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v-thinks-on · 5 years ago

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A Study in Scarlet

Part 1 of The Man Who Sold the World

A young woman sat at her desk in a small office, hammering away at the mountain of paperwork before her. The sound of a lone violin drifted down from the upstairs flat; it seemed Dr. Jonathan Holmes was at it again. He didn’t play, as far as she was aware. He just listened, from records, of all things, at all hours. In the three months Margaret Thompson had been the landlady of 221 Baker Street, she had awoken in the middle of the night to the sound of the violin at least as many times.

It wasn’t that Dr. Holmes was a bad tenant, per se, just that he could be a tad unusual. You wouldn’t know it from looking at him, but he had lived at 221B Baker Street longer than anyone could remember. He was a kind man and his payments were princely for the small, outdated flat. But he was very particular in his habits, and ever so often he would mention something that he had no way of knowing.

And then there were the visitors. The strangest assortment of people arrived at the oddest of hours - almost as odd as the hours she heard the violin - in various states of distress. He always heard them, no matter when they arrived. Yet, he seemed to be a largely friendless man. Most people came by once or twice in the span of a week or two and then never again, and even the few who came with some frequency appeared to be on business of some sort - she always managed to find some excuse not to ask what.

The music wafting down from his flat really was beautiful in a haunting sort of way, though sometimes she wished he would play something a little more upbeat. But she couldn’t afford to just sit and listen when there was work to be done.

Margaret had barely returned to the form she was supposed to be filling out when a knock sounded at the front door. She put the form aside, not without a hint of relief, and forced herself from the comfortable chair.

“Coming!” she called out.

She swung the door open to find a young Indian woman - one of Dr. Holmes’s more frequent visitors - waiting a bit impatiently outside.

“He’s upstairs,” Margaret said.

“Thank you,” the woman replied and ascended the stairs.

Dr. John Watson sat in the living room of 221B Baker Street. The chair he occupied had long ago been the favorite of his dear friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. At times Holmes had sat in this very chair as he played his violin, a languid air overcoming his usually sharp features. Other times, he would pace the small room, letting the music flow out of his motion and his motion match the music. But all of that had been a very long time ago indeed.

Watson did not deny that he was attempting to recreate what once had been, as futile as the attempt inevitably was. He had done a fair job at it - the results were passable at the very least. The pieces he chose were a good fit for his mood - he was nearly always in the same mood when he turned to the records for consolation - but they paled in comparison to the original. It often crossed his mind how much of a shame it was that Holmes had died too soon for his improvisations to be immortalized on vinyl.

Watson let out a long sigh, letting the music wash over him until there was nothing else. Only now, long after his dear friend was dead, did he fancy he understood the joy Holmes found in listening to music. In the past his primary pleasure had been watching the way it affected Holmes, but now the music consumed him, carried him away from his lonesome existence. Still, for an instant he could have sworn that out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed a tall, thin man bowing away at a delicate instrument.

A knock on the door broke him from his reverie.

“Come in.” He raised his voice over the speakers, but his eyes remained shut.

“Dr. Holmes,” the familiar voice of Detective-Inspector Talia Houghton, of the Scotland Yard, greeted him.

“Mrs. Houghton,” Watson - known for many years now as Dr. Holmes - replied, “What brings you here on this fine day?” He sat up straight and examined her.

The past few days had brought rain in abundance, so her shoes painted a clear map of the city, with splotches of mud from here and there, the most recent layer placing her outside the Scotland Yard in a hurry, and below that some indication that she had recently spent some time not far from Baker Street.

He met her steady gaze and urged her to tell her tale.

“I’ve got a case you might find interesting. It’s an unusual one, I’ll tell you that.” She shook her head in exasperation.

“Go on.” He leaned forward and pressed the tips of his fingers together in a gesture he had picked up over years of imitation. “And do have a seat.”

