#and a holmes without his watson is no holmes at all

[sweaterkittensahoy]

The thing about House and Wilson, and Holmes and Watson obviously, is that it's a story about two people who are fucking weirdos but wired in similar weirdo ways.

Except. And this is the important part. Holmes KNOWS he's a weirdo, and Watson has a hard time accepting some of his own levels of weirdo.

But, because Holmes is like "ALL IN ON WEIRDO," it gives Watson the opportunity to go, "WAIT. WE CAN DO THAT."

And it's not to say that Watson is absolutely unable to be a weirdo without Holmes. He can be. But Holmes helps him see that there's LOTS of ways to be a weirdo without hurting anyone and making himself happier and ALSO that there are definitely ways to be a weirdo that aren't about being a weirdo and are, in fact, about doing drugs. Which is not great for you. And that's where Watson comes back to Holmes and says, "Hey, maybe be fucking reasonable about this one goddamn thing."

Which, even in the end of the show, we see. Wilson's wondering who he would have been if he were a huge prick like House, and House gives Wilson the last of his vicodin because he cares about his friend having any sort of comfort in a trying time.

Anyway, they're a perfect Holmes and Watson because they match each other's freak.

that's how they match each other's freak

[holmesianlove]

Chapter 23 -  Ice Cream

John was grateful to return home to an empty flat. He had spent a long day at the clinic - a genuinely unfair return to reality. Two and half days away followed by a couple of very strange, quiet days at the flat with Sherlock and he was almost eager to get back to work. But once there, he was definitely regretting it. He felt like a fish out of water now. The clinic felt like an irritation. God, he hated the clinic work. And he hated himself for hating the clinic work. It was supposed to be noble, honest work. John felt like a bad person when he disliked his clinic work so much. But he'd discovered a different world with Sherlock Holmes. He was tempted to open a fake email account and make up a case just to email Sherlock and give them and excuse to escape again. He longed for the buzz he had while they had been on the trip, the thrill of the chase, the excitement in Sherlock’s every word, in every expression on that perfect face of his, when he was being inspired like that. But Sherlock had seemed a little quiet, introspective, unsure since their return. Possibly, he was also sulking about no case work. But it all left John feeling flat. Out of place.

Maybe the suit had been a step too far? Maybe Sherlock’s behaviour wasn’t at all an appreciation, but an aversion? He had seemed more receptive to John over the last week, but maybe John had started to get the wrong idea entirely. Was this Sherlock pulling back because he had seen John's feelings and didn't want to give him the wrong idea? Whatever was going on, since returning home, it was like a really bad sugar crash. All that chocolate had clearly given him some kind of delusional high.

He was craving sugar after his shift too. He had gone to the local shops to pick up something easy to heat up for dinner. There was no way he would be cooking tonight, and Sherlock never wanted to cook. But when he got to the shop, John had been completely uninspired. He knew there were eggs at home, he could always make some later, but what he actually wanted, what he decided upon finally, was a large tub of creamy chocolate ice cream. He had that sugar craving to satisfy, after all. Despite the cold weather, he was feeling bereft. Of what, he didn’t know. And the only thing that made him feel better when he felt like that, was ice cream. 

“Ice cream for dinner? John Watson you are really reaching new levels of pathetic,” he sighed to himself as he stood in the aisle second guessing his decision. The sugar craving won out of course.

He couldn’t very well come home and admit how he was feeling to Sherlock, though, so it was a huge relief that the flat was empty and he was alone. He would put on some crap telly, his comfortable pyjamas, and sit with his tub of ice cream and a spoon, and just eat the entire tub, guilt-free, disposing of the evidence afterwards. Possibly even make some toast later so it looked like he’d eaten real food. After all the nagging he constantly gave Sherlock, his flatmate would probably be horrified to see John had devoured a whole tub of ice cream as his dinner. Still, it wasn’t going to stop him. Maybe an entire litre of ice cream would fill the hole in his chest that seemed to be there now, with no hope of a remedy.

John was rendered speechless, not long after settling in, when Sherlock burst through the door, part way through his 'dinner'. The man stood stationary in the doorway for a moment, as if he was taking the temperature of the flat, of John, before speaking. It was odd. John scoffed to himself and finished sucking the ice cream from his spoon. Sherlock wrestled his way out of his coat and dumped it across the arm of his chair, toed off his shoes on the spot and threw his phone and keys down on the seat of the chair without a word. He unravelled his scarf and played with the fabric for a moment before he finally padded over and collapsed onto the sofa beside John.

Without words, or eye contact, he simply stared at the television, trying to register what it was that John had chosen to watch and the plot of the episode. He couldn’t for the life of him figure that out. So he finally turned his head to look at John, to see how he was feeling about this viewing situation and then he saw the ice cream. John tried very hard not to blush under the scrutiny. He could feel Sherlock looking him up and down. He always imagined Sherlock like the terminator when he did that. As if, inside Sherlock’s head, a little computer was spitting out information in his field of vision. John Watson. Flatmate. Idiot. Doctor of something or other. Military injury. Cooks that thing with peas. Hates shopping. Depressed about being at Baker Street with no cases. Has chosen chocolate ice cream for dinner.

Sherlock shuffled closer, turning to face John, and crossing his legs. “What have we got here, then?” he asked playfully. 

John’s spine straightened, his pride ruffled, and he finished his spoonful before shovelling it down into the remaining ice cream. “Dinner,” he finally admitted, without turning his head to acknowledge how close Sherlock was sitting to him.

