#Luree Holmes

[timeladix]

Ohh... so is Nightswan Thrawn's Motiarty then?:))

For reference:

[incomingalbatross]

Genuinely though the Final Problem is really well-done.

It's a death story in which Doyle's whole goal was to kill Holmes off, but he still did it with care and respect and attention to what the characters deserved. He didn't drop a bridge on him or get him shot by a random criminal just so he could go "HE'S DEAD, NOW GO AWAY." He actually successfully created a nemesis for Holmes within the scope of one short story—someone we can believe is a big enough threat that it justifies Holmes dying to stop him. Without ever even letting us meet the guy face-to-face! That's insane. But it works. Moriarty has an established place in pop culture as Holmes's nemesis because Doyle made us believe it, just within FINA. He made Holmes's death an accomplishment for Holmes, a crowning glory.

And he didn't phone in the rest of the story, either. It's filled with Holmes and Watson being themselves. We have Holmes telling the ins and outs of his fight with Moriarty, intelligent and self-possessed and full of a zest for life even as he repeats that he'd willingly give it up to take this guy down; we have Watson's loyalty and stubbornness that keeps him close to Holmes and the need to help others that ultimately lures him away. We get an incredibly dramatic site for Holmes's death that Watson spends entire paragraphs describing.

We also get Watson's grief in the narration, which—again—is not colored by the author's own decisions regarding Holmes. Doyle might be tired of him, but he knows Watson isn't! And so Watson's narration is wholly and sincerely a tribute to Holmes, and mourning for his death, because that is both what the fans want to hear and what Watson would want to write. It's just...honestly, this whole story is such a good example of how to kill off a beloved character, if you're really set on doing it.

[lisbeth-kk]

Sherlock fandom.

A Love of Music

I have always enjoyed music and I wish I was good at playing an instrument. To sit down at the piano and effortlessly play one of my favourite songs for example. It always blew my mind when I saw people do just that in public spots. 

A few days before I enlisted, I was picking up my current girlfriend at St Pancras. She’d been at her parents in Kent over Christmas. We’d arranged to meet by the large Christmas tree. There was a piano there too. Free to use for anyone who wanted to show off their skills or entertain the travellers.

A teenage girl took a seat and started to play Auld Lang Syne. It was beautiful and much to my chagrin, I had to wipe away a tear.

***

Classical music was a genre I had an ambivalent relationship with. I guess I found it too pompous in my youth, but as I got older, some pieces stuck with me, and I quite enjoyed The New Year Concert from Vienna. 

It varied which instrument I was fascinated by. The harp, with its grandeur and elegant form, had always intrigued me. I also enjoyed the oboe. The sound of it felt both soothing and melancholy. But in the end, it was the violin I loved the most. How a skilled violinist could coax out all kinds of sounds from the beautiful instrument never failed to stun me. 

***

And then I experienced that even talented violinists could play so terrible that it hurt the ears and caused shudders to ripple through the entire body.

Yes, I’m referring to my mad flatmate and boyfriend, Sherlock Holmes. When we first met, and he told me he played the violin, I thought he was an amateur. Imagine my surprise and awe when I realised that he was just as skilled as any violinist in a symphony orchestra. At least in my opinion.

“You’re biased, John,” Sherlock told me.

I guess I was, but he was bloody good, and I thoroughly enjoyed it when he played for me. Therefore, I was totally unprepared for the change in tone when Mycroft visited. I had had my encounter with the pompous arse in a parking cellar somewhere months prior, but this was the first time I witnessed a meeting between the brothers.

A screeching sound from Sherlock’s violin made me cover my ears and yell from the kitchen: “what the hell, Sherlock!”

He stopped for a brief second to tell me his brother was tormenting him. Then he started molesting his instrument again. It was unbearable. I think my ears would’ve started to bleed if I hadn’t been able to pry the bow out of his hand. He plucked the strings for a while, before he sprawled on the sofa, clutching the violin to his chest.

***

The tone and the pieces he played when I had nightmares, were soft and gentle, luring me back to the flat and out of the desert. My heart swelled with love for him in those moments. Sometimes I stood from the bed and went to thank him with an embrace or a kiss. Other times, I was too fatigued to do anything but just lay there and thank him in my mind. The nightmares got less straining after I started sharing his bed, but he still played for me.

***

Sherlock’s own tone when Mrs. Hudson asked him to play Christmas carols, was clipped and haughty, but when he started playing – well, it was magical. He transformed from that aloof man everybody thought to be a sociopath, and into a passionate musician. I could even discern a tiny curl of his lip, indicating a smile on those occasions. After all, he’d do anything for his beloved Hudders, however reluctant he seemed.

***

His sorrow filled the small church when he played at his father’s funeral. I had never seen a face so despairing. Tears trickled down his cheeks in a constant stream, but he never faltered. Not until he lowered his bow after he’d finished playing. I was by his side before he’s knees gave way, and he stayed close to me for the rest of the day.

***

After we moved to Sussex, Sherlock still practised and played the violin, but it took a bit more effort as the years passed. His fingers weren’t that flexible anymore, especially during winter. So, we changed our habits. Every so often we took the train up to London, or Mycroft provided a car, and we went to see the London Symphony Orchestra. If there was a serene violin solo, Sherlock tapped at my arm in step with the soloist. 

***

It wasn't our shared love of music that brought us together, but it was an important part of the foundation of our relationship. And when the crime solving and the hunt for suspects through London ended, the music became an even bigger part of our lives. The tones changed and differed, but our love remained solid and steadfast.

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[not-that-dillinger]

“You shouldn’t be out here alone this late.”

The voice is echoed... garbled like it had been through too many layers of distortions gone wrong. The only tell that there was someone nearby on this forsaken piece of digital terrain was a flicker of something dark... cape?... or fabric maybe... just out of sight.

"It... isn't safe... for programs."

He'd had one of those days, where he'd been in not so great a mental space after a board meeting and couldn't go home but the walls of Encom tower felt more oppressive than safe like they usually did, and that perhaps made Ed a little more reckless. He'd gone for a walk, hoping to burn the last of his spoons so that maybe he could just go home and pass out.

He hadn't realized how far he'd walked until he found himself leaning heavily on Colossus, blinking up at the unlit sign of Flynn's arcade. He'd never really thought much about the place; he hadn't been allowed as a kid when it was open, and the one time his father's assistant caught him trying to sneak in with friends, he'd been... discouraged from returning.

Perhaps it was Flynn's old files he'd found on the Encom server that he kept thinking about, that drew him here. The files had been filled with ramblings that lined up so much with the angry rants his father used to have, and Ed couldn't stop thinking about them. He stood in front of the abandoned arcade, and something clicked into place. He realized he might have the missing puzzle piece to solve the mystery of where Flynn disappeared to.

Sherlock Holmes and Nancy Drew had always been a worse influence on him than his father made any of his childhood friends out to be; picking the lock on the door was trivial, and he quickly found the hidden basement.

It took him little time to find the Grid.

It took even less time for them to find him, though they didn't know what to do with the massive dog that had come with him.

They'd stripped him out of his clothes, put him in a light up suit, and given him a disc. They'd put Colossus in a suit and given him a disc as well. And then they marched him to Clu.

Clu had hoped to use him to lure his user out of hiding, and Ed laughed. Rescue his nemesis's son from certain death? Yeah right.

It was the sight of the test tube-looking prison, large enough to contain an adult human, more than Clu's plans to turn him into mindless soldier under his control, that had sent Ed into a panic.

Colossus had always been gentle with other people, and Ed had never seen the dog snap, much less bite someone, but Ed's panic must have triggered something, because the next thing he knew, the guards that had been restraining him were on the ground, and he was sprinting down the hall with Colossus, Clu dropping yellow voxels from the stump of his wrist as he pursued after them.

Ed didn't remember much about the escape, but an explosion or ten later he was hiding in an abandoned building in a darkened sector of the city.