She took the other chair by the fireplace and fished a stack of laminated photographs out of her bag as she continued, “It’s a double murder. We’d say it was revenge, cut and dry, but the crime scenes look like they’ve been set up. It began a few days ago, on the 4th. Charles and I were called in to investigate a murder at 3 Lauriston Gardens, off of Brixton Road. It was a run down little house” - she handed him a picture that fit the description perhaps too well - “that seemed to have been abandoned. Charles is looking into the owner now. This is the scene of the crime.”

She handed him another photograph of a large square room, empty hold for the body of a middle-aged man, lying contorted in the middle of the floor, his body tensed at odd angles as though he was in severe pain. The floor around him was splattered with blood, but no wounds were visible on his person - a nasty poison then. He seemed to be in his mid-forties, of average height, with broad shoulders, curly black hair, and a stubbly beard. His suit was an awkward fit, nice as it was, and many years out of style. He was dressed in a fashion that Dr. Holmes had not seen for a very long time; there was even a top hat on the ground beside him. Only some subtle signs of wear suggested the clothes’ age - they were antiques that had been hardly used and well maintained, probably recently purchased from a collector.

Dr. Holmes looked back up at Mrs. Houghton and she explained, “He was poisoned, I’ve got the report here, if you want to flip through it.” She put a small packet on the table between them. “He died quickly and painfully. The blood on the floor all belongs to the perpetrator, they checked it for DNA, but it didn't match anyone on record. This is his too.”

She handed him another photograph and Dr. Holmes nearly dropped it in surprise. On a yellow square of bare plaster, devoid of the vulgar, blotched and fraying wallpaper that covered most of the room, was the word “RACHE” in large, dripping red letters, written in what could only have been blood.

“There weren’t any lights in the room,” Mrs. Houghton said, leaning forward to look at the photo in his hands. “We would’ve missed it if Charles hadn’t been looking over there with the torch.”

“You know what this is?” Dr. Holmes asked with some urgency. It wasn’t identical, no, but it was close enough and the writing on the wall sealed it.

“Our first theory was that the perp was trying to write ‘Rachel’ and was interrupted before he could finish,” she explained, “But the handwriting people squashed that; he wasn’t in a rush and didn’t stop short. ‘Rache’ is German for ‘revenge,’ so the current theory is that we’re looking for an angry German and there’s a ring in there” - she handed him a photo of a plain gold ring - “that corroborates that it was a crime of passion in revenge for something about a marriage, but that doesn’t explain it all being staged. Those clothes didn’t belong to the victim; it looks like the perp dressed him up once he was dead. And it gets even stranger - he wasn’t the only one. We found a couple letters in his pocket.”

She handed Dr. Holmes another photo of a pair of letters from the Liverpool and Great Western Steamship Company about an, as of 1881, upcoming journey from Liverpool to New York. One was addressed to Mr. Drebber and one to a Mr. Joseph Stangerson, both sent to the American Exchange on the Strand to be left until called for.

“Both the steamship company and the American Exchange have been out of operation for years. We were searching for Mr. Stangerson. We didn’t expect to find him dead.”

She handed Dr. Holmes a photo of what he deduced was a rather modern, fashionable hotel room. The floor was splattered with blood. Its lone inhabitant huddled below the window, wearing a nightdress that was once typical, but now would have looked matronly at best, torn and covered in dark red splotches. Written on the wall above him, in what Dr. Holmes suspected this time was the victim’s blood, was again the word “RACHE.” Mr. Jefferson Hope’s revenge was complete.

The next photo Mrs. Houghton handed him gave him a closer look at the victim. Mr. Stangerson had been stabbed on his left side, it was a deep wound that appeared to have penetrated his heart and ended his life. Upon the window sill above him was a small pillbox that Dr. Holmes did not doubt contained a pair of pills - one of the most deadly poison, and one entirely benign.

