#and ‘his gigantic distorted shadow falls across me like home’

[spineless-lobster]

I am half way through all quiet on the western front why did none of you tell me that bäumer was very gay for kat? Was I just supposed to find out myself?

[anistarrose]

Distortion (Gravity Falls x Pokemon)

Summary: Ford’s search for a way to take down Bill Cipher brings him to the Distortion World, where he meets a surprisingly kindred spirit.

Word Count: ~3800

Warnings: some self-blame and self-hatred

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19440313

Another Pokemon Falls crossover, this time with Portal Ford!

***

Finding himself surrounded by shadowy trees that hung in the air like smoke, and staring down a massive waterfall that drew from a pool at his feet and ran upwards into the sky, Ford decided that he was getting really damn tired of gravity anomalies.

You��d think that falling through a punched hole in spacetime would be a singular sensation, unmatched by any other experience — but one of the first lessons Ford had had to learn was to never underestimate the vastness of the multiverse. There would always be yet another dimension where every too-light step would remind him of being lifted off the ground by a humming, crackling portal behind him, of bolts of blue-white electricity winding around him while gravity’s pull rendered him just as immobile and helpless as a Thunder Wave would —

At his side, his Ninetales let out a soft warning growl that jolted him back to reality, just in time to glimpse a shadow shoot across the clouded, dark blue sky. It vanished the span of a single pounding heartbeat, and Ford couldn’t help but look back to Ninetales, hoping for some confirmation that he hadn’t imagined the sight —

An ear-splitting screech filled the air, inhuman and indescribably enraged. Ford dove into the grove of spectral trees, Ninetales close behind him, but as his hand passed through one, they all faded away completely, leaving him no cover.

Yet as painfully exposed as he was, neither the shadow nor the screech returned. The dimension was left eerily silent, aside from the almost peaceful gurgling of the waterfall.

Ford stomped to the center of the floating platform, and yelled to no apparent target: “What is this place? Why did you guide me here?”

Naturally, there was no apparent reply. The waterfall kept gurling, and the illusory trees kept swaying in an intangible wind, but the dimension seemed almost completely devoid of any sentient life.

Except the shadow, of course — and Ford was already forming a hypothesis about that shadow, just as he did about nearly everything, but it seemed almost too incredible to believe. He wasn’t even sure if he would be thrilled to be proven right, or terrified.

He would make up his mind soon enough.

***

On many a rainy autumn afternoon back home, Ford would curl up in the top bunk with Rowlet and Vulpix while Stan would build a pillow fort beneath him with Meowth and Zorua, and they’d just sit peacefully together, drinking hot chocolate and sharing little tidbits from whatever they were reading at the time. Stan preferred comic books, loved the adventures of Crobatman and Captain Braviary and the Green Lanturn, but Ford…

Ford was always into mythology.

“Get this, Stan! There’s a Pokemon called Giratina that can travel between dimensions — and takes on different forms in the different worlds!”

“Huh, neato.”

“And here’s the coolest part — they say that in at least one of its forms, it has six legs and six spikes on its wings!”

“Really? Wow, sounds like you should try and catch one!”

“Well, according to the legend in this book, there’s only one in the whole universe — so catching it is probably off the table, but I’d still like to meet it. Except… except it doesn’t look like I’ll get a chance to, because…”

Ford’s face fell as he skimmed the next few paragraphs. “They say it mostly stays in a world on the reverse side of ours, because it was… banished there. It was just too… violent and destructive for our world, I guess…”

He didn’t say it, but he thought: Too much of a freak.

“Hey, lighten up! That just sounds like a spooky bedtime story someone made up to try and scare their kids into behaving,” Stan told him. “Or their little siblings. It seems kinda like something Shermie would come up with, doesn’t it?”

“No,” Ford said quietly. “These myths are usually pretty credible. I think it’s real.”

“Well, then I bet it’s just misunderstood,” Stan declared, unfazed. “You know, I bet you will meet Giratina one day — ‘cause you’re gonna clear its name! Find it an alibi! Show the world what makes the freaks and the weirdos the coolest of all of us, not the scariest!”

That got a smile out of Ford. “You’re right. And, you know… I always have wanted to travel to other dimensions…”

***

Ford quickly discovered that not all of the trees were illusions — but not before confidently walking into one and getting a faceful of rough, paper-thin leaves. He didn’t hear or see any more signs of Giratina — if that even was the shadow’s true identity. He still wasn’t sure if he wanted it to be.

True, he had kept seeking out more myths about the Renegade Pokemon well into his college years, and would always be thrilled upon discovering a new tidbit of lore of even the most dubious credibility; and true, he had always clung to the improbable, self-indulgent dream that he might one day encounter Giratina itself and discover its true nature for himself —

But here in a dimension that bore an uncanny resemblance to the elusive Distortion World, subject of both shrouded legend and scientific speculation; here outside of idealistic childhood fantasy; here in reality where a hostile Legendary Pokemon could hurt or more likely kill him with ease, where his demise could spell the end for the whole universe’s best shot at escaping a demon’s tyrannical reign… here, Ford couldn’t help but be terrified.

Terrified and frustrated, that was, as he walked into the same damn tree for the second time.

“We’re just going in circles, aren’t we?” he realized aloud, and Ninetales gave a low murmur of agreement. “Just big, spacetime-defying circles. Shit, what do we do?”

As if on cue, something lit up near the edge of his peripheral vision. He instinctively whirled around to face it, but the light — a pulsating blue sphere, reminiscent of ball lightning — was already darting away, erratically weaving between floating trees and leaving behind a meandering, faintly glowing trail that arced between floating slabs of earth and across sideways lakes.

It was a familiar sight to Ford, having led him to this world in the first place.

“Azelf?” he whispered. There was no reply aside from the trail growing just the slightest bit dimmer.

“Fine,” he finally muttered. “I’ll follow you one more time.”

***

On many a day spent while wandering the multiverse, far from home and even further from peace, Ford would catch himself wondering if it was for the best.

Growing up, it would have taken more than twelve fingers to count all the times Ford was told he was cursed, or a bad omen, or simply a “monster.” Often, it wasn’t to his face — just whispered to his parents, or sometimes even his brothers, when the accuser didn’t think he was listening — but it was an omnipresent, inescapable constant of his childhood, something he had to learn to either tune out or shrug off.

Ironic, then, how it was only now that he was starting to believe it.

Now that he’d seen the lives he’d ruined. Now that he’d seen the destruction he’d invited in to his world. The way he’d torn Fiddleford away from a young and loving family and traumatized the poor man into starting a cult, the way he’d been so wrapped up in his own ego that he ignored all the words of warning from his friend, from his Pokemon, and eagerly put himself to work for an ancient entity of pure chaos and malevolence… “bad omen” didn’t even begin to describe the way he endangered everything and everyone he grew close to, the way he ruined everything he laid a hand on.

And yes, he was doing everything he could to fix his greatest mistake, to construct a weapon capable of destroying Bill, but his conscience simply would never allow him to do anything else. And yes, he sought out leads for ways he might one day be able to get safely home again, after Bill was dead and gone, but that was for his Pokemon’s sakes, not his own. He had left a world that he had never fit into, never done anything but endanger, and had he been adrift in the multiverse alone… he wasn’t sure he’d ever go home, even if given the chance.

***

Ford called Ninetales back into its Pokeball for a time, as he leapt between stepping stones across an unnaturally calm lake. Two twin rivers fed into it, twisting down from above like a double helix and generating a froth of bubbles that dissipated quickly, leaving the surface pristine like a giant mirror. For a moment, he thought that he saw a massive shadow reflected in it, looming and angular — but then he blinked, and it was just an all-too-familiar face that was staring back at him.

(His face, but not his face. Gaunt with exhaustion and weary from fighting off despair just like his, but not for the same reasons.)

Then the surface began to ripple, so subtly at first that Ford couldn’t quite pin down what was wrong, even as his instincts screamed at him to run. Cautiously, he crouched down and lowered his head to the water’s level —

Another screech tore through his ears, and he jerked his head up to see an invisible shape burst through the helical tributaries. Based off the massive explosion of water it displaced, Ford surmised it must have been gigantic, easily taller than he was and maybe as much as three or four times as long…

And now it was barreling straight towards him, its path made visible by the V-shaped wave it churned up as it flew. The spray from the lake seemed to interact with its body for a few brief seconds, revealing a glimpse of a set of long, thin wings — six of them, by Ford’s count.

He took a step backwards, nearly toppled into the lake, and then made a split-second decision as he righted himself. The creature had to be flying only just above the surface, in order to leave such a large splash in its wake —

Just before the point of the V reached his stepping stone, Ford jumped as high as his legs could carry him and slammed against something solid.

***

When Ford had nearly drowned while hiding from pursuers at the bottom of a lake, his oxygen tank leaking at an alarming rate, the hidden entrance to a submerged cave full of breathable air had felt like divine intervention — and the stories of lake-dwelling spirits, representing knowledge, willpower, and emotion, that he remembered reading as a child only reinforced that feeling.

Yes, it may it may have been a bit naive, a bit too optimistic, of him to get his hopes up for an encounter with Uxie in particular — but he couldn’t stop his mind from leaping to the possibilities that a favor from the Being of Knowledge would offer him. He could ask for information about Bill Cipher’s history, or weaknesses, or even where in the multiverse he could find some of those stubbornly elusive components of his quantum destabilizer…

And besides, he was Stanford Pines. What lake guardian would take an interest in him, if not the one representing knowledge, and truth, and memory, and by extension science?

