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

[inevitably-johnlocked]

Five Fics Friday: July 4/25

Happy July 4th weekend, my American friends! Why not get into some great fics to keep you busy this long weekend?? Check out these new fics on my radar this week. Enjoy!

RECENT MFLs

Resetting the Break by thetimemoves (T, 1,000 w., 1 Ch. || Post-TRF, Mycroft Whump, Face Punching, Mild Hurt / Comfort, Sort of Fix-It) – When Mycroft Holmes finds himself on John Watson’s doorstep after Sherlock’s (miraculous, melodramatic) return, he wonders at himself. He doesn’t do this, groundwork. This is Sherlock’s mess, not his (lies), but he feels inexplicably compelled to defend his blasted brother. To John Watson, of all people. Part 2 of Hurts So Good

Oceans Blue by stopthat (T, 4,785+ w., 1/3 Ch. || WiP || Pre-TRF, POV Alternating, Fake Relationship, Fake Marriage, Idiots in Love, Friendship/Love, Headaches / Migraines, Lighthearted, For a Case, Humour / Banter, Travel, California, Jealous Sherlock, Bed Sharing) – Being so far from home makes things feel different somehow. A bit lighter, he supposes. A bit heavier, as well.

Ice by Raina_at (M, 17,838 w., 1 Ch. || HLV Fix It, Established Relationship, BAMF Johnlock, Trust Issues, Mary is Not Nice) – John is having a very bad week. First Sherlock disappears, then Mary returns, and now he's being held hostage and forced to go on the world's most dysfunctional road trip. Maybe, just naybe, If he keeps cool and trusts nobody, he can get though this in one piece, and keep his daughter alive as well. Part 7 of Nothing Gold

Downtime by TheGracefulBlueCat (NR, 20,307+ w., 9/? Ch. || WiP || Post TRF, Hurt/Comfort, PTSD, Torture, Distress, Sherlock Whump, Protective Mycroft, Sickness, Hospitals, Medical Procedures, Broken Bones, Drug Use, Unconsciousness, Hurt Molly, BAMF Molly, Traditional Medicine, Autistic Sherlock, Sensory Processing Disorder, Sensory Overload) – Sherlock endured numerous life-threatening situations during hunting down Moriarty's web. This is a collection of H/C scenes from his 'downtime'. Sherlock Whump, massive angst, injuries, hurt and comfort. Part 2 of Hiatus

When You Think He Can't See You by tisforpterodactyl (M, 38,160 w., 9 Ch. || Post S4, Rosie is in this Fic, POV John, PTSD, Angst, Developing Relationship, Friends to Lovers, Hurt John) – “Just the two of us against the rest of the world." That was what Sherlock had offered John the day he came back from the dead. John had punched his lights out because he was right pissed at Sherlock for leaving him, for making John have to learn how to face the rest of the world without the only person who made John feel that he had a place in it. And then he came back. He came back, and he asked John to jump right back into the fray, to the blood pumping in his veins, feet pounding on cobblestones and walking canes long forgotten. He asked that it be just the two of them against the rest of the world again. And John had punched him. Not because he didn't want it. Not at all. It was because John had wanted that exact thing, so badly, every day for two years. John had wanted nothing more than for them to just be... them. For as long as Sherlock would let him, John wanted to stay. So what changed? Bloody fucking everything. And now it's too late. Part 1 of Saving John Watson

[incomingalbatross]

One of the many things I am somewhat insane over: Pet and Athelas' contrasting POVs of her decision to banish him from her presence.

Pet on the left, Athelas on the right:

I mean. FIRST of all there's how well they read each other. That Athelas knew she wouldn't stick to it if he really made an effort to change her mind and is now planning to exploit that. SIR. That she knew he wouldn't come back, and he did in fact deliberately bar himself from returning for five years because he didn't trust himself around her.

But then there's the contrast of her motives as discussed in these two places.

You've got Pet's mixed and uncertain "why did I say that? I don't know. Maybe to hurt him. Maybe for his sake." She doesn't know! She doesn't trust herself to know!

And then you get Athelas' POV, and it has quietly picked out the kindest, most compassionate possibility she considered and accepts it as the entire story. His perspective isn't even "she had a right to do it," it's "this came from a place of care and I know it."

Just. augh. the way he believes in her intentions even more than she does. The way that even at his worst and most selfish, in these books, he never thinks the slightest negative thought about her. It's A Lot.

