#and the young nun covered by her religious robes with her hair hidden

[gendrie]

"You need to rid yourself of all this," he said of her treasures. Arya felt stricken. "They're mine." "And who are you?" "No one." He picked up her silver fork. "This belongs to Arya of House Stark. All these things belong to her. There is no place for them here. There is no place for her. Hers is too proud a name, and we have no room for pride. We are servants here." "I serve," she said, wounded. She liked the silver fork. "You play at being a servant, but in your heart you are a lord's daughter. You have taken other names, but you wore them as lightly as you might wear a gown. Under them was always Arya."

(Juliet, John William Waterhouse / The Novice, James Sant)

[toxxicwrites]

Part 1: A Storms Rage (hp fanfic)

warning: depictions of abuse, religious trauma, and orphans of course

Chapter 1...

Clouds curl in the moonlit sky like the twisted fists of Zeus’s rage, roaring through the thunder and drowning the cobbled streets in an unrelenting downpour. A cloaked figure makes their way through the storming village, cloak gripped heavily in pale hands against the biting wind, cradling a bundled babe underneath. The wind whipped back the hood, revealing a young man, aged by the grief etched in his pale visage, inky shoulder-length black hair framing his long features. Thoroughly stoked, he arrives at a doorstep, gently pulling back his robes. He holds the cradled babe, observing it's sleeping figure, small fingers curling up in the wraps of the blanket. Slowly lowering his arms, he gently places the babe on the doorstep, eyes holding an everpresent pity. He walks to the street, a flickering streetlight illuminating the dark shadows he holds. He raises his wand the door knocks. He stops, pulling up the cloak, and without another glance back, he vanishes. 

        A moment goes by and the door swings open, a young nun reveals her face, eyes scanning the empty street, before resting on the babe. She gasps, reaching for the child, huddling it beside her shoulder. She looks around once more before shutting the door. Across the door faded words are painted, barely reading as; ‘Saint’s Orphanage for Girls.’ 

Present Day...

        The headmistress’s skin sagged with her constant frown, age slowed her down yet her cane always struck true. The headmistress’s attire consisted of the same long robes her nuns wore, yet her’s shown a darkened royal blue, theirs a shade of noir. She hunched over like a crow, watching the girl’s movements as they sat at their desks, diligently reading their passages. The class was filled with young girls no older than nine, all adorning a similar uniform of a plain button-up and long skirt, and hair tied back into a singular braid. Uniformed and ordered they sat entirely still, besides one girl strand of light brown hair dancing across her vision as her leg bounced. 

        Snap! The cane met the girl’s hand and she gasped, gripping it tightly against her chest as she softly whimpered. The rest of the class flinched, before briefly recovering and returning to their diligent readings, all but one. Dark brown eyes stared into the headmistress’s steely grey ones, not breaking her gaze. The headmistress stalked over, gripping the cane tightly she flexed her knobby knuckles. The brown-eyed girl’s gaze fell, red locks falling over her face, resigning to the words once again. 

        The red-headed girl was kneeling beside the trunk of an old tree, a disgruntled look upon her youthful visage. She focused on the small garden snake that slithered between the dewy grass blades. Her hand reached out steadily, and she grazed her fingers across the scaled skin, careful not to scare the animal. 

        She pulled out a small notepad onto the ground, quickly jotting a few notes. Snake in the garden, green scales… she looked down noticing a stub where its length should have continued… stubbed end. Flipping through the pages revealed black ink covering every inch, filled with small notes. The names of peers and small details, such as the hairy mole on Nun Julie’s neck. A collection of memories she kept hidden to herself, afraid she would forget as she often did, pleasant memories slipping to ones she did not know. The most recent one, she recalled, passing the pages between her hand and reading… an old man, light eyes and a long white beard, dressed in a nightgown? She closed her eyes recalling the memory as the words brought its essence back. 

        The old man stepped through the bleary orphanage, wooden planks creaking underneath his soft step. She watched as he approached, no- not her, they watched. The man’s eyes twinkled and he spoke. 