So when he noticed a pulsating blue light shining on the cave walls — not the golden-yellow of Uxie, which he’d been so desperately hoping for — he was taken aback. He froze in place reflexively as a glowing blue orb darted out from around the corner and circled him erratically, stopping inches away from his face for a second before teleporting a few feet back and taking on a less luminescent, more defined form. Two resplendent red gems rested near the tips of two long, flat tails, and another between bright, intelligent golden eyes that seemed to be constantly shifting, looking Ford over.

Azelf, Being of Willpower, was not the first Legendary Pokemon Ford had ever encountered, but it may very well have been the most unexpected.

“Why you?” he blurted out. “Can you help me defeat Cipher?”

Azelf took off in a flash, so quickly that Ford momentarily thought it had left the room before he noticed it behind him, circling one of the the larger puddles like a glowing, crackling blue whirlwind. He took a step towards it, and realized the puddle seemed oddly reflective — his mirror image was bright and vividly colored, albeit warped and distorted by ripples.

Azelf zipped by once more, narrowly missing his face, and he tried to take a step back but his legs felt as heavy as lead. With horror, he watched as the puddle in front of him sunk into the ground, creating a roughly conical and ever-widening depression that he almost immediately found himself on the slope of.

“With all due respect, Azelf,” he growled as he was dragged towards the center, “what the fuck?!”

After a moment of frantic fumbling, while continuing to slide towards the apparent portal — a cylindrical hole in spacetime itself, starlight from Arceus-knew-what galaxies flashing from within the tunnel’s navy blue walls — he managed to procure a grappling hook from his bag, and aimed for a jagged formation of stalagmites a few feet beyond the outer edge of the conical whirlpool. But his shot was instantly pulled off course as the wormhole’s gravity caught it, redirecting it down and into the distortion as Ford felt a violent tug on his end of the line. For the first time since the portal had appeared, he felt his feet move — dragged down the side of the cone and into the portal, where his vision went white and his body went weightless.

When he felt solid ground beneath his feet again, he was surrounded by gravity-defying waterfalls and wispy illusory trees.

***

His attacker became visible as Ford landed on it, his hands running over a red and black-striped back that felt rough, yet oddly immaterial. The sensation of touching rough scales was undoubtedly present, just not as vivid as it should have been to Ford’s senses. He nearly lost his grip as the creature — no, as Giratina, there was no doubt anymore — writhed and screeched in apparent surprise, but Ford somehow managed to turn himself around and grab one of the yellow ridges where its wings attached to its body, straddling its serpentine neck awkwardly as the six wings beat furiously around him.

Half-blinded by the spray as Giratina flew through another waterfall, Ford was guided by experience and instinct alone as he reached for a Pokeball on his belt. His Decidueye appeared in a flash of light, dodging red-spiked wings and a lashing tail to fly along Ford’s side.

“Use Spirit Shackle!” Ford yelled. “Immobilize the wings!”

Decidueye perched briefly on a floating stone and let three arrows fly. Two of them were lost to the gravity anomalies, deflected off in unpredictable directions, but the last one flew true — piercing through two of six smokelike wings, which spasmed as a purple aura spread down the tendrils. Giratina immediately careened off to one side, and Ford instinctively tightened his grip — a mistake, he realized a few seconds later, when the two of them crashed into the mirrorlike surface of the lake below and the force of the impact tore through him, ripping him off of Giratina’s back and plunging him into the water.

The cold hit him first, a wave of icy pins and needles that swept down his body, trying to inject him with numbness, with that atmosphere of lifelessness and hopelessness that permeated this dimension. He spluttered and thrashed, desperately trying to breach the surface, to find a handhold to pull himself to shore, but as second after precious second crept away without oxygen, he realized: there was no sense of buoyancy in this lake, no tug pulling him towards the surface. No way to know which way was up.

He forced his eyes open, and saw glowing red stripes lighting up the darkness. They coiled all around him, above and below and to every side, as two gleaming crimson eyes floated ever closer —

Enveloped in a bright blue aura, Azelf zipped through the water between them. It touched one tail to Ford’s forehead and the other to a spot right between Giratina’s eyes, then disappeared before Ford could even process what had happened.

“What —” he gurgled, opening his mouth reflexively and not closing it fast enough to stop the water from surging into his lungs. He hacked and coughed, trying to whack himself in the chest with one hand and reach for his Pokeballs with the other, but he failed on both counts as his limbs grew heavy, and blurry spots danced across his already obscured vision —

Something lifted him above the surface and he gasped for breath, taking longer than he should have to realize that he was now kneeling upon Giratina’s head, just behind its golden crown.

You need to breathe? a raspy and faintly echoing, yet surprisingly soft voice asked him.

“Most humans do,” he choked out automatically, spitting coughed-up water back into the lake and recalling a concerned-looking Decidueye back into its Pokeball before the nature of the conversation sunk in. “Wait — Giratina? You saved me?”

Yes. Giratina went silent for a while, as it lazily drifted across the surface of the lake — how it could float despite the disorienting lack of buoyancy, Ford wasn’t sure.

Why are you here? it finally continued.

That was a good question, Ford thought, and also a question he wasn’t sure how to reply to. It was tempting to simply blame Azelf, but given how it was Azelf who had evidently opened up their current line of telepathic communication, that didn’t seem wise.

In a roundabout way, he’d ultimately ended up here for the same reason he ever traveled to any dimension, Ford figured, so that was how he decided to reply.

“I’m looking for a material that will help me save the multiverse,” he stated slowly.

Why does the burden of saving the multiverse fall to you?

It wasn’t the response Ford was expecting — though it may have been one that he deserved.

“I made a mistake. I was the one who endangered my home dimension in the first place, and now I need to fix things.”

Giratina didn’t respond immediately. What is the material? it eventually asked.

“Well, there are a few different components I’m looking for… do you have anything small that distorts spacetime either far more or far less than its mass would indicate?”

Yes. Hold on tight.

Giratina spread its wings and lifted into the air, Ford still perched atop its head. Columns of water and floating rocky islands flew past them as they ascended, and raced towards the blanket of foreboding purple clouds that stretched across the sky from horizon to horizon —

And then, they’d breached it, and were surrounded by stars — white dwarfs and red giant and everything in between, binary pairs dancing waltzes together while supernovas exploded into sizzling plumes of plasma. Yet they all ranged just from the size of a fist to a basketball, and floated by within arm’s reach of Ford, so close that he could feel their heat drying out his sopping coat.

Instinctively, he held out an arm to run a hand through a glowing red-orange nebula, and streams of gas danced around his fingers, swirling together to consolidate in his palm. He made a fist, and the contents of his hand immediately caught ablaze under the pressure — not quite hot enough to singe him, but bright enough that rays of white light escaped from the cracks between his fingers, illuminating all six of them like a beacon in the night sky.

Giratina dove back beneath the layer of clouds, and as they slowed to a more leisurely pace, Ford opened his hand again to see a system of six tiny stars all orbiting each other as they hovered just above his palm.

Will that work?

“...It’s perfect.”

They drifted past the double helix waterfall once again, close enough for Ford to make out his distorted reflection in one of the streams.

Life isn’t meant to stay in this world, Giratina told him. We should part ways soon… but before, I can open a portal nearly anywhere in the multiverse for you…

A pause. You know, I could open a portal to your home.

Ford looked down at the star system in his hand, and then back to his reflection… and then over his shoulder, to the still nowhere-near-complete weapon strapped across his back.

“I deeply appreciate the offer, but my team and I can’t. There are still things we need to do that… we need to keep traveling between dimensions to accomplish.”

You are banished by your own choices, then…

Giratina nearly came to a complete halt for a moment, and Ford cringed, so preoccupied with worrying he’d misspoken that he hardly noticed the sphere of ball lightning descending from the sky just a few feet from his face.

You have a fierce stubbornness inside of you. Azelf’s voice was loud and resonant inside Ford’s head, completely unlike Giratina’s hesitant, rasping whisper. And when you embrace it, it may often turn out to be to your detriment…

It shed the sphere of blue lightning, revealing its true form. Warm golden eyes fixated on Ford, and its tails twitched as an oddly human smile spread across its tiny face.

But our flaws often stem from our greatest strengths, and you possess exactly the dedication and endurance that are needed to save this universe.

“Thank you, Azelf,” Ford whispered. “I’m sorry for doubting your judgement.”

Have you decided where you wish to go, if not home? Giratina asked him.

“I suppose… Dimension 61-6,” Ford decided. That was the dimension he’d encountered Azelf in, a place that he still hoped would contain many more resources to help him in his fight against Cipher.

Alright. Giratina opened its mouth and breathed out a whirlwind of shadows that bore into the surface of the lake below, carving a conical depression in the water. A white glow lit up at the bottom of the funnel, flickering faintly as if beckoning Ford towards it.

“I’d be so lost without your help, Giratina. Thank you so much.”

Giratina’s head bobbed slightly, as if nodding.

I wish you luck with your quest… friend.

Before he could change his mind, Ford jumped through the portal.

***

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Thanks for reading, feedback/reblogs are appreciated as always! I’ve been thinking about the Mystery Trio and how they correspond to the Lake Guardians for a while, and eventually settled on:

Stan is emotion (Mesprit): He can definitely be very stubborn, but that stubbornness is often derived from emotion, such as his love for his family. He acts closed-off sometimes, but emotions are the driving force behind so many of his actions, like restarting the portal despite the dangers and sacrificing himself to beat Bill and save his family.