[assiraphales]

I think one of the worst things about watson’s wedding is that sherlock holmes, the man who talks a mile a minute who fills silence with his constant train of consciousness who most of all always has something to say to john, does not say a single thing to him the whole day. he grabs his hand & walks him to the front of the church wordlessly delivering him to mary and leaves without saying a THING. because he doesn’t trust what will come out of his mouth if he does & he can’t hide anything from john & john would surely hear his heart breaking

[greentrickster]

Okay, so, it's 100% canonical that Sherlock Holmes only does drugs when he's bored due to not having a case or anything better to keep him entertained. That's just a fact, that's how it's written in the text of the original stories.

Ergo, I think that means, in modern adaptations of these stories, the absolute last thing Sherlock should be doing is drugs. Because we have so many more things we can do for fun now than we did in Victorian England.

And, given his interests in learning, justice, good food, and music, I'm gonna go out on a limb and say that, for just day-to-day entertainment, he probably still has his violin, and also subs to a LOT of musicians on YouTube, along with following a few vlogs/blogs that review restaurants, and has subscriptions to just... so many academic journals. These are the things he turns to in the quiet moments of his cases, as well as taking Watson to various restaurants they like and attending concerts as they do in canon.

When he hasn't got a case and is bored, however?

Not drugs, I say.

No, not drugs, but a darker, more sinister addiction, one perfectly tailored to his longing for justice and preventing misinformation, that leads to greater knowledge for all being available at the fingertips of all, from all walks and ages of life, the unifier, the equalizer, the bastion of education that comes daily under threat that would see harm done to those they do not know.

In other words, he's a Wikipedia editor. And he's a godsdamned demon about it.

He doesn't go on Twitter for similar reasons he's not fond of the country - there's simply so much misinformation and injustice going on there that he simply can't fix, so he does his best to put his efforts in places he can make a difference. As far as he's concerned, the only good thing that's come out of that website is community notes.

(Watson makes note of all these details in his personal journals, where he details all their more interesting cases as well. He's not sharing them at the moment, social media being what it is these days means Sherlock gets more than enough attention without Watson's help, but he wants to keep track of them for himself, and on the odd thought that maybe someone will find interest in them either quite late in or after Watson and Holmes' own lives.)

[bedheaded-league]

One of the things I’m so happy about with some of the more recent Holmes adaptations is that we’re FINALLY giving Watson the spotlight he deserves. He’s been relegated to the sidekick role for so many years when he is, in fact, so vital to the stories that they literally could not exist without him. He’s not just the audience stand in, he’s not just the bumbling sidekick, he’s not just the POV narrator. He’s the man who controls the narrative and decides what we see and what we don’t. He’s the person who understands Holmes better than anyone and acts as his “normal people translator” so Holmes can interact with the outside world the way he needs to. He’s in love with Holmes and that love is the driving force of every single story. He’s a hero, he’s dashing, he’s intelligent, he’s brave, he’s a gentleman and a rogue, he’s responsible but has a gambling problem, he has a heart of gold and a severe bitchy streak, he’s a bisexual slut and also the absolute paragon of faithfulness and loyalty, he’s a wonderful doctor and a brilliant writer, he tries to get his best friend off cocaine years before most people even knew it was bad for you because he’s just that good of a doctor, he jumps to help anyone who needs medical attention even if they’re literally the villain they’ve been pursuing because everyone he could never bear to deny someone assistance, he reads obscure medical journals for fun because he’s just as obsessed with learning everything about his own craft as Holmes is about his, and he refuses to acknowledge any of these things because he doesn’t want us to focus on him.

Holmes isn’t the main character of the stories. John Watson is. And I adore him so fucking much. Absolute Guy Of All Time.

[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.

[kingstoken]

I saw a tumblr post not that long ago about Granada Sherlock Holmes, that said David Burke’s Watson was boyfriend!Watson and Edward Hardwicke’s Watson is husband!Watson, and I'm thinking truer words have never been spoken.

Burke’s Watson looks at Holmes with excitement, almost adoration at times. Something you would expect from a newer relationship.

Harwicke’s Watson looks at Holmes with a gentle fondness.

Burke’s run includes a lot more incidental touches, of the arm, the shoulder, etc. The type of stuff that is great for gif sets, and prefect for shipper fuel.

The touches are less during Hardwicke’s run, from what I’ve seen so far, but he shares these looks with Holmes like they’re communicating without talking, which don’t particularly gif well, but are such great little character moments when you’re watching the show.