---

That had been... Ed had no idea how long ago. It felt like months. They'd probably given up the search for him, if there even was one when he went missing. The darkened sector made an ideal hiding spot. It seemed like Clu or his forces couldn't track data there, though Ed also couldn't access the Grid to write scripts, execute command lines, or draw energy, which meant that Ed had to venture out in order to obtain energy or code anything he needed. And that meant he had to leave Colossus, since the dog was instantly recognizable.

Regardless, he'd learned how his disc connected him to the Grid, and had figured out how to use it to change his outfit to something slightly closer to his usual clothing with a floor length cloak, and had coded a swordstick with a pigeon-head for a hilt to defend himself with.

It was his third time venturing out, in need of more energy for both himself and Colossus, that he'd been found.

Ed froze, leaning heavily on the swordstick. He was having a low energy day, but he could fight, if it came to it.

He shifted his weight off the cane ever so slightly. "Is that so?" he asked, voice intentionally kept even and calm. "The same could be said of you."

[noonewilleverknowistealkneecaps]

Do you have any fav soviet Holmes episodes in particular?

*sweats heavily*

Ookay

If i have to choose, i definitely would look into the earlier episodes, as they are better. I mean, i barely remember what the latest episodes were about, and I’ve been rewatching the last month.

Well, i really like two parts of the series: the first episode, with mottled ribbon case, as the meet of Sherlock and Watson is played out remarkably good, and Baskerville episodes.

The latter… they just stand out to me due to the beautiful fusion of music/vibe/editing. Soviet Sherlock just… managed to show the Baskerville case in a r e a l l y beautiful way. On the verge of supernatural, magical, mysterious and dangerous, the story slowly lures you in with how different it is from any other part of the series… it is almost like a fairytale…… and it’s so freaking romantic, by all means im enthralled by Baskerville eps the most.

Shortly on the vibes:

UGHHH I REMEMBERED, THE COLOURS, THE CREEPY ATMOSPHERE - watson and sherlock really had to kiss in the middle of the haunted mires. Really would’ve elevated the plot. You know.

I mean, they also have more characters there, the ones which are really to remember, incredibly lovable - take Sir Henry at least. Their friendship with Watson. Them getting drunk in the castle.

Soviet Baskerville is some really well written fanfic. i say.

Anyway listen to this soundtrack for yourself and CHECK THE EPS ON YT

[espinosaurusrexex]

Just an idea :) for Sherlock, what if Enola is always trying to get him to date cuz either he's lonely or always focused on work. But he always turns down the idea. Then one day she lures him to her favorite bookshop (or cafe, etc) and casually introduces him to her favorite employee. And the pickup line just comes out of no where, even he is surprised lolz. Feel free to not use this at all if you get better ideas😂

Thank you so much for this idea! For writing purposes, this will take place in modern times (*writing purposes meaning me being too lazy to write period specific)

Cheesy Pick-up Line (Bingo Game)

!BINGO ASKS CLOSED!

College!Henry!SherlockHolmes x Female!Reader

word count: 1.3k

warnings: a little bickering, awkward Sherlock, fluffy and cute

Enola giggled excitedly as she pushed past the glass double doors of her favorite library. Her brother was following behind closely, a disinterested look on his face as they entered the small building. For Enola, it was the perfect place to be, but Sherlock just asked himself what he was doing here instead of studying for his criminal justice exam next week. 

What he had not concluded yet, was that Enola Holmes had an agenda far different from the story she had told her brother about just an hour ago. He didn’t know his sister had spent weeks finding a way to finally get him to leave his stuffy, foot-smelling boy room. She had mashed her brain about it as she roamed the shelves of her favorite place and when she checked out the other day, she was embarrassed to have thought of it so late. It was blatantly obvious. Her brother needed a girlfriend. Someone that would encourage him to live outside of his schoolwork every once in a while. And you were the perfect candidate for the job. Smiley and charming, intelligent and pretty, and on top of that, someone Enola liked very much. She had established a first-name basis with you over the hours she spent in the little library you worked at. Today, she would try to accomplish the same for Sherlock. 

Sherlock stood between the rows of shelves, waiting for his sister to finish collecting the mountain of books he was sure she wasn’t even allowed to check out at once. She had recruited him to ‘help her carry them’ as if she weren��t very capable of it herself. And besides, Enola was the one always underlining her independence and that women could do just as much as men. Something wasn’t adding up. 

Enola placed another book in his arms. One she had mindlessly pulled from the shelve to keep her story alive. It was a small sacrifice for the gratification she would get would her brother finally fall in love this evening. She was sure of it. No more feigned disinterest in the stories their family told about cousins and other relatives having their first partners. No more annoying dismissal of their mother’s subtle hints towards his isolating himself. No more bad moods because of the uncalled-for comments Mycroft threw at him when he visited with his fiancé. It was about to change today.

“Relativity Theory?” He lifted an eyebrow before Enola could disappear behind another shelf. “Hamlet? What kind of homework is this supposed to be?”

“You wouldn’t understand,” Enola quipped before placing an autobiography in his arms. 

“They’ll think you’re robbing this place.” He readjusted the books because even though he was fairly strong, they slipped in his grasp. “How are you planning on checking those all out?”

“Jokes on you, my check-out limit has been upgraded because I’m a regular.”

“To 17? That’s too many. Too many books in general. Even for your ADHD brain.”

She glared at him. “Well, that’s where you come into play. With your card, we can check out 15. And for the other two, I’ll just have to sweet talk my way through.”

“You’re impossible, Enola.” Sherlock rolled his eyes as he followed his younger sibling to the counter. 

“Shut up, It’s hard carrying enough character for Mycroft and you. You should thank me, really.”

“Unbelievable,” he muttered under his breath and then he placed the books down with a thud.

Enola Smiled as she saw you approach the counter from the back office. Once you were here, the hot phase of her plan would be set in motion. And she couldn’t wait.

“Good evening, Enola. I see you brought someone new with you today?” You asked kindly with a bright smile on your face. Most people that came into the library didn’t talk much, but ever since Enola came around, she made the day a whole lot better. She grew to be a friend to you, which was why you also already knew who the handsome ‘stranger’ next to her was. But you wouldn’t reveal it just yet, that would be creepy.

“This is my Brother, Sherlock.” Enola just smiled as she placed her pile of books on the counter as well. 

“Nice to meet you,” the tall brunette smiled behind his glasses, soft curls falling into his face when he nodded toward you. 

“Nice to meet you, too. I would ask if you found everything you were looking for, but I guess it’s even more than that...” You counted the books, sending Enola a warning look. You had gone through the trouble of sweet-talking Old Mrs. Thomson if Enola could be an exception to the ‘only six books for home’ rule once again. Trying one more would get you on dusting duty for at least three weeks. 

Your eyes locked with Sherlocks. “Do you have a library card?” And then your attention was back to the register, typing away on the little blue display.

Sherlock couldn’t see what you were doing, but he knew he wanted your eyes back on him. He didn’t know why, there was something about you that made him all excited. “Why? Because you want to check me out?” Uh oh.

Your fingers stopped hacking away at the outdated machine and your eyes wandered back to him. A deep blush tinted his cheeks and ears pink as you tried to hold back the laugh pushing at your throat. 

Sherlock wanted the earth to swallow him whole. Why had he just said that? What was wrong with him? 

And while her brother desperately attempted to hide his shocked face, Enola just stood beside him, equally stunned. She hadn’t known it had gotten this bad. His constant isolation must have messed with his social competence somehow. Because whatever she was just witnessing, was beyond secondhand embarrassment. He made her job harder to bring the two of you together, and honestly, right now, Enola did not see a chance for her brother. 

“Yes, yes he has. Here!” Enola ripped the card from her brother's pocket and handed it to you. You, who bit your lips to hide the smile creeping on your features and shook your head. 

Sherlock didn’t say another word after that. Too embarrassed to ever talk again, really, he waited out the time until you were finished scanning all the books and his and Enola’s cards. Relief washed over him when you said your goodbyes. 

“I'm making an exception this time, Enola. Mrs. Thomson must not know about this and you better bring all of these books back without a single mark,” you warned.