Fiddleford is knowledge (Uxie): This one is probably the most clear-cut, since Uxie is capable of erasing memories. Of course, Fidds is highly intelligent and inventive as well, just like the traits Uxie is said to grant.

Ford is willpower (Azelf): Knowledge could of course be fitting for him too (and that manifests a little bit in the fic itself, with Ford hoping to meet Uxie), but I think willpower encapsulates his personality even better. He survived in the multiverse for 30 years with the sole goal of taking down Bill, and then endured a brutal amount of torture in Weirdmageddon but still refused to give Bill the equation.

[eleanor-writes-stuff]

chemistry (my heart’s a city you’re out to destroy) - [i/iii]

Kylo Ren - superhuman, mercenary, and the world’s most dangerous man – has recently resurfaced after a mysterious three-month disappearance.

Rey Niima, listicle writer by day and investigative reporter by night, is way too busy to worry about that. Seriously, she’s got a million things on her plate - she doesn’t have the time to think about anything else.

Especially now that news editor Benjamin Snoke has returned to the office and seems hell-bent on making her life… interesting.

It’s a bird, it’s a plane, it’s the Superman/Lois Lane AU I never thought I’d write! (Okay, not really. But... vaguely. Loosely inspired, I’d say.)

Happy belated birthday, @nancylovesreylo! Earlier this month you came up with one of the best prompts I've ever seen, and while I'm still holding out hope that someone will come along and do it justice someday, here's my little attempt at it in the meantime. I hope you enjoy it!

Chapter 2 Also available on AO3. And hey, maybe check out my Twitter and Ko-fi?

Rey wakes up on the first Monday of February to find her phone blowing up with notifications.

The first tweet her eyes land on is a set of pictures with the very uninformative caption HE LIVES!!!, and she’s still blinking sleep out of her eyes when the first grainy photo finally loads and immediately captures her undivided attention as her heart gets lodged somewhere in her throat.

Kylo.

Hidden amongst the trees dotting the lake, loitering outside a darkened theater, perched precariously atop City Hall – all of the pictures are of Kylo Ren, MIA for three months now and even feared dead by some. Rey had thought herself unaffected by the rumors, secure in the knowledge that she would know somehow if something had happened to him, but tears spring to her eyes all the same as she stares at pixelated, zoomed-in images of him until her vision goes blur.

It’s a message, she knows, but it’s also one she can’t do anything about right now. So she shakes herself out of it and goes through the motions of her usual workday morning, setting her phone aside as she forces breakfast down her throat and pulls on a repeat outfit from last week. But as soon as she reaches the office, Rey can’t help the way her fingers automatically reach for her phone every five minutes to reassure herself that it’s real, he’s back, she isn’t just dreaming again–

She’s busy staring at him for the umpteenth time that morning when she walks right into a wall on her way to get coffee.

No, not a wall, Rey realizes as she looks up from her phone to find a solid expanse of chest and torso and black shirt. A little further up, and she finds a man looking at her as if he’s on a particularly bad trip and she’s a dancing, flying elephant.

Bewilderment is the best way Rey can think of to describe it, but all she’s done is accidentally run into him while on her phone; surely that doesn’t warrant the way he’s looking at her with wide eyes (she can’t help but notice how dark they are) and tense shoulders (broad, so very, very broad) and parted lips (thicker than she’s ever seen on a man, but still alluring somehow) that look like they’re trying to say something, anything–

Rey beats him to it. “I’m so sorry, I should’ve been paying better attention–”

The man blinks at her, and then promptly walks away.

She’s abruptly reminded of a piece of drunken wisdom Rose had taken it upon herself to share with the rest of the bar at last Friday’s happy hour, fresh off her latest failed Tinder date. The hot ones are always assholes, a tipsy Rose had sagely proclaimed to the bar, only to be met with supportive cheers and enthusiastic applause.

Maybe Rose and the rest of the bar knew what they were talking about after all.

“Fine,” Rey fumes to herself as she turns to watch the asshole’s retreating back cut a path across the office, eventually winding around the staircase leading to the newsroom upstairs. “Fine. Fuck you too, mystery man,” she mutters under her breath, and figures that is that. The news team barely ever mingles with the rest of them anyway, so with any luck Rey won’t ever have to see him and his perfect hair again.

Except after lunch that day Amilyn calls for a staff meeting on the second floor, and as Rey squeezes into the crowded conference room she catches sight of said perfect hair on the opposite end of the room, seated on Amilyn’s right. Thankfully he’s looking straight ahead, leaving her with only a view of that broad, broad back which Rey most definitely does not find distracting as she attempts to focus on their editor-in-chief’s… presentation? Speech? It’s the start of the week, so maybe Amilyn is just giving them all a little pep talk to get things off on the right foot.

In any case, Rey desperately hopes it’s nothing too important. And it probably isn’t, given that Amilyn starts wrapping things up fifteen short minutes later.

“And finally, I’d like to welcome Ben back to the office. It’s been a rough three months without you, and I’m sure the news team is glad to have its editor back. I know I am!” Amilyn beams as a polite round of applause fills the room, and Rey cranes her neck to catch a glimpse of the elusive Ben Snoke, who’d gone on leave to handle some sort of family emergency just days before she joined Raddus.

From the corner of her eye, she catches movement where there should absolutely not be movement. But maybe Mystery Man is just as curious as her, maybe it doesn’t mean anything that he’s slowly turning around in his seat and unfolding his gigantic treelike frame out of the tiny conference room chair–

Mystery Man stands and acknowledges the room with a nod and a tight smile. “Thanks, everyone. It’s good to be back,” he says even as those dark eyes land on her, and the smile falls off his plush lips. “I look forward to working with all of you again.”

Fuck.

Fuck.

The rest of the day goes decidedly downhill from there because there’s no coming back from the realization that your potential future boss hates you for some reason, but at least no one stops Rey when she’s the first to leave the second the clock strikes six.

It doesn’t actually make a difference – she knows he won’t be there until eleven at the earliest – but at least it leaves her with plenty of time to navigate through hellish rush hour traffic and still have dinner and change before she leaves for the Amidala Museum.

Their museum.

Rey can’t remember exactly when it became their spot, only that one day she spotted Kylo hanging around the museum on her way home and they ended up talking about their mutual love of the place for more than an hour. It had been one of the very first real conversations they’d shared, and just thinking about it still brings a smile to her face nearly two years later.

She’s chasing after a wisp of a memory about his favorite exhibit when a familiar, faint rasp announces his presence. It’s that damn voice modulator as always, giving him away before he can get the chance to sneak up on her.

A thrill races down Rey’s spine as she prepares to turn around.

Three months. It’s been three months since she last saw Kylo, last made him laugh, last stood a little too close–

She can feel him standing right behind her now, and a tiny shudder works its way through her body as Rey processes their proximity. Forget news editor Ben Snoke and his plush, kissable lips and his unfairly attractive voice – nothing will ever come close to the way Kylo sets her blood on fire.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

Rey turns and nearly staggers backwards as she comes face-to-face with all six-foot-three of her masked man, and she folds her arms across her chest to keep her hands to herself as she tips her head back to look at him. “It’s been three months, Kylo. Of course I showed up.”

It’s impossible to tell with that mask of his, but Rey thinks she detects a hint of a smile when he speaks. “I’m glad you did, sweetheart. I…” he hesitates, and a gloved hand reaches out to pull her out of the tiny patch of moonlight and into the shadows of the grand, ornate pillars that hold up the museum. “I wasn’t sure if you would, after all this time, but I had to see you. Had to know how you’re doing.”

Not for the first time, Rey wishes she could at least hear his real voice. The growl of the modulator is so at odds with the sincerity of his words, a harsh reminder of reality when all she wants is to escape into a softer, kinder dream world.

But that’s never been in the cards for them, no matter how many pretty words Kylo whispers into his modulator, so Rey huffs out a bitter laugh and shakes her head at him instead as she pulls her hand out of his grasp. “Me? You’re the one who disappeared for three months! Kylo, I thought– I didn’t know what to think, but people were saying that… that…”

That he’d finally gotten what he deserved. That the world would be a better place without him. That they should all be glad to be rid of him and his knights.

Rey has tuned out op-eds and news shows for the last three months, choosing instead to dwell in the corners of the internet where everyone seemed equally concerned even though they’d never met Kylo at all, even though there was no way they felt the way she did, does–

“You could’ve let me known you’re alive,” she murmurs, dropping her eyes to the ground. “You could’ve done at least that.”

The modulator crackles, distorting his sharp intake of breath.

“I’m sorry. Things have been… difficult,” Kylo says with a sigh, yet another unpleasant burst of sound rushing past his mask. “Difficult and different, and I wasn’t really thinking, I couldn’t think at all–”

His hand rises to his head, and then falls back down. Rey’s noticed he does that sometimes, especially when he’s agitated or stressed or embarrassed, and all it does is make her want to take that stupid mask off and run her hands through his hair the way he’s itching to do.

It’d be flat from the helmet, she imagines, and so soft in her hands–

But that’s something for a kinder world. In this world Rey sets the urge aside to focus on his words instead, like a crow catching sight of something shiny for it to chase after and fixate on.

“What happened? Where have you been? Where are the rest of the Knights? Why haven’t you–”

Kylo laughs and shakes his head at her, the way he always does whenever she gets all ‘reporter-y’ – his word, not hers – on him. “Nice try, sweetheart.”