I was disappointed at first that they switched actors part way through, but they made it work. There is about 7-8 years between Burke and Hardwicke for age, and I know canonically only three years are supposed to have passed between The Final Problem and The Empty House, but if you widen that gap the changes in Watson make more sense. Older Watson is more staid, he has known grief and heartache, and he has settled into his middle age. He seems exasperated with Holmes much of the time, and yet you know he would follow him almost anywhere. Older Watson more readily accepts Holmes with all of his foibles, because he knows what life was like without him.

Young Watson and Holmes are two men in their prime, ready to take on the world.

Older Watson and Holmes are the bickering old married couple, that would be lost without each other.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

The Adventures of Mary Darling

I'm on a 20+ city book tour for my new novel PICKS AND SHOVELS. Catch me in PITTSBURGH on May 15 at WHITE WHALE BOOKS, and in PDX on Jun 20 at BARNES AND NOBLE with BUNNIE HUANG. More tour dates (London, Manchester) here.

Science fiction great Pat Murphy has written some classics – including books that were viciously suppressed by the heirs of JRR Tolkien! – but with The Adventures of Mary Darling, she's outdone even her own impressive self:

https://tachyonpublications.com/product/the-adventures-of-mary-darling/

The titular Mary Darling here is the mother of Wendy, John and and Michael Darling, the three children who are taken by Peter Pan to Neverland in JM Barrie's 1902 book The Little White Bird, which later became Peter Pan. If you recall your Barrie, you'll remember that it ends with the revelation that Wendy, John and Michael weren't the first Darlings to go to Neverland: when Mary Darling was a girl, she, too, made the journey.

Murphy's novel opens with Mary Darling and her husband George coming home from a dinner party to discover their three children missing, the window open, and their nanny, a dog called Nana, barking frantically in the yard. John is frightened, but Mary is practically petrified, inconsolable and rigid with fear.

Soon, Mary's beloved uncle, John Watson, is summoned to the house, along with his famous roommate, the detective Sherlock Holmes. With Holmes on the case, surely the children will be found?

Of course not. Holmes is incapable of understanding where the Darling children have gone, because to do so would be to admit the existence of the irrational and fantastic, and, more importantly, to accept the testimony of women, lower-class people, and pirates. Holmes has all the confidence of the greatest detective alive, which means he is of no help at all.

Neither is George Darling, who, as a kind of act of penance for letting his children be stolen away, takes to Nana's doghouse, and insists that he will not emerge from it until the children are returned. He takes his meals in the doghouse, and is carried in it to and from the taxis that bring him to work and home again.

Only Mary can rescue her children. John Watson discovers her consorting with Sam, a one-legged Pacific Islander who is a known fence and the finest rat-leather glovemaker in London, these being much prized by London's worst criminal gangs. Horrified that Mary is keeping such ill company, Watson confronts her and Sam (and Sam's parrot, who screeches nonstop piratical nonsense), only to be told that Mary knows what she is doing, and that she is determined to see her children home safe.

Mary, meanwhile, is boning up on her swordplay and self-defense (taught by a Suffragist swordmaster in a room above an Aerated Bread Company tearoom, these being the only public place in Victorian London where a respectable woman can enjoy herself without a male escort). She's acquiring nautical maps. She's going to Neverland.

What follows is a very rough guide to fairyland. It's a story that recovers the dark asides from Barrie's original Pan stories, which were soaked with blood, cruelty and death. The mermaids want to laugh as you drown. The fairies hate you and want you to die. And Peter Pan doesn't care how many starveling, poorly trained Lost Boys die in his sorties against pirates, because he knows where there are plenty more Lost Boys to be found in the alienated nurseries of Victorian London, an ocean away.

More importantly, it's a story that revolves around the women in Barrie's world, who are otherwise confined to the edges and shadows of the action. In Barrie's Pan, Wendy is a "mother," Tiger Lily is a "princess," and Mary is a barely-there adult whose main role is to smile wistfully at the memory of when she was a girl and got to serve as Peter's "mother."

And Holmes? Apart from one love interest and a stalwart housekeeper, Holmes has very little time or regard for women. This is so central to the Holmes cannon that the Arthur Conan Doyle estate actually sued over Netflix's Enola Holmes movie, arguing that Enola displayed basic respect for women, a feature that doesn't appear until the very end of the Holmes canon, and – the estate argued – those final stories were still in copyright:

https://www.cbr.com/why-enola-holmes-has-nice-version-sherlock/

Murphy's woman's-eye-view of Peter Pan, Neverland and the Lost Boys dilates the narrow aperture through which Peter Pan plays out, revealing a great deal of exciting, fun, frightening stuff that was always off in the wings. She gives flesh and substance to characters like Tiger Lily, by giving her the semi-fictionalized identity of one of the many American First Nations people who toured Europe and Africa, putting on Wild West shows that won eternal fame and cultural currency for the "American Indian," even as the USA was seeking to exterminate them and their memory.