        “Tom?” 

        The clanging of bells dragged the girl to reality. The end of break. Hurriedly she shoved the notebook into a hidden pocket of her skirt, brushing them off as she stood up. They all stood in line, facing the nuns as they walked down, listing the roll call. The redhead’s hands were entwined behind her back, drawing small circles into her palm. Curiously all the girls stood a step away from her, a small, yet deliberate isolation, the nuns noticed and did not care. The girl was unnatural they thought, from her nightly terrors to strange happenings, they whispered she held the mark of satan, and how they punished her so. 

        The night was per usual sleepless for the young girl. She sat atop her bed, hugging her knee’s together whispering to herself softly. She rocked as she mumbled, fingers dancing across her legs. When her eyes started to fall they would find her pale flesh, pinching hard and adding to the red marks that littered her legs. Sleep would bring her dreams and with them the devil. 

        “Please,” She whispered, eyes focused on a wooden cross that hung upon the paint-chipped wall, Jesus’s crucified figure laying in agony, “Please let me sleep tonight, and let my dreams be free of all that is evil.” 

        Some nights it worked, tonight it did not. 

        “Please,” She whispered, eyes alight with the same prayer, “Don’t make me go in there.” It had happened again in the night, her roommates awaken by her terrorized screams rushed to the nuns, and they came forth, lock and book in hand. The nun ignored the girl, eyes fixed on the stone steps she led her down. They stopped in front of the wooden cellar door. The girl’s quiet sobs continued. The redhead reached for the nun’s arm, a small hand wrapping around her black coat of holiness. 

        “Please-” 

        Slap! The girl’s hand fell back from the older woman's arm, and she hissed. 

        “Do not touch me.” The nun upturned her nose as if the girl's touch would infect her with its perceived filth, “Your touch is filled with him.” The girl silenced at that, cradling her now reddened hand with the other. The nun handed her the book and opened the door. With her bible in hand, the girl shivered; the dark room stared back at her, with cold concrete floors and the slight chitter of rats scuffling about. 

        “Go.” She stepped in, and the door slammed behind her. A click, and she was left in the darkness. The girl rubbed the tears from her eyes, falling to her knees; she began to pray. 

[write-a-bad-romance]

Holy Woman (Ikevamp Angst Week 2020)

Ao3 link: Here

Prompt: “Character Death” and “Loss”

Words: 2761

Made for Ikevamp Angst Week Day 8 and 9. Tagging @ikevampangstweek​.

This work features mild spoilers for Jean’s route and a genderbent (female) version of Jean d’Arc.

dulce et decorum est pro patria mori 

In the dark of the night, she ran amidst the clamor of gunshots and shouts far behind her. The blizzard became her cover —she was deaf to the entire world save for the ominous howling of the wind right beside her ears.

Her long silken hair, free from its bindings, trailed like spun silk as she bounded across the snow. With nothing to guide her, not even the hand of God Himself, she escaped into the wasteland.

Like a specter she vanished, abandoning her crown and a condemned history behind her.

"Drat!" Charles cursed, shaking his head as the horse finally breathed its last.

And when I'm so close to the town too! This can't be happening! Last night's blizzard was horrendous; he had to take shelter at the dilapidated empty house, horse and cart, and all. Delivering every crate containing vials of serum in tip-top shape had been his objective.

But there was little he could hope for, not when he had a horse with a broken leg.

"No, no, no." Tears pricked in the corner of his eyes. Years carrying corpses and dying men back and forth on the battlefield made him immune to the sight of mortality. But the combination of fatigue after days on the road and lack of sleep was more than enough to break his already dwindling spirits.

"No," he repeated, slapping himself on both cheeks. "This won't do. Think of the townspeople. They're waiting."