Rey shrugs, unrepentant as ever. He can’t expect her to stop doing her job just because of their unlikely friendship, just as she’s never expected him to stop doing his – even when it involves more bloodshed than she’s comfortable with.

“I’ve lost more sleep in the past three months than I have in the past three years, Kylo,” she tells him sharply, unashamedly. “I think I deserve an explanation–”

“Don’t you have work in the morning?” he interrupts, and even in its distorted form Rey can tell his voice is just a little too innocent. “It’s getting late, Rey. You should go home and get some sleep.”

She crosses her arms and scowls at him. “Are you serious?”

“Always,” Kylo intones with a nod of his helmet. “Now go home, sweetheart. I’ll make sure you get there safely.”

It’s not fair that he always makes her that promise no matter how their conversation ends, and it’s definitely not fair that she immediately softens at his familiar parting words, first spoken so long ago–

I should get going, she’d told him then, just a young reporter reluctant to step away from a living, breathing mystery that might prove to be her big break if only she could crack him. It’s a long walk home, and I’m alone.

And instantly, without a moment’s hesitation, the words had spilled past his lips: you’re not alone. I’ll make sure you get home safely, I promise.

Rey might not know much about Kylo Ren – might not know anything about him, actually – but on this, at least, she knows she can always trust him.

“Fine,” she gives in with a huff, pointing a warning finger at him. “But this conversation isn’t over yet.”

“It never is,” Kylo agrees, and the cheery note in his voice pulls a reluctant smile out of her. “Good night, Rey.”

“Good night, Kylo,” she whispers in return, and in the blink of an eye he’s disappeared – up into the sky or on the roof or maybe even to a different dimension; you never know with Kylo Ren.

Rey shakes her head at the thought and sets out into the night, knowing she has nothing to fear.

A week after her unfortunate first meeting with Ben Snoke, Amilyn calls Rey in for a meeting.

Thankfully it’s after hours, which allows her to wait until the news team has left for the day before she climbs the spiral staircase up to the second floor of the converted warehouse. Amilyn’s office is all the way at the end, and Rey can’t help but sneak a glimpse at Ben’s office as she walks past.

His door is closed, but the office is entirely dark. Empty, just like she’d hoped it would be.

Bolstered by that reassurance, Rey picks up the pace and quickly finds herself seated opposite her editor-in-chief, documents and pictures fanned out across the desk between them. She’s been discreetly looking into a chain of strip clubs for months now, trying to prove that it’s all just a front for the Guavian Death Gang, but her investigation has slowed down in recent months.

In her defense, it’s unexpectedly hard to focus on strip clubs when you’re constantly worrying about a certain mercenary and his possible death. Amilyn had been very understanding about the whole thing, even if Rey had never actually said anything about it to her, and had encouraged her to focus on fleshing out her cover as a mere listicle writer first.

But now that Kylo is alive and well and she’s written at least a dozen posts about the top ten hidden gems in Coruscant City, Rey is itching to get back to work.

“So you’re going back on stakeout duty?” Amilyn asks, worry lines forming between her brows as she picks up a picture of the club’s back door.

Rey nods. “It’s been a while, so I figured I should see if anything’s changed and familiarize myself with things before I try to go in. I’m thinking of starting next Monday–”

The door opens without warning, and both women immediately spring into action, sweeping all of the papers strewn across Amilyn’s desk into a haphazard pile.

“Amilyn, we need to talk–” Ben declares just as their boss drops a write-up about a recent ‘influencers’ summit’ – whatever the hell that is – on top of the pile, effectively hiding Rey’s work from view.

Ben comes to a screeching halt, and there it is again: that wide-eyed look of sheer horror over having to share a space with her. “Oh. I didn’t realize you’re still here.”

Rey quickly gets to her feet and sweeps the pile into her arms, summit write-up and all. “I was just about to leave,” she announces coolly without sparing him a look. “Amilyn, I’ll have that article about diving spots done by tomorrow night, if that’s okay?”

She doesn’t know anything about diving, but during times like these Rey tends to just go with the first thing to come to her panicked mind. So diving it is.

Amilyn nods as she plasters on her signature warm smile. “That’s more than okay, Rey. It’s just what we’re looking for, and I’m sure you’ll be able to execute it flawlessly–”

Fine, so maybe Amilyn’s laying it on a little too thick, but that absolutely does not justify the little snort that escapes Ben.

Rey turns to him with a scowl. “What?” she demands, clutching her papers close to her chest as she pins Ben with a glare, desperately fighting against her body to not react to the amused little twitch of his lips.

“Nothing,” he claims a little too quickly, barely meeting her eye for two seconds before he moves forward and settles into her abandoned seat. “Now if you’re done here, I really do need to speak to our editor. In private.”

“Fine,” Rey mutters before she bids Amilyn a good night and pointedly does not do the same for Ben. Screw him; he deserves the worst of nights for having the audacity to be so attractive yet so awful. Rey very nearly slams the door behind her, but manages to rein in the urge at the very last second. She does, however, stomp her way back to her desk, and maybe she bangs around her table for a bit before she finally slams her drawer shut, documents safely locked away, and allows some of the tension to drain away.

What even was that snort? What an asshole; he probably thinks he’s better than everyone here just because he writes about ‘real’ news–

With a frustrated growl, Rey kicks the thought out of her mind and focuses on work instead.

It’s only twenty minutes past six, so traffic is definitely still hell. Rey figures she might as well stick around and throw together that diving article; it’s half of what Amilyn is paying her for, after all.

The next time Rey looks up from her computer screen, an hour has passed and someone is clearing their throat behind her. She turns back for a curious look and immediately suppresses a groan.

Because of fucking course it’s Ben Snoke, looking down at her with furrowed brows.

“Why are you wasting your time on this shit?”

If Rey were standing, she would have taken several steps backward out of sheer shock. “Excuse me?”  she demands, voice colored by indignation and anger.

Ben, miraculously, does not back down. In fact, it’s almost as if he hasn’t noticed her reaction at all, because he pushes on and steers the conversation into an entirely unexpected direction. “You’re an amazing investigative reporter – or so I’ve heard,” he quickly adds before Rey can even begin to process the idea that Ben Snoke might know her work. “Any serious news team in the city would be lucky to have you. So why are you here posting about the same ten Instagram trends day in and day out?”

He seems… genuinely puzzled, Rey notes with no small amount of surprise. And maybe in any other case that would’ve softened her, and maybe under any other circumstances this would’ve been the perfect opportunity to ask if his team could use another reporter, but right here, right now… Ben was already dangerously close to the truth when he pushed his way into Amilyn’s office unannounced. She can’t let him get any closer.

“It’s a brave new world, Ben,” she huffs at him, going for a sneer and failing miserably as soon as she catches sight of a flash of hurt in his eyes. “Try to keep up. Escapism gets hits. Sensationalism gets hits. The same ten Instagram trends over and over again gets hits. But good old boring investigative work? There’s a reason newsrooms are growing smaller and smaller all around the country.”

And before Ben can defend his craft, their craft–

“Besides, that’s none of your business,” Rey states with a note of finality as she turns her back on him, returning her attention to her screen.

She waits for the hairs on the back of her neck to go down, for the odd prickle of awareness she feels around him to fade away.

But Ben lingers, and finally he lets out a heavy sigh. “You’re right,” he mumbles, and out of the corner of her eye Rey spots him placing a brown bag on her desk. “Here. Since you’re working late.”

She turns her head just the slightest bit, and then a little more to stare at him when she catches sight of the logo printed on the bag.

Pastries. He’s brought her pastries from the bakery around the corner.

“Um… thanks?” Rey reaches out and notes that the bag is still warm. “When did you–”

Ben sticks his hands into his pockets and fixes his eyes straight ahead, on her crowded notice board. “Breakroom,” he lies.

Rey can’t exactly call him out on it – what is she supposed to do, accuse him of taking the trouble of getting fresh food for her? – but she’s too puzzled to let it slide. “Wow,” she pretends to play along, “you guys just happen to keep fresh pastries on hand?”

To his credit, Ben remains nonchalant. “This floor might have healthy, balanced meal-prep lunches,” he shrugs, “but we have all the good stuff.” A pause, and then, a little quieter: “You should come up and check it out sometime.”

She’s been to the upstairs breakroom at least four times, and can confirm that they do not have ‘all the good stuff’. In fact, on most days the news people can be found hanging around the downstairs breakroom, hoping to swipe something from the lifestyle team’s latest video shoot or cooking experiment.

“Maybe I will,” Rey says, keeping her tone even.

Ben withdraws his hands from his pockets as he nods. “Okay. Great. Yeah.”

A painfully awkward silence settles over them then, but just as Rey’s about to reach for the bag and ask if he’d like to share something – it’s only polite to offer, since he’s the one who went and got them – Ben steps back and promptly turns on his heel. “I’ll just… I’ll just get out of your hair now.”

Rey reaches for him without thought. “Ben, wait!” she requests as her fingers wrap around his wrist.

When he turns he’s got that same look from that first morning again, this time focused firmly upon her hand on his. Rey’s cheeks heat up as she quickly lets go of him, and if her heart falls a little at his reaction it’s nobody’s business but her own.

“What…” Ben falters, clears his throat, and finally tears his eyes away from his hand to look at her for all of five seconds. “What is it?”

