardly call you a schemer, Watson, and yet I could not picture you doing anything so crude as that."

Watson Cannot Lie. It Is Known. At least, he cannot lie convincingly for more than a few minutes. Also, he is a Good Guy, Whom Holmes Trusts Implicitly.

(The Casebook has quite a few Watson-validating moments.)

"I can see now that I was wrong. Nothing could justify me in remaining where I was a cause of unhappiness, and yet it is certain that the unhappiness would have remained even if I had left the house."

^This is the governess, Ms Dunbar, teaching us all that a good deed never goes unpunished. I disagree with calling Ms Dunbar the “cause” of unhappiness, as the cause is clearly the husband. Ms Dunbar’s one bad decision was in not putting some form of distance between herself and Gibson. She seems to have thought they were safe as long as they were not being physically intimate, but other forms of intimacy were okay. And, to be frank, it seems not unlikely by the end that for all Gibson’s lack of morals, and in spite of her own, Ms Dunbar loves him back.

At the same time, she’s also right that no matter what choice she made, Gibson and his wife were not going to be happy together. It’s completely Gibson’s fault though. And the fault of a society where leaving a marriage left a black mark.

"How do you know [the murder weapon wasn’t already planted in your room]?"

"Because I tidied out the wardrobe."

"That is final."

Who is she, Marie Kondo?

Holmes did not answer. His pale, eager face had suddenly assumed that tense, far-away expression which I had learned to associate with the supreme manifestations of his genius. So evident was the crisis in his mind that none of us dared to speak, and we sat, barrister, prisoner, and myself, watching him in a concentrated and absorbed silence.

More of Silent, Pensive Holmes and his Rapt Audience. Watson won’t fall asleep when others are around, so instead they all stare at Holmes. Literally. That’s what it says. No one dares speak and they all just stare at him.

Suddenly, as we neared our destination he seated himself opposite to me—we had a first-class carriage to ourselves—

I like that Watson feels compelled to explain this to us this.

and laying a hand upon each of my knees he looked into my eyes with the peculiarly mischievous gaze which was characteristic of his more imp-like moods.

The body language in this passage. Holmes getting all silly and excited. Watson still just staring. This scene is probably the most Guy Ritchie-like it gets.

Also, please note imp-like.

Watson: Get your hands off my knees Sherlock Holmes you adorable fucker.

"Watson," said he, "I have some recollection that you go armed upon these excursions of ours."

It was as well for him that I did so, for he took little care for his own safety when his mind was once absorbed by a problem so that more than once my revolver had been a good friend in need. I reminded him of the fact.

"Yes, yes, I am a little absent-minded in such matters."

Holmes: Hey Watson, are you packing heat?

Watson: Well YEAH, you careless bastard. Someone’s got to prevent your death, since you won’t.

Holmes: YOLO

(Although, it’s more like YOLT, in this specific case.)

"See, Watson, your revolver has solved the problem!"

^After using Watson’s revolver in an experiment which results in the gun falling off the bridge into the depths of the river.

Watson: Thank you, Holmes. I liked that revolver.

Holmes: Psh, quit your bitching, we’ll drag the river for it.

In the end, it turns out the wife concocted a plan for her own suicide that would make it look like the governess murdered her. Although this story would definitely have been better without the racism and sexism, one thing that I can’t help but appreciate is that Gibson, a Generally Bad Guy, is not The Bad Guy, and gets to continue living his rich and ruthless life. On top of that, he’s even rid of his wife who wasn’t beautiful anymore, and potentially going to marry the beautiful younger woman. So he gets no consequences for treating his wife terribly, putting the moves on his employee, or just for being a jackass. Instead, he gets even More. It’s hyper realism. ACD ain’t pulling his punches with this one. /cynicism

And that’s it for “Thor Bridge!” This was very fun for me to do though I doubt anyone will read it! But I’ll almost definitely make more so I can continue to share the running inner monologue that goes on in my head whenever I read Holmes stories. I enjoy snickering to myself with or without an audience.

Our Holmes Burn Count was only 4, though I could have included a few more barbs he threw at Gibson.

This probably doesn’t need mentioning, but all the Sherlock Holmes stories are in public domain so y’all should go read them.

[sherlfiction]

Christmas with the Holmes’

2. The day before Christmas

Sherlock’s was packing his suitcase which he had delayed until the very last minute. Mycroft would be here in fifteen minutes. He hated Christmas but he knew that it was no use to try to stay behind in college. His older brother would drag him home if need be. Everyone was excited to go home for a few weeks, people were running around in the corridors shouting to each other.

Suddenly there was a shout into his room which made him startle and he turned around from his packing.

‘Well Holmes’ Sebastian leaned against his door ‘you’re finally off for a holiday then?’ he grinned sarcastically.

‘I do not see why it is any of your business but yes I am’, Sherlock answered.

‘Mummy told you to come, did she?’, Sebastian laughed about his own remark.

‘Yours is dreading you’re coming home I bet’, Sherlock replied ‘with all the ‘friends’ you are bringing home with you’.

‘At least I have friends, Holmes’, Sebastian snarled ‘happy holidays and many deductions to you’ Sebastian walked off and his laugh was heard throughout the corridor.

Sherlock closed his door with a bang. Idiot Sebastian with his idiotic friends, he thought. He was glad he was rid of them for a few weeks.

He packed the last of his things in his suitcase and walked downstairs to wait for Mycroft. He put his coat collar up against the icy wind. He looked at the clouds, snow was coming this Christmas. Great, that would mean he couldn’t probably go out for his long walks and had to stay in with all those people his parents had invited.

Mycroft’s car pulled in the driveway and Sherlock put his suitcase in the trunk before he got in.

‘Good morning, little brother’, Mycroft said putting away the morning paper. ‘I’m glad you decided to come’.

‘I do not think I had another choice’, Sherlock sulked.

‘No’, Mycroft said pensively ‘you really didn’t but still, I am glad you are here’

Sherlock glanced over at his older brother, sometimes he really didn’t get him.

They were quiet for the most part of the drive, which took almost two hours. Sherlock was looking outside where the first snowflakes were coming down. He sighed.

‘What is the matter, Sherlock?’ Mycroft softly asked.

‘Nothing, I just… I don’t know really’, Sherlock fell silent.