With heavy steps and an even heavier heart, Charles sat by the side of the road. It would take at least five hours to reach his destination on foot. Gears turned inside his exhausted head as he devised a plan: hide the crates inside the house, walk along the road, and see if there are any houses nearby. Walk up to their door, knock, smile and ask them if you can borrow their cart —

And risk leaving the crates unsupervised. Right. No one would have the mind to somehow spirit away crates full of vials of dubious substance, but Charles dreaded losing his precious cargo if that meant another three days' ride to the Medical Center.

What a conundrum! Charles's idle hand grabbed fistfuls of snow, feeling the raw chill bite into his skin. The sensation helped alleviate his fidgety nerves.  

Besides, there's no guarantee I'm not going to get caught in another blizzard when running around seeking help. The rose-haired man sighed, scratching at the memento wound around his neck. What should I do now? Stay put and pray for a miracle to come my way?

Back at the battlefield, in the flapping tents where prayers die on the mouth of soldiers reaching to grasp at specters of their beloved, Charles lost his faith in the Almighty. H is more cynical colleagues joked that God had been replaced by the emperor, his enemy monarchs, and whatever whims they impose on us poor, downtrodden common folk.

It wasn't until his mother pestered him that Charles once again re-adopted a habit of praying. Ironic, considering his mother's pragmatism towards their soiled family business. War was capable of moving the smallest of things, it seemed.  

Charles realized he had been dozing when he felt something approach. The tremor he felt underneath his feet signaled that it was another cart, most likely heavy duty. The young doctor jumped to his feet, regretting it immediately as he felt himself swoon and nearly losing his balance.

"Excuse me!" He waved at the cart, a figure clad in a dark blue cloak from head to toe at the reins. "Are you in any way passing through the next town?" Charles yelled.

The stranger stopped his cart right in front of Charles, silent. Worried he didn't hear him the first time, Charles composed himself and cleared his throat.

"Will you, by any chance, be passing through the town? The one with a mountain abbey?" He pronounced his words carefully, his heart beating in trepidation as the veiled stranger didn't seem to respond. He could wait for another cart to pass by but damn if he let this chance slip.

The figure nodded, and a deep-toned, feminine voice reverberated through the crisp, winter air.

"I am heading to that town." The woman answered severely. "How may I be of service?"

Charles was perplexed by her manner of speech but approached her nonetheless. "My apologies. I was transporting some cargo on my own cart when the blizzard came, and I had to take shelter in that empty house over there."

The cloaked woman regarded him in silence as Charles struggled to resume his explanation. Did she find him suspicious? Was she to be suspected, herself? Countless scenarios rushed through Charles' restless mind as he motioned vaguely at the dilapidated building.

"And then my horse broke one of its ankles—"

“Your horse?”

Charles was ready to receive whatever tirade the woman was prepared to discharge, judging from her pressing tone. But to his surprise, the woman was already jumping off her cart, the wind knocking back her veil.

Revealing a burn scar mark in the shape of a spark over her right eye, concealed in part by her thick, lavender bangs. It extended across the side of her face and neck, disappearing underneath her collar. Her left eye was hidden under a black eyepatch, revealing a scarce expanse of alabaster skin.

Charles' face grew red as he realized that he was staring. Her dark, empty orb seemed to suggest that she too had noticed. Quickly, Charles apologized.

"Forgive me, I didn't mean to stare—" but the woman had already turned towards the house.

"Show me the horse," she commanded.

Swallowing his guilt away, Charles brushed invisible snow off his pants and followed suit. "Right," he coughed. "This way, Madame."

"So, you've met Sister Joanna." Monsieur Faust concluded. He was the town's only doctor, a strapping young man in his late twenties. He had on him shapely, robust shoulders and intelligent eyes behind a pair of square, thin-framed glasses.

The only aspect Charles found disconcerting about his temporary senior was his penchant for sardonic, offhand remarks that seemed to serve as a barrier between him and the vernacular crowd.

"Sister?" Charles exclaimed, having signed the last of the transport papers. "Is she part of the convent?"

"No, not at all." Faust chuckled. "In fact, I believe it's been years since anybody's ever seen her inside the church or taking part in any religious gathering."