“I just…” Rey takes a deep breath, and offers him a smile. “Thanks,” she says, leaving it at that.

Slowly, hesitantly, Ben smiles in return. It’s a small thing, a barely-there curve of his lips, but his eyes are warm and bright as they hold hers, the first time she’s ever seen them that way, and oh fuck, Rey’s going to think about this a lot now, isn’t she?

“You’re welcome,” he murmurs, still smiling. “Don’t… don’t stay too late, Rey. Good night.”

This time, she lets him leave.

“Good night, Ben,” Rey whispers to his retreating back, wondering what the hell just happened.

But hey, at least now she’s roughly 80% sure Ben Snoke doesn’t actually hate her for no damn reason.

So this was originally meant to be done by last week, but then life got in the way as it always does. And it was originally meant to be a one-shot, but then it got out of hand as my stories always do. This one especially strayed further and further away from the plan with every word I wrote, but I hope it's still somewhat decent.

Hoping to update again this weekend and then sometime mid-next week for a third and final time, but we'll see how that goes. You know what they say about life and the best-laid plans...

As always, thank you for reading and I hope you liked it. Please don't hesitate to like/reblog/comment; I'd love to know what you guys think about this so far!

And once again: happy birthday, Nancy! <3

[psi-psina]

The Hounds of Baskerville read-through

Pt three, UMQRA. [pt one] [pt two]

(this is again a direct continuation of pt one & two)

Credit as always to Arianne DeVere for her transcripts :)

This is the final part of this read through that I wrote before intervening events, and I don’t know if/when I’ll be continuing as I’m quite busy now. This is also quite a bit longer than the other two posts bc I just CAN’T shut up about this part, sorry about that lol.

And we’re finally out on the moor! Night falls as they approach the hollow and as they enter the wooded area, John is distracted by some ghostly rustlings and wailings and he spots a tiny light blinking off in the distance. He exhales heavily and whispers after Sherlock, but finds himself suddenly alone. Sherlock never waits for him.

He thinks the light is someone signalling, coded in morse, and writes down what the morse spells out: UMQRA. The light then vanishes and John, stumped, goes after Sherlock and Henry.

Back with Sherlock and Henry, Sherlock needling about Frankland; he says Frankland seems worried about Henry, and Henry says Frankland’s a worrier at best, and that he’s been very kind to him (Henry) since he came back.

So thinking about Frankland as a Moriarty mirror; Frankland acts kindly and concerned towards Henry (Sherlock) but this is only in order to exploit him. Frankland is literally gaslighting Henry and making him doubt his grip on reality,  in order to discredit Henry to make sure no one would ever take him seriously if he ever started to remember Frankland’s crime. Perhaps he was even hoping to simply push Henry to suicide. It is a clear foreshadowing of what Moriarty intends to do to Sherlock in The Reichenbach Fall in which he seeks to discredit and destroy Sherlock “inch by inch” in the most public and intimate ways imaginable, in his attempt to solve their “problem”.

This is also, however, the root of Sherlock’s fears about John that are explored in this episode, which is dealing entirely with Fear. This is why Frankland is heavily paralleled with John, and his two mirrors (Dr Mortimer & Dr Stapleton) throughout this episode. Frankland is the same physical type as the other villainous John mirrors (Jeff Hope and Culverton), he has a military past and is also a Dr who works at Baskerville with Dr Stapleton. He’s very worried about Henry just as Lousie is, but where her concerns are genuine, his are dishonest and exploitative. Which we will see very shortly is the exact gist of what Sherlock fears about John, and the nature of their relationship. Frankland as Moriarty is this episode’s embodiment of the fears Sherlock has projected onto John which, when understood make his behaviour throughout this episode extremely transparent.

ANYWAY.

SHERLOCK: But he worked at Baskerville, your dad didn’t have a problem with that? HENRY: Well, mates are mates aren’t they. I mean look at you and John.

Sherlock snaps suspiciously at this, clearly on edge about any insinuations about them.

HENRY: They agreed never to talk about work (Baskerville), Uncle Bob and my dad.

Hm. They agreed to never talk about Baskerville (❤️). And when they did, Henry’s dad ended up…dead. Henry points out the hollow as he and Sherlock arrive at the scene, and we cut back to John. As he’s searching for Sherlock he hears an odd sound, one that appears to be part of the soundtrack but he reacts to it (I could be mistaken but this also happens in The Blind Banker so I have a feeling it’s legit). There’s an odd pulse that is almost like an eerie distorted heartbeat, to which John reacts. And he looks for the source and finds water, dripping from an unknown source onto a drum. He looks a the oddly leaking water with no apparent source and seems curious and rather bemused, until his inspection is cut short by the Hound tearing through the woods behind him. This moment is mirrored a bit later in the episode with Henry (Sherlock) who’s attention is drawn to some carelessly leaking water in his backyard before he too is terrorised by the Hound. I’ll go into the symbolism of water a little later. Back with John, the Hound howls and John starts to run, the water forgotten, and we cut back to Sherlock stumbling down into the hollow as the Hound’s motif escalates. He fixates on huge paw prints in the mud before looking up at the sound of another howl.

On the edge of the hollow we can hear the Hound snarling and rustling and see it’s shadow on the forest floor but -

There’s nothing there.

Sherlock looks like he’s seen a ghost as a frantic Henry lurches up behind him, demanding to know if Sherlock saw it. Sherlock completely ignores him and pushes him aside brusquely, storming off. When they meet back up with John, Sherlock denies having seen anything at all.

HENRY: Look, he must have seen it. I saw it – he must have. He must have. I can’t ... Why? Why? Why would he say that? It-it-it-it it was there. It was. JOHN: Henry, Henry, I need you to sit down, try and relax, please. HENRY: I’m okay, I’m okay. JOHN: Listen, I’m gonna give you something to help you sleep, all right? HENRY: This is good news, John. It’s-it’s-it’s good. I’m not crazy. There is a hound, there ... there is. And Sherlock – he saw it too. No matter what he said, he saw it.

John escorts Henry back to his home and kindly prescribes him some downers to help him calm down after his close encounter. Henry (Sherlock) is having a strange experience however, he seems equally relieved as he is horrified at having actually SEEN the Hound. Because, as horrifying as it’s existence is, a confirmation at least allays his fears about his own sanity. We transition from Henry in the classic Holmes thinking pose as he contemplates and consoles himself, to a highly distressed Sherlock striking his own Holmesian pose by the fire back at the Inn. I love that transition, one of my many favourites. This show has THE MOST emotive transitions, it’s the BEST. 

John takes the chair opposite Sherlock at the Inn, and we see them before an empty dinner table set for two, with a heart-shaped wreath of thorns hung right over the flames in between their bodies. This is one of my favourite shots in the whole show;

Like…this image speaks a thousand words. Visual poetry. I mean the entire show is but there are moments like these where they just… completely outdo themselves man. Obviously, a burning heart made of a wreath of thorns is evocative enough in itself, it also looks like another piece of Christian imagery. It brings to mind the Sacred Heart, which is a pretty well known symbol for divine and unconditional love…the cause of Christ’s Sherlock’s immeasurable suffering. :( All of which is…contextually relevant.

^ An accurate image of Sherlock’s heart, tbh.

JOHN: Well, he is in a pretty bad way. He’s manic, totally convinced there’s some mutant super-dog roaming the moors. And there isn’t, though, is there? ’Cause if people knew how to make a mutant super-dog, we’d know. They’d be for sale. I mean, that’s how it works. …Er, listen: er, on the moor I saw someone signalling. Er, Morse – I guess it’s Morse. …Doesn’t seem to make much sense. …Er, U, M, Q, R, A. Does that mean ... anything ... So, okay, what have we got? We know there’s footprints, ’cause Henry found them; so did the tour guide bloke. We all heard something. …Maybe we should just look for whoever’s got a big dog. SHERLOCK: Henry’s right. JOHN: What? SHERLOCK: I saw it too. JOHN: What? SHERLOCK: I saw it too, John. JOHN: Just ... just a minute. You saw what? SHERLOCK: A hound, out there in the Hollow. A gigantic hound.

John smirks. Sherlock blinks back the tears. This scene is absolutely excruciating. What is it with Mark writing these horrible inability-to-communicate scenes in his episodes. I mean I know why but...I hate it.

“Cause if people knew how to make a mutant super-dog, we’d know. They’d be for sale. I mean, that’s how it works.”

Interesting, because even though the Hound is not actually real, the idea of the Hound very much is, and is VERY much for sale. The idea of the Hound is, literally, used as a ‘tourist attraction’, an in-joke that drums up business for the township, irregardless of the fact that it’s driving Henry insane. This is, undoubtedly, a meta comment on cultural gaybaiting, probably also an underhanded reaction in response to the criticism they themselves have received for it. I am not joking. Like in and of itself it’s excruciatingly poignant and incredibly well done purely in the episodes context, but as all their bullshit subtext has amounted to nothing remotely tangible, it remains an underhanded tantrum. >(

Anyway. John goes from disbelief to a weak attempt at pacification which only serves to embitter Sherlock even more towards him.

JOHN: We have to be rational about this.