Likewise, Murphy's pirates are grounded in the reality of pirate ships: democratic, anarchic, and far more fun than Robert Louis Stevenson would have you believe. While Murphy's pirates are about a century too late (as are Barrie's), they are in other regards pretty rigorous, which makes them extraordinarily great literary figures.

If you read David Graeber's posthumous Pirate Enlightenment, you'll know about the Zana-Malata of Madagascar, the descendants of anarchist pirates and matriarchal Malagasy women, who pranked and hoaxed British merchant sailors for generations, deliberately creating a mythology of south seas pirate kings:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/01/24/zana-malata/#libertalia

This hybrid culture of bold, fierce matriarchal Malagasy women and their anarchist pirate husbands play a central role in the book's resolution, and Murphy's pirate utopia is so well drawn and homely that I found myself wanting to move there.

This is a profoundly political book, but it's such a romp, too! Murphy has a real flair for this kind of thing. Back in 1999, she published the brilliant There and Back Again, an all-female retelling of The Hobbit (in spaaaaace!) that was widely celebrated…right up to the moment that Christopher Tolkien used baseless copyright threats to get the book withdrawn from sale:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/There_and_Back_Again_(novel)

Billionaire failsons of long-dead writers notwithstanding, you can still read There and Back Again by borrowing a copy of the book from the Internet Archive's Open Library:

https://openlibrary.org/works/OL15436385W/There_and_back_again

Murphy's mashup of Holmes, Pan, South Seas pirate anarchists, and other salutary and exciting personages, milieux, furniture and tropes of the Victorian adventure story is an unmissable triumph, a romp, a delight.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/05/06/nevereverland/#lesser-ormond-street

[221bbees]

John fell first, Sherlock fell harder. Right from the moment Sherlock deduced him in the lab to everytime Sherlock showcased his genius, John fell more and more in awe of him, becoming endeared to Sherlock's bluntness, his brilliant mind, the bullet holes on the walls, the body parts in the fridge, and all the other oddities that came from living with Sherlock.

The first time Sherlock felt something for John was when he saw the unassuming little man standing there quietly with his hands behind his back as if he just hadn't saved Sherlock's life. Sherlock was married to his work-- he didn't care for frivolous things like romance or friendships. And then when he offered to go down with Moriarty without a flinch so that Sherlock could escape, Sherlock was so he overwhelmed he didn't even know how to express gratitude, but somehow he did. Slowly and steadily through his fussing and caring and gentle chiding and rushing to Sherlock's aid headfirst into danger and saving lives, John Watson wormed his way into Sherlock "I don't have a heart" Holmes heart. And then, John became more important than "the work" itself. The most interesting aspect of the case, Sherlock said. It takes John Watson to save your life.

Sherlock Holmes, who doesn't believe in souls, credits John Watson for having saved his own.

[somethingintheforest]

not to be insane about Them again but I was just thinking that actually... Watson doesn't know all that much about Holmes, or at least, that's how it comes across in the text. He doesn't know about Holmes's past or his family life. And (as far as we know) he doesn't pry. He just kind of accepts it.

He obviously wants to know though. It's obvious in his excitement when Holmes tells him about a past case, or takes him to meet Mycroft. But Watson is the perfect example of Minding Your Own Buisness. He doesn't ask because he knows his questions wouldn't be welcome with someone like Holmes. I honestly think thats why Holmes takes to him like he never has with anyone before. Watson lets Holmes have his privacy and doesn't judge him for it.

And it shows that you can love, trust and admire someone completely without knowing absolutely everything about them. They make me insane, your honour.

[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."

[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

[lisbeth-kk]

Sherlock fandom

In the Closet

The second I met him, my life changed for the better. At least, that’s what I thought until his landlady started meddling.

“There’s an extra bedroom upstairs. That is if you need it.”

My hackles rose, which they always did when an innuendo regarding my sexuality was brought out for scrutiny.

“Of course, we will need it!” I exclaimed exasperated.

“Oh, we have all sorts around here, dear. Mrs Turner next door even has married ones.”

Sherlock murmured something under his breath, and I prompted him to speak up, which he refused. My legendary stubbornness got the better of me – again – and I urged him not to be shy.