‘I love the snow, don’t you?’ Mycroft said. ‘It’s always so lovely at home in the country. Don’t get me wrong, I would not trade that for the city at any time! But still it is very lovely’

Sherlock looked at Mycroft; ‘You hate Christmas as much as I do’, he said.

‘God, yes I do’ Mycroft smiled at Sherlock ‘But that doesn’t mean that it is nice to be with family’

‘You hate family’, Sherlock said still sulking.

‘Not all family’, Mycroft said still smiling.

‘Don’t make me puke before I had eggnog’, Sherlock said while he turned back to watch the snow getting thicker.

 ---

 ‘Sherlock!’, Mrs Holmes ran out hugging her youngest son who pulled a face to his brother who was still smiling like the Cheshire Cat.

‘Hello mother’, Sherlock said brushing his coat before entering the house.

‘Mycroft’, his mother said hugging her oldest son ‘I’m so happy you convinced him to come, thank you’

‘You’re welcome, mother’, Mycroft said smiling.

Sherlock felt like a small child again, wanting to stick his tongue out to his brother for being such a well-behaved good son. It wouldn’t be long or he would hear it; ‘oh Sherlock, why can’t you be more like Mycroft?’ he hated that!

He walked in the house and greeted his father ‘Sherlock! How happy this makes me to see you home for Christmas!’ his father smiled, shaking his hand. ‘Your room is just the way you left it, you can put your suitcase there’

Sherlock walked up the stairs to his room which was indeed just as he left it, tidy but with his science books still open like he had been reading them just the night before, which he found odd. He put his clothes away in the closet and looked out the window. It would be dark soon and he really would love to go for a walk. His parents would never allow him to go now. The next days would be crazy with Christmas parties and people and too busy for his liking. He walked downstairs and put his coat and scarf on.

‘Mum, I’m just going out for a little walk before dark, alright? I’ll be back soon’

‘That’s fine dear, just be home in time for tea’ his mother said.

‘I will, thank you’

Good, he had a little more than an hour, he thought. He walked outside and breathed in the fresh crispy air of freshly fallen snow and frostbite. He put his gloves on, put his coat collar up and with a quick pace started to walk.

He had to admit, as much as he loved the city or college, being away from home, he had missed it somewhat. The countryside especially, the wideness of it all. One could feel forlorn this time of year, in the vastness of the countryside when it was almost dark and especially when it was dark weather. He didn’t mind, he loved autumn and winter, with dark clouds or rain or snow. It often matched his mood.

Sherlock was pondering and so much in his own thoughts that he didn’t see someone was running in the lane next to him. It was getting darker and the runner hadn’t seen Sherlock either and when he went around the bend of the road he bumped into Sherlock who fell into the snow.

‘Oh gosh, I’m so sorry’, the runner stammered ‘I really didn’t see you walking there. You’re all dressed in black so I really didn’t notice you’.

The man helped him up and Sherlock brushed the snow off his coat.

‘Story of my life’, he mumbled.

‘Pardon?’, the man asked.

‘Never mind, it is not your fault’, Sherlock answered.

‘You’re all wet now’, the man said ‘Do you live around here? You’ll catch a cold if you don’t put warm clothes on’

‘Yes, I live over there, or rather, my parents do’, Sherlock said pointing towards the cottage where the lights were lit in the distance.

‘Isn’t that the Holmes’ cottage?’ the man asked ‘Sorry, I’m John Watson’, he held out his hand and shook Sherlock’s. ‘My parents are invited to Christmas dinner at your parents home. My dad knows your dad apparently’

‘Really?’ Sherlock looked at the man who bumped into him better now. He was a bit shorter than Sherlock was, perhaps a bit older too, not much though. But Sherlock liked his face, he had kind eyes. ‘Sherlock Holmes, nice to meet you’

‘You really should get out of those wet clothes, you’ll catch a cold. Sorry, bad habit, I’m a doctor, well, almost, erm I’m almost a doctor I mean, I graduate next year’

‘Ah, I see, well one must always do as his doctor says’, Sherlock smirked. ‘I will see you tomorrow then, Dr Watson’

‘Yes, yes, see you tomorrow, Mr Holmes’

[a-candle-for-sherlock]

Chapter Four: Sebastian Moran

His door was grey. Smoke trailed up above the house into the looming twilight. I stood waiting, my chin sunk down into my muffler—the night was cold, and getting colder—my bloodied knuckles stinging inside my gloves. The rough who had attacked me on my way had come off far worse than I, but I knew the blood would worry John. I would keep my gloves on until I had seen how he was.

All at once the door was opened by a sturdy, keen-eyed woman, about thirty, with paint-spattered hands. A streak of blue paint adorned her hair—she had put her hand up to tidy it out of habit when I had rung the bell.

“Sir?” she said.

I tried to smile winningly, through the trembling of my heart. “I’m here for Doctor Watson.”

She shook her head. My soul sank, but she was saying, “It’s past hours. Come tomorrow—”

“I’m not a patient,” I interrupted, and then, hoping on my notoriety, “I’m Sherlock Holmes.”

I had gambled correctly: she raised her brows. “Oh,” she said, with a good deal of meaning in her tone, “you ought to go up at once, then.”

“Thank you,” I said, not knowing what else to say, and stepped into the warmth of the front hall as she drew back.

“I’m Doctor Liddell,” she said, and I nodded; I was all at once past speech. To be so near—

Read the rest on AO3

Read from the beginning

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[ll-again]

Would you consider writing it? Sherlock and his acumen of a 14 year old bringing another woman into Bart's and his weak attempt to make Molly jealous? *puppy eyes*

Well, tis the season. Made in just in time for Christmas, as well. =D Happy Holidays if you celebrate, and happy Monday if you don’t.

“Bye!It was so nice to meet you, Linda,” Molly gushed. “Text meabout shopping. I’m free this weekend.” She waved brightly asSherlock led the young, attractive, busty Linda Forbes out ofthe lab.

Assoon as the door swung shut behind them, Molly dropped her hand andturned to John, both eyebrows nearly up to her hairline. “Wow.”

Johnfiddled with a test tube. “Yeah, imagine you meeting a fellowtaxidermy enthusiast,” he said with a strained smile.Understandable, as the last half hour had been a lively discussionover the merits of freeze drying versus traditional mounting. “Iguess Sherlock does have a type.”