This scene is an interesting role-reversal. This is, in a way, Sherlock getting a taste of his own medicine from John. This is basically John treating Sherlock the way Sherlock treated him in their argument in The Great Game (one of my favourite scenes EVER), and is absolutely 100% written as a parallel scene, simply with Sherlock the one having an emotional crisis, and John completely misunderstanding what he’s seeing. And even in these role reversals, John is still rather kindly, and Sherlock stiflingly cruel. Anyway, Sherlock is no more able to ‘be rational’ in this situation than John was as they started at each from their chairs in 221B (although again, John behaves, as always, far more rationally than Sherlock does lmao i WILL NOT discredit him there!!). And John can do nothing to appease him because they are communicating across a gulf so wide right now they might as well be speaking different languages. 

The way Sherlock admits to having seen it is so sad; it’s like a concession, “Henry’s right, I was wrong. I saw it too. He’s always been right about it.” He’s always feared, deep down, that it was real and what they all say about it is true.

SHERLOCK: Look at me. I’m afraid, John. Afraid. *[1] JOHN: Sherlock? SHERLOCK: Always been able to keep myself distant...divorce myself from...feelings. But look, you see…body’s betraying me. Interesting, yes? Emotions. The grit on the lens, the fly in the ointment.

Sherlock looks at his shaking hands with disdain as he raises a glass of scotch and takes a couple of swigs. “Look at me, I’m afraid.”

What’s got him so wound up to be shaking and forcing back tears in a room full of people? Sure he’s been drugged, but neither Henry nor John react anywhere near this viscerally to the drug or their encounter with their Hounds. This is because John, and probably Henry, are both far better adjusted than Sherlock is lol. All this is has been just below the surface all along, the drug, the Hound, just knocked his defences down.You get a big hint in Scandal, in fact, as to the nature of Sherlock’s fear here.

In that scene in Scandal, we get the first appearance of the musical motif used solely in the aptly titled “Pursued by a Hound” which is exclusive to this episode bar that one moment in Scandal (another thing linking the Hound to Irene and the events of Scandal). In that scene, we see Sherlock drugged against his will by Irene, just as he has been now, in the Hollow. The scene above is the one in which Irene wholly defeats Sherlock, and she does so by drugging him. His defeat by her, the mirror of his desire and sexuality, is not intellectual, it is wholly physical, she imposes her will upon him with a drug. She causes his body to utterly fail him and leaves him entirely at her mercy. Drugged and completely physically vulnerable.

“…Body’s betraying me.” 

So you could argue that this betrayal is fear itself, but it simply isn’t. Sherlock is not immune to emotions, he only pretends to be. He’s no stranger to fear. His desires got totally carried away on him, he fell desperately in love with John, and he is quite certain now that he was mistaken to do so. He does not hate emotions in and of themselves, he hates HIS emotions because they are not correct, they are doomed, unrequited, unfulfilled, a source of nothing but pain and suffering for him. He hates his emotions and he is terrified of his weakening body betraying his desires. To John. This fear, this visceral shame that can so easily grow and become basically synonymous with desire inside gay people living in ambient homophobia, is embodied in this episode by this idea of the Hound literally mauling it’s unwilling victims to death. It is embodied by mirrors, when Henry loses control and attacks Lousie in his home. It is embodied in The Reichenbach Fall by every man Sherlock touches being violently killed or committing suicide as a direct result of being touched by him. It is mirrored again by Eurus in The Final Problem, when she talks about raping one of her guards. 

He’s on a(nother) downward spiral. Mind’s tearing itself to pieces, body’s betraying him. He feels like a monster.

”The grit on the lens, the fly in the ointment.” But John can’t see it, and he has absolutely no chance of making any sense of it because he would never think in a million years that Sherlock is behaving like this because of him. He could never know that Sherlock’s cold disdain for emotions is an expression of the pain his own cause him, of the fear that John get a glimpse (or a faceful) of what Sherlock feels for him, even though John does suspect his friend is not alright. Like, this is certainly one of John’s uglier moments, he certainly could have handled this with more tact, and once you’re able to read Sherlock it’s so easy to fault John in this scene because once you’re in Sherlock’s head, John can appear to be a truly insensitive, oblivious dick. Which he sort of is, but you just can’t. You can’t truly fault John for being cynical and guarded at this stage, Sherlock has cut him dead and hurt him too much for John to be anything but lost when they’re in these situations now. This cynicism does grow into something uglier down the line, in Culverton, and I feel like this scene is where the seeds of that monster are first sown in Sherlock, which then properly bloom at the end of The Sign of Three.. :/

Jesus. Like I’m not joking, if I was a damaged robotic gay person having a nervous breakdown in front of my best friend with whom I was desperately in love only to have them inadvertently make a mockery of my self-hatred and inability to express myself I definitely would not be able to handle this any better. (I mean personally I would just start crying and run away).

John, getting more and more uncomfortable, tries to get Sherlock to rationalise, saying “You’ve been pretty wired lately, you know you have. I think you’ve just gone out there, and got yourself a bit worked up.” Like you would to a child. Even with that slight smile. This sounds infuriatingly patronising to Sherlock, and Sherlock gets defensive, then angry, and inevitably lashes out the best way he can; with his deductions.

“There is nothing wrong with me, do you understand!? You want me to prove it yes?” **[2]

So he launches into an incredibly scathing and specific deduction about the widow and the fisherman sitting across the room from them: very blatant mirrors for Sherlock (the widow) and John (the fisherman). (They even have matching hearts hanging above them! Although the one hanging over the fisherman is made of rusty old tin or something, make of that what you will.)

SHERLOCK: We’re looking for a dog, yes, a great big dog, that’s your brilliant theory. Cherchez le chien. Good, excellent, yes, where shall we start? How about them? The sentimental widow and her son, the unemployed fisherman. The answer’s yes. JOHN: Yes? SHERLOCK: She’s got a West Highland terrier called Whisky. Not exactly what we’re looking for. JOHN: Sherlock, for God’s sake ...

The widow (Sherlock) has a little Hound, of course…a West Highland Terrier. Like Bluebell, it’s not exactly a horrible monster. I mean. I mean look at this. Look at this monstrous Hound.

I just…I am going to scream and physically die, I’M IN TOO DEEP.

SHERLOCK: Look at the jumper he’s wearing. Hardly worn. Clearly he’s uncomfortable in it. Maybe it’s because of the material; more likely the hideous pattern, suggesting it’s a present, probably Christmas. So he wants into his mother’s good books. Why? Almost certainly money. He’s treating her to a meal but his own portion is small. That means he wants to impress her, but he’s trying to economise on his own food. JOHN: Well, maybe he’s just not hungry. SHERLOCK: No, small plate. Starter. He’s practically licked it clean. She’s nearly finished her pavlova. If she’d treated him, he’d have had as much as he wanted. He’s hungry all right, and not well off – you can tell that by the state of his cuffs and shoes.

So, this is what’s going on in Sherlock’s heart right now. :/ The fisherman (John) is treating the widow (Sherlock) to a meal, and indulging her by wearing a jumper he clearly doesn’t like because it was a gift from her, but not because he just loves her and cares about her or wants to spoil her or just spend time with her or make her happy, but because he wants to impress her and get into her ‘good books’. Why? Almost certainly money. His actions aren’t sincere but manipulative and made purely in self-interest (RE, Frankland) and he gives himself away by ‘economising’ on his own food, in spite of being ‘hungry’. John suggests he just might not be hungry but Sherlock is adamant; he’s (John) definitely hungry and not well off, and remains certain that he’s only interested in exploiting her. Those earlier awkward moments between them about money? They hint at this well of resentment. Sherlock’s the wealthy, sentimental widow and John’s the scarred, threadbare, unemployed tradesman.

Left alone with his heartbreak and insecurity, it seems this is what Sherlock thinks about John in his ugliest moments, and now the ‘drug’ lets his fears run wild. It’s eating away at him. I don’t think for a second he truly believes this of John as a person, this is another product of his own self-loathing more than anything and it is WILDLY unfair to John. It seems this is the conclusion he draws about them when trying to figure out why John chooses to continue living and working with him, despite the fact that it causes so many problems in other area’s of John’s life, particularly romantically. He would never think for a second that John stays with him because he’s like, the love of his LIFE, because he doesn’t think that’s possible anymore. :/ All of the above is the reason Sherlock is such an asshole to John in this episode. He’s so insecure he’s convinced himself that he means nothing to John beyond the social/financial perks their partnership provides him. It certainly doesn’t make it okay, it just makes him very transparent, and…sad.

The stuff about the Christmas jumper is something because

I mean, if this possibly implies that Sherlock actually gave John that jumper for Christmas I would just…Die. That seems like a rather…unSherlock thing to do so personally I don’t think it was lol. I always thought that jumper was probably from Jeanette or Mrs Hudson before I thought about this deduction, so…I don’t know really.

SHERLOCK: Now, he was a fisherman. Scarring pattern on his hands, very distinctive – fish hooks. They’re all quite old now, which suggests he’s been unemployed for some time. Not much industry in this part of the world, so he’s turned to his widowed mother for help. “Widowed?” Yes, obviously. She’s got a man’s wedding ring on a chain around her neck – clearly her late husband’s and too big for her finger. She’s well-dressed but her jewellery’s cheap. She could afford better, but she’s kept it – it’s sentimental. Now, the dog ... tiny little hairs all over the leg from where it gets a little bit too friendly, but no hairs above the knees, suggesting it’s a small dog, probably a terrier. In fact it is – a West Highland terrier called Whisky. “How the hell do you know that, Sherlock?” ’Cause she was on the same train as us and I heard her calling its name and that’s not cheating, that’s listening, I use my senses, John, unlike some people, so you see, I am fine, in fact I’ve never been better, so just Leave. Me. Alone.