Charles recalled how the lean woman helped him move the dead horse out of the barn and buried the horse by a nearby tree. He was still amazed by the woman's astounding demonstration of strength as she loaded the bulky crates onto her own cart.

"It was the nuns who called her that during her stay at the abbey. The nickname carried long after she left," The older man continued. "I was the doctor who treated her when she first arrived a year ago."

Those burn scars, Charles gulped, amethyst eyes still boring into his own long after their parting. "What does she do now?"

"She's the town's handywoman, for lack of a better word." Faust's nimble hands arranged the vials into neat rows inside a cabinet. "She accepts odd jobs every now and then, though you're more likely to see her at the weapons shop by the square. She seemed to have lived quite close to the military at some point."

The man's curious pause before rolling the word military didn't escape Charles. Whether it was said out of genuine disdain for their country's warmongering exploits or twisted sympathy for his own history, he didn't know.

"Other times, especially outside winter, you can find her attending to flower beds just outside of town," Faust muttered. "She would bring back different-colored flowers in vases and deliver them to the flower shop. You'll see what I mean quite soon."

"Flowers? The military?" Charles was at a loss for words as the man slew exposition after exposition in rapid succession. And he had pegged him to be the quiet sort! "I take it she must have been living quite illustriously before she came to town."

"That she is," The other man nodded. "Quite the character, isn't she? Sister Joanna does what she likes, regardless of what others see."

Charles decided to take a stroll after lunch. Now that he's done resting and arranging his belongings at the inn, it was time to explore the rustic town.

The innkeeper was an amiable man with ivory hair and crimson eyes, not much older than Faust. The flower shop the doctor mentioned was adjacent to the inn's lobby, and the owner of both establishments introduced himself as Vlad. Not Vladimir, not Vladislav, just Vlad.

Charles detected something beyond mere eccentricity beneath the man's lighthearted disposition. There was a noble air to him that made Charles suspect Vlad was related to one of the hussar princes the Continental army overthrew seven years ago.

The man responded to Charles' prodding joke with a subtly accented, good-humored reply. "I hail from Targoviste! But now that you mention it, my family is descended from a long line of voivodes from the Middle Ages . "

Charles decided not to pry further lest he be turned to fertilizer for the pansies at the inn's backyard.

His feet took him to the town square, where Sister Joanna's weapons shop supposedly was if he remembered correctly.

In the center was a sizable statue of a peasant woman, her arm cradling a bundle of wheat to her bosom. The other arm was reaching towards the sky, a long strip of sash winding around the limb like a vine. Charles found it so lifelike it could've been fluttering along with the icy wind.

Sister Joanna was standing by the base. Her slacks visible below her dark robes and sinewy stature made it easy to confuse her with a man. Charles walked towards the lone woman, intending to thank her.

“Sister Joanna!” He called excitedly. “Sister Joann—”

Charles fell quiet as he observed the woman pressing her hands firmly pressed together in front of her breast, long fingers pointing towards the statue in silent prayer.

It took a moment before she finally turned to look at Charles. The young man noticed a bundle of freshly picked snowdrops and hellebore resting at the statue's foot.

Charles found himself speechless as he was once again met with Sister Joanna's hollow gaze.

"Yes?" Her dry voice penetrated the once-welcome stillness. "Do you need anything?"

It wasn't that Charles was unaccustomed to make small talk with women. It was Sister Joanna's mannerism that had put the younger man at unease. He collected himself and knelt down, paying heed to spare her some distance.

"I think I should pray, too." He smiled, hoping to reduce the tension. "But I don't have any flowers on me. Too bad."

"Do as you see fit." The woman replied impassively.

Charles' heart regained its composed pace after he offered hushed words of prayer for the souls of his fallen comrades. He rose and beamed at the indomitable woman, whom he caught staring.

Sister Joanna wasn't the least bit unfazed when Charles's youthful face broke into a grin. "Do you know who you're even praying for?"