“Oh,please,” Molly said, rolling her eyes. “She’s half his ageand a member of the Empty Hearse Club. This one’s less believablethan that bridesmaid of Mary’s.”

“Yeah,well, actually, that was…”

“Andhe forgot her name while trying to introduce us!” Molly burstout, giggling. “Who does Sherlock think he’s going to fool?”

NowJohn rolled his eyes. This had been by far Sherlock’s weakest attemptat subterfuge to date. But then, he considered, Sherlock’s heartreally hadn’t been in this one. “You know he’s trying to makeyou jealous.”

Mollystopped everything at stared at John for a full fifteen secondsbefore she snorted so loudly she coughed. “Oh please, John.Don’t be ridiculous.”

Purelyout of kindness, John refrained from pointing out who was reallybeing ridiculous (apart from Sherlock, who was always a given in thatdepartment). “Wait. How did you know she’s in Sherlock’s fanclub?”

“Oh,I went once,” Molly said while she tidied. “While Sherlockwas flouncing around Europe pretending to be dead. Anderson invitedme. He and his crew wanted some insider information about whatSherlock was like, you know, behind closed doors, so to speak.”

Johnblinked as the test tube was snatched out of his hand to be put inthe autoclave. “Um. Wasn’t that risky? Since you were keepingSherlock’s secret?”

“Nah.”Molly waved a hand dismissively. “There were cupcakes. Thosechocolate ones with the cream piped into the middle.” She took amoment to stare dreamily into space and hum in rememberedsatisfaction. Shaking herself out of it, Molly shrugged. “And ifanyone asked an awkward question, I just cried until someone broughtme another cupcake.”

“That’s… impressively mercenary,” John said with some awe.

Mollygrinned, baring all her teeth at him. “Mary never did tell youwhy she asked me to be godmother, did she? Oh, incidentally,”she continued without giving John the opportunity to answer, “whaton Earth does Sherlock have on you that got you to play along withthat?”

Shewaved her hand vaguely at the door to refer to the farce they’d justwitnessed.

“Ah,yeah, well, it’s, um…” John trailed off, rubbing the back ofhis head.

“Hm,well don’t tell me if you don’t want,” Molly said innocently.“But I was going to offer to help you break into Baker Street toget the evidence.”

“Ugh,fine,” John threw up his hands. “There might have beenkaraoke after you left Lestrade’s birthday thing.”

Mollydid the worst job ever trying to hide a laugh. Even worse than theone she’d barely smothered when Sherlock had flubbed his introductionof his clearly fake girlfriend. “Don’t Stop Believin’ or TotalEclipse of the Heart?” she asked.

“SirMix-A-Lot,” John said while trying to meld his face into thetabletop like an ostrich burying its head in the sand. “Shut up.I was…”

“Completelypissed?”

“…alittle drunk. Yes.”

“Letme get my bag,” Molly said. “I know Sherlock’s laptoppassword. I’ve got to see this.”

…

“Wow,”Molly said half an hour later. “You’ve got some moves,John Watson.”

“Ooh!I taught him that one,” Mrs Hudson said, nudging Molly. She’dbeen kind enough to let them up, especially once Molly had explainedtheir mission.

John,ensconced in his chair with the emergency whiskey, scowled at the twowomen huddled over Sherlock’s laptop who had joined the catcallingemanating from the speakers. “I thought we were deletingthe evidence,” he said loudly.

“Gottawatch it first,” Molly said, flapping her hand at him. “Trustme, I’m a doctor.”

“Soam-!” John cut himself off and opted for another swig of whiskeyinstead of arguing. He sighed, rubbing his forehead. Theever-persistent version of Mary that lingered in his mind whateversmirked at him with that ‘I told you so’ face that he’d loved sowell. “You know,” John said, “I wouldn’t have agreedto go along with Sherlock’s plan if I actually thought it would upsetyou.”

Mollytwisted around to glance at him over her shoulder just as the videofinally ended. “Of course you wouldn’t John,” she said. “Iknow you’d never do that.”

“Justwanted to hear me say it,” John muttered into the mouth of thebottle, but smiling as he took another sip.

“Let’swatch it again!” Mrs Hudson said, clapping her hands. Clearly,she’d been into the herbal soothers early today.

Johnclosed his eyes and leaned back, clutching the emergency whiskey likeRosie with her favorite toy.

“No,no we’d better get rid of this before Sherlock comes in and catchesus,” Molly said, deleting the file with a few swift clicks anddefinitely not emailing it to herself for Rosie’s eighteenth birthdayparty.

Nearlyas soon as she closed the laptop, Sherlock did arrive, stepping intothe sitting room with a sweeping, suspicious glance as he found hisflat more occupied than expected. “So,” he said, “we’restarting the festivities early this year, are we? How delightful.”

“Isent you a text about it,” John shot back.

Sherlocknarrowed his eyes, and the three closest people in his life looked onin glee as Sherlock slowly deduced that yes, John was being facetiousand no, he hadn’t deleted said text because it had never existed inthe first place. John sighed, a little annoyed that Sherlock had toeven consider the possibility, but the whiskey was adequateconsolation for the fact that his best friend was a world class dick.

“Ijust popped by to bring something for your girlfriend,” Mollysaid before Sherlock could follow his conclusion to its logicalending. Grabbing her bag, she started rooting around in it. “She’ssuch a sweetie. What was her name again?”

Sherlockslid his eyes from John to Molly and back to John – who wasswilling his emergency whiskey without remorse.

“Laura?”Sherlock tried.

Mollycould only stare at him in utter disbelief. Mrs Hudson leaned overand whispered to the younger woman, “I thought you said her namewas Linda.”

“We’rein love,” Sherlock deadpanned, evidently going for broke.

MrsHudson tutted, shaking her head. Molly squeaked, literally at a lossfor words, and turned a dangerous shade of puce.

“So,”John said loudly, pushing himself up from his slouch. He pitched toofar forward and had to make a valiant wiggle to save the whiskey.“Are you going to bring the future Mrs Holmes to the BartsChristmas thing?”

Sherlockcleared his throat, straightening his jacket imperiously. “Yes,of course she’ll be there,” he said. “Molly, do pour Dr Watson into acab on your way out.” And with that, he swept down the hall,slamming his bedroom door shut behind him.