Where it get’s a little bit too friendly. ...I mentioned he hates himself right. 

Anyway. John sits quietly and endures this tirade like all the others, looking more and more hurt as it goes on and Sherlock starts to mock him on top of everything else. When it’s over, he just sadly says “Yeah, okay. Okay. Why would you listen to me? I’m just your friend.” Looking close to tears himself now and Sherlock twists the knife one more time; “I don’t have friends.” he says viciously and John just

😞

Honestly, the rejection Sherlock feels is mostly self-imposed, which is why his character arc thus far has culminated in him finding self-love, but John…god the rejection John has endured from Sherlock over the course of their relationship is just beyond. Sherlock is just so casually cruel to him so often. Like now. John tries to remind Sherlock that he is in fact his friend, and Sherlock essentially tells him “You are not my friend.” John does the only thing he really can, bitterly says “Naah. Wonder why.” And walks away.

John storms out of the inn to get some air, breathing heavily, trying to calm down, and then spots that light again. Signalling him off in the distance.

We get this sequence.

John sees the distant light and goes after it immediately and we transition to Henry (Sherlock) curled up rather pathetically on his sofa, a blanket draped over his face. He sits, looking pained and tired, then stands and walks to the window. As he reaches it, Liberty In (Death) crashes through his skull and he rubs his temples, holding his head in his hands and breathing deeply.

Liberty in death.

As this is happening to Sherlock/Henry we transition back to John as he hurries toward the source of the light. And what is it? What’s sending this garbled signal John can see off in the distance? It’s sex. Specifically it’s a sexual activity known as Dogging in Britain. Wow 😩

Like, if you were not convinced that Dogs are connected to and referencing sexuality in this episode, this really ought to put that matter to rest. I can’t imagine the agony it must have caused Mark Gatiss to figure out how to work this euphemism into the mystery in this episode in a meaningful way lmao. There’s nothing else to say.

Anyway, John, realising that the light that his curiosity thought to be a meaningful signal is just a product of some voyeuristic pervs bonking, believes he’s made a mistake, turns and heads back toward the inn, kicking himself. As he retreats, with the light flashing eerily over his shoulder as though it’s trying to call him back, his phone pings with a text from Sherlock, asking him to interview Louise Mortimer. John texts him back in all caps, Ajsdhfn I love him. And Sherlock just sends through a photo of Louise for him. 😩 I swear to god, Sherlock could not be any saltier right now if he were a literal puddle of brine. John halts momentarily as he looks at Louise and he mumbles, “Ohh you’re a bad man” and in my opinion he’s talking about…both of them. 😩 Useless jerks.

As John walks off, we transition back to Henry (Sherlock).

The simplest way to look at the following sequence is pure dream logic. It is almost certainly an actual nightmare that Sherlock/Henry is having, as all Henry says the next morning is that he ‘didn’t sleep well’ and not, y’know, that there was something lurking around his yard last night that was setting off the floodlights and scaring the living daylights out of him and would Sherlock mind taking a look. No, it isn’t real. The sole purpose of these scenes at Henry’s house is to show you what is going on inside the iron box. Emotional context, with Henry simply being Sherlock’s avatar so as not to give the whole game away.

Henry (Sherlock) is sitting listlessly and being plagued by Hounds on the television. No matter which channel he tries the Hound is everywhere. Then the floodlights flick on, drenching his yard in harsh white light. We see a hose on the patio leaking water everywhere, and as the lights fade out, the silhouette of the Hound tears across the screen. This moment is the dead ringer of John’s earlier encounter with water in the woods. The attention on this eerily leaking water (Henry’s resigned and heedless as he just lets his hose leak everywhere rather than do anything about it, John’s curious and benign as he’s drawn by this mysterious dripping of unknown origins [kind of in the same way he was drawn by the mysterious light]), which is promptly shattered by the appearance of the Hound. Interestingly, the second time we see the hose, after the Hound tears through the yard and the floodlights flash for a second time, the water has stopped.

We all know the symbolism attributed to water in literature and dreams, it’s all relative to emotions and energy:

“In most dreams water indicates emotions, moods and flow of feeling energy. Because of the nature of water it lends itself to depicting aspects of how you relate to your feelings. For instance you can ‘drown’ in or feel swept away by some emotions. At other times you can feel cleansed and refreshed. But because water is vital to your existence it can show how you long for or thirst for something, and feeling fulfilled.” [x] 

Everyone’s picked up on how heavily and literally this symbolism is used in Sherlock (particularly drowning), especially in Series 4, but the focus in this episode is on leaking, and leaking water carries it’s own particular meaning:

A leaky hose faucet represents issues that weaken your ability to control yourself. Loss, disappointments, or frustrations may be distracting you.

To dream of a something springing a leak, or taking on water represents loss, disappointments, or frustrations that may be distracting you. Issues that were repressed or kept at bay may coming to the forefront. You may also feel that you are wasting your time or energy. It may also reflect an uncertain situation that is getting out of control.

Small problems that may have the potential to get out of control if you don't deal with them immediately. The potential for a problem to spiral out of control or become destructive if left unattended. Possibly a warning dream about procrastinating or ignoring problems. [x]

Leaking water in dreams represents a leaking of emotions or loss of power. Dreaming of a leak that you can't stop might symbolise an emotional situation in waking life that seems to be out of control. Passively watching a leak without taking action to repair it might be an indication that you are in a reflective stage and are not quite sure whether you want to repair the leak or just let it go. [x]

Leaking water: This can mean that your emotional energy is be used unwisely, possible through such things as anxiety or fear, especially if the water is coming through a ceiling or wall. [x]

So we have…

Loss of self-control - check.

Fear - check.  

Disappointment, frustration, anxiety - check.

A(n emotional) problem spiralling out of control and becoming something destructive while left unattended - check.

So, I hope these flashing floodlights are bringing to mind another light we’ve just seen flashing in this episode. 

This is what is happening inside Sherlock’s heart right now. Or just watch the full sequence tbh. 

The Hound is all over the television, it’s in his home, it’s in his backyard, it’s in his reflection, it’s in his heart. It won’t leave him alone and he can’t get away from it. But all that escapes the iron box is

UMQRA. That bright blaze just a tiny light, glimpsed off in the distance, blinking in nonsense morse. An utter inability to communicate what is in one’s heart. “Every time I close my eyes…I’m lost…lost in the sky and…no one can hear me.” This is what just played out between them at the inn. And John is worried, because he picks up on the signals, he does notice, and he wants it to mean something, he wants it to be a code because that’d mean he might have a chance, however small, at cracking it, but it’s Sherlock’s own actions and endless rejections that make him doubt and dismiss his own perceptions and he will never be able to act on his instincts as long as Sherlock locks him out and refuses to open his heart.

We then transition from Henry, sunk onto the floor weeping, to John and Louise at the pub on a sort-of date, horror transitioning to mirth as she cradles her head in laughter at something John said, uttering “That’s so mean...”, as Henry (Sherlock), gun in hand, cradles his head in despair on his living room floor. Another one of my favourite transitions.

JOHN: Um, more wine, Doctor? MORTIMER: Are you trying to get me drunk, Doctor?

Doctor to Doctor. John chats with Louise and ply’s her with wine as he tries to get a rapport going, changing tack and asking about Henry’s father when she stays firm on her refusal to talk about Henry.

JOHN: Okay, what about his father? He wasn’t one of your patients. Wasn’t he some sort of conspiracy nutter - theorist? MORTIMER: You’re only a nutter if you’re wrong. JOHN: Mmm. And was he wrong? MORTIMER: I should think so!

Of course, like every other Conspiracy Theorist on the show (Sherlock, The Geek Interpreter boys, Anderson & Co, etc), Henry and his father are in fact right about everything. John then makes an appeal to Louise’s concern for Henry,

JOHN: But he got fixated on Baskerville, didn’t he? With what they were doing in there ... Couldn’t Henry have gone the same way, started imagining a hound? MORTIMER: Why d’you think I’m going to talk about this?! JOHN: Because I think you’re worried about him, and because I’m a doctor too…and because I have another friend who might be having the same problem.

John probably genuinely wants to talk to someone about this because he is worried about Sherlock and he has no one to talk to about anything, ever. :/ And just as they may have gotten somewhere, Frankland interrupts and sends it all to hell. Keeping in mind the connection between Frankland/John/Jaqui in this episode, it’s obvious Frankland is acting as John’s demon here. A vexing presence that pops up just in time to prevent John from gaining any insight into Henry’s/Sherlock’s state of mind, AND an annoying cockblock. In keeping with the theme, Frankland fucks with John by insinuating that Sherlock and John are Gay while making sure Louise gets that John’s only there to get information out of her.

FRANKLAND: Didn’t you know? Don’t you read the blog? Sherlock Holmes! Private detective! This is his PA! JOHN: PA? FRANKLAND: Well, live-in PA. JOHN: Perfect.

Wow it’s almost like, every PA we see on this show is a) a mirror for John and b) romantically involved with their Sherlock-I mean, employer. Commander. Except for Janine, who is a PA who is just involved with Sherlock himself. 😩

Frankland mutters to John about Stapleton conspiratorially and finally leaves. John looks back to Louise and makes an appropriately sheepish gesture. As she leaves, Louise snarkily suggests John buy Frankland a drink instead of her, then walks away. Awkward. John sighs, foiled again, as always.