His eyes returned to inspect the statue, the granite matron towering over the strange couple. "This statue was built in honor of the fallen soldiers and their widows, was it not?"

Sister Joanna didn't respond, seemingly absorbed in the statue's presence as well.

"The Emperor marched through these passes on the way to claim his first victory. Thousands of the men died in the expedition, and they were laid to rest by the abbey."

Charles stepped forward to run his palm over the statue's nameplate.

"The Weeping Widow," He read. "The woman's statue was meant to stand for the widows and lovers of the fallen men, waiting somewhere at the other side of the country. I can't imagine what it feels like to have someone come knocking on your door and tell you that the man you love is dead."

Ignoring Sister Joanna's lack of commentary, Charles continued. "This statue was built with the hopes that no more widows would have to share that fate. That's a beautiful thought."

"How did you come to know all this?" she finally interrupted.

"My uncle took part in the expedition. He lost an arm after the battle and was recuperating in this town when they built the statue." Charles recounted heartily. "It is sweet and proper to die for one's own country, he’d say to his nephews and grandchildren. He kept boasting about wanting to follow his friends to heaven. Or hell."

"It is sweet and fitting to die for the homeland is a more precise translation," The elder corrected. "They keep omitting the following lines:

sed dulcius pro patria vivere,

et dulcissimum pro patria bibere.

Ergo, bibamus pro salute patriae.

'A reasonable translation would be but sweeter still to live for the homeland, and sweetest yet to drink for the homeland. So, let us drink to the health of the homeland." She recited, her sonorous voice unwavering. "Why choose to die at the behest of unconcerned rulers when you can return to a loving home and family?"

Charles was taken aback by the mistress's sudden erudite lecture, almost sharp in its delivery.

"Forgive me," Charles blushed in embarrassment. He'd been correct —Sister Joanna was as enigmatic as her appearance, if not more.

 “To die for one's own country. The Emperor's beloved quote." Sister Joanna murmured. "A flowery epigram befitting an equally deranged man."

"I beg your pardon?"

Two years after the Emperor's death, all of the Continent remained in discord after his abdication and subsequent death. There were demands of his generals' execution after they failed to have the ruler beheaded himself.

In some parts of the country, statues in his image were toppled, and his estates were raided. Angry mobs and disillusioned former soldiers banded together to hunt down possible adherents to the old, 'warmongering' regime.

The recalcitrant woman stood tall against the backdrop of a secluded, provincial town hidden among mountains. Maybe there was a truth to Faust's words about her past dealings with the military.

Speak no ill of the dead doesn't apply to warlords and rulers, it seemed. Joanna sighed. "I can't imagine anyone deigning to pray for his poor soul."

His family, Charles dreaded to say. Whatever was left of the royal family were chased to the shores, some immediately captured as they attempted to land in the Isles.

Their encounter had taken quite the morbid turn. Yet it didn't deter Charles from wanting to know more about the woman standing by his side. The young doctor felt small, figuratively and literally, considering his shoulder didn't quite reach hers.

"I should return." Sister Joanna announced. "The sun is setting."

She was heading to the weapons shop, no doubt. Charles nearly forgot his reason for wanting to approach her in the first place.

"Wait!" He called, "I forgot to thank you for your help!"

"What?"

Charles panted as he struggled to match Sister Joanna's pace. Not only does she act like a soldier, she even walks like one!

"I haven't thanked you enough for this morning." He considered extending his hand but refrained, remembering that in proper circumstances, she would be the one extending her hand.

"I don't think I've introduced myself properly, have I? My name is Charles. Charles Henri-Sanson." He flashed her what he thought was his most bedazzling smile. "I might be staying here for the next four months or so,"

Sister Joanna regarded him with mild interest. "I see." She nodded. "Nice to have your acquaintance. I presume the doctor has told you plenty about me, considering you called me by name."

"He did!" Charles answered, not missing a beat. "He told me many things about you."

"Did he, now?"