’WHAT.’Molly mouthed at John. He held out the emergency whiskey; Mollysnatched the bottle with both hands and sucked down a long swig.

“He’strying to make you jealous, dear,” Mrs Hudson said, noddingsagely. “It’s a bit sweet, really.”

Mollychoked, and for the second time in as many minutes, John had torescue the whiskey. “Don’t-” she wheezed, “don’t beridiculous, Mrs Hudson.”

MrsHudson patted her on the shoulder. “If you say so, dear.”With a wink at John, she left.

Johnjust sighed, shook his head, and resumed his appreciation ofSherlock’s – 30 year old, single malt, stolen from Mycroft’s cellar– emergency whiskey.

…

“WilliamSherlock Scott Holmes,” Molly hissed under her breath, clampingdown on said detective’s upper arm to tow him to a quiet corner ofthe ballroom where the annual Barts Christmas party was being held.“What are you doing?”

“Drinkingeggnog.” Sherlock squinted into his plastic cup. “I thinkit’s meant to be eggnog.”

“It’sfine; it’s just out of a carton,” Molly said through grittedteeth. “What are you doing with that poor girl? You’ve beendragging her everywhere for weeks now.”

“Lisaand I don’t like to be parted,” Sherlock said, sipping from hiscup in an attempt at nonchalance that was spoiled by the face he madeas soon as the liquid hit his tongue.

Mollysnatched the cup away from him as he tried to donate it to thenearest potted plant, which looked as though it had been the receiverof several discarded nogs already. “Linda,” she said,rolling her eyes so hard she nearly sprained an ocular muscle whenSherlock just furrowed his brow at her in confusion. “Honestly,Sherlock. She’s going through all this effort to help you out with…”Molly stumbled to a stop and flapped her hand. “…whatever itis you’re doing. You could expend a tiny bit of effort and at leasttry to remember her name.”

Sherlockscoffed. “You’re worried about her? She’s fine. She’s'getting off’,” he did the air quotes, “with the Oncologydepartment.”

“Yeah.I noticed.”

“Wehave an open relationship.”

Takinga large swig of Sherlock’s eggnog, Molly simply stared at him overthe rim of the cup.

“Notgood?” Sherlock asked.

Mollyshook her head. “Unbelievable.”

Heheaved a sigh, eyes lifting to the ceiling, where they got stuck fora moment deducing  the entire history of the historic building fromthe dust buildup on the crown molding. “Fine,” Sherlocksaid finally and with all the enthusiasm of someone going in for aroot canal. “Would it make you happy to know we’re not actuallydating?”

“Doesshe know that?” Molly said.

Sherlockpivoted on his heel, stopping with his back to her. “Yes,Molly,” he said with abundantly strained patience. Then, hemuttered so low that Molly had to strain to hear, “This isn’thow it’s supposed to work.”

Notsure she heard him correctly, Molly blurted, “How what’ssupposed to work?”

“This!”Sherlock twirled back around, face contorted into dismay. “TheFake Girlfriend Plot.”

Immediately,Molly softened. She found an appropriate place to put the mostlyempty cup and took Sherlock’s hand in hers. “I’m sure it’ll befine,” she said with a sunny smile. “You always find a wayto work things out. And I’ll help you if I can, you know that. Whydon’t we talk it out, okay? What are you trying to do?”

Shehad never seen a literal jaw drop, but before her eyes, Sherlock’smouth opened and remained that way for several seconds as he blinkeddown at her. Jerking back to himself, he said, “I am tryingto make you jealous. You are supposed to see me with another womanand realize that nothing else will do but for you and I to live along life together and retire to the country to raise bees and run acat sanctuary. That’s how it works in the movies.”

Itwas Molly’s turn to gape. “It doesn’t work like- What movies?Have you been watching? No, actually don’t answer that, for God’ssake. Just… I don’t. I don't… Why?”

Sherlockcurled both large hands over her shoulders, his mercurial eyes boringinto hers. “I have told you. And told you. And told you. Imeant it, Molly Hooper.”

Shestepped back instinctively, as she’d been doing metaphorically eversince learning about Eurus and Sherrinford. “I can’t,”Molly said, shaking her head. “I just. I just can’t. I-”

Sherlocktucked his hands into his trouser pockets, licked his lips, andnodded, eyes focused above her head. “If that’s what you want,then-” Not bothering to finish, he turned away once more,seeking the exit.

Ina flash, Molly realized two things: a) Sherlock meant that he’d meantit when he told her he loved her and it wasn’t a lie or a trick orguilt or any of the other things she’d convinced herself it was outof fear, and b) he was getting away.

Threethings: c) like fine wine, Sherlock’s arse had aged beautifully,looking even better in those tight trousers of his than they had whenshe’d met him; a feat which hadn’t seemed possible at the time.

Fourthings: d) he was still getting away, and most importantly, whywas she letting him?

“Sherlock!Wait!” Molly yelped, nearly tripping over the festive bows she’dstuck to her pumps in an attempt to be more subtle with her holidaycheer this year.

Asa result, she tumbled into him. Fortunately, Sherlock’s reflexes wereon point and he caught her against his chest. “Molly…”

“Iwas jealous,” she blurted, head tilted all the way back so shecould see how wide his pupils dilated when she pressed even closer.“I didn’t like it that you picked someone else to be your fakegirlfriend.”

Sherlockstarted to chuckle, arms tightening around her.

“Ugh,stop laughing,” Molly said, smacking him in the shoulder, “andkiss me.”

Heglanced to the side, at the party going on around them. Then,Sherlock shrugged, dipping his head for a thorough snog.

Theapplause started slowly – undoubtedly John Watson’s doing – butby the time they came up for air, the large room resounded with it.Molly bit her lip, giggling as she tucked her face into Sherlock’sshoulder to hide her red cheeks.

Hernew, and very much not fake, boyfriend kissed her on the top of thehead. “And you said things don’t work out like in the movies,”Sherlock said, smug.

Mollyaccidentally on purpose stepped on his ankle.

[pendragonfics]

In Love Or Something

Paring: Sherlock Holmes/Reader

Tags: female reader, writer’s block, writer, angst, roommates, Sherlock being Sherlock, idiots in love, fluff.

Summary: A young writer living with Sherlock is the new John 2.0 when there's a spare room available in 221B. This also means she's the one who puts up with Sherlock, and gets in close to life as he knows it.