“That was taken yesterday afternoon in one of the guestrooms of the Ibis Hotel near Euston Station. The victim, actually a man by the name of John Rowe, was murdered at about two that morning. According to the coroner, it wasn’t the stab wound that did him in. He was poisoned and probably put into that nightgown after he was already dead - like Drebber - and then the culprit stabbed him for good measure. I don’t know why he stabbed a dead man, but there you go.

“We were able to identify John Rowe as the man who checked into the room, though nearly all of his belongings were found in a nearby dumpster. Everything of any value was gone. We still haven’t been able to find the real identity of Mr. Drebber. This is all of the identification they had on them.”

She handed him another pair of photos. Both depicted sets of cards, belonging to Enoch J. Drebber and Joseph Stangerson respectively, from Cleveland, Ohio in the United States of America, dated circa 1880. They were good replicas; the culprit had done his research.

“We don’t know why someone would want to make the crime scene look like it was committed in the 1800s. Nostalgia for Queen Victoria? The best theory we’ve got right now is that the culprit is trying to get revenge for something that happened to an Enoch Drebber and Joseph Stangerson then, maybe the victims were related to those involved or something. I looked up both of the names and all I could find in relation to a crime was a pair of fictional characters. We’d appreciate all the help we can get.”

The man once known as Dr. Watson let silence fall as he mulled the case over. At long last he spoke in a hushed voice, “Jefferson Hope died of an aneurysm the night before he was to be tried, he had no survivors that I am aware of.”

“So it was a real case? We couldn’t find anything in the Yard records, it must be down with the files in the basement. They still haven’t been computerized yet.”

He gave her a small smile, “I like to hope that some things will be left in reality, free from the world of electricity these past generations have built around themselves.”

“You sound like my grandfather,” she said with a laugh. It was times like these that his usually ambiguous age showed. “Computers make things a lot easier, a lot less time wasted on searching for things. I’d recommend you get one, though you seem to manage alright without somehow.”

“I happen to be very familiar with the case,” Dr. Holmes said, returning to the matter at hand. “The perpetrator seems to be emulating it rather closely. I expect he’s hiding out as a London cab driver as the original perpetrator did, unless it’s all a ruse to some other ends. Mr. Drebber and Stangerson were murdered by an American, also from Cleveland, Ohio, by the name of Jefferson Hope. I wonder if your man is so bold as to claim to be the same. All three men were originally from Utah, though I doubt that has much bearing now.”

Mrs. Houghton nodded, lost in thought, no doubt about the case. At last she found herself again, “Thank you, this should be enough to point us back in the right direction. I’ll call back once we’ve got the culprit.”

“Not a problem,” he said with a smile. “Thank you for bringing it to my attention. This case is particularly interesting to me, perhaps I will take it upon myself to do some investigating as well. I may require your assistance in a few days time.”

Mrs. Houghton agreed and soon departed.

Watson leaned back in his chair by the fire. It was a “three pipe problem” if ever he’d seen one - a faint smile crossed his face at the thought, but he’d been trying to quit tobacco for years.

He doubted this was a case of revenge, no the killer had nothing to do with Mr. Drebber or Mr. Stangerson. Even when the brilliant detective was long dead, everything came back to him. Watson let out a sigh. It could be anyone in the city, but if he knew his man, he would be easy enough to fish out. All Watson had to do was call up all the local papers and wait.

It was not long before the sound of a virtuoso scraping away at the violin enveloped the room once more. Margaret Thomson heard a distant echo of the music floating down the stairs as she continued her never ending paperwork.

Dr. Jonathan Holmes did not have long to wait for a reply to his advertisement. The first answer came that afternoon, requesting an appointment at approximately eight o’clock - not quite confirmation, but a very good sign as far as he was concerned.

Mrs. Houghton arrived at a quarter to eight and joined him in his vigil.

As the time neared, it felt distinctly surreal. With the strength of memory reinforced by oft repeated recollection, he could almost see Holmes sitting in his usual chair by the fire, scraping away at his violin as he had that day, so many years ago, while they lay in wait. As the music came to a carefully timed stop, he could almost hear Holmes’ words filling the void, his reminders of what to do in preparation - yes the door was open with the key in the lock - his irrelevant discussion of some book he had picked up the day before-

A sharp ring at the bell chimed in time with Watson’s recollections.