But Enola countered weakly, matted by her idiot brother destroying the best plan ever made. “When did I ever not?” Still, she tried a sneaky smile on her lips.

When the doors fell close behind them and the siblings walked along the sidewalk home, Enola shoved her brother harshly. 

“Great job, you idiot. You just ruined your only chance at not becoming a weird and bitter old man.”

But Sherlock didn’t answer. He was well aware of the embarrassment he had just presented himself as in that library and in front of you. With his head hung low, he opened the top book in his arms to retrieve his library card, but when he moved the piece of plastic and revealed the check-out receipt, all of his sister’s bickering moved to the background. 

There, beneath the date and time of his visit, was your number, scribbled in blue ink with a small heart by your name. He smiled to himself as he traced the number with his finger. And just then, Enola glanced over his shoulder to find out why he hadn't told her to shut up yet. 

Who would have thought that you would be hooked after a line like that?

Tags: @circe143 @valkyrie418 @mirikusashes @noideawhyimdoingthislol @nikkitc0703 @lethallyprotected @erynnnn @misshale21 @wattpaduser200 @mi-amoree1111 @xxinvisiblexx @lastwandastan @when-you-cant-think-of-anything @pevensiemadness @mrsgweasley

[elvestoneanzelote1]

A:n- 𝘴𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘭𝘺 𝘐 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘔𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘗𝘢𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘰𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘢𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘤𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘶𝘱 𝘴𝘰...

𝘌𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘢𝘭𝘴𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘢𝘯 𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘐 𝘸𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘱𝘢𝘥 𝘮𝘺 𝘶𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘢𝘮𝘦.

𝘐𝘵 𝘪𝘴 from 𝘰𝘧 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘸𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥𝘴

(Slight yan) Sherlock Holmes x male reader

.

.

.

.

It wasn't the fact you were too quiet. No, he is fine with people been quiet.

And there are many artist.

Illustration, architect, and... Good in chemistry and painters.

Nor he should bother himself to name all of them.

But something was different about you.

You have knowledge he knows but you pretend you aren't compatible in intellect.

He doesn't get you at all.

Not even one bit.

He doesn't.

Perhaps he was annoying you often.

Perhaps...

But you don't seem to bother much so it's fine right?

Confining yourself in the room he had to unlock it because you make Miss Husson worry perhaps... Even him.

Friends... Were you even his friends can you both call each other that? He wonders.

People will lose interest in silent people who barely talks but he couldn't.

He never understands you or perhaps he does but never really takes into consideration that he may over bothering you.

Right...?

You were so unbothered... So blank with poker face of sort.

Not even a smile.

And the fact he gets annoyed that you can't even draw him unlike how you drew the others.

He wonders why you often hang out with Madeline either.

Yes she is pretty but isn't she overbearing sometimes? Like often hog your attentions?

Hugging you as if you both are couples.

Trying to swoon you with her smile and.. And.. He doesn't know why.

He felt irritated that you never told her to keep distance but to him.

Hey both of you were boys either way it wouldn't bother you to hug you... Will it?

Even John and you hang out quiet well.

you spoke more with John than... Him.

And whatever he does it never... Get your attention.

Like... He never caught your attention.

He doesn't know why he is feeling this way.

Frustrated he was and annoyed.

But... He just want to hug you is it... Weird?

Or will it bother you if lean closer to you more?

I mean... Okay you are irritated by the cigarette smell... Which he try not to smoke often around you.

He doesn't understand you at all.

He felt his mind been consume constantly... By either the case he should do as a detective or... Try to...

Why were you so... Difficult.

His brother said women's are hard to tell but for him it was you.

He... Just want to see... Your smile.

Once.

That's all he ask.

And perhaps... He will crack you open more.

He doesn't understand why you talk to William well too.

Like you both knew each other well.

He knows Liam also is interested on you.

He is too he admit.

You were strange.

But perhaps that's the strange thing he find himself lured to you.

.

.

.

.

But he isn't going to ignore some who try to break your boundaries.

Clients or not if they make you uncomfortable to even approach him he will make sure they won't come again.

No no he won't resort to anything threatening yet. if the person knows and backs away.

Is it wrong to get know something that perk your interest no right?

After all... You and him are not far of to get to know each other more and more.

And perhaps... Something more.

After all... He can let himself be slight greedy can he?

He doesn't know... And he will try to know.

Whatever is it about you that make him feel so connected and lured he will... Find it.

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A:n- that's all take care good day/night to all

[vindicated-truth]

Replying to @stars-after-dark's tags on my post here because again, with my rambling, I'm pretty sure the reply function won't have enough space 😅

In any case, I'll be explaining the "sting operation" subplot here in case anyone also needs to understand better. (If anyone also wants to add to or correct anything, please also feel free!)

It's important to note that Joowon was in Busan not because he was following Kang Jinmook's foosteps. That was what Dongsik did. They just happen to end up on the same path, like they always do.

What Joowon was following up on in Busan was in fact a case that happened 6 years ago, even before he even met Dongsik. Lee Geumhwa was caught on a police crackdown on prostitution in Busan, and she was forced to leave the country. She re-entered Korea illegally using her sister's passport, and that's how she came upon Joowon's radar at Foreign Affairs.

What was of particular interest to Joowon was that all the prostitutes Lee Geumhwa was associated with back then—Jin Hwalim, Wi Sunhui, Yeo Chunok, and Yoon Mihye—had all went missing without a trace. He knew that Lee Geumhwa must be connected to all of these disappearances, and he was determined to find out why.

More than that, he was determined to prove his seniors at Foreign Affairs wrong. They chanced upon the cases of these prostitutes through investigating a voice phishing case, and they dismissed it as the workings of a Chinese gang.

There's an inherent racism, xenophobia, sinophobia, and misogyny in the way Foreign Affairs treated their cases, and while Joowon had many, many faults as a character—his blithe arrogance being one of them—he cannot be faulted for refusing to let any of these prejudices deter him from finding out the truth, and later on, for bringing justice to the death of a victim the system would set aside for being Chinese, an illegal immigrant, a prostitute, and a woman.

As a longtime Sherlock Holmes fan, Joowon reminds me so much of the character too: arrogant and unheeding of social norms, uncaring of what people thought about him because he's always right anyway.

And the thing is, regardless of how people often rag on Joowon's decisions, he was right, and he was logical in the steps he took.

He looked at the bodies of Jin Hwalim, Yeo Chunok, and Wi Sunhui—the file of whom he managed to convince Kwon Hyeok to reveal to him—and saw that the killer had the same modus operandi for all of them: all 10 fingers cut off, both feet wrapped neatly inside a garbage bag and tied with a bow.

So he did his research to try and find out if there was any other case with a similar modus operandi, and lo and behold, he found it: Bang Juseon's case in Manyang, 20 years ago.

And who was the primary suspect who was never convicted? None other than Lee Dongsik.

The only woman left alive in the victims' circle was Lee Geumhwa. (At this point, Yoon Mihye was still missing, which he discovered later on with Dongsik in Busan had already died due to a car accident.) She was the only link left to solve the case, so Joowon blackmailed her, threatening to reveal her illegal status and have her deported, and sent her to Manyang to lure in Lee Dongsik—not knowing that Joowon just pushed her even closer to Kang Jinmook's eagerly waiting trap.

And then she went missing, with the last text she sent him being a series of "1's"—which was what Joowon instructed her to text him if she indeed found Lee Dongsik.

This, of course, was what led him to believe even further that Dongsik was indeed the killer—because of Lee Geumhwa's misinterpretation of what she was supposed to tell him.

She disappeared in March of 2020, and because Joowon couldn't contact her anymore, and her body wasn't turning up anywere else either, Joowon knew that she was officially missing and that it was his fault, his arrogance that led him to believe he could save her in time if she had alerted him.

It's why 7 months later on October 2020, much to the surprise of everyone in Foreign Affairs and especially of Han Kihwan himself, Joowon got himself transferred to Manyang as soon as he saw that Nam Sangbae had requested for additional officers, and saw his opening to finally bring justice to Lee Geumhwa and own up to his accountability if anything had indeed happened to her.