Word Count: 2,992

Current Date: 2017-12-14

There was an idea that writers could just pick up a pen, and whenever they wished, the words would come forth. That idea was, sadly, just an idea, and ever the mundane human you were, there was nothing that could make it get any better. Tea did nothing. Meditation, well, that was out of the question. You stayed in the room above the flat of the Sherlock Holmes, asshole supreme, and, notorious noisy man. Whenever your fingers would poise to write the fictional story you were destined to (or taught to, after five years spent at a very expensive university where you studied novels and deconstructed them to buggery), the tall man would shoot the wall, would call your name, would bang the door on his way out to solve a crime.

You see, the was your plight. Middleclass, female. Owner of a diploma in the arts, or really, a fancy paper that failed to get you into a publishing house two years ago when you graduated with honours. Your uncle, a policeman at the Scotland Yard knew you were soon to be penniless and had no problems shaking up anywhere until you found a job, and pulled strings to allow you to stay in the spare room in 221B Baker street, prime real estate in London. Well, that was a month ago. You now worked as Sherlock Holmes’ new Watson, since the other man could not run around to corpses and crime scenes after becoming the primary caregiver of his daughter.

But your story…!

“_________, I need you to look at something,” Sherlock called your name, that baritone tenor getting to your nerves like tears when gas comes.

You barely grit your teeth, and pushing the computer from your lap, you march down the stairs to see what’s wrong in the land of Holmes. Sherlock stands in the middle of the lounge room, holding his head like it’s a football, or perhaps, on fire. He’s wearing pyjamas, yet, it’s after ten o’clock on a Tuesday and he’s usually elbows-deep in a bag of thumbs from Molly Hooper or finding someone’s amnesiac step-grandmother.

“Yeah?” You ask, hands upon hips akimbo. “Don’t tell me you need an idiot’s perspective on something.”

He releases his hands from his head, giving you a small smile. “You’re not an idiot…” He goes to protest.

You raise a brow at his claim. “Just last week you yelled it at me before I went to bed. And threw a slipper at me.” You say bluntly, staring him directly in the eyes. “So, what is it? I’m not telling you where your cigarettes are.”

His eyes look bleary, come to see it, and there’s a slight stumble in his step when he moves back to sit in his favourite chair. He’s not using, you’re on him like a hound about that, and there’s no way he’s drunk, he absolutely loathes day-drinking when the days of the week don’t begin with an S. You’re not an idiot, he’s right, but even an idiot could see that Sherlock Holmes, detective extraordinaire, was –

“You’re sick.” You say.

He goes to protest, “No, I’m not,” he exclaims, wincing at his own tone. “I – I didn’t call you down here to mother me, I need a hand on – on –,” he repeats the word once more, and then, sneezes into his pyjama sleeve. “How am I sick?”

You shake your head, moving toward the kitchen. It’s a mess, as always, but some of it is your mess, so you do not complain. You flick the kettle on, and tidying up the dirty dishes into some semblance of a pile, you ruminate on how Sherlock got sick. “It could be because of that time you went out and didn’t bring an umbrella, you know, the night when all the taxis were on strike,” you call out, pulling down two mugs and tea bags. “…or that night when you didn’t bring your coat and we went into the sewer to follow a lead on foot,” you gag at the memory, remembering how cold it was underground, and how lucky you were for wearing one of Uncle Greg’s knitted jumpers. “Or –,”

There’s another sneeze, and a splutter, “Okay, I get it. I’m the idiot.”

You bring the tea to the lounge, and handing Sherlock his cup (a mug with a picture of a panda on the centre), you take yours to the window, far away from the germs he’s giving off. “I wish I recorded that, it would be so nice to hear you say that phrase over and over,” you laugh to yourself, blowing the steam from your chipped blue and white mug. “But I wasn’t called down here to fuss about and make tea out of goodwill. I am an author.”

“You will be if you ever write something,” he says into his mug.

You decide right then to ignore what the asshole of the year has muttered, and take a deep chug of your tea. If your mouth was full, you couldn’t spar with him with insults and mockery.

“So?” you prompt, with an air of irritation to your tone. “Do I have to sniff a cadaver, or look at a case file…?”

Sherlock is silent, cradling his tea in his lap. If he wasn’t six-foot-tall, and owned a handgun, you could have no problem picturing him as a small, sick boy, nose red and eyes bleary and breathing congested. “It’s…it’s nothing.” He finally says. “Forget about it.”

You place your half-drunk mug on the windowsill, and take your leave.

When you come down six hours later, it’s almost afternoon tea time, and having written fifteen words shy of a thousand into your word processor, you decide it’s time to stretch your aching back, work out the kinks that found their way into your smooshed buttocks, and get more tea. You hardly look around, but when you see the milk’s all gone, and there’s no orange juice, and none in the cupboard either, you grab your wallet, and prepare to take leave to the Tesco’s around the corner.

But before you call out to say where you’re going, you see him. Face pressed into his shoulder, sitting upright in his sofa seat. Legs out like they were full-length broomsticks, and not appendages, a hand dangling over the side of the armchair in a way that could never be comfortable. You’re not a heartless woman, just a killjoy realist, and instead of just turning and going to get milk and juice, you go to Sherlock’s room. The one he said never to go into, even if the world was ending.

Selecting a spare blanket, you drape it over your roommate’s sick body, and retreat to the outside world to complete the chores.

---

You’re over a thousand words on your story now, and having told Sherlock you’re taking the day off, it’s now a week after he got sick, and now better, he’s back to being an asshole about everything and anything. Thus, while he goes around solving policemen’s unsolvable puzzles, you’ve got your head down in a silent zone block, typing away madly before the inspiration leaves you. It’s been a hard week, and hardly getting to type around the lifestyle as Sherlock’s new blogger, you’re down about your progress. Thank goodness it isn’t November, because otherwise you’d doubly punish yourself, and try and do the writing challenge where people write 50,000 words in a month.

There’s someone sitting beside you in the next cubicle, impeccably dressed. You peer over at him, and narrow your eyes. You’ve met Mycroft Holmes before, and like you don’t like Sherlock at the best of times, you most certainly don’t like the eldest Holmes brother at the worst. He’s nothing but a pencil-pushing moral compass, and you’re nothing but a keyboard-tapping writer with a slight anger problem.

