#sherlock has a whole routine

[johnhwatsonblogs]

Do you put products in your hair by any chance?

Not really, I put the average amount of gel that a man should have, unlike Sherlock.

[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.

[softboyshaven]

It is endlessly exhausting getting online and having allistic people be like "No,sorry I know they're your favorite canon autistic character but they're boring to me so I've decided they're made of harmful stereotypes and you're basic." Like??? I saw a whole thread about Ty Blackthorn that said he was a boring,walking stereotype because he has his headphones in reach a lot of the time. Yes?? He's an autistic person with sensory issues who lives with nine people (the least amount he lives with,there's more at other times) and he constantly has government officials popping in magically,without warning. I'd want my headphones with me too??

We can talk about the Sherlock thing but the stimming? The headphones?? The meltdowns in COHF after his entire routine changed,he had to move and he lost three family members?? The not understanding Kit liked him because he didn't pick up on flushing and looking away and quality time as a social cue for a crush?? Believable! Likely,even!

"Why is he doing *all these things autistic people commonly do*? Shouldn't he be ✨different✨?" He has autistic traits because he's autistic!! Hope this helps:)

[jrow]

May Prompts (5)

Day 4 here. Day 6 here.

Awkward

“This part is a bit awkward. Sorry, John.”

He’s been aware of the nurse doing various checks on him, but this is the first time she’s spoken. When he feels her his gown and start doing something around his cock and balls, he feels obliged to say something. From his perspective silence only makes this more awkward.

“So, I have a cath then,” he croaks out, opening his eyes halfway. It’s so damn bright in here. He’s suddenly keenly aware of how thirsty he is. He’s also keenly aware that he doesn’t really know what’s going on.

“Well, hello there!” the nurse says, brightly. He recognizes her voice—did he talk to her before? “You’re awake!” She continues to do her work under his gown, and John can feel his cheeks redden. “And yes, of course you have a catheter. Standard for this kind of thing, as you well know doctor.”

He’s about to argue that he actually doesn’t know what kind of thing is even happening but decides the need to drink is more pressing.

“Thirsty,” he rasps. He turns his head and winces. His head is pounding and he feels awful. It's bad enough that he can't be bothered to continue feeling embarrassed that a random woman is currently cleaning a tube shoved up his urethra.

“Of course,” the nurse says, lowering his gown. In a flash she is by his side with a cup of water. John shifts to drink and notices a familiar feeling under his arm. He looks down and his blood goes cold.

“Sherlock,” he says, alarmed, water (and his own discomfort) entirely forgotten. “Where is he?” Even John is smart enough to deduce he’s in a hospital, but he has no recollection of why. If he got hurt, there’s a non-zero chance that Sherlock did too. Why else would his coat be here? John feels his heart rate accelerating and a machine starts beeping loudly. He has another, equally terrifying thought. “And Rosie, where’s Rosie? Are they okay?”

Think, John. Remember!

"Calm down, it's okay, nothing happened to them,” the nurse says, resting a hand on his shoulder. "I assume Rosie's your daughter, then? Mr. Holmes left to a few hours ago to take care of her. Said he'd be back after he dropped her off at nursery." She chuckles. "He was a bit of a mess last night, but he took the time to rant at me about the substantial empirical evidence that routine is crucial for young children, even more so in times of crises.” She leans closer and lowers her voice. “To be honest, I think he was trying to convince himself. I suspect he felt guilty about leaving.”

Warmth fills John's chest. "That sounds about right. And err...sorry about him. He can be difficult when he’s a …. mess.”

"No apology needed," she replies. "He was a bit of an arse between the tears, but," she drops her voice again and whispers, "only to the doctor, really, and he deserved it. He’s good but he has a touch of an ego.”

“So does Sherlock,” John says with a chuckle and then grimaces as pain radiates across his chest. God, his whole body hurts.

“I noticed,” the nurse replies, with a wink. “Two egos like that … well, let’s say it got a bit tense.” She leans back. “Now drink and then I’ll see about getting you something for the pain.”

John complies, focusing on the feeling of cold water moving down his throat. When he’s done, the nurse pats him on the shoulder and puts the cup down.

“I’ll go fetch your doctor,” she says as she looks at her watch. “And your Sherlock should be back soon. Hopefully they’ll be able to answer all the questions I can see you have.”

“Good,” he says through a yawn. He closes his eyes, suddenly very tired.

The nurse makes a sound of agreement. “You can rest now if you like.”

John thinks he will.

@calaisreno @raina-at @totallysilvergirl @meetinginsamarra @lisbeth-kk @jolieblack @friday411 @helloliriels @safedistancefrombeingsmart @keirgreeneyes

Let me know if you want the added or removed from the tags!

[divinity-in-chaos]

Mycroft headcanons

I just need to get these out of my system. If anyone has anything to add, pls do!! I love to hear your thoughts 🥰 slight hints to mystrade!

Warning: this will include themes of depression, eating disorders and self-harm. I will put them at the end, so if you aren’t here for that, just skip past ❤️

He absolutely hates the summer. This guy is a winter baby. The cold weather is a bother but at least he doesn’t sweat through his suits in the snow.

Will never admit it, but his mother’s homemade pie is his favourite comfort food. He’s tried a thousand times to bake it, following the recipe exactly, but he can never get it just right.

The first time he held Sherlock, he cried.

(This is the one of the only times he’s cried in front of his parents.)

Mycroft can’t stand jazz music. He does not understand it at all.

If he had to have a pet, it would be a cat. Preferably one without any fur.

Is actually allergic to certain laundry detergents- I like to think Sherlock is too. They just have sensitive skin.

Watches Barbie movies to unwind when he gets overwhelmed and burnt out. Will not admit this even if it were to save his life.