“Right,” Sherlock said.  Without hesitation, he reached out and grabbed the spoon and scooped some up for himself.

John’s head snapped around and he opened his mouth to argue but Sherlock simply polished it off, before pushing the spoon back into the tub again. “Mmmm, you got the good stuff. Must have been a really horrid day,” he said simply, without further judgement.

“Mmmm,” John agreed with a hum. He paused, still embarrassed for a moment and then his taste buds screamed at him to get another spoon, so he did. The same spoon Sherlock had just put in his mouth, and slid ice cream from. With his tongue. John felt himself flush slightly at the very thought, but the idea of getting up to get another spoon was far too much effort and so he grabbed it and partook in another spoonful. “Been out?” he asked casually. All the while, focussed on the fact that this spoon had been Sherlock’s a moment before and it felt sinful all of a sudden.

“Had to fill Mycroft in about the case. He was in fine form.”

“You probably need this more than me, then,” John suggested. This time, he simply handed the spoon directly to Sherlock, finally making eye contact. Sherlock smiled and grabbed the spoon from him.

“You may be right.” 

Sherlock adjusted his position, uncrossing his legs and shuffling his hips closer, until they touched John’s. This time he lifted his knees up and put his feet on the sofa, so he was folded up, leaning his weight slightly against John as he grabbed the next spoonful. John wished he could fold himself up like that. Sherlock certainly seemed comfortable.

“What are we watching?” Sherlock asked, as he finished his spoon of ice cream and passed it back to John.

“Love Island. You’ll hate it,” John said simply as he ate and passed the spoon back, a new routine established. 

There was something incredibly sensual about licking off the spoon and sharing it with his friend in that way. It created a whole new closeness. And the way Sherlock was sitting right beside him, watching this television show, which John knew perfectly well, Sherlock would never agree to watch normally. It was quite… nice. The two of them, together, sharing in a moment like this. Sharing a spoon, though? That wasn’t normal. Was it? Where had that come from? John couldn’t help turning his head with fascination, when Sherlock took his turn, watching the way he fed the spoon into this mouth, the way he sucked the ice cream from it and then licked his lips in a little dance. He couldn’t take his eyes of it. But he flicked his eyes back to the television before Sherlock could catch him.

“Mmm, this is one of my favourite brands,” Sherlock said quietly to himself.

“Well, it was a rough day. It required top quality chocolate,” John said, without looking at his friend.

“Not as good as Belgian chocolate, though,” Sherlock said.

“Well, no. You have a lot to answer for,” John teased. “I think I may have an unhealthy addiction. Now I’m going to have to travel there again, you realise. That makes it expensive bloody chocolate.”

“They do sell some of it here, you know,” Sherlock said, chuckling happily. “Do these people really think they’ll find a relationship like this? In their swimwear?” he added.

John burst out laughing, and grabbed at the spoon again. “I think they’re mostly in it for the fame, but I like to think that occasionally there’s someone with good intentions.”

“Ah, Dr Watson, always an optimist at heart,” Sherlock teased with a little nudge, taking the spoon from John. “I didn’t take you for such a romantic.”

John turned to look at him. “What do you mean?”

Sherlock paused, realising he might have said the wrong thing. “No, I just mean…” He paused, spoon caught in mid-air as he thought hard. “Well, come on John. You have to admit you’ve been…” Sherlock scoffed, and looked at John expecting he would understand. “… a little lost in love.”

John grabbed the spoon off him, suddenly offended. He sat up straighter, breaking their nice, warm contact. “Says the perpetually single man who thinks people in love are idiots?” John scoffed, digging in for a particularly big scoop of ice cream.

“Oh come on John, don’t be like that,” Sherlock whined.

“No, that’s just great, Sherlock. I share my depression ice cream with you and you give me shit about my dating life,” John said angrily, standing up.

“John.”

“Do you really think that’s me? The idiot who dates all the women unsuccessfully? Is that what you think?” John asked, turning on Sherlock.

Sherlock was left looking a little shocked. And John felt guilty for ruining the moment. They had been having such a nice time, he thought. They often ribbed each other, particularly about John’s ridiculous dates. But today, he was feeling so very sensitive about the thoughts in his head, the things he felt for Sherlock right now, that all those women had been a distant memory. His womanising ways long forgotten in recent months. It was not something he wanted to have brought up in his face like that. By Sherlock of all people. He stood there, shaking his head, regretting so many things.

“John, come on," Sherlock said gently. "Sit back down. I didn’t mean anything by it. I was just…”

Sherlock looked really upset by John’s reaction, and patted at the cushion, to entice him back. And for once, John decided to listen. Not to run away. He stood, watching Sherlock for a moment and finally sat back down with a sigh. He flopped back on the couch and Sherlock settled close to him again. They both sat there in silence and then Sherlock, boldly, grabbed the spoon to get another mouthful.

“Sorry,” Sherlock said under his breath.

“I don’t…” John sighed. “I know there’s something quite ridiculous about me and all those dates... that I’m unsettled in the world. I know to you, it might seem… farcical…”

Sherlock shook his head. “No. No, John. Not at all. You don’t have to…”

John grabbed the spoon back from him. “I lost my way. I know that,” he said angrily. “I haven’t always been quite so…” He didn’t finish the thought. He just ate some ice cream and settled back properly, watching the television again in silence for a while. “God, if I end up like these people, do put me out of my misery, though,” John finally said a little more light hearted, trying to change his mood.

Sherlock laughed. He hugged his hands around his legs, and after a moment, he rested his head on John’s shoulder, in a gesture of apology, letting out a little, satisfied sigh. “Promise,” he said.