He was Holmes, standing and shifting his chair towards the door as a servant - actually the landlady - waved in their guest.

“Does Dr. Holmes live here?”

Uncertain, shuffling steps upon the stairs. A feeble tap at the door.

He could almost see Holmes’ uncertain expression, but this time he knew what was going on. “Come in.”

The door swung open and in stepped a feeble old woman, different enough to jar Dr. Holmes back to the present, but similar enough that he knew he was right. It was a good disguise, her boots even bore splashes of mud distinctive of the Houndsditch area. As he had seen Holmes do so many times, he waved her in and closed the door behind her, locking it shut. He was a foolish criminal indeed, if he had come himself, but culprit or confederate, this person would give him his answers.

The old woman pulled out an evening paper and pointed at their - no, his - advertisement. Her voice came out uncertain and stilted, as she mimed half-remembered lines, “It’s this that brought me, good gentleman, a gold wedding ring in the Brixton Road-”

“Your name and address, if you please,” Dr. Holmes interrupted.

She appeared taken aback, but replied all the same, “Lynne Sawyer, I live at Number 13 Duncan Street, in Houndsditch.”

“And the ring belongs to your girl, Sally Dennis, does it?”

“Sally Daniels, she lost it- on her way to the c-circus,” she told her tale hesitatingly - Dr. Holmes found himself a little disappointed in the criminal for doing such a poor job of it.

Still, the chase was on. Holmes had failed to capture the man who had come for the ring disguised as an old woman, but this time they would succeed. He motioned for Mrs. Houghton to step forward.

She took out the ring that they had found at the crime scene, still in a plastic evidence bag. “Do you recognize it?”

Mrs. Sawyer stepped forward and leaned over to examine the ring, before giving a frantic nod. “It belongs to my daughter,” she attempted to explain, holding out her hand for it.

Dr. Holmes stepped in before she could take it, and Mrs. Houghton put the evidence away. “We know everything about Jefferson Hope and the murders of Drebber and Stangerson. Your only hope is to make a clean breast of it.”

“Murders?” Mrs. Sawyer gasped, her eyes widened with fear. “What’s going on? There must be some mistake!”

“Your game is up. Tell us what you know and you may receive a lighter sentence for cooperating.”

“I don’t know anything about any murders, I swear! If this is a prank, it’s a bad one!”

“But you know Jefferson Hope.”

“He just lives in the flat below mine. A couple weeks ago he said he needed to borrow a ring for a few days. He was willing to pay so much for nothing and with money so tight, I didn’t ask any questions. All he wanted was for me to loan him the ring for a couple of days, and then to come pick it up when you put out that advertisement, he even told me what to say. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean anything by it, and I don’t know anything about any murder!”

He searched her features for the slightest tell, but as far as he could see she was speaking the truth. “Could you tell me a little more about Mr. Hope?” Dr. Holmes pressed.

“He’s a kind, strong man, a little younger than yourself,” Mrs. Sawyer said.

Dr. Holmes smiled at that - there was no doubt he was younger by a century at least. “Could you give him a year?”

She hesitated. “Forty, or forty-five, maybe.”

“What does he look like?”

“He’s a large man, not overweight I don’t think, but strong. He was a great help when I moved into the flat. He saw me in distress and offered to help with the lifting. I tried to pay him back, but he refused to take any of it.”

“Color?”

“Very tan, I think he does a lot of work outside.”

The description matched the man himself well. “You said he lives in the flat under yours. What’s your real address?”

“It’s 13 Duncan Street.”

“Do you know how long he’s lived there or where he resided previously?”

She shook her head. “I’m sorry, I haven’t known him for very long, I don’t know much about him.”