The pair continued to make their way towards the edge of the square, Charles continuing to engage her with a barrage of questions, and Sister Joanna placating his curiosity with lukewarm zeal.

It didn't take long before they arrived at the entrance to the shop.

Sister Joanna uncovered her cowl and faced Charles. The entirety of her charred visage was now visible, unobscured by the midnight-colored fabric.

"You're a strange man," she observed. "Are you not revolted by the sight of my face?"

"Madame, I used to serve as a doctor until the last days of the war," He chuckled in earnest. "Before I was captured by the Coalition and became a prisoner.”

To be continued in Part 2.’

Special thanks to @batteryrose​ for her doodles of Jean with burn scars all over his body.

[ebaeschnbliah]

THE  ROADS  WE  WALK  HAVE  DEMONS  BENEATH ...

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GOING ROUND IN CIRCLES ON THE QUEST FOR THE TRUTH

THE HEADLESS NUN

This term is used for the very first time in the PILOT. Sherlock refers to a previous case in which Angelo obviously was involved as well.

SHERLOCK: Angelo, headless nun. ANGELO: Ah, now that was a case! Same again? SHERLOCK: If you wouldn’t mind.

At least between Sherlock and Angelo the term 'headless nun' seems to be a secret code for a certain kind of action. 

Going into action - going into acting

On this special occasion: acting like a drunk who is thrown out of a restaurant ... with the addition of a splash of white wine.

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VATICAN CAMEOS

Another term that is used as a secret code for a certain kind of action. This time between Sherlock and John in ASIB before Sherock opens the safe where Irene's camera phone is kept ... guarded by a spring-gun.

SHERLOCK (urgently): Vatican cameos.

But this time the meaning is different. The term is meant to be a warning that some kind of deadly danger is about to occur.

Going into action -  going into defense/rescue mode

On this special occasion: Sherlock and John are immediately crouching down for cover. Only a short time before this happens, both Sherlock and Irene are adding a 'splash of color' to prepare themselves for the meeting. Real blood for Sherlock. Lipstick in the shade of blood for Irene.

The definition of CAMEO/S:

a gem, small medallion, statue with a profiled head carved in relief

a small literary or filmic piece

a small theatrical role

The VATICAN:

A small state in the middle of Rome, seat of the Roman Catholic Church, ruled by the Bishop of Rome ... the Pope. The Pope is also the supreme authority of all catholic monasteries and therefore ... of the nuns.

Originally 'Vatican Cameos' is an untold story mentioned in 'The Hound of the Baskervilles'

“I must thank you,' said Sherlock Holmes, 'for calling my attention to a case which certainly presents some features of interest. I had observed some newspaper comment at the time, but I was exceedingly preoccupied by that little affair of the Vatican cameos, and in my anxiety to oblige the Pope I lost touch with several interesting English cases.”

VATICAN CAMEOS = A WARNING AGAINST VATICAN PERFORMANCES ?  AGAINST SOMETHING THE 'HEAD OF THE NUNS' ORDERED TO DO ? BUT 'THE HEAD' IS MISSING AND THEREFORE STILL UNKNOWN ?  A GHOST .... AN ANONYMOUS PLAYER ?

________________________________________________________________

HEADLESS NUN & VATICAN CAMEOS ... UNITED

Both terms reappear in the episode 'The sign of three' at John's wedding. Sherlock promises little Archie the picture of a 'headless nun' if he is able to answer the question: how to kill someone in public.

SHERLOCK: Oh, hello again, Archie.  What’s your theory? Get this right and there’s a headless nun in it for you.

Sherlock uses 'vatican cameos' to inform John - without alarming the other wedding guests - that Major Sholto is in mortal danger and about to be murdered.

SHERLOCK: Oh! Ladies and gentlemen, can’t stand it when I finally get the chance to speak for once, Vatican Cameos.  MARY: What did he say? What’s that mean? JOHN: Battle stations. Someone’s gonna die.