Joowon, thoroughly believing Lee Geumhwa's last message to him, already had the mindset of Lee Dongsik as the killer, and he had set foot there trying to gather evidence that he was.

And it certainly didn't help that one of Dongsik's first statements to him was: "I killed Bang Hocheol's daughter."

Joowon may have had a lot of missteps in Manyang, but to be honest, Dongsik had also made it hard for him, deliberately misleading Joowon several times, because Dongsik was also operating under the assumption that Joowon must have been connected to the killer, because he realized that Joowon recognized Lee Geumhwa's body when they discovered it together at the reed field.

That's what made Dongsik's hackles rise as well: because here was the son of the former Munju chief who dismissed his sister's death as a cold case, so Joowon must have covering up for it too, because this arrogant prince knew the body but wouldn't admit to it.

Essentially, Dongsik was also working under the assumption that Joowon was a suspect—he may not have been the killer, because he was just 7 years old at the time of Lee Yuyeon's death, but the fact that Joowon was the son of Han Kihwan and apparently also personally knew this new victim, meant that he was covering up for her death too: just like his father.

How wrong both of them turned out to be in the end. About the cases, and especially about each other.

(On a personal note, it's why I do find it somewhat unfair sometimes how Joowon gets the short end of the stick in being made fun of for making "stupid" assumptions and decisions, because the thing is, even in this, he and Dongsik were in it together.

Dongsik was making "stupid" assumptions and decisions along with Joowon too—because of what he also wrongly believed about Joowon.

They actually made clever deductions about each other based on the only information they had, which is why the growth they had as partners were parallel too—because they've come to realize that the evidence they were basing their assumptions on were both wrong, through no fault of their own. There were simply too many monsters at play that tampered with the evidence.)

Lastly, what I feel is most important to note here: Joowon wouldn’t have had to resort to a sting operation if only his superiors at Foreign Affairs believed him when he brought it all up, and not dismissed him as someone merely trying to climb up the ranks, nor be blinded by all the prejudice Joowon was so fiercely fighting against.

He was right. And they should have listened.

[amypihcs]

Extracorporeal Experience Thursday GO

Alright humans of all sorts, we're at chapter 3, let's see what's going on!

Well, AND FOR GOOD RE- Holmes? Why is that man vibrating in excitement?

Oh well, Holmes always was a rather queer fellow. NOW MORTIMER! Answer my quiz!

Oh yeah so... big doggo?

yep. big-big doggo.

HOLMES! Don't be so very interested, snap out of the case, remember social niceties. Geez, next time you'll tell a poor chap accused of murder that his situation is 'so very gratifying', AH!

Holmes SO WANTS to study Mortimer under a microscope!

And drama, of course comes natural to such a man as he is.

So, do we call the Mistery Inc or are we able to pull it off? even if Mortimer is thinking oh-so-loudly that it's demonic stuff?

... you are not a modest man, we know, and we know the reasons. BUT GOD'S SAKE HOLMES!

This man's hilarious, i SWEAR. BUT HE'S NOT A GHOSTBUSTER! so

How can Holmes be of help? Man likes the case!

Allow an italian a moment to bemoan out lack of punctuality in public transport... And back online! Some gossip and inheritance-legal stuff follows, family lines and so on...

HOLMES! Have a care!

You can't just go on dismissing the man's worries this way, god's sake!

But the local devil's terribly funny to think about, lol.

See? Mortimer got QUITE a bit distressed by that!

W: Don't worry, Dr Mortimer, he's just like this, but he does care.

NOW you've got your job, Mortimer, (shirtcuff note mention), Leave. Me. To. Mine. -cackles madly-

You're going out John?

Now. Holmes is already vibrating from happy case chemicals, And has asked very prettily his Watson for some tobacco. For FAR TOO MUCH tobacco.

H: You'll be out all day, dear? Have fun, we'll compare notes later. W: Sure. Have fun too, darling.

You leave your husband with a 'i love you' and you're sure to return to a livable house, of course. And then...

COUGH COUGH COUGH HOLMES!!!

Always like this! It's INTOLERABLE! DON'T YOU TRY THAT!

H: -deductions- W: DON'T. I'm trying to be annoyed at you. -kissy- Insufferable. H. Deduce me now, Watson?

Okay, i don't want to know or even imagine what sort of cocktail of drugs was in Holmes' bloodstream. Sure too much nicotine and caffeine.

He vibrated himself to Devonshire and back. Alright. So normal.

Just as much as this super normal cat behavior. Another couple of years and he'll buy a trunk to think into it. And poor Watson will have to lure him out of that.

Also, it's not concentration, Holmes. It's carbon dioxide intoxication.

I don't want to think to the desperate scream of his joints either, as a person who often keeps the same cross-legged positions for hours on end as they study.

NOW WATSON. What are your own thoughts about the case?

Well well... Interesting thoughts Holmes... Very interesting.

But now, Watson, let's take this out of our heads! -Watson is discreetly re-opening the windows- First a serenade... and then Will you help a detective to have no thought at all?

We'll know of the conversation with Sir Henry in the next episode! And remember the yaoi goggles!

[girlwithhat]

Well, as I've previously mentioned, I've been really into Geoffrey Whitehead Holmes and Donald Pickering Watson lately so...here's a fic. Dedicated to @aregularirregular221b whose enthusiasm for this series motivated me to finish.

TITLE: Shaken

SUMMARY: After the killer is arrested, Holmes reveals the conclusion of the case affected him more than he would care to admit. Watson reassures him.

NOTES: Occurs at the end of "The Case of the Blind Man's Bluff" after the killer is arrested and before the end cap scene the next morning.

Inspired by Watson immediately crossing the room and invading Holmes' personal space.

Holmes was keenly aware of Watson’s sweeping gaze on him as the killer was being taken into custody by Lestrade. The doctor had stepped closer than usual to assess him for any injuries or discomfort. This uncharacteristic invasion of personal space was no doubt a manifestation of his worry after seeing him being threatened with a sword cane. Seeking to calm himself after that emotionally charged confession and a successful conclusion to the case, he reached for his pipe and put it in his mouth. They both glanced at the chicken claw tied with black ribbon on the late Captain Pitt’s desk before leaving the room.

Once they were alone in the hansom back to Baker Street, Watson gave him another once-over.

“Holmes, are you alright?”

“Yes, Watson, quite.”

“He had a sword cane pointed at you when we came in. He could have--”

“I know. But I don’t believe he would have stabbed me.”

“He was desperate to keep his secret so he could continue on his path of revenge. Why wouldn’t he have killed you?”

“If you were in that position, would you have?”

“It’s difficult to say. Irrational actions would seem rational to an already addled mind.”

“He wasn’t addled. This entire ruse was cooly calculated: getting a crew list and tracking them down, entering rooms under false pretenses, pretending to be blind to lure his victims into a false sense of security. Oh no, Watson. He was rational, clear headed, and focused on his goal. Unfortunately, his thirst for revenge would never be satisfied, even if he killed every crewmember of The Gloria North.”

“But that adds to the argument that he would have stabbed you since you were in his way. You knew too much.”

“When we were alone, he was hoping I would understand and sympathize, that I would let him go. I disappointed him when he found out I believed one man cannot be judge and executioner, justified as he may be.”

“You believe he was justified in killing four men?”

“From his point of view. His wife and child, whose ends came too soon and so brutally, for strangers that were either directly or indirectly involved in their deaths. It could be seen that way.”

Arriving back at their rooms, Watson poured them each a brandy before settling in their chairs. With a sigh, Holmes found he couldn’t stop ruminating on the earlier confrontation.

“His eyes, Watson,” he said.

Watson took a sip of his drink. “What about them, Holmes?”

“The pain in them that would never be eased, caused by the unfairness of life through immense loss. An intense, irreplaceable love that can cause someone to lose their rationality. I may not have experienced that, but I do understand something of it.”

“You do?”

“I believe I do,” Holmes replied, studying the man across from him, “If something tragic and unfair had taken y--someone dearest to me, I would see revenge as a rational course of action. If it occurred while they were at my side, I wouldn't have let those responsible get out of the room alive. I can see the point of view of someone so fueled by anger and grief to seek retribution by any means.”