You deserved a holiday. Perhaps Berlin was nice this time of year? Somewhere the lifestyle of the Holmes wouldn’t follow you.

In Morse Code, he clicks a pen against his leg.

S-H-E-R-L-O-C-K.

You roll your eyes. You wonder if there was a possibility that one day, you could roll your eyes so hard, they’d roll backwards into your head. Or out, and roll away to their heart’s content onto the sidewalk. You look through your laptop bag, and finding your loyalty card for an ice creamery, you tap against the desk.

P-I-S-S—O-F-F—M-Y-C-R-O-F-T.

He chuckles dryly, and goes on.

N-E-E-D-S—A-N—EYE—ON—H-I-M.

You reply, T-A-L-K—O-U-T-S-I-D-E.

Taking your time, you tuck your laptop into its bag, with now a thousand words, and four hundred and thirty on top of that. You fold the cord into itself, and slip your phone into your pocket. You do this all while knowing that the elder brother of your roommate is watching, and while your time is not worth money, his is, and wasting it is as sweet as the petty squabbles you win against Sherlock.

But once you’re outside the library, and you’ve bought yourself a coffee with extra sugar and cream, you take a seat under a monument, and listen to what bargain that Mycroft has intended to strike.

“So, Sherlock needs an eye on him?” you say, inhaling your coffee. “What else is new? Is the show Doctor Who British government propaganda to hide the fact that there is alien life?” He doesn’t say anything to that. “Ooh, no news is good news, I’ll tell all my friends that gossip…”

Mycroft sighs. “He’s volatile still. Getting over the whole ordeal of losing his close friend, finding his sister…ah, there’s so much trauma in his life you just have to close your eyes and point, and there’ll be one there to choose from.” He eyes your coffee, seemingly jealous of your sweet dose of caffeine. “And don’t tell your friends that that show is real, you’ll just sound crazy.”

You laugh to yourself. “I’m a twenty-seven-year-old woman, sitting on a bench on her day off, and yet, still talking to a Holmes. I am a writer. I am a lackey to whatever Sherlock gets up to! I talk to myself when I’m writing to get an idea of what the words will sound like when read! Crazy? Oh, man, you don’t know crazy until you’re where I am.”

Mycroft doesn’t contest on that. Instead, he hands you a note. It’s handwritten, in a curly font that makes you think it’s from a woman. The paper is nice, a soft yellow cardstock, bought probably at a newsagency. You’re no idiot, yes, but you’re smart enough to deduce that this note is from his mother, and not a woman he works with. Or maybe, just by reading the first few words gave it away.

Sherlock, I gave birth to you, raised you and taught you all that you know! It says. You can almost picture his mother scowling writing this, Don’t forget to call your father for his birthday –

You close the notepaper in on itself. “So, am I a carrier pigeon now?”

He considers it, but instead says, “I don’t trust the postal service –,”

You make a noise, “Her majesties own postal service? I should go to Buckingham and tell her myself that the Mycroft Holmes, backbone of the United Kingdom doesn’t trust –,”

He rolls his eyes. “to get there in time. Father’s birthday is in three days.”

“Okay, okay, I’ll keep an eye on your brother,” You chuckle to yourself, eyeing him. “But not for money, and not for your sick obsession of watching people constantly on CCTV to satisfy your strange ways.” You stand, and chugging the rest of your coffee, place the empty cup into Mycroft’s hands. “Until next time, Microsoft Holmes.”

---

You would be at forty words off the next thousand on your creative piece, but instead, you’re standing beside Sherlock with your notepad and recording device at the ready, and looking at a very deceased man.

“Sixty, male, ambidextrous, straight. Woodworker, low education, raised in the country. Lived, still, in the countryside.” He states, examining the corpse that looks like it was either ready to get from the slab and dance in a Michael Jackson music video, or go straight into the furnace to become ashes. “See the dirt under his nails? Callouses on fingers, splinters.”

You nod, doing your best to make sure you weren’t being disrespectful to the deceased man, but also, not show how much the seven-day-old corpse who had once been named Alvin Ludwig was making you feel about the curry you had for lunch (and how much it wanted to make a reappearance).

Your Uncle stood by the door of the morgue, beside the man who had been doing the post-mortem. It was Molly’s day off; she and her friend Harry had decided to take a trip to Bath. But Uncle Greg watched the both of you, perhaps a little too closely.

“So, what’s the verdict?” He asked Sherlock.

He placed his magnifying glass away in his pocket. “He’s a victim of that perp of yours.” He states. “If you see here, by his ear, there are two holes that seem unnoticeable, but appear to be deep enough to pierce the skull.”

The other man at the door’s eyes are wide, and comes the corpse to see it. “Cause of death?”

Sherlock shakes his head of curls, “If you checked the mouth, though, you’d notice a lack of hydration –,”

“This means that Mr. Ludwig had been attacked by the killer,” you say, “but instead of the standard death the others had, he survived it. Starved to death.”

Sherlock smiles to you. “Exactly.”

Later, you’re not in a morgue, but outside it, and Sherlock is off speaking to a detective heatedly about his observational skills. You barely get to get a word in edgeways, and waiting it out, see your uncle alone, pocketing his phone from whoever he was calling at the Yard with the new evidence.

“_________, you look well,” he grins, bringing you in for a hug. “I haven’t seen you in months! How’s everyone going at home?” You talk about your family, and he rants about how your mother would always be on the lookout for trouble. You don’t believe it, but laugh away. He’s her twin, anyway, he’d know her better than anyone. “So, I see you and Sherlock are getting along fine. You’ve even taken up John Watson’s blog, yeah?”

You blush at that. “I’m not replacing him, or anything,” you say, “He’s busy being a father, and I’m busy running around after this one.” You glance to Sherlock, who’s now teaching the Dewy-decimal system or something to another detective. “He is a handful and a half!”

Uncle Greg raises his eyebrows so far up, you wonder if they’ll disappear into his receding hairline. “Understatement of the year, _________, I’m telling you,” he laughs, “no, I thought, you’d get right on like a house on fire, I knew you’d be good together.”

You pause at that. “We’re not…just because we live together and work together and I complain a lot about him and a lot about his brother together doesn’t mean I like him.” You say, crossing your arms. “We’re just…Uncle Greg, honestly? Was this a matchmake from the beginning?”