“Is there anything else you can tell us about him? Even the smallest detail may be of use to us.” Dr. Holmes tried to keep his voice gentle, but his impatience no doubt showed through.

She shook her head.

Finally, Dr. Holmes signaled for Mrs. Houghton to take over. She stood and stepped over to them. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Sawyer, but I’ll have to take you in for further questioning.”

“What’s going on? I swear I haven’t done anything!” Mrs. Sawyer protested.

“There’s no need to worry,” Dr. Holmes said as soothingly as he could. “She’ll just ask you a few more questions and make sure that you really are who you claim to be. So long as you answer honestly and thoroughly, you’ll be fine.”

Mrs. Sawyer gave an unsteady nod and Mrs. Houghton led her out the door.

Meanwhile, Dr. Holmes had a lead of his own to pursue. He hailed a cab and set off through the streets of London.

The drive was dizzying. The glare of bright lights cut through the darkness in blinding bursts that rushed by, swept up in the constant movement of cars and pedestrians alike. Horns blared, people shouted, the world had never been wilder. Dr. Holmes tried to keep his eyes focused against the visual din, squinting them to ease the burn of the flashing lights as he peered into the darkness.

At last the car screeched to a stop and he stepped out onto the sidewalk. It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the sudden stillness. Once he had regained his bearings, he made his way to the door of number 13 Duncan Street. A series of sharp knocks at the door brought him a man who identified himself as Keswick - after everything else, the name could not have been a coincidence. He seemed well-to-do, wearing a new sports jacket and slacks. His shoes and pants were clean despite the muddy weather, so he must have spent most of the day indoors.

“My apologies for the hour,” Dr. Holmes said, “Does one Mr. Jefferson Hope live here?”

Mr. Keswick shook his head. “I can’t say I’ve ever heard the name,” he said, but his eyebrow twitched, suggesting otherwise.

“Not in the flat below Mrs. Lynne Sawyer?” Dr. Holmes prompted.

“I’m sorry, I can’t help you. Lynne lives here, she moved in fairly recently, but I don’t know any Jefferson Hope.”

Dr. Holmes knocked at every door on both sides of the street, but no one had heard of Jefferson Hope. A few knew of Mrs. Sawyer, but she hadn’t lived there long, so none knew her well. Some had seen someone matching Mr. Hope’s description helping Mrs. Sawyer move in, or otherwise spending time near her apartment, but they all assumed he was merely a friend of hers and took no further notice.

As much as Dr. Holmes asked about any of it - Hope, Sawyer, or even Keswick - no one else had as much as a helpful word to share. It was late in the evening by the time he returned to his own flat on Baker Street thoroughly done-up, if he said so himself.

As he lay in his bed, sleep slowly drawing him away from the world of mortals, he could have sworn he heard the sharp sound of the latchkey, followed shortly by Holmes’s hearty laugh echoing into the night after a fruitless chase.

The next morning Watson awoke to a dull ache in his shoulder and a sting in his leg from a battle in a war long since forgotten and left to the annals of history. His whole body resisted the very idea of movement. Still, somehow, his sense of decency managed to force him to his feet and the urgency of the case at hand kept him in motion through his morning routine until he was safely seated in his chair by the fireplace.

It was not long before a call from Detective-Inspector Houghton confirmed the one conclusion he had been able to draw from the night before; Mrs. Lynne Sawyer, was, by all appearances, who she claimed to be. Her address was no coincidence, both she and her daughter had been offered those particular apartments for well below market, putting more suspicion on Mr. Keswick. Unfortunately, Mrs. Sawyer had nothing new to say about Mr. Jefferson Hope.

If the culprit intended to follow through with his masquerade and turn himself in, now would be his chance, but Dr. Holmes doubted it would be that easy. If a cab driver under the name of Jefferson Hope existed at all, he was by all likelihood gone. Watson had been so caught up in being clever, so determined to be- no, to best Holmes at his own game that he forgot to think. As much as he wished it, he was not reliving his first case with the brilliant detective. Sherlock Holmes was dead and he could not live for the both of them, the best he could do was carry on the detective’s work. If only Mrs. Houghton had managed to find Mr. Hope before the advertisement had gone out, he may have been caught unawares, but it was too late now; he very well knew they were on to him.