John smiled to himself as he finished his ice cream with Sherlock Holmes resting against him peacefully.

@lisbeth-kk @helloliriels @totallysilvergirl @221beloved @safedistancefrombeingsmart 

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[zaphodbeeblebroxssecondhead]

i need someone to love me the way doctor john watson loves mr sherlock holmes

[ask-post-dgs2-crew]

How did Naruhodo and the Mikotobas' boat ride home go? How have things been back in Japan?

Hullo, dear friend.

The trip back to our home country was certainly a bittersweet one. It was not my first time having to say goodbye to my second home, but it could be argued that this time was even more difficult. The three of us managed well enough on the boat, with plenty to do to keep our minds occupied, but as I lay awake in an empty bed, I longed to be with my partner.

I feel immense pride for those two fine young adults. They have been getting along better and better as of late, sharing an experience that few could possibly hope to understand. I long for such camaraderie myself.

Things have been successful in Japan. The three of us have worked hard to implement new ideas within our legal system, adding some contingencies in the hopes of stopping any situations like that of The Professor to happen in our country.

I would like to say I do not regret the choice to leave immediately, but I cannot say that in full confidence. I go back and forth on whether or not I made the right idea.

In short, the situation is complex but progressing smoothly. Signed, Dr. Yuujin Mikotoba

[averagestrayrat]

Thinking of how when Holmes is first introduced, Stamford expects Watson not to like him. Holmes is not a bad man, not at all, but he is so weird. And nobody knows anything about him - that's his thing, being mysterious and vaguely creepy, if not straight up annoying.

And Watson's reaction, instead, is immediate fascination. Before he even meets Holmes, he's already intrigued. After he meets him, instead of being put off, he walks back to his hotel thinking about this guy who grabbed him by the sleeve and told him he was in Afghanistan.

Thinking of how on their very first case, Holmes claims not to want to disclose too much of his deductive process in fear of Watson thinking he is a very ordinary individual, after all. You think he's fishing for compliments. Then you read the rest of the stories, how the majority of people react when he does disclose his reasoning, and suddenly it's not that hard to believe that Holmes gets very rarely complimented without an undertone of jealousy or irritation.

But Watson has neither, he's charmed to the core and unashamedly so. Watson gets the explanations because he asks for them with nothing but genuine curiosity, and because he is willing to respect Holmes' pace.

Thinking of how much Holmes is misunderstood by others, how much effort he puts into not being know, how he is always playing a character, even when that character is himself - Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective.

And how effortlessly Watson understands him and knows him, how his whole persona feeds on admiration, but on top of that Watson offers him acceptance and love - not because of his skills, not because of his usefulness, but because of who he is, as a person, when they are on a walk, at dinner, at a concert, at home. How Watson seems to be the only one who is offered an unfiltered Holmes.

You're Sherlock Holmes.

You're unique, and you know it. You're one of the smartest people in the world, and you take pride in it. You refine your skills, use them and make a living out of it like no one else could. It's not always good, though. You don't fit with others. No one truly sees or understands you — and at this point, you're sure no one ever can.

You move in with a new flatmate. You have him figured out pretty much from the moment you met him: he's quite simple, really, there's not much to learn. It's not long before you know his every habit, every expression — his expressions are so easy to read, the man is an open book. He's good company, though. And he doesn't seem to mind your eccentricities, so that's nice. You bond, somewhat.

And then — then, he surprises you for the first time. And the second. And the third. He's smarter than you thought, braver than you thought, more loyal, more stubborn than you ever realised, and as you live on together for longer and longer, as you grow closer and closer, he doesn't ever stop surprising you. Just as you think that this time, surely you know all there is to know about him, it turns out there's a new side to him you've never yet experienced. Just as you think you can always predict how he'd behave, he turns to do something unexpected. You spend years together, he's your closest friend, your other half, and there's still so much to learn about him, you know your study will never be complete.

And just as you realise how you can never truly learn all there is to know about him, he learns all there is to know about you. Your habits are unique, strange, unconventional, and he knows them all. Your expressions are unreadable, misleading at times, and he can read every one of them. Your moods are fast-changing, and he anticipates them, and knows how to deal with each one. He knows your opinions, your tastes, what you'll find interesting, what'll make you bored and irritated. At times, you think he knows you better than you know yourself.

He understands you. You never thought anyone could — but then, John Watson always surprised you.

[lowliest-manifestations]

Holmes brothers make me absolutely insane.

Mycroft is extremely stable, he goes through the same routine at the same time every day. He has carefully built a life well suited to himself: he has his job, his community, and his hobbies all in the same quiet and contained place. While I would argue that his is by no means anti-social, (he likes people! He really really does!) he obviously has some difficulty adjusting to the outside world at large. But he’s smart as hell so he’s figured out a way to have everything he needs.

Sherlock has had to do the same thing but as someone who just can’t do stability. He needs adventure, purpose, intrigue. He has built a career for himself, found a home and a partner, and is really, really fucking good at what he does. But he can’t keep any of it. Watson gets married, Sherlock fakes his own death, and he leaves behind everything. He returns of course, his life shattering and reforming into similar shapes over and over, but for those three years he’s back to the most basic constants of his life. He has his mind, his competence, and Mycroft.

It’s heartbreaking that Sherlock does not confide in Watson during those three years, but on the other hand, if it could only be one person, who else could it be? Who else understands him without explanation? Without judgement? Mycroft has known him his whole fucking life, in all likelihood he could see Sherlock’s hiatus coming from a mile away.