The following morning Sherlock is back on the rocky outcrop alone, contemplating his Problem. We transition to Henry’s house, as he wearily approaches the door to Sherlock’s banging. Sherlock bursts in more manic than ever.

SHERLOCK: Morning! Oh, how are you feeling? HENRY: I’m ... I didn’t sleep very well. SHERLOCK: That’s a shame! Shall I make you some coffee? Oh look, you’ve got damp!

It’s like the shittier he feels the more manic he gets. And of course, they also have “damp”, from all that leaking going on. :/ He promptly storms into Henry’s kitchen and goes straight for his sugar, stealing a couple of sachets and then dramatically making out like he’s putting coffee on. Henry wanders in and tries to ask him what his deal was last night and Sherlock abruptly slams the canister down and cuts him off and tells us what’s REALLY on his mind. Hound; this absurd term for an ordinary love…..i mean . .. . .dog. He then abruptly storms off having got what he came for, leaving his exhausted Henry behind. As he’s walking back through the village he comes across John sitting alone in the cemetery, framed by 3 huge crosses:

So the morning after, Sherlock gazes at John through a field of crosses and they are so prominent in the  frame it literally looks like they’re warding Sherlock off. Like a warning. Or reminder: John is off limits, remember that, b*tch. John, meanwhile, has situated himself amongst the dead, sending a pretty clear message about his current state of mind. He looks quite different from the day before as well. He’s gone from the striking (passionate!) combo of deep red and black, to this frigid khaki scenario that basically camouflages him. 

An impressive change in mood.

Sherlock approaches him, chewing on his mouth like he’s about to swallow his own tongue, and with no preamble, awkwardly asks John if he got anywhere with Sherlock’s..I mean, that “morse code” from last night. John curtly says no and starts walking away.

SHERLOCK: U, M, Q, R, A, wasn’t it? UMQRA. U.M.Q... JOHN: Look, forget it. It’s ... I thought I was on to something. I wasn’t. SHERLOCK: Sure? JOHN: Yeah.

Thought I was on to something…I wasn’t. :( 

YOU WERRREEEEEEEEEEE!!! HE’S EVERYTHING YOU WANT HIM TO BEEEE JOOOHHHNNNN!!! 😫

Sherlock tries to ‘break the ice’ by joking with John about his ‘progress’ with Louise Mortimer, basically confirming that his sending John to her the previous night was some bullshit self-hating gesture that seems simultaneously spiteful (towards himself), conciliatory (towards John) and deeply ashamed. I mean can you imagine. Actively alienating yourself from the person you’re obsessed with by nudging him towards a woman bc you hate yourself and feel guilty and disgusting for lusting after him because you think he’s straight but you know he’s a bit easy so you maybe feel like it’s a good thing to do by him as a MATE which is what you SHOULD be, but it’s actually just sad and makes you even MORE bitter and self-loathing because it’s pathetic, while it ALSO continues to push him away from you (the whole point BUT STILL) and give him the COMPLETELY wrong idea about your motives and feelings and just alienates him from you even more! Like there is literally No way in which Sherlock has not fucked things up with John! He’s doing his best but he is useless! UGH. Anyway, John isn’t having it, saying funny doesn’t suit him (NOT TRUE) so he should just stick to ice. Mr. ice-man. 😩 HE’S NOT!

Sherlock then gets serious, grabbing John by the arm and explaining that what happened to him last night was more than just fear, it was something he hadn’t really experienced before: Doubt. He felt he couldn’t trust his own senses. John says he (Sherlock) can’t actually believe that he saw a monster, and Sherlock says no, but he DID see it, so that leaves the question of how that could be. So this is a lame attempt at justification and also Sherlock spinning it trying to downplay the meltdown he had the night before while using his usual tactics when he’s trying to get John back on board with him after he’s fucked up: dangling the mystery and the danger and the intrigue in front of him, hoping John’ll bite and all will be forgotten. On the subtextual level, this is the emotional conundrum; Sherlock’s a rational person, he doesn’t (want to) believe the ‘monster’ is real and yet something has caused his own mind to turn against him to allow those fears and doubts about himself (the Hound), and about John, out of their carefully manicured iron box where he can no longer ignore them and pretend he’s above them. Sherlock thinks it’s the ‘sugar’ that has ‘drugged’ him and caused his senses to fail him. He’s an idiot.

The fact that he specifies doubt here I find interesting, specifically doubt with regards to his own senses, as this is another thing that rears it’s ugly head again in The Lying Detective: In which his own ‘memories’ are thrown into turmoil and he has a crisis of Faith (in John), then loses Faith (John) completely, when forced to assume Faith (John) was only ever a figment of his lonely, overactive and drug-addled imagination. He’s forced to accept his senses have betrayed him, as a direct consequence of his ‘addiction’. Here, he holds the ‘sugar’ he likes to have responsible for his close encounter with the Hound. He is wrong on both counts, a little sweetness never harmed no one (actually that’s a lie, Sherlock’s poisoned sweetness is about to hurt John a LOT) and Faith WAS always real.

So anyway, because Sherlock’s a fuck up and can’t deal with John being upset with him, John is just like hmm yes good, got something to go on with then have you, have fun with that and walks away again. Although I think at this point it’s already pretty obvious that John is struggling to stay angry with him (and is just as [if not more] angry with himself), irregardless of how hurt he is. Everyone’s made a lot of this moment and the way John’s eyes keep dropping to Sherlock’s neck as if he’s just so mesmerised by it (which, y’know, fair enough) but that was never what struck me about this scene lmao. John’s upset with Sherlock and here Sherlock is again getting right up in his personal space, putting his face mere INCHES from John’s and making intense eye contact with him. Sustained eye contact with someone at that proximity is VERY intimate and, I always felt like John’s wandering eyes here were more an attempt to break eye contact with Sherlock because it’s too uncomfortable. And, he’s upset with him! Sherlock shouldn’t keep getting away with this crap! He can’t afford to be gazing right into Sherlock’s big blue eyes like this! Dammit!!

Sherlock like...reel him in reel him in. Boy.... :/

As John is walking away Sherlock finally makes an effort at one of his awkward sort-of apologies, saying that he meant what he said last night, that he doesn’t have friends, in the plural, because John is his only friend, gazing at John like a PUPPY. :( It certainly does the trick;

Sherlock must see that tiny smile and nod. John clearly accepts this as Sherlock’s version of an apology, but isn’t quite ready to let him have it just yet, and abruptly turns away from him again, but with that out of the way Sherlock is on John’s heels immediately now showering him with praises because John’s just given him another brain orgasm.

John, you are amazing! You are fantastic! You stimulate me like no other! He literally calls John a conductor of light which is STILL one of the most excruciating things to ever come out of his trash mouth, but as always he tempers his earnestness with glib nonsense, causing John to prompt him to maybe not start ruining his apology QUITE yet (alas, he’s only getting started 😞). John asks what he’s done that’s so bloody stimulating (if only you knew…) and Sherlock turns around and holds up his moleskin, the word HOUND jumps off the page across Sherlock himself, as we look at him from John’s POV;

Beware the Hound, John! 

Sherlock looks positively devilish doesn’t he. Why did they ever stop using Paul McGuigan??? A GOD DAMN mystery. This is an obvious marker, just like the moment in The Blind Banker in which Sherlock is marked as the Deadman; so he is marked here, as the Hound. This shot, like the one at the inn the previous day, is from John’s POV because in both instances it is marking Sherlock as John’s “Hound”. John is not tormented by the Hound that torments Sherlock/Henry, because, among other things, John is not gay. John is tormented by Sherlock. Sherlock is the thing that Hounds John. It is also, without a doubt, hinting at the monstrous thing Sherlock is about to do to him. HOUND!

Sherlock speculates that perhaps Hound is actually an acronym, when he turns and spots Lestrade inside the Inn and dramatically swans over to interrogate his presence. He looks put out as John warmly greets Lestrade as Greg, and continues to petulantly demand an explanation.

Sherlock deduces Mycroft must have sent his Handler (conscience, better part, keeper; whatever you wanna call him :P) to look after him “incognito” at the mention of Baskerville, and asks if that’s why he’s calling himself Greg, which John helpfully points out is actually his name. His own better part, his GOOD man, and he’s such a cock he doesn’t even know his NAME! (But John Does!!!) The homoeroticism latent in calling Lestrade Sherlock’s handler is already enough but like look at them...

Like, I am sorry but this is sexual tension aljkald. Greg indignantly says he doesn’t just do whatever Mycroft tells him, rather giving away the fact that he probably does just that. 😩 Then John chips in and halts their squabbling, bringing forth the invoice for all the meat apparently being gobbled by the owners of this strictly vegetarian! establishment. And off they go to shake down Billy and Gary and get to the bottom of this Hound business.

*[1] Another parallel in The Lying Detective that doesn’t really need any elaboration, they’re just parallels that add more context:

I’m afraid, John. Can’t do it, not now. .....Not alone.

Like...they’re begging you to actually LOOK AT HIM. SEE what’s right there in front you!

**[2] And another:

Aaaand of course...

tagging again @sarahthecoat, @devoursjohnlock, @inevitably-johnlocked, @impossibleleaf, @tjlcisthenewsexy, @gosherlocked, @221bloodnun, @northstargrassmaiden, @poisonousindigo (u get tagged in this one bc i remember u asking me about umqra which is what really set off this whole thing lmao), @love-in-mind-palace

hope ya’ll’s enjoy :) I sure did!!