The most interesting aspect here is that the main action happens entirely between three Sherlock mirrors:  

'Director of the Mind-Stage' Sherlock tells 'Little Sherlock Mirror' Archie, he will get a 'headless nun' if he is able to deduce how 'Sherlock Ex-Comander of John Mirror' Sholto could be killed in public without anyone noticing it.

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'Headless Nuns' in ghost stories:

This kind of character can be found in legends and ghost stories. They are sometimes hauting places, seeking revenge, guarding treasures, bloodthirsty and murderous ... in short - they are the perfect tools for creating fear and terror in ghost stories.

The real roman catholic nuns (x x):

A nun is a woman who lives in a religious community.

She swears an oath to live in chastity and obedience.

She dedicates her life to the greater good she believes in.

She is considered to be a 'Bride of Christ'.

There is a wedding ceremony where she wears bridal white with wreath and veil.

She wears a wedding ring which will be buried with her after death.

After the ceremony she exchanges the bridal robes for a sombre religious habit.

A nun is also called 'sister'

Turning a nun into a ghost story is basically the same thing as turning a sister into a ghost story.

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A LITTLE DETOUR - THE DOUBLE MEANING OF WORDS

The creators of Sherlock BBC are known for using word-games with great fondness. Just a few examples (I'm sure there are more):

beech & beach - the Holmes children play on a beach, pebbles on a beach ... or ... looking for somthing buried under a beech tree.  

Welsborough & wells burrow - used as family name ... or ... for creating a well one has to burrow a hole in the ground first.

pals & palls - Mycroft uses the term to describe Sherlock's and John's relationship in TGG  ('since you and he became ... pals')  meaning 'mates/close friends' ... or ...  the dialoge between the ambassador and her husband in TST  ('chess palls after three months/everything palls')  mening 'losing interest/becoming bored'

birds & birds - flying animals (most of them) with feathers ... or ... young women,

Harry & Harriet - brother or sister? sister or brother? Right from the beginning ....

________________________________________________________________

MR.SZIKORA FROM THE EMPY HEARSE

After Sherlock returns from his hiatus John has a visiter at the surgery. An old man with white hair and beard who presents John with three small gifts.

MR. SZIKORA: I run a little shop, just on the corner of Church Street (?). Er, magazines, DVDs. Brought along a few little beauties that might interest you. “Tree Worshippers.” Oh, that’s a corker. It’s very saucy. “British Birds.” Same sort of thing. “The Holy War.” Sounds a bit dry, I know, but there’s a nun with all these holes in her Habit.   

This scene is a canon reference to ACDs 'The Empty House'.  Sherlock Holmes visits Dr.Watson in the disguise of an old man and tries to sell him three books .... 'British birds' (the real feathery ones), 'Catullus' (the roman poet who did actually write a lot of 'saucy' stuff and also poems about  'how to comfort a friend in the death of a loved one') and 'The Holy War' (most likely without the nuns).

In the original story Dr.Watson is fooled by this disguise and doesn't recognise Holmes whereas in Sherlock BBC John tries to pull of the assumed fake wig of his patient because he suspects Sherlock to play a prank on him.   

A second canon reference can be found in Mr.Szikora's statement that his usual PG is Dr. Verner. As told in ACDs story 'The Norwood Builder' ... Dr. Verner is a distant relative of Sherlock Holmes.

A young doctor, named Verner, had purchased my small Kensington practice, and given with astonishingly little demur the highest price that I ventured to ask -- an incident which only explained itself some years later when I found that Verner was a distant relation of Holmes's, and that it was my friend who had really found the money.

A man comes to John's surgery who actually IS Sherlock Holmes in canon but in this adaption Mr.Szikora comes from a person who IS a close relative of Holmes in canon.

Also - Mr.Szikora speaks in a heavy Eastern European accent. I don't know when or where John heard Sherllock speak French to make any comparison. Either way, because of his strange habit and his stiking accent John comes to the conclusion that Mr. Szikora must be fake. John believes that this man is Sherlock in disguise.