He shakes his head, holding his hands out. “No, no! I just – I know Mrs. Hudson, and I knew there was a spare room –,”

Sherlock approaches, collar flicked up, cheekbones looking like they were made of cut glass, “What’s going on?”

You punch your uncle’s arm lightly, and tug on Sherlock’s sleeve. “Nothing, we’re leaving. I don’t want to pay for takeout when there’s perfectly good leftovers in the fridge.”

---

Once back at 221B Baker street, you’re thinking of the two thousand six hundred words you could be writing, rather than forcing Sherlock to eat around the clock, and with him at the little dining table, pushing around yesterday’s peas on a plate, you sigh. This story keeps evading you, and slowly, you place your head in your hands, and groan.

“Don’t tell me what’s wrong,” Sherlock states, a pea speared upon his fork, “let me deduce.” You keep your head in your hands, but not protesting, he goes on. “You’ve been on edge about your writing for as long as I can remember, but it isn’t that…it happened recently, so it isn’t something my brother said.” You glance through your fingers, and see him. He’s got his thinking face on, fingers poised under his chin, “Not two hours ago you spoke to your uncle.”

You’re silent as he goes on.

“You’re a headstrong person with a sense for humour and such, so it wasn’t humiliation in the conventional sense, no, he’s an uncle, not a cousin, so he’d naturally ask about the same topics that your parents would, and parents ask about more personal issues, not that I would notice from personal experience…” His eyes meet yours, and slowly his face grows red. “He thinks you’re in love with me.”

You chuckle at the wording. “Sounds more like an inflation of that ego of yours when you put it that way,” you don’t deny the fact. Yes, your uncle thinks you’re in love with Sherlock Holmes. That is a fact.

He quirks a brow. “No denial?”

You place your hands in your lap, and look at Sherlock in the eyes. “You’re right. I am an idiot…” you go to stand, but as you go to walk away, he catches your wrist in his hold, those thin fingers capturing you. “Sherlock –,”

He shakes his head, voice no more than a whisper, “No, I’m the idiot, for not realising that the feelings were mutual,” he says.

You grin to yourself. “Looks like we’re a pair of idiots in love or something.”

Perhaps writing down something fictional when you lived a life alongside Sherlock Holmes would never work. Besides, it was more interesting anyways.

[juniper-and-lamplight]

Recent Reads: March 3, 2018

"Recent" being a relative term: this list covers fics I read between May 2017 and February 2018. A lot of my reading from this period has already been recced via my 2017 Holiday Fic Countdown and DGHDA Fic Favorites list; but you'll still find a few Dirk/Todd fics here, alongside Johnlock, Drarry, Destiel, Finnpoe, Wolfstar, some nostalgic Sam/Frodo, and femslash from Ghostbusters, Miss Fisher, and Wonder Woman. Yes, this list is a multifandom disaster, just like me.

Silvermoon's Sparkling - askboo - 1k, T, Dirk/Todd "5 times Todd smooches Dirk on his face (+ 1 time he smooches him on his mouth)." A little fluff, a little hurt/comfort, and a little humor, all in one tidy 5+1 package. "Nothing we do is legal" makes me giggle every time.

The Stars Move Still - BeautifulFiction, read by aranel_parmadil and @consultingsmartarse​ - 96k, 9hrs 48min, E, John/Sherlock, AU "What could I want so desperately that would make me sell my soul? What could possibly compel me to surrender the part of myself that makes me who I am: the source of my magic, my self-control, everything?" I avoided this fic for YEARS because I hate most iterations of Faust, so I was extremely pleased to discover that the inspiration is very loose and thus, the fic is lovely.

O Sinners, Let's Go Down - birdsofshore - 33k, E, Harry/Draco "It seemed like such a straightforward plan ‒ a trip to Suffolk to research his mother's family tree and spend a few days relaxing by the seaside. Harry wasn't looking for anything more than that. He certainly wasn't looking for Draco Malfoy." I am already on record as being fascinated by the function of religion in the wizarding world, so OBVIOUSLY I am here for priest-in-training Draco.

If Equal Affection Cannot Be - @blueink3​ - 21k, E, John/Sherlock "Sherlock fled London a couple of years after John left him in hospital with nothing but an old walking stick and a half-hearted goodbye. Rosie grew up thinking that Sherlock died when he committed suicide in front of her father by jumping from Barts' roof. So it's somewhat awkward when they run into each other in a Sussex general store between the loaves of bread and the Mars bars..." In which it takes John and Sherlock decades to come to terms with the events of season 4. Honestly, it might take decades for me as well, but fics like this one help.

Half a Dozen Dances - CeruleanDarkangelis, read by @lockedinjohnlock-podfics​ - 19k, 2.4 hrs, E, John/Sherlock "'Seriously? You? You're going to be a stripper?' John tried to keep the amused incredulity off his face. Judging by the disgruntled look Sherlock gave him, he was not entirely successful in this endeavor.'" Normally I am not into stripper fics (for Lots Of Reasons), but the slow smolder of this fic and the music in the podfic make won me over.  

Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered - @coloursflyaway - 2k, T, Dirk/Todd "It's late and Todd finds Dirk sitting on the stairs in front of the Ridgely; there's music and confessions, and maybe, a kiss." Sweet, romantic, and reassuring for those of us who've listened to a certain YouTube video a million times.

you take me the way i am - @cosmicoceanfic - 13k, T, Dirk/Todd "'This is how Todd tries to take care of people. Through protecting them. It’s his way of trying to help, and he is constantly trying to come through every time the opportunity presents itself. So who’s taking care of Todd?' Where Dirk tries his hand at romantic gestures, and has some trouble with it." Charming and goofy, but ultimately about how wooing is not the same as partnership. Dirk's “Did I just tell you that I loved you in the middle of a rant?” is 5000% believable.

Morning Glory - @edgarallanrose - 26k, E, Dean/Castiel "Dean can no longer hunt, Cas has gone from Warrior of God to beekeeper, and Sam has left home. Taking place two years after the Season 12 finale, Dean and Cas have to learn what it means to be themselves, and who they are meant to be to each other, without the threat of an impending apocalypse hanging over their heads." It's tough being a Destiel shipper who doesn't care for AUs, which is why fics like this make me happy--it's canon-based AND filled with delicious fluffy stuff like Dean baking and Cas keeping bees.