Mycroft is the most consistent thing In Sherlock’s extremely inconsistent life, and vice versa. When Sherlock needs stability he looks to Mycroft, and when Mycroft needs energy/adventure he looks to Sherlock. They just get each other.

[sherlock-is-ace]

One of my favorite things about Granada Holmes is the fact that it starts with the relationship between Holmes and Watson already established. They've been living together a few years already, and we get a fast yet wonderful glimpse at what that relationship is within the first few minutes of the first episode.

Watson comes in worried about Holmes' mood and then his health (when he thinks he's been on the drugs).

We have Holmes sort of playing a little prank on Watson. Going on and on about how he hates being bored and that's why he uses drugs, only to reveal that he actually has a case and hadn't touched the syringe at all.

He asks Watson for his deductions and celebrates when he's right.

Holmes bought Watson some cigars!! "You see, I was not unmindful of your return".

Then they get to meet the client together as partners. "I am lost without my Boswell"

In quite rapid succession we have a series of little moments and interactions that lay out exactly who these characters are and what their relationship is like. Not even 10 minutes in and you feel like you've known these characters for years. That's wonderful writing imo

[silver-bees]

An excerpt of a letter written to Sherlock Holmes by Dr. John Watson that was left out of his public account of the adventure of the hound of the Baskervilles 

We had arrived back at the house after our fruitless search for the convict and I was nearly ready to retire when Sir Henry called out to me, his voice hoarse. “Watson, might you sit up with me for the night?” He seemed scared, not at all like the brazen man I had first met at Baker Street. My heart softened at his request, I sat back down without a word and we both gazed into the fire for a few minutes. Finally his voice broke through the still drawing room air. 

“I don’t know what to think. I was certain the curse was merely some old fairy story. I still half believe that, or maybe I just want to believe it, but that sound we heard…it was unmistakable.” “Stapleton said it may be the call of a rare bird” I replied but even to myself it sounded empty. As though either of us, or anyone else for that matter, could have been mistaken as to what that sound really was. “Or maybe some shepherd’s dog that got loose on the moor.” I continued, trying my best to sound unconcerned. “I suppose, though it sounded rather large for a sheepdog did it not?” He glanced over to me and I could see the terror glinting in his eyes. I put a firm hand on his shoulder. 

“Whatever it is, I’m here. I won’t let it get you without a fight” I reassured. I kept my voice steady for him, but truth be told I felt nearly as shaken as he looked. Sir Henry took a deep, shuddering breath and a rough laugh burst from his throat as though against his will. “I’d much rather you not let it get me at all!” he exclaimed with a hint of his former bravado, “You know, I do feel safer with you by my side. I’ve been reading some of your accounts of your adventures with Holmes.” “Have you?” I asked with some little surprise.

“Stapleton lent them to me, apparently he quite enjoys them as well. I must say, you’re quite a writer. I’ve never been one for reading all that much but your accounts are most entertaining” I felt pride well in my chest at his words.

“Well, perhaps someday ‘the curse of the baskervilles’ will be added to their number” “It would be an honor,” he chuckled. 

We sat there for a few hours, the heat of the fire and some excellent brandy (courtesy of the late Sir Charles’ cellar) bringing the color back to his cheeks. Finally he brought the subject back around to my writing.

“You know Watson, I think you sell yourself short. In all your accounts you seem to rarely speak of your own achievements.” “Holmes said something similar to me on the morning your case was brought to us, though in his case I feel it was a little backhanded.”

“I mean it, Watson. You spend so many words detailing Holmes’ achievements and, while they do indeed seem marvelous, it leaves little room for praise of your own kindness. I would never have guessed from the way you write the sort of reassurance your company provides.” 

I must admit I blushed quite a lot at that. I admired Sir Henry and to hear such words from him made me feel things I simply don’t have words for. 

“I fear you exaggerate for the sake of my ego, my dear fellow” I deflected. 

“Certainly not! I appreciate Holmes taking my case, but to have you by my side is invaluable. I truly don’t know what I’d have done tonight when I heard that ghostly howl if you were not there to steady my nerves.” “Well, I certainly appreciate you saying that.” 

He looked at me for a long moment, the reflection of the fire dancing in his eyes and his brow furrowed in contemplation. 

“Watson-” he started suddenly

“John,” I gently corrected, “We’re close enough to drop the formality” He nodded curtly. 

“John, if you do write an account of our time together, might I ask you to leave something out? Can you keep a secret, I mean?”

Of course I was hesitant to reply. I felt torn between my dedication to the details of the case and to keeping my dear friend’s privacy. 

“If it relates to-” “It doesn’t,” he assured me, “it is a strictly personal matter” “Then the public will never hear of it”

“Well, you know that I’m a bachelor…” he began with some hesitation. I was certain he was about to tell me he had some affection for Miss Stapleton. He did not. “I may always be a bachelor,” he continued, “I have little interest in women really” “That’s not so strange,” I reassured him, “Holmes has no interest in women either. I’ve known a few men who went for years having little interest in women until they met someone in particular and became enamoured.” “It’s not that I have no interests whatsoever,” he corrected, seeming to struggle for words, “I am Interested in someone, but I fear I am not suited for marriage with the person I am interested in” I couldn’t help but scoff. “You’re a baronette, my dear friend, what woman could possibly object to your place in society?” “That’s not exactly what I meant. I mean that he isn’t a woman” he said a bit gruffly. I understood suddenly why he had been so cagey about it and ensured that I wouldn’t publicize his secret. I nodded, letting him know that I caught his meaning while I formulated what to say in response. “I see. Well in that case, I should inform you that while I do have some interest in women, I have an equal interest in men.” I could see his eyes go wide in the dying light of the fire. It seemed I had taken him by surprise. 