“At the expense of your morals?” Watson was surprised by the other man’s outburst of emotion and the ruthlessness he found there.

“A strong love is not always indicative of the purest morals.”

“That is true.” They were silent for some minutes before Watson spoke again, “In war, I’ve seen how unfair life and how senseless death can be. How it weighs on people. As a doctor, I don’t condone a death for a death but that is what justice demands under our laws.”

“As a doctor, could you kill in revenge?”

“Could I? I suppose anything is possible. But would I? In my rational mind, no. And I would hope that y--my beloved would know that my feelings, my love was still true, even if I could not bring myself to avenge them, should they come to harm.”

“They would certainly continue to admire you for being an upstanding gentleman and doctor. You are a much stronger and better man than I, dear Watson.”

“I don’t believe that for a second, Holmes.”

He looked down at his hands, which cradled his drink. “I was afraid tonight.”

“You were?”

“I was afraid you would arrive to find me dead.”

“But you said--”

“I didn’t want you to endure that. I didn’t believe he would kill me but for all the logic and empathy in the world, the unexpected can still occur and people’s actions can still be difficult to deduce.”

“Even for you?”

“Even for me. I can still make mistakes when compromised by emotions.”

Watson stood, taking their glasses and putting them on the table. “Emotions are not a detriment, Holmes.”

Holmes looked up. “I apologize if my mood has made you uncomfortable.”

“No, none of that,” Watson replied in a soothing tone as he helped Holmes out of his chair and pulled him close for an embrace. “You’re still shaken.”

Holmes closed his eyes for a few moments, syncing his breathing to the solidly steady and sure Watson.

“I don’t know why I’m so affected,” Holmes said, “I’ve been in perilous situations before.”

“It doesn’t matter. No one chooses what situations or people touch their hearts.”

“It took me by surprise,” Holmes replied as he cupped Watson’s face, “Just as you do.”

Watson smiled before their lips met gently. The doctor rested his hands on his friend’s slim hips. “I’m not surprised.”

“No?”

“I believe I knew before you. And may I make a bold deduction?”

“You may.”

“I deduce you want to kiss me again.”

Now it was Holmes' turn to smile. “That is true. What else can you deduce?”

“We should retire to my bedroom as I believe we’re suddenly feeling a bit warm in our clothes.”

The mischievous glint was back in Holmes’ eyes. “Excellent, doctor. I agree. Lead the way.”

END

[louisetaylor]

Ah yes, I love that fantastical movie where Ian Holm gives in to the lure of a powerful and dangerous eldritch artifact at the cost of his companions' safety

Fellowship of the Ring is cool too

[lisbeth-kk]

Sherlock fandom.

Heartbreaking Lure

“Are you ready, John?” Sherlock shouts from the bedroom.

“Probably not,” John mutters under his breath.

“Sure,” he says out loud.

John must blink several times when his so-called boyfriend appears in the doorway. If he hadn’t been so familiar with Sherlock’s body and demeanour, John wouldn’t have recognised him. Sherlock looks like someone taken out of the hippie era. A golden-haired wig, long and wavy. He has a cerise coloured hairband across his forehead. The shirt is a loose-fitting thing in denim blue embroidered with yellow and red flowers. Low on his hips, a pair of tight white trousers cling to his muscular thighs and widen considerably just below his knees. Worn trainers complete the outfit.

“You don’t do things halfway, do you, love?” John says rhetorically and approaches the figure he almost can’t fathom is Sherlock Holmes.

Before John reaches him, Sherlock puts on a pair of round spectacles with red glasses, which hide those peculiar eyes of his. 

“You know my ways, John,” Sherlock purrs and pulls John in for a languid kiss.

“I do,” John confirms a bit out of breath after the lovely snog. “Now get your gorgeous arse moving, and I’ll see you later.”

John gives Sherlock’s arse cheeks a good squeeze to emphasise his words and Sherlock gives him a wink before bouncing down the stairs.

***

John feels utterly ridiculous when he’s dressed himself. It’s Sherlock who has bought the costume, and of course it reflects one of the many kinks of the detective. However foolish John feels dressed up as a sailor, he knows it’ll be worth it in the end.

The only way John can get Sherlock to attend a carnival, is for a case, like now. They are both undercover trying to catch the jewellery thief red-handed. 

When John arrives at the posh apartment in Mayfair, Sherlock’s nowhere to be seen.

Clueing for looks somewhere, John thinks to himself and chuckles. 

John’s disguise doesn’t stand out at all. There are all sorts of costumes, from the pompous Marie Antoinette figure to something reminiscent of Jean Valjean when he was imprisoned. A few hippies emerge from another room, but none of them is Sherlock.

John wanders around, his hands clasped on his back as if inspecting a regiment. 

Old habits die hard.

A murmur in his ear, startles him.

“As you were, sailor.”

“Git,” John hisses. “We don’t know each other, remember.”

Sherlock’s rumble is low and makes John’s knees weak with desire. The power Sherlock’s voice has over him should be alarming, but the feeling is far too delicious to fight. 

“The library in five minutes. Second door to the right,” Sherlock whispers and gives John’ earlobe a lick before he’s gone.

John takes a deep breath and steels himself for the confrontation that will happen in a few minutes.

***

“Stop laughing,” John complains when they’re back at Baker Street.

“But, darling, you look so sweet when you’re like this,” Sherlock explains, his voice filled to the brim with glee.

The confrontation had gone well, until the thief had tried to flee. John had tackled the woman, dressed as Zorro, in some sort of boudoir. She had been like an eel in John’s hands and had gotten a hold of a jar of glitter that she had thrusted at John. Sherlock and Lestrade came to his rescue, but the glitter stuck to John’s face, neck, hair and hands.

“I’m taking a shower!” John exclaims while Sherlock still shakes with laughter.

“Jo…John, don…don’t be upset. You look ador…”

“Shut it, Sherlock! Not funny anymore,” John spits and marches to the bathroom.

It takes forever to get rid of all the twinkly bits, and John’s mood has not improved. When he finally turns off the shower, he hears familiar music being played in the sitting room. It’s something John always describes as a heartbreaking lure. “In the Cluster Blues”. One of his favourites, and Sherlock’s way of apologising.

John smiles, his mood suddenly lightening, something only one person in the world is able to make happen so quickly. His beloved Sherlock Holmes.

@flashfictionfridayofficial @totallysilvergirl @keirgreeneyes @calaisreno @a-victorian-girl @phoenix27884 @helloliriels @safedistancefrombeingsmart @gregorovitchworld @peanitbear @topsyturvy-turtely @raina-at @7-percent @ninasnakie

[major-knighton]

HALLOW-LEE-N movie review Oct 26th : The Hound of the Baskervilles (1959)

My favorite Holmes novel adapted with two actors I've come to love over the course of this month, and my first ever try of Cushing Holmes. It made quite a few departures from the original, some minor and some bold.

Dr Mortimer contacts Holmes about the death of Sir Charles Baskerville, and to protect young Henry Baskerville who is just arrived from South Africa. Lee is Sir Henry, who toes the line between unsufferable nob and poor wet little meow meow very well.

At Baskerville Hall, weird stuff and spooky stuff is going on, following the plot of the novel. The major differences are that Franklin is now a chatty bishop and Miss Stapleton is Mr Stapleton's (real) daughter. She is also half Spanish to justify her running around barefoot in more revealing dresses. Oh ad she's just as evil as her dad.

The romance between her and Sir Henry is... Done very badly. She runs away and he runs after her for no reason, she kisses him by surprise, then later he kisses her by surprise despite her discomfort, and then she lures him to his death. Hm.

A few other changes, some of them I quite liked. The moment when Selden dies but Holmes and Watson think it's Sir Henry is kept for longer, they don't realize their mistake until they return to the Hall.

Mortimer is much more annoying than the original and is the occasion for Holmes to engage Bitch Mode™, which is extremely fun.

On a final note, this film confirmed an observation I had made : during makeout scenes, Lee tended to rub his face against the woman's, like a 6ft4 cat receiving pets.