The only other lead Dr. Holmes had was this man Keswick. Perhaps he was a little less careful, though it would not be easy to connect him to the crime. Still, a few calls to various acquaintances accumulated over the past hundred some years, and Dr. Holmes managed to trace the ownership of the Duncan Street flats in Houndsditch.

The current owner was in fact a man going by the name of Christopher Keswick who had purchased the flats in the past year for significantly above market from a Mr. and Mrs. Stone. Modern conveniences did have their advantages; a single call to Mr. Stone confirmed the information he had gathered - “a straightforward man... very eager to buy the flats… no, nothing particularly strange about him… didn’t say why he wanted it so bad” - and gave him a description of a man that matched the one he had seen the previous evening.

He was waiting for a call that he hoped would tell him a little more about Mr. Keswick when another call arrived from Detective-Inspector Houghton.

She began without preamble, “Jefferson Hope, an American from Utah by way of Cleveland and more recently Copenhagen, was a cab driver for nearly a year. He officially retired as of today, though he gave notice a week ago. The company's records show that he picked up one Samuel Easton - the man we identified as our Mr. Drebber - from the Ibis Hotel on the evening of his death. His ‘permanent’ address was a place he rented for a month around the time he was hired and we traced the phone number he left to a cheap cell phone left in a nearby dumpster. We’re looking for other records under the same name, but it looks like he’s gone, or rather never existed at all. I hope you have better news.”

Dr. Holmes answered reluctantly, “The best I can offer is a potential co-conspirator; Mr. Christopher Keswick who owns the flat rented by Mrs. Sawyer. I haven’t found anything yet, but I suspect he’s not entirely above board. Do you have any information on Mr. Easton?”

She paused to write something down before saying, “He was here on business from Utah, stayed in the same hotel as Mr. Rowe and went missing at about the same time as we found ‘Mr. Drebber.’ It turns out both of them have been under investigation for various offences in Utah for some time, but neither has ever been convicted, and there’s no known tie to anyone here.

“We’ve also got the reports back on the clothes and other effects. It looks like they’re authentic, probably purchased over the internet. We’ve been going through sales, but haven’t found ‘Jefferson Hope’ there yet. I’m afraid our leads are drying up faster than we can find them. If you find anything, it’d be a great help.”

“There is one more thing.” Dr. Holmes hesitated, but he could not risk losing a potential lead. “You may want to keep an eye out for a Professor James Moriarty.”

Note: This story has been a long time in the making. I started writing it all the way back in 2012 and didn’t finish until 2018, though most of the actual writing was done on the later end, along side wrapping up A Scandal on Baker Street. Now, it is finally ready to post (with some minor and major revisions)!

I will be posting a chapter every other week, alternating with my Star Trek: Generations fix-it. I hope you enjoy!

#v writes #Sherlock Holmes #The Man Who Sold the World

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rustandruin · 6 years ago

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🌸🌼 I think this fandom could do with some positivity so if you want to, why dont you pick 3 (or more) people that you dont normally talk to or havent talked to in a while and tell me one thing you like about them? Or if you feel uneasy about talking to new people just pick people you know better :) Then send this message to at least 5 other blogs that you like to keep this game up! 🌼🌸

Hey Lucy!

Sorry it’s taken me forever to get to this lovely ask. It’s just my ask answering anxiety was at an all-time high. First up, I just want to say that I’ve had a lovely fandom experience and that everyone I talk to (including you!) or have talked to has been really fun and a complete blast, but I want to showcase the folk down below because they’ve all enriched my life a little extra.

Under a cut to spare you all my emotional ramblings. Apologies to anyone on mobile.