“Well then, a fellow bachelor! What a pleasant surprise. Not that I have any right to ask, but are you and Holmes…?” He left the question open.

“Not exactly. I’ve considered it, but he never returned my feelings. He tells me he has no romantic inclination whatsoever.” Sir Henry seemed a little disappointed and I suspected I knew the cause. “But I am past those feelings. I moved on once I realized they weren’t returned.” 

“Have you anyone on your mind presently?” he asked and I fancy I heard some hope in his voice. 

“I believe so, yes, and I have reason to suspect I’m on his mind as well.” I gave him a meaningful glance. 

We didn’t say anything more. We didn’t need to say anything. He put his hand in mine and we watched the last embers of the fire burn out as dawn broke over the moor. 

Dear Sherlock Holmes fanfic write, please, please PLEASE One of you write a fanfic about Watson and Sir Henry (the hound of the baskervilles). I've been shipping them since I've seen the granade episode. THEY HAVE CHEMISTRY I PROMISE JUST TRY WRITING THE FANFIC (please?)

[beekeeperspicnic]

Can't believe this blog has existed THIS long, and I've somehow never shared this Sherlock Holmes fanfic by PG Wodehouse. As far as I know it predates Conan Doyle publishing any stories which mention Holmes retiring to keep bees, which presents the delightful possibility that ACD discussed his future plans for Holmes with his young friend Plum, whose first reaction was to go off and write (and publish) a cute parody of it.

The Adventure of the Missing Bee

Sherlock Holmes is to retire from public life after Christmas, and take to bee-farming in the country.

"It is a little hard, my dear Watson," said Holmes, stretching his long form on the sofa, and injecting another half-pint of morphia with the little jewelled syringe which the Prince of Piedmont had insisted on presenting to him as a reward for discovering who had stolen his nice new rattle; "it is just a little hard that an exhausted, overworked private detective, coming down to the country in search of peace and quiet, should be confronted in the first week by a problem so weird, so sinister, that for the moment it seems incapable of solution."

"You refer—?" I said.

"To the singular adventure of the missing bee, as anybody but an ex-army surgeon equipped with a brain of dough would have known without my telling him."

I readily forgave him his irritability, for the loss of his bee had had a terrible effect on his nerves. It was a black business. Immediately after arriving at our cottage, Holmes had purchased from the Army and Navy Stores a fine bee. It was docile, busy, and intelligent, and soon made itself quite a pet with us. Our consternation may, therefore, be imagined when, on going to take it out for its morning run, we found the hive empty. The bee had disappeared, collar and all. A glance at its bed showed that it had not been slept in that night. On the floor of the hive was a portion of the insect's steel chain, snapped. Everything pointed to sinister violence.

Holmes' first move had been to send me into the house while he examined the ground near the hive for footsteps. His search produced no result. Except for the small, neat tracks of the bee, the ground bore no marks. The mystery seemed one of those which are destined to remain unsolved through eternity.

But Holmes was ever a man of action.

"Watson," he said to me, about a week after the incident, "the plot thickens. What does the fact that a Frenchman has taken rooms at Farmer Scroggins' suggest to you?"

"That Farmer Scroggins is anxious to learn French," I hazarded.

"Idiot!" said Holmes, scornfully. "You've got a mind like a railway bun. No. If you wish to know the true significance of that Frenchman's visit, I will tell you. But, in the first place, can you name any eminent Frenchman who is interested in bees?"

I could answer that.

"Maeterlinck," I replied. "Only he is a Belgian."

"It is immaterial. You are quite right. M. Maeterlinck was the man I had in my mind. With him bees are a craze. Watson, that Frenchman is M. Maeterlinck's agent. He and Farmer Scroggins have conspired, and stolen that bee."

"Holmes!" I said, horrified. "But M. Maeterlinck is a man of the most rigid honesty."

"Nobody, my dear Watson, is entirely honest. He may seem so, because he never meets with just that temptation which would break through his honesty. I once knew a bishop who could not keep himself from stealing pins. Every man has his price. M. Maeterlinck's is bees. Pass the morphia."

"But Farmer Scroggins!" I protested. "A bluff, hearty English yeoman of the best type."

"May not his heartiness be all bluff?" said Holmes, keenly. "You may take it from me that there is literally nothing that that man would stick at. Murder? I have seen him kill a wasp with a spade, and he looked as if he enjoyed it. Arson? He has a fire in his kitchen every day. You have only to look at the knuckle of the third finger of his left hand to see him as he is. If he is an honest man, why does he wear a made-up tie on Sundays? If he is an upright man, why does he stoop when he digs potatoes? No, Watson, nothing that you can say can convince me that Farmer Scroggins has not a black heart. The visit of this Frenchman—who, as you can see in an instant if you look at his left shoulder-blade, has not only deserted his wife and a large family, but is at this very moment carrying on a clandestine correspondence with an American widow, who lives in Kalamazoo, Mich. — convinces me that I have arrived at the true solution of the mystery. I have written a short note to Farmer Scroggins, requesting him to send back the bee and explaining that all is discovered. And that," he broke off, "is, if I mistake not, his knock. Come in."

The door opened. There was a scuffling in the passage, and in bounded our missing bee, frisking with delight. Our housekeeper followed, bearing a letter. Holmes opened it.

"Listen to this, Watson," said Holmes, in a voice of triumph.