[nikethestatue]

Chapter 1

London, England

1890

Elain Archeron

London’s Victoria Station greeted its new visitor with a cacophony of noise, chaos and excitement. Clutching the instructions and the address that she received from the stern and cold Mrs. Amren, who was the organiser of this wild scheme, Elain Archeron attempted to follow the directions inside the clamour of the train station, though it was proving to be difficult.

She’s never been to London before and now, the place terrified her. She was pushed and shoved without consideration for her gentler sex, those around her were shrieking, yelling, and shouting something all the time. There were people, whole families, whose skin tones were different from her own, whose fashions and outfits were odd and contradictory. There were people of different religions as well–she could tell Jews and Hindus and Muslims. She was educated and well-read, so she was not surprised to see those who came from Africa, and India, or even the Chinese, and scarf-clad women from Poland, or maybe Russia–but seeing them all in the flesh was overwhelming. She never imagined that people of so many various colours, sizes and shapes existed. 

She continued her walk through the station, jerked off her feet by the blaring claxons from the train, clutching her travel satchel close to her chest. It had her only possessions inside–her two dresses, her unmentionables, stockings, another pair of boots, hair ribbons and pins, her spare corset, and toiletries. 

Her walk was interrupted constantly, men offering rides and calling out “Miss! Miss!” to her. But she kept her eyes down and shouldered her way to the massive doors of the station. 

She must be mad.

Mad.

It had to be that!

To be doing this, she couldn’t be normal.

She was here, in London of all places, alone, to meet with some mysterious man.

What if he was Jack the Ripper?

She’s read the papers–Jack the Ripper was rampaging on the streets of Whitechapel and what if Mrs. Amren was his co-conspirator? What if she lured unsuspecting country girls to London, and into the clutches of Jack the Ripper?

Elain’s read and enjoyed the tales of Sherlock Holmes, that wiley intriguing detective, who solved crimes–but if she thought about it more, why was there so much crime in London? People stole and abused and murdered others. It was horrifying.

Where she was from, St. Margaret’s Bay, the biggest crime last year was Ollie Oswald stealing Mr. Clarence’s goat, and Maggie May becoming pregnant out of wedlock. That thought sobered her right up, though still, Maggie’s out-of-wedlock babe was hardly the same thing as a mad serial killer running around the streets of London and slaughtering women of ill repute.

Elain finally existed the station and stood on the street, all her senses assaulted by even more noise, the stench of manure, hordes of jostling people who were all rushing somewhere, paper boys who were announcing the latest headlines – another Ripper murder, apparently – vendors peddling food and all sorts of items, handsome soldiers, and every spoken language imaginable. Elain recognised everything from French and Italian, to some dialects that she was unfamiliar with, Slavic, German and even Scandinavian speech. She had a knack for languages, and having spent time in Dover, with her father’s ships, she’d seen sailors, merchants and visitors from every part of the world. Stupidly, she thought that Dover was a busy city. It had nothing on this monstrosity.

She walked over to where the cabs were parked awaiting passengers.

“Good mornin’ Miss, in need of a ride?” one of the drivers asked.

“Yes, this is the address,” she handed him the paper that Mrs. Amren had given her, which had the address and all the instructions. Mrs. Amren had also given her ten pounds, which was more money than Elain’s seen in a long, long time.

She could buy so much for ten pounds! Dresses and a pair of shoes, meat pies, maybe even a pastry, tea, lodging…Her whole family survived on four-five pounds a month, and here she was, with ten pounds, six shillings and 3 pence in her pocket. Mrs. Amren told her that the tenner had come from the gentleman who took care of her travel accommodations and spending money.

Once she was situated in the carriage, they took off,  the driver navigating the streets and the chaos of other cabs and pedestrians with expert precisions. Elain knew that they were going to Westminster, and she wished to see the cathedral, and the abbey, but she did not, though she was pleased that they’d be staying far away from Whitechapel.

“Dog and Hound, Miss,” the driver announced and then opened the door for her.

It was a public house and also offered lodgings and once Elain exited the cab, she thought that it looked presentable and clean. The facade of the building was well-kept, brick, with garlands of wisteria wrapping around the lower part of the building and the very large bay window. Once she paid for the ride, she walked inside–she’s been to public houses and taverns before–but this one looked very well kept, with a beautiful walnut bar, all sorts of hunting pictures and engravings on the walls, and burgundy and green seats. There were not many patrons milling around, but it was also only 10:30 am. 

Elain approached the proprietor, just like Mrs. Amren told her to do and said, “Good morning. I am here to see Mr. Arthur Johnson.”

The man straightened at the mention of the name, and then quickly and accommodatingly told her, “Follow me, Miss.”

“Where are we going?” Elain whispered, baulking at the invitation.

“Mr. Johnson is waiting for you Miss. My understanding is that he wished to have a conversation with you in private.”

Elain’s never been with a man in private, let alone in an unfamiliar city, but what choice did she have? She already felt like she signed her life away, when she was meeting with Mrs. Amren. The woman had a heap of papers and documents for Elain to sign, mostly about confidentiality and non-disclosure of any information that she was to learn. There were financial papers as well, but Mrs. Amren told her that they would be finalised should the contract be signed. 

They stopped at one of the doors and the proprietor knocked. A man’s voice answered promptly.

“Enter.”

“You may proceed, Miss,” he told Elain and then stepped aside.

This is where I die, was her only thought. 

It was definitely Jack the Ripper. There have been whispers that he came from the upper classes, maybe even nobility, and she was going to meet him right now and he was going to skin her alive. And then her body would be baked into meat pies, just like Sweeney Todd did it. They said that the mad barber did not exist, but Elain begged to differ. Stories like that didn’t just happen to be written due to someone’s fevered imagination. He must have existed.

So she would be abused, killed and then will end up in a pie.

-

He sat in a wingback chair.

That’s all she saw when she finally dared to enter the room. The man. The gentleman.

A very tall man by the looks of it, considering how far his long legs stretched. He was dressed in all black, elegantly, in a way Elain wasn’t used to seeing men dressed on a Thursday morning. His jacket was stylishly tailored and his boots were perfectly polished. However, it was the man’s face that gave Elain pause. He was handsome to an unusual degree, the panes of his face sharp and sensual at once. Large, slightly slanted eyes of a peculiar colour regarded her with detachment and mild scrutiny. When he licked his full lower lip, Elain couldn't help but notice the movement and she balled her hands at her sides, suddenly feeling tense and hot. He had the look of a foreigner about him–dark bronze skin, thick black hair cut unusually long on top, and those strange light hazel eyes.

“Elain Archeron, I presume,” he asked at last, and his voice was deep, low and just as sensual as the rest of him. Like a whisper of black silk in the wind. The accent was unfailingly upper crust. 

“I am, my lord,” she confirmed and curtsied.

“Please sit,” he gestured to the sofa across from his chair.

She did as she was told and noticed that he held a photograph of her in his fingers. His hands were large, with long, strong fingers, but surprisingly, the hands were covered in thick scars–burn scars from what Elain could gauge. Mrs. Amren said that the photograph was a requirement and Elain was forced to travel to Dover to have her photograph taken. It was expensive, and she needed to sit in the same position, unmoving and silent, for almost seven minutes. In the end, she didn’t even think that the photograph looked like her. But following her handing the photograph off to Mrs. Amren, she received an invitation to travel to London–-she supposed that it did the trick.

“How was your journey?” he asked politely.

“Very nice, thank you, my lord.”

“I wished to have our conversation first, if you don’t mind, and then you may rest.”

“Of course,” she agreed. Her fingers were shaking and she attempted to hide them in the folds of her skirt, though she was sure that he noticed it.

His tone was light when he assured her, “there is no need to be nervous. I believe we ought to have a talk first and you aren’t obligated to anything, and neither am I.”

She nodded and allowed him to talk, because it was just easier. Her throat was tight and her mouth dry. Her dress felt itchy against her skin and the collar borderline was suffocating. 