JOHN: It’s not as good as your French. Not as good as your French. It’s not even a good disguise, Sherlock!

Sherlock speaking French - or more precisely: John obviously knowing that Sherlock speaks French -  is a third canon referce. Original Sherlock Holmes doesn't only speak French, part of his family comes from France. In ACDs 'The Greek Interpreter' Holmes tells Dr. Watson: '.... my grandmother, who was the sister of Vernet, the French Artist' 

Does this mean that Mr. Szikora is triple-coded as a Holmes?

As mentioned above Mr. Szikora has the appearance of an old man with a beard. This reminds me of another person with a beard. A Person who is also mistaken for Sherlock Holmes. The beard is fake but the person is indeed a Holmes.

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THE NUN WITH THE HOLES IN HER HABIT

Nuns wear a special habit.  'HABIT' though is another word with more than just one meaning. It can be: 

a garment

a usual way of behaving

the bodily appearance of someone

a mental attitude of someone

a strong need to use a drug 

This leads of course straight away to HLV where this special word is heavily used - but not for nuns.      

SHERLOCK: There’s every chance that my drug habit might hit the newspapers. The game is on.

MYCROFT: The siren call of old habits.

MYCROFT: You��re a celebrity these days, Sherlock. You can’t afford a drug habit. SHERLOCK : I do not have a drug habit.

What do have 'headless nuns' and 'habits with holes in it' in common?

A person is very hard - if at all - to recognize when the head/the face can't be seen/is hidden. A very important information is missing.

It's the same with 'holes in the habit'. Something is missing. A hidden behaviour. A hidden attitude. Someone is hiding something. Any information not seen is like a black hole for the knowledge. Missing puzzle pieces leave holes in the picture. Under certain circumstances 'not knowing' something - 'having black holes about something' - can be very dangerous. But of course, attempting to fill such 'dark holes of knowledge' can be equally dangerous. And there is someone who never liked not knowing:

SHERLOCK: I don’t know. I don’t like not knowing. Unlike the nicely embellished fictions on your blog, John, real life is rarely so neat. I don’t know who was behind all this, but I will find out, I promise you.

And when Sherlock sets out on his journey to explore his past - his family history - his subconscious mind is looking for a sister .... a faithful one ...

But someone turned the 'sister' into a 'ghost story' ...  a rotten skeleton still with maggots in the eye holes even after more than 100 years ... the cold and terrifying force of the East Wind who plucks the unworthy from the Earth  ... to scare Sherlock off.

A nun is a bride. She wears the white robe of a bride with a veil ere she changes it to black or grey - mostly with a splash of white. A nun is called 'sister'. She has no wordly husband but wears a wedding ring, she believes in a higher purpose and lives in her/for her conviction.

Conviction is a dangerous thing. If it gets to strong - to extreme - it can lead to 'holy wars' ... to  'crusades'. But that must not always involve whole nations or confessions or even a lot of people. It is quite possible that a single person can be on a 'crusade' on its own - for their own private reasons. Misplaced love ... the greater good .... murderous jealousy .....

And the male equivalent of a nun  ... is a Monk.

A nun is called sister.  A monk is called brother.

In MHR a blond woman hides among monks ... but ...

LESTRADE: A blonde woman hiding amongst bald monks? That wouldn’t exactly take Sherlock Holmes!

JIM: No, no, no, no, no, this is too easy. (He buries his head in his hands.) This is too easy.

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Sherlock BBC is full  of words and scenes with double meaning (or more), of things that start out in one way and then turn into the opposite. Harry or Harriet - brother or sister - it was this question right from the start. Sherlock got it wrong the first time ...  in the PILOT/ASIP. He assumed Harry to be a brother when she actually is John's sister. In his own family Sherlock is looking for a sister. But it turns out that the sister he finds is actually a part of himself. Which way will the wheel turn next?

I leave you to your own deductions.   Thanks @callie-ariane for the scripts.

February, 2017

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