"'Mr. Giles Scroggins sends his compliments to Mr. Sherlock Holmes, an' it's quite true, I did steal that there bee, though how Mr. Holmes found out, Mr. G. Scroggins bean't able to understand. I am flying the country as requested. Please find enclosed 1 (one) bee, and kindly acknowledge receipt to 'Your obedient servant, 'G. Scroggins.

'Enclosure.'?"

"Holmes," I whispered, awe-struck, "you are one of the most remarkable men I ever met."

He smiled, lit his hookah, seized his violin, and to the slow music of that instrument turned once more to the examination of his test tubes.

Three days later we saw the following announcement in the papers: "M. Maeterlinck, the distinguished Belgian essayist, wishes it to be known that he has given up collecting bees, and has taken instead to picture postcards."

[spiciestmarinara]

Thinking about how actually genius it is to have John Watson be a podcaster. It’s a perfect parallel to him being the one in-universe to write down his and Sherlock’s adventures, BUT MORE IMPORTANTLY it keeps John a relevant and proactive character in the stories and the audience has to rely on him to give us all the relevant information so we can try to put together and solve the case, too.

It’s so good because any Sherlock Holmes fan will tell you, there are too many adaptations out there where John as a character really suffers by the story being moved to third person (and sometimes omniscient) and not being beholden to making him a fully formed character - it’s just ticking the Watson box without thinking about why he’s there.

[contact-guy]

do you ever think about how Sherlock Holmes expresses his affection in such an oblique and sideways manner that Watson could have recorded Holmes’s confession of love and published it for all the world to read without ever understanding it for what it was

[averagestrayrat]

THANK YOU I wonder about that too. The mood swings alone would've messed with his physical health so much. On top of that, and all that was mentioned above, we have Victorian hygiene and healthcare standards (sure, not the worst, but definitely not even close to the best either. Just thinking that Holmes reused his needle makes me cringe.) On top of THAT, he lived in London. The air was filthy. Yes, even without cars, 19th century London air was infamously polluted. Not that the inside of 221B would be particularly clean either, with all the smoking (can you imagine being a client and entering that sitting room? Can you imagine the tobacco smell clinging to the fabric of every chair and the walls? Ew.)

And since we're here, I've also often wondered how did Watson survive, but that man seems to be unkillable.

Sometimes I wonder, how did Holmes managed to live for as long as he did? Considering his habits I'm kinda surprised he lived longer than 30.

They include:

- HEAVY smoking (of course)

- Inhalation (and presumably consumption) of various chemicals

- Use of cocaine and morphine

- Engaging in boxing (yk, arguably the most dangerous sport in the world)

And that's not taking into account the nature of his profession.

I guess Watson is just a really good doctor.

[ask-geralt]

You guys want to know one of my favorite things about Edwin? He loves how smart his friends are. He gets so excited and outright a w e d whenever they think of something clever, make a keen observation, or offer a solution to their problems. All I ever want to write is Edwin who eloquently gushes and praises his friends' intelligence and skills. Edwin who, when the occasion arises, gases them up when they get self deprecating, because to him it's not an opinion, it's a FACT that they're smart, and good, and kind, and brave. That they're all equals. I would even go so far as to say he, himself, feels he has to continuously work and study so hard to keep up with them, to continue contributing.

Genuinely I feel like it's a pretty big factor in his hostility towards Crystal in the beginning. When Charles and Edwin first talk with her post-exorcism, she's unimpressed with the work they did to save her, and she insults the name of their agency, which Edwin and Charles are both clearly fond of. Charles, who's used to laughing at digs far more hurtful than that considering his life before death, let's it roll off him easily, but Edwin takes it more personally. From there, he grows jealous because of the attention Charles is giving her, made worse when Crystal proves her powers ARE faster than the methods the boys used before meeting her. Edwin feels like he needs to prove he's better, or at least still useful where Crystal isn't ("We all have talents.") to Charles, because if Crystal can do everything Edwin does, and does it better, then why would Charles keep sticking around? And of course, Crystal returns his hostility beat for beat, as she should. I feel like her subtle attempts to smooth things over and get along with Edwin aren't talked about enough, like she lets him get away with so many snide and openly rude comments before she starts biting back again in episode one. But Edwin holds a grudge and she shouldn't have to take his attitude towards her lying down, not forever, and neither of them are willing to, say, try and ask the other why they're so snippy towards each other, or apologize lol. Honestly their dynamic is so layered and fun to pick apart!!

What really seals it for me is the contrast in his reaction to Crystal compared to Niko. He warms to Niko pretty much immediately, calling her charming and quickly getting down to business on saving her, without even a token protest about helping yet another living girl. And I think that comes down to her attitude towards their assistance, what she brings to the table for the group's dynamic, and her willingness to let them do their thing without rocking the boat on methodology. She doesn't come across as a threat to Edwin's friendship (repressed and unacknowledged crush absolutely not helping either) with Charles, since she and Charles don't interact much, especially not one on one the way he and Crystal do, so she doesn't ruffle Edwin's feathers at all compared to how instantly and repeatedly Crystal gets under his skin.

All this to say I love all four of them, I love that they've all got their strengths and skills, I love that there's also that overlap, that they all get to do detective-ing and that Edwin doesn't get that petty protectiveness over that role. Yes he feels threatened by Crystal, but that has everything to do with Charles and nothing to do with her being competent, in and if itself. He doesn't see himself as a Sherlock Holmes with three Watsons following him around. He likes it when the others are clever, when he's not being a petty bitch (affectionate) who hates change/new things lmao

[doingbad]

Let's talk about Sherlock Holmes' work style when we first are introduced to him in A Study in Scarlet (lost post!)