He stood up and she had to crane her neck to take in his full height–he was probably six and a half feet tall, and when he moved to pour water into a glass, she definitely noticed how thickly muscled his arms and shoulders were, and how slender he was otherwise, trim and lean and strong. He handed her the glass and then leaned against the desk, crossing his legs at the ankles and drumming his fingers on the surface.

“I am Azriel, Lord Night, the Duke of Velaris,” he announced simply. 

Elain’s hand stopped mid-way to her lips, as she stared at him wordlessly.

She’d assumed that he would be a nobleman, perhaps a baron, maybe a count, but a duke? The Velaris family was well-known: it was said that they came to Britain all the way back with William the Conqueror. It couldn’t possibly be the same Velaris? Could it?

“I am sorry, my lord,” Elain said softly. “You are the Duke of Velaris?”

He nodded, “the very same”.

“But…” she bit her lip, “I was under the impression that you were married, my lord? To Lady Morrigan?”

The lovely Lady Morrigan, Countess of Hewn, was renowned for her beauty. Elain had seen her in newspapers and other publications. The Velaris-Hewn nuptials was the society wedding of the year just a couple of years back. 

“I am,” he confirmed calmly. “And since you are bound by our confidentiality agreement, I will disclose that my lady wife had suffered a grave incident last year. She was thrown by her horse, and had broken her spine. Unfortunately, she suffered a brain bleed from her injuries as well. She is my wife and will remain so until she or I die. But alas, she is bed-bound and without sense or consciousness. Now, you must understand that her condition is not known to anyone, other than my most trusted servants and her nurses. It must remain so until I produce an heir. The child must be mine, and upon the birth, we shall announce that Lady Morrigan suffered compilation in labour.”

Elain sighed and murmured, “I am sorry, my lord. For you and your lady wife. It is truly tragic and I am…just sorry.”

He cocked his head and regarded her quietly for a while.

She’d only known him for about fifteen minutes, but she could already see how observant he was, methodical even. There was a calmness about him, an almost predatory stillness, and she sensed that he dwelled in some dark places inside his head. Perhaps it was the sorrow  resulting from his wife’s condition, or maybe something in his past, but this was a man of secrets and unanswered questions.

“May I ask some questions of you?” he inquired at last.

Elain sipped her water and nodded once.

He didn't use any props, not notes or correspondence, when he said,

“Elain Archeron, twenty-one years old, the middle of three sisters. Tell me, why are you, of all people, responded to my advertisement?”

“We need the money, my lord,” she admitted plainly. 

“There are other ways to get money,” he noted, his dark brow raised. “You are a maid of gentle breeding based on your family’s history–a merchant father, a mother who was from a well-to-do family. Surely you can think of other ways to…” he stopped and scrubbed his scarred hand over his chin, before continuing, “tell me, why?”

“My father has lost his fortune,” Elain explained, her voice quiet. “My younger sister has a disease of the stomach that makes her vomit and she is frail and weak. She needs medicines, which we cannot afford. My older sister is a proud woman and…” her voice trailed. How could she explain Nesta? She couldn’t. Nesta was smart, even cunning, but she was better suited for running an estate or even a business. Haughty, proud and demanding is what Nesta was. But she was not one for sacrifices. “And that leaves me. I…well, I answered the advertisement in The Times, and was contacted by Mrs. Amren. We met and discussed the offer…and,” she swallowed, “I am interested.”

“What do you understand of the offer and the proposal?” he asked seriously.

She tugged on her skirt and peered down, looking at the floor. 

Quietly, she answered,

“A gentleman requires the services of a female to produce a child, an heir. The gentleman is willing to pay ten thousand pounds for the child and…well, would pay all throughout the pregnancy…That is all.”

He sighed and turned, his movements measured and languid, as he walked to the window and clasped his hands behind his back, as he looked out on the busy Vincent Street.

“I fear, Miss Archeron, that you are underestimating the commitment that this ordeal would require of you,” he said, almost to himself.

Elain’s heart dropped.

He wasn’t interested.

He did ot find her comely or appealing or satisfactory. Perhaps he liked her photograph, but seeing her in person made him change his mind.

Ten thousand pounds was an astronomical amount of money.

It was enormous. At the height of their success, the Archeron family wealth was estimated at about fifteen thousand pounds, which made Elain and her sisters very appealing on the marriage market. To have a large portion of that fortune come back to them would guarantee a bright future for all–they could all marry well, they could cure Feyre’s illness, they could operate on their father’s mangled leg and send him to Italy or France to recuperate. They could have fine homes and wardrobes and servants. 

Currently, they existed on about four pounds a month, for the four of them. If they were lucky. 

“I don’t think that I am, my lord,” Elain found it in herself to answer boldly and firmly. “I understand what is required.”

“You understand that you must lie with me,” he was still not looking at her, and therefore couldn’t see her flaming cheeks, “and have relations with me as if I were your husband. You would be required to do so at my beckoning and pleasure, for at least six months,”

“What happens after six months?” she interrupted him, confused.

He turned his head and explained,

“I am willing to allot six months for the conception to take place. Children are usually not made in a day…it may take time, and I realise that. I feel that six months is an adequate amount of time for you to conceive. If you don’t, then we will part ways, since clearly we would not be compatible enough to create a child together.”

She chewed the inside of her cheek and then asked,

“And if I don't…conceive that is? What happens then?”

He shrugged,

“You will be paid five hundred pounds for your troubles and you will leave. Naturally, you will be bound by the non-disclosure agreement for the rest of your life. That extends to me as well, Miss Archeron. If we proceed with this…arrangement…whatever the outcome is, your name will not be mentioned or besmirched, so that you have a chance at a successful marriage with a man of your choosing.”

“I appreciate that, my lord,” she said sincerely.

He went back to the desk and gathered a stack of papers in his hands, though he did not give them to her yet. He was clearly still deciding on something, his brow furrowed. At last, he said,

“These are the financial terms of the arrangement, Miss Archeron. If we proceed, you will sign and retain a copy for yourself.

“Again, I urge you to consider everything with utmost seriousness,” he pressed. “This is not a trivial matter. Your involvement with me may last up to a year and a half. It is quite a long time for a woman of your age to dedicate to a…male. One who will not marry you in the end, and whom you shan’t see again.

“Furthermore, if there is a child, it will be wholly mine.”

A shudder ran through Elain and she suddenly became cold. When he put it like that, it did give her pause. Because in exchange for the money, she would be required to give up her baby. Theoretically she understood that–when she began corresponding with Mrs. Amren, and when they finally met, this was thoroughly discussed. But seeing this man in the flesh, even briefly imagining that there would be…coital relations involved, though Elain wasn’t quite sure precisely what it all entailed, and then there would potentially be a pregnancy, which was something that was often fraught with dangers, only to end in a painful labour, and then…the separation. Permanent separation from a baby that she’d give birth to. From the man too. Yes, he was strikingly handsome–to her great relief–but she knew that she was in danger of developing feelings for him, which he surely would never reciprocate. He had his poor wife and was devoted to her, and was only after an heir to carry his name and his legacy. Elain would be left without love, without companionship, without her babe, but with money. She supposed that she could have more children, but the idea of giving up her son or daughter seemed terrifying. Her firstborn. 

Azriel looked up at her and watched the warring emotions that danced on her face. 

“Would you like me to read out the terms?” he asked at last, his expression slightly softened, even kinder.

She swallowed and nodded.

He glanced at the first page and began reading.

“The female in the arrangement is expected to be an unmarried and unbetrothed maid, of good moral standing and a virgin. She is to be free of diseases and for the duration of the arrangement she may not be seen with a male or engage in any manner of relations with a male other than the Requestor.

She would enter into the arrangement willingly and would be required to have sexual intercourse with the Requestor at his bidding. The Requestor shall not physically hurt, slap, hit, abuse or force the female, and will not verbally insult or berate her. If the female is unwilling or unable to have sexual relations with the Requestor, she is to notify him immediately and provide an explanation as to the cause. Relations are not required from the female when she has her monthly flow. 