@omarandjohnny Jonathan continues to be a complete and utter inspiration. He’s so insanely positive and supportive while continuing to love Halloween and monsters at a full 100%. It reminds me that growing up doesn’t mean leaving behind these things that I’ve loved all my life.

@howellobrien Life can be shitty and your brain can be hard on you, but Holly is just out here spreading joy and positivity as much as she can, which is really how it should work.

@searhythm I wouldn’t have really even begun to start writing, let alone contributing to fandom if it wasn’t for Mow’s spectacular energy. She’s given me the gift of confidence, laughter, dog photos, and perhaps, most importantly, encouraging me to be easier on myself, which, I really am not. I’m going to make you write that fic you’ve planned if it’s the last thing I do, because we all deserve that kind of goodness in our lives. (She’s also the reason why I spell rhythm correctly now.)

@blondhairedking Gemma is an utter ball of sunshine who doesn’t realise how talented she is, and I’m perfectly happy to volunteer as tribute to make that happen whenever she needs because the world needs more people like that.

@getyourfaceoutofmyface Shauna has such a remarkably positive energy. I’m so excited to get to know her and read more of her writing. If you need someone to pick you up when your brain is at it’s most finicky, may I suggest her? Because my goodness is she one hell of a cheerleader.

@robronsnuggles My amazing big bang artist. I’m eternally grateful they chose me but that they’ve also been so kind and patient while bringing my vision to life. I can safely say they’ve made me cry with their talent. I would also carry them to the very depths of Mount Doom if they ever asked.

@notforonesecond Rach won’t see this but you guys need to know how hard she worked on her big bang, and how utterly patient and supportive she’s been with mine. More than that, she’s had to deal with so many stupid jokes, my insane ramblings, and a whole host of memes that one person shouldn’t be subjected to. I’m so glad we got to work together, but also to get to know her.

@thesnowyswan Rae is a fount of wisdom, advice, and more importantly, very cool stories about dragons that I didn’t know about previously. Her writing is a constant inspiration and all sort of #goals, but I’m a bigger fan of Rae the person and everything I learn simply by speaking with her. I’ve become a better more ambitious creator, and just a more thoughtful person, and that is in some part, down to her.

@persiflager I have a million and one theories about things at any given time, and Pers here is such an absolute blast to discuss them with. I love her deep cover knowledge of Emmerdale’s history. I learn so much and it just adds to the joy of speculating, and my enjoyment of the show. More than that, I’m just very, very grateful for all the advice she’s given me. I’ve become a better writer and beta just by association. 12/10. Highly recommend friendship.

@illgetmerope Anna, where do I even begin? Like everyone else on this list, your talent is only superceded by the amazing person you are. You’re a constant inspiration with not only your attitude towards your art (because that is what it is), but just your general interests and the life you lead and the way you make everyone around you feel happy and special. If your lucky students feel even a ¼ of that, they’re the luckiest kids on the planet. If the universe ever does see fit to let us meet in person, just know I won’t be able to handle it.

@whatdiknow Oh, Marj. What don’t I adore about you? You’re wise, kind, understanding, endlessly patient, but most importantly, incredibly funny, with a wonderful capacity to indulge in silliness (especially with yours truly). Your dry sense of humour cracks me up regularly, as do your very astute observations. Do I deserve your friendship? Nah. Do I cherish it? Yes.

@letthebluerain Emma. There is so much I admire about you that I would need a whole other post, but I’m going to focus on all the things that give me the most joy. You’re so smart and incredibly funny, with solid, solid advice. But you’re also super silly, very encouraging, and secretly creative. I love all our conversations and the ideas they inspire, mostly though, I’m just proud I get to call you a friend.

#rust and ruin blogs #friendship #omarandjohnny #howellobrien #blondhairedking #searhythm #getyourfaceoutofmyface #robronsnuggles #notforonesecond #thesnowyswan #persiflager #illgetmerope #whadiknow #letthebluerain #rust and ruin has thoughts #positivity #i dunno these people just make me really happy

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