He explains his job to Watson like so:

I’m a consulting detective, if you can understand what that is. Here in London we have lots of Government detectives and lots of private ones. When these fellows are at fault they come to me, and I manage to put them on the right scent. They lay all the evidence before me, and I am generally able, by the help of my knowledge of the history of crime, to set them straight.

Here we get the famous title "consulting detective" and what it means originally: That people consult Holmes and then prove their problems themselves without much more interaction.

[Watson] “But do you mean to say,” I said, “that without leaving your room you can unravel some knot which other men can make nothing of, although they have seen every detail for themselves?” [Holmes] “Quite so. I have a kind of intuition that way. Now and again a case turns up which is a little more complex. Then I have to bustle about and see things with my own eyes.

Holmes even says he does most of his work in that conversation with the client, or at least by thinking it over in his room. It is only "now and again" he actually goes out and does the legwork that he is famous for in most of the stories.

You may note this sound an awful lot like the methods of Sherlock's older brother, Mycroft Holmes. Here is Holmes explaining Mycroft's brilliance to Watson:

'You wonder,' said my companion, 'why it is that Mycroft does not use his powers for detective work. He is incapable of it.' 'But I thought you said-!' 'I said that he was my superior in observation and deduction. If the art of the detective began and ended in reasoning from an arm-chair, my brother would be the greatest criminal agent that ever lived. But he has no ambition and no energy. He would not even go out of his way to verify his own solutions, and would rather be considered wrong than take the trouble to prove himself right.

Seems like the Holmes brothers used to have pretty similar method. Sherlock may have more energy "now and again" but he's also nearly a decade younger than Mycroft.

So what changed? Dr Watson

Watson convinces him to take the STUD case

“Surely there is not a moment to be lost,” I cried, “shall I go and order you a cab?” “I’m not sure about whether I shall go. I am the most incurably lazy devil that ever stood in shoe leather—that is, when the fit is on me, for I can be spry enough at times.” “Why, it is just such a chance as you have been longing for.”

and even then, Holmes only goes on the condition that Watson joins him

“Get your hat,” he said. “You wish me to come?” “Yes, if you have nothing better to do.”

and later in the book Holmes says as much directly:

I must thank you for it all. I might not have gone but for you, and so have missed the finest study I ever came across: a study in scarlet, eh?

All of this is a long way to say: I think there is strong canon evidence that Holmes has his adventures because Watson is there. Watson is what makes them adventures and his enthusiasm, help, and encouragement are just as big a motivator for Holmes as the cases.

[edosianorchids901]

Beyond the Mists

@sherlocktember2024 prompt - "poison"

“I really am extremely sorry,” Holmes gasped, and Watson’s expression softened from panicked anger to tenderness.

Watson was still shaking though, shaking as badly as Holmes was. They clutched at each other, Watson’s fingers digging into his arms, Holmes struggling to keep his own hands raised to hold on at all. His limbs were weak, and he kept losing hold.

He twisted his fingers on Watson’s jacket, desperate to be reassured that he was here and all right, and attempted to evaluate the situation. Stone under his back, cold even though his coat. Bushes and grass to either side. Fresh, chilly air without a trace of noxious smoke bearing a deadly poison.

“You have…” Holmes coughed again, and nearly lost hold of Watson’s jacket. “You have carried me outside, I presume.”

Watson nodded, still pale and shaking. He rubbed Holmes’ upper arm, as if in apology for holding onto him so tightly, or perhaps for shouting at him. He need not have apologized at all. “I saw your face. I came out of that fog, and I saw your face.”

“Ah.”

“The look on your face, Holmes.” A shudder rippled through Watson again, and he briefly closed his eyes. He opened them again quickly, as if terrified to let Holmes out of view for even a moment. “I have only seen such a look on the faces of the dead and insane here. I thought I had lost you to that terrible poison. That I had lost you again.

Watson’s voice broke, and his eyes filled with tears. Weakly, Holmes patted his chest. “It’s all right, Watson. You have not lost me.”

“I pulled you out of your seat and held you to my chest, half carrying you outside. You screamed while I held you, and after I laid you down. My God, Holmes, the way you screamed.”

Holmes had been lost in visions of evil and malice, consumed by terror far more severe than he had experienced in years. It still lingered even now, a terribly heightened fear. “I was not myself.”

“I know. You did not know me, you were not answering me…” Tears slipped down Watson’s cheeks. “I’ve hardly ever been so terrified. I did not know what horrors were tormenting you, and there was nothing I could do to protect you from them. Just like at Reichenbach Falls.”

“It was the Falls that I saw.” All at once, Holmes could not breathe again. He could not stop shaking either, and his heart beat faster and faster. “The Falls, and Moriarty, and…”

Quite suddenly, he burst into tears. It was not the sort of thing he was in the habit of doing, and especially not in front of someone else. But the terror of those visions rose again, sudden unbearable distress, and he clutched desperately at Watson as sobs wrenched through him.

“My God, Holmes!” Watson bent, scooped him up off the path, and cradled him close. One hand curled around the back of his head, other arm wrapped under his shoulder blades. “Holmes, what is it? Is something else wrong?”

“N-no, I’m all right, just…” Holmes sobbed again, hiding his face in Watson’s neck. Terrible tremors struck, and he could not calm himself. “Oh, Watson. I am so very glad to be with you.”