The female is expected to live on premises of the Requestor’s abode and accompany him upon his travels. She shall have her private room(s) at the dwellings. She is not expected to sleep with the Requestor or share his private quarters. The female is required to maintain her decorum at all times, and may not fraternise with the help. The female is not to divulge any part of the agreement to anyone, including her family. The female will not occupy a place at the servants’ quarters and will not partake in meals with them. The female will have a maid of her own to assist her with personal matters. 

Upon conception, the female is to remain at the Requestor’s home, under the care of his physicians. She is to maintain a healthy lifestyle, to ensure a successful pregnancy. She will be assisted during her labour by a midwife, a doula, nurses and physicians. Upon delivery of the child, the female will be allowed to bond and nurse the infant for up to one week (if she wishes  to do so). After one week of recovery, the child will be removed from the female’s care and presence. At that time, the arrangement would be considered fulfilled and would be terminated.

The Requestor guarantees the following payments:

£1000 for taking the female’s virginity

£50 weekly stipend, for up to six months of service

£50 weekly stipend for the duration of the pregnancy

£1000 for labour and delivery

£10,000 for the birth of a live child

All legal fees, room and board, wardrobe allowance, personal and beauty treatments, transportation, et cetera would be provided by the Requestor. 

The female may be allowed to spend Christmas with her family (up to one week), as well as one week of her choosing as a personal holiday.”

He did not ask whether she was agreeable to the contract, but simply handed it to her and said,

“Read this over and be thorough. Any questions, you should ask me.”

Elain didn't answer for a while, but he didn’t seem impatient, and wasn’t put off by the awkward silence between them. Instead, he went over to a sideboard upon which stood a decanter and some glasses and poured himself a drink of whatever it was.

She finally broke the silence and said,

“This is much more than ten thousand.”

It seemed that she took him by surprise with her comment and he looked at her with expectation.

“The contract was for ten…this is closer to twenty,” she pushed. 

“Is that a problem?” he queried.

“I just…” she blushed, “I don’t want to be unfair. I was fine with ten. Why a thousand for the virginity?”

He sat back in the wing chair and sipped his drink, before saying,

“Seems only fair. I would be taking something that doesn’t belong to me and isn’t intended for me to take. You ought to be compensated for that.”

Theoretically, what he was saying made sense to her, but it seemed so…transactional. And, of course, it was a transaction. There were no feelings involved. 

Craning his head side to side, he added after a pause,

“The pleasure is free, if that makes you feel better. I won’t be charging for it, and I won’t be paying for it either. You can enjoy it free and clear.”

If that meant to be a lighthearted comment of some sort, it didn’t land, because Elain looked at him, perplexed and said. “What pleasure?”

He chuckled softly, “Sexual pleasure, Miss Archeron.”

“There is no pleasure in relations such as those,” she argued primly.

He leaned back in his chair, relaxing into the leather and smiled at her, though the curve of his beautiful mouth was both challenging and sinister.

“And you are an expert then?” 

Her heart was beating wildly in her chest, and she couldn’t even believe that she was discussing this with a man she didn’t know.

“I am no expert, my lord,” she told him, “but what pleasure could there be? It is an act designed to propagate the species.”

He propped his head on his fist, crossing his long, muscular legs and swaying his boot-clad foot casually. A lock of his silky black hair fell on his forehead and Elain had the insane urge to go and fix it for him. His handsomeness didn’t help. Elain had feared that the man would be old and paunchy, sweaty and balding. Why else would one need to contract for a woman to give him a child? She figured maybe he was missing limbs, or had distorted features, or perhaps some unappealing trait…but she definitely, definitely did not expect Lord Night. She had some parameters that she had set for herself in regards to the arrangement–if the gentleman seemed brutish, if his looks made her squeamish, if he had a visible disease or if his visage repelled her, she would not have gone along with the scheme. As much as she needed the money, she also knew that she wouldn’t have a child with someone cruel or unappealing. She wanted her baby to live in a loving environment and with a parent who’d want them and care for them. 

The problem was that Lord Night’s appearance quickly overrode her good sense. It wasn’t something that she ever considered–that he would be so handsome and so titled that she’d forget all her common sense and all the expectations that she had prior to meeting him.

Stumbling a bit over her own tongue, she asked at last,

“What sort of pleasure is there?”

“Ahhmm Miss Archeron,” he smiled at her, “why do you think people have lost their minds and morals through the centuries over love?”

It was an excellent question, to which Elain did not have an answer. Why indeed?

“Well, perhaps, you will have the chance to find out,” he got up and straightened his jacket.

“I do not want love, my lord,” Elain insisted brusquely. 

He nodded slowly,

“Yes, yes. I know. You need the money.”

“I do.”

“Then don’t fall in love, Miss Archeron,” he suggested.

But why did it sound like a challenge.

“Take the rest of the day to think about everything,” he told her. “These rooms are yours for the night. You may order food and drink. St. John’s Gardens are not far–should you wish to take a stroll. 

“I will call upon you tomorrow, at 10 am, and I expect an answer.”

* UK £10,000.00 in 1890 would be equivalent to £1,644,035.82 in 2023, an absolute change of £1,634,035.82 and a cumulative change of 16,340.36%.

[dathen]

I am a little heartbroken at how the moment Holmes gets Watson back in his rooms he launches on a bunch of deductions about him. It reminds me of Study in Scarlet where he admits he’s afraid Watson will lose interest in him if he explains his methods and finds them commonplace.

And then his friend—who now calls himself the “former friend” of Sherlock Holmes—drops back into his life for a visit, and the first thing Holmes does is try to lure Watson’s interest again with a display of the abilities that always fascinated him.

[youuuimeanmee]

Guys, read I Love Yoo.

If you like drama psychological mystery media, please for the love of God, read I Love Yoo. If you're into shits like Game of Thrones, Sherlock Holmes, or Attack on Titan, please read I Love Yoo. Hell, if you like romance and comedy, please read I Love Yoo. I swear it's a complete package of everything.

Do not be deterred by the title, do not be deterred by the Romance genre from a few years ago. Trust the genre now, it's 100% Drama. It's the rightful genre from the start. From 2017 until now, it has always been Drama first. Trust the author, she has a clear vision of the story right from the start until the end. She has it all planned out.

At first you're gonna be lured by the fun and comedies of everyday life. You're going to see some cliche you often find in romance media. Then you start to notice something amiss. One thing, two things. Every character has something to hide. Mysteries starts piling until you ask yourself, wtf is going on. You're gonna see some shippable moments, but don't be fooled. This universe is using realistic rules and common sense instead of romanticized ones. Do not give in by the rose-tinted glasses. Use your realistic glasses, you have to see the red flags. You start to piece things together. Things starting to make sense, but not really. Then, a hurricane hits you with the drama. This is the juicy part, do NOT miss the hints of the potential brain game that awaits. The author LOVES to put hidden details for symbolisms in her work, do NOT miss it. From facial structure, the color, the background details, the song that appears, EVERYTHING has meanings. Go to the comment section, go to I Love Yoo Reddit to find tons of theories and discussions from readers. There are going to be tender moments, shippable moments, but again, do not let go of your realistic glasses. Just keep going, keep taking the mystery pieces, keep stringing things together. Make your OWN theories. Dark secrets will slowly be revealed in due time.

I know many people put this off after the hiatuses. But right now, we're almost at the end of Season 1 so it's a perfect time to pick up this series. Things are getting HOT. Hot from the thriller, pychological mystery, comedy, romance, everything Drama. And it's gonna be even hotter from now on, since the story is building up for the highly anticipated Season 2. Hint: It has CHESS GAME. Between who and who? From when did the hints start? Read it yourself to find out.

I know I've been stressing out the mystery-drama aspect. And I also said if you like romance, go read this series nonetheless. It's not a lie. Since the author spends so much time fleshing out the characters, when the romance aspect comes, it comes out so naturally and organically. When the moment hits you, it fucking hits.

If you don't trust me, trust the author. This is some of her words from her Curious Cat account (that are now closed). Click the pictures if you want to see it clearly.

So please, for the love of God, read I Love Yoo.