Stronger Together - elfin - 4k, G, Dirk/Todd "Todd's been wondering - what is Dirk's type of thing?" A lovely (and funny!) look at how these characters complement and balance each other. I especially enjoy Dirk’s total matter-of-factness about his feelings for Todd.

Endurance Beyond Hope - Frayach - 19k, M, Frodo/Sam "Fourteen years after Frodo's departure from the Havens, Merry is visited at Brandy Hall by Sam and his family and discovers a well-spring of both grief and hope that he and Frodo will be reuniting beyond the grey curtain of this world."  In the words of one Ronald Weasley: "You're gonna suffer, but you're gonna be happy about it." This fic will break your heart in the best way.

And On To Something New - geordielover, read by consulting_smartass - 2k, 16min, T, John/Sherlock "John is not an idiot, despite what Sherlock seems to believe about him...he knows that everyone at the NSY is under the impression that he and Sherlock have been shagging for years." A just-right take on a familiar, beloved trope.

Are You Mine? - @gracerene09 - 91k, E, Harry/Draco, James/Teddy, series "A series of fics set in an "Epilogue-Compliant Harry Potter 'Verse," beginning with Not Just When You Want to Be: 'A little over a year after the end of the war, fate seems intent on pushing Harry and Draco together. Staying together is a different matter entirely.'" There are lot of things that I like about this series; one of them is that it deals explicitly with queerness in context, i.e. what it means to be out in the wizarding world.

be yourself my ally - imperfectcircle - 15k, G, Etta/Diana "'That’s all very flattering,' Etta says when Diana has finally run out of steam, 'but surely you have more qualified candidates than me?' 'You are of the world of men.' Diana looks a little embarrassed. 'But not a man.'" Diana and Etta go back to Themyscira." I would never have guessed that I'd like this pairing, because we saw so little of Etta in the Wonder Woman movie, but this fic makes me feel like I know here, and I LOVE IT SO HARD. Any Other Day - @irisbleufic - 3k, M, Frodo/Sam "A day just like any other, full of its own particular wonders." You need to read all the way to the end of this fic to get the full effect. And by "get the full effect" I mean "be overwhelmed by emotions."

Waking - kirargent - 3k, T, Finn/Poe "When she speaks, Poe's heart sputters like a bot without quite enough power to fully function. 'Finn is awake.' It is worse when Finn is awake." A nonlinear glimpse into the psyche of Commander Poe Dameron, dedicated Resistance fighter and lovesick idiot.

Things We're All Too Young To Know - @lavellington - 4k, T, Dirk/Todd "Todd is not the marrying kind. Or at least that's what he's been telling himself." Confession: I'm generally wary of proposal fic due to the high incidence of schmoop...which is why I adore the way THIS fic deals with Todd's very realistic and in-character reluctance about marriage.

The Last Shreds of Autumn - @merripestin - 16k, E, Frodo/Sam "Frodo recovers in Rivendell, and Sam looks after him." Good old-fashioned hobbit hurt/comfort. Revisiting this ship is like slipping into a warm bath.

i don't wanna give you up (i don't wanna let you love somebody else but me) - @notcaycepollard, read by @revolutionaryjo - 3k, 20min, E, Jillian/Erin "Erin Gilbert is not the second or even the fifth straight girl Jillian’s ever fallen for, and it’s kind of getting to be a problem, except when she sees Dr Erin Gilbert, she thinks, maybe, this woman might be a statistical outlier." Strong characterization, funny, hot, and the VOICE! Flawless.

The Moon Looks Lovely Tonight - Omi_Ohmy - 36k, M, Harry/Draco "When Harry moves into the damp and empty Black house, it doesn’t quite feel like home. And then the first owl moves in. After that, it’s a steep slope leading to bed-sharing, more owls, assorted housemates, strange potions experiments, and terrible cooking. And a bit of waltzing, too." Humor and romance and bed-sharing and found family! What more could you want?

Light in August - orestesfasting - 21k, E, Remus/Sirius "Summer, 1977. With the full moon approaching, Sirius heads up to the Lupins' countryside cottage to make himself useful. Or to make a complete and utter arse out of himself, because really, that’s all he can seem to do around Remus these days." Excellent dialogue, and wonderfully atmospheric--a very immersive reading experience.

A Room with a View - pyes - 13k, E, Finn/Poe "Poe awaits Finn's arrival at a busy spaceport after a long, lonely year spent on opposite ends of the galaxy." Poe's narrative voice in this fic is so distinctive and perfect.

Since First I Saw Your Face - Stavia_Scott_Grayson (@artemisastarte)  - WIP, M, Holmes/Watson "During the Great Hiatus, Holmes, studying in Tibet, reflects on his first meeting with Dr John Watson." A meticulously researched, gorgeously slow-burning WIP in which Holmes, desperately trying to return to Watson post-Reichenbach, reminisces about the trajectory of their relationship. If you love historical detail and EPIC amounts of pining, you need to be reading this fic.

Every Day's Most Quiet Need - @tiltedsyllogism​ - 22k, unrated, Phryne/Mac, Phryne/Jack "Doctor Elizabeth Macmillan does not traffick in regrets. Hers is an exceptionally pleasurable and useful life, made complete (if it wasn’t before) by her dear friend Phryne’s return to Melbourne. And if Mac occasionally longs for a time before her friend became somehow distracted by the stiff shoe that is Inspector Jack Robinson— well, one must always endure some bad with the good." I love everything about this fic, but especially the closely observed characterization, of both individuals and relationships. There's a moment where Mac recognizes that she and Jack share a certain kind of "well-tailored" intensity...I almost shouted "YES THIS" when I read it.

he is a feather in the wind - @xylodemon - 3k, T, Dean/Castiel "Darkness. Stillness. Castiel has been here before — briefly, but more than once. As Dean would say, this isn't his first rodeo." Once again xylodemon has written a Destiel fic that slots right into the canon plot, but is 50 times better than what the actual Supernatural writers did with that same plot.

Love: A Retrospective - xylodemon - 40k, E, Dean/Castiel "Pretending Cas is just his friend has been the only thing keeping Dean's head on straight for years. He never realized how much doing that depended on him making himself scarce in the morning -- not until Cas came back and moved into the bunker." A Destiel fic that incorporates ALL OF CANON is no small feat.

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