“My dear Holmes.” Watson clutched him tighter, holding him up. “I’m here. You’re safe now. We’re both safe now. Just breathe.”

“I fear that is a little difficult.” Another cough shook him, and his head spun. He dug his fingers into Watson’s coat again, seizing the fabric to keep his hand from falling. He was so very weak. “I still do not feel myself.”

“I know.” Breathing hard, Watson combed his fingers through Holmes’ hair, then cradled him even more securely. Watson, thankfully, did not seem to be suffering the same sort of weakness. Without his strength, Holmes could not have remained upright. “We have both just been poisoned. The effect may linger for a while.”

It was certainly lingering. Holmes’ head pounded, crashing pain in his temples, and aches spread through the rest of his body. He still couldn’t stop shaking, and the state of heightened emotions remained. His tears dripped to Watson’s jacket.

But his quick, hyperventilating breaths had slowed, even with the those images of terror still threading through his mind. Moriarty seemed close, still grappling with him, and the crash of the Falls echoed in his ears. But he was in Watson’s arms, the safest place in all the world. He need not be afraid.

Watson was calming too, and although he let out a few sobs of his own, they sounded like those of relief. He simply held Holmes close, his chest heaving as well, yet his breaths beginning to settle.

Neither of them spoke now. Instead they clung to each other, shivering despite the warm sunlight. It felt almost as if speaking might shatter the moment of fragile peace and relief.

Which was not remotely logical. And yet, the impression was so strong that Holmes maintained his silence as long as he could stand, merely focusing on the solidity of the man beside him.

“Your shoulder and leg,” he finally murmured, low, unwilling to disturb the peace even with his worry. “Am I harming you?”

Watson’s arm tightened around him, and one hand slid down to cradle the nape of Holmes’ neck. “My old wounds are of no consideration to me right now.”

So it was causing him at least a little pain. Holmes still could not bring himself to pull back, and he suspected Watson would not have wished to let go of him.

Ordinarily, Holmes did not easily tolerate long physical contact. Watson’s gentle hand on his arm for a moment was one thing. An embrace was something else, generally too restrictive, the sort of contact that made him wish to retreat.

At the moment, however, he wished to stay here for the foreseeable future. It was only Watson’s arms around him that kept him from falling to pieces again.

“It seems I owe you a thousand thanks in addition to the apologies.” Letting out a long breath, Holmes managed at last to relax into the embrace, although he found himself unable to stop desperately clinging to Watson’s jacket. If he released his grip, he would lose what balance he would manage to regain, and likely hurt Watson worse. “You saved my life, Watson, and my sanity. I am deeply indebted to you.”

“No, you’re not. You don’t owe me anything.” With a shaky exhale, Watson ran a gentle stroke across his hair. “I am so relieved you’re all right, old man. I cannot possibly express how relieved I am.”

Holmes still wasn’t entirely certain that he was all right. Those horrible visions remained, looming so prominently in his mind, and he still could not stop trembling. The poison and resulting fear had been a severe strain on his already overtaxed body, hardly a helpful thing after his long illness.

“Are you all right?” he asked, nuzzling into Watson’s shoulder. “I poisoned you as well, and I fear I have neglected to properly inquire after your well being.”

Watson gave a soft snort, arms tightening around him again. “Well, I don’t think I’m nearly as affected by the poison as I am by seeing you so frightened. My own state is of very little concern to me.”

“Good old Watson. You are truly remarkable.” Exhausted, Holmes closed his eyes and sank deeper into the embrace. “Dear me. We should likely rise and dispose of that deadly lamp, but I am a little reluctant to abandon the support of your shoulder.”

“There is no rush.” Letting out another long breath, Watson stroked his hair again. “You are welcome to my shoulder for as long as you would like, Holmes.”

As it was entirely Holmes’ fault that they were in this situation, he could not help a twinge of guilt for begging Watson’s indulgence. But Watson still seemed just as eager to be close to him, and had shown no sign of wishing to let go. So for a little while longer, they would sit in the sunlight, and take comfort in the simple relief of holding onto each other.

[mangled-by-disuse]

the other day my boyfriend and I were discussing (among other things) fictional genius representation and the relationship between sherlock holmes and moriarty and why it mostly fails in adaptations because people make it about moriarty playing holmes' game against him and like, that's WAY less impressive than holmes and moriarty both holding their own strategically against someone who is playing a completely different tactical game with completely different aims and priors

(holmes wants to solve puzzles and help people. moriarty literally just wants to do crimes for money and not deal with the heat. they understand people and society from diametrically opposite angles)

anyway this isn't about moriarty this is about how the conversation then turned to how the two most interesting "adversaries" in sherlock holmes are people who just do not want anything to do with sherlock holmes and want to get on with their own shit without him sticking his oar in, tyvm. and in both cases, in most adaptations, they're recast as obsessed with him and wanting to be involved with his life.

ALL OF WHICH TO SAY

i am hereby pitching one final modern-au sherlock holmes adaptation.

the lead character is irene adler.

the entire show is irene adler trying to stop being involved with sherlock holmes because wherever she goes and whatever she does, somehow the narrative keeps conspiring to bring sherlock holmes and john watson into her orbit.

irene spends the show getting progressively more involved in crime procedurals and it is ENTIRELY because if she solves the crime herself before the cops get involved, maybe they won't call that fucking detective.

in later seasons she escalates to trying to incapacitate holmes directly without killing him or injuring him (she is not a monster) so she can just focus on her damn wedding

the show is called The Woman and i think it captures the scandal in bohemia vibes better than any 21st century adaptation i've ever seen. call me, bbc.