“Very well,” he said haughtily. “I do not understand why you are so determined to suppress your bisexuality. You are obviously in the closet, but like Hudders just said, we have all sorts around here. No need to hide like you apparently had to in your childhood home and in the army.”

If I thought his deductions from the day before were amazing, this unwelcome disclosure just made me nauseous, and my intestines clenched painfully.

“That way,” Sherlock pointed.

I ran to the loo; I must’ve looked quite green around the gills for him to notice and vomited violently. 

There was no way I could move in with him now; though I did contemplate to move into the bathroom on a permanent basis to avoid meeting that dazzling gaze ever again.

“She’s gone. You can come out,” Sherlock said calmly. “Tea?”

“Are you even real?” I wanted to ask.

I had never met anyone who took my deepest fear and transformed it into some trifle in just a couple of minutes. Maybe it was all fine.

“You’ve been a bloody soldier, Watson! Surely, you can cope having tea with the man.”

I had trouble lifting my gaze to his face when I finally emerged from the loo. A perfectly brewed mug of tea stood on the kitchen table. How he knew that I only took a splash of milk and no sugar, was beyond me, but apparently, Sherlock Holmes was some sort of weird magician who knew absolutely everything tiny detail about me.

***

After I shot Jeff Hope to save Sherlock’s life, he took me to his favourite Chinese restaurant, and prattled on about the lower part of the door handle. I paid no attention to the actual words; too elated, giddy, and a tad bit frightened after I realised, he could’ve died if I hadn’t raced after him and brought the gun with me.

“Don’t do that again,” I said quietly after he had ordered for us.

“Do what?” he asked absentmindedly.

“Leave me behind like that. You couldn’t have known that I would follow you.”

“Oh, but I did know, John,” he said confidently.

“Whatever,” I sighed, knowing there was little use to argue with him. “Just…please, promise me.”

“Why?” he asked in a hushed tone.

The waiter brought our food and interrupted my speech. We were both famished and dug into the most delicious Chinese food I’d ever eaten.

***

Later, when the door to 221B closed behind us, Sherlock turned to me and asked again.

“Because now that I’ve found you, I can’t live without you,” I said softly.

The genuine smile I was rewarded with, sent electrical jolts down my spine, which only increased when his large hands cupped my face.

“Ditto,” he whispered and kissed me.

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[bedheaded-league]

Tbh I think one of the reasons we’re all obsessed with John Watson is because he isn’t just a doctor, he’s a GOOD doctor. And so many of us have had experience with doctors who didn’t care or who brushed us off or refused to take us seriously, so when we see a doctor who’s so obviously a helper and a caretaker through and through, of course we’re going to love him. It’s so clear that he went into healthcare because it was his actual passion, not just because it was a steady job. He sees that someone needs help and immediately leaps into action, no questions asked. Just “Let me see, I’m a doctor.” He’s concerned for Holmes’ health all the time because he actually cares deeply about his wellbeing, not just because Holmes is his patient.

In fact, there’s not even any evidence that Holmes is officially one of his patients. Holmes never makes an appointment with him or pays him for his services, but it’s clear that Watson sees himself as Holmes’ doctor. It really seems like he just sort of assigned himself the role, because like, he’s a doctor, and Holmes is his close friend, so why would Holmes need to go see anyone else when he could just take care of medical things at home? Besides, if he doesn’t insist on it, Holmes will likely just go without medical care most of the time. And that may seem so obvious, but there are so many doctors who absolutely would not do free work for their flat mates or their friends. Not that they’re obligated to, of course, but it’s just so obviously kindhearted for Watson and to do it without question for Holmes.

He’s a really good doctor not just because he’s smart (which he clearly is) but because he is so compassionate, empathetic, and willing to help anyone who needs him. He’s the doctor we all fantasize about finding. What a man. I fuckin love that guy.

[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.

[holmesunenthusiast]

Okay but of all the stories Watson could pen why tf would he choose The Engineers Thumb 😭😭 absolutely fuckall happened. Dude showed up without a finger, told them an insane story from the POV of one of those ugly stress toys that get exploded in hydraulic press tiktok bot videos, and...? That's it 💀 they tried to find the criminals and the MFS already burnt the house down and escaped. The only thing Holmes deduced was that the murderers don't live eight miles from the station but actually just two feet. No payoff. Victor didn't even get his money. 90% of it was a grwm storytime while my doctor sews up my finger and I tell you about the time I almost got flat stanleyed. The titular thumb wasn't even there.