Every autumn, he re-watches Over The Garden Wall with a glass of wine. The whole show in one sitting, I might add.

Is a daddy’s boy. Sherlock is mummy’s boy.

Would love to have a daughter, but the trauma of taking care of Eurus and Sherlock has convinced him he’s not suitable to be a father. His family genes also has a massive play in that- what if it was a case of Eurus again? Nope, Mycroft would rather be lonely.

Speaking of lonely- I like to think after TFP, Sherlock starts setting him up with people and at first Mycroft complains, but then eventually he just gives in and lets Sherlock do what he wants. Coincidentally, this is just around the time Sherlock starts setting him up with Lestrade. Isn’t that strange? 👀

Came out to his parents during lunch one day, it was very casual.

(Sherlock has never come out, he doesn’t feel like he has to follow that tradition)

His favourite colour is green.

Has a framed photo of himself, Eurus and Sherlock as kids which he keeps in his bedroom. Not on display, but in his bedside drawer (in the middle drawer)

Depressive themes now:

Has been struggling with depression and ED’s since he was quite young.

He has a particular routine of binge eating and then purging.

This is in partly Mrs Holmes fault when she started insisting he diet, a little too much. Not harshly, just unaware of the consequences.

Although it’s mainly depression causing it, along with a childhood of being bullied and mocked by peers.

Attempted suicide at 16. This was the second and last time Mr and Mrs Holmes saw him cry. It wasn’t out of sadness or embarrassment, it was frustration that he had failed.

Sherlock’s reaction to his attempt is the sole reason he hasn’t tried again.

Has SH scars on his stomach.

[cod-dump]

Okay, more of the Ghost ending up in Price's bed most nights:

Gaz and Soap learn about it, and at first both Price and Ghost are worried about how they're gonna react. Mostly thinking along the lines of "really Ghost? That scared about a bad dream that you need to go sleep in your Captain's bed?" or something similar.

That, or they're more expecting them to be okay with it, but to not really discuss it and just kinda let the conversation move on. They are good people after all. Ghost also has a mild fear that Soap is hurt that he's not the one Ghost goes to

But NO. No, what actually happens is Price is suddenly dealing with two very emotional sergeants after he explains that he's their captain and they can always go to him if they need him.

Price: I'm serious, if you need something, come to me. I clearly don't care what time it is.

*Both sergeants staring at him*

Gaz, choking up: So why didn't you tell us sooner? I want post-nightmare cuddles :(

Soap, more clearly angry: You mean we coulda been havin' sleepovers this whole fuckin' time and no one told us?

Price, flustered: I don't know, I figured you boys would come to me without me saying anything.

Gaz, still sniffling: So, I can have cuddles too?

Soap, immediately grabbing Gaz's arm: No! Price doesn't deserve ya! You come to me when you have a nightmare and I'll go to you.

Gaz, wrapping his arms around Soap: Fine! If you guys don't want us at your sleepovers, you're not invited to ours!

*They both storm out of the office leaving Ghost and Price very confused and mildly concerned*

Soap and Gaz stood by their word. They got together several different times to support each other through sleepless nights. It became a routine, something for them, and they never heard any complaints from Price or Ghost.

Sometimes they would stay in one of their rooms or in the rec room. This night they went to the rec room after Gaz had what he decided as ‘a fucked up dream’. So Soap gathered some snacks, blankets, and Gaz got pillows and movies, and they headed to the rec room. They were surprised to see Ghost already there, watching something on TV.

“Oh, hey LT.”

Ghost blinked at looked at them, “Oh… you’re awake.”

Soap motions to Gaz, “Bad dream. Why are you here?”

Ghost looks back at the TV, “Couldn’t sleep… Price isn’t here so I didn’t know where else to go.”

Soap and Gaz exchange glances. Soap sighs and both him and Gaz walk into the rec room and set their stuff down. Soap shoves Ghost over and sits on the couch, Gaz choosing the arm chair.

“What are we watching?”

Ghost is taken aback but says nothing. They ended up having a Sherlock marathon, Gaz the first to fall asleep. Then Ghost passed out, leaning on Soap who tries to finish the episode they were on before finally giving in and falling asleep.

[jolieblack]

Jolie's notes on

The Three Students (Sherlock & Co podcast)

📖 🎓👨‍🏫 This case doesn’t seem to get talked about much… and I think I agree and I know why. I find ACD’s original Three Students story rather unspectacular myself. The setting is very picture-postcard English™️, but it is otherwise completely unexciting. A solid string of observations and deductions eliminates both red herring suspects (painfully red) to arrive at the *gasp!* solution that people may not be who they appear to be on the surface. Decent work, but hardly the stuff that made Sherlock Holmes a legend. Considering that this is what Joel was up against, I’d say he did rather well for the podcast! Because this isn’t a story about a crime now, it’s a story about identity and about belonging. (Once again. I love how this is a recurring theme of our show.)

John abandoning Sherlock, Mariana and their whole project for a wild night of student partying has been called out of character by some commenters, but while I was still at a loss to understand it myself at the end of the first part, by the end of the second part it made sense to me that this whole case is a story about fitting in, about being popular, about FOMO and what FOMO does to people. John didn’t recklessly let Sherlock down in pursuit of instant gratification in the alcohol or flirting department. What actually happened there was John being bowled over by either the memories of his student days and of how much he loved being one of the boys and having a gang to party with that accepted him just the way he was, which he subsequently lost after his army days and injury; or by the memories of how he never really had a gang to belong to, having struggled at university both academically and in the popularity contest, and is catching up to that lovely feeling now. We see the same thing mirrored in Mariana‘s backstory of wanting to fit in with the cool gang at school. Then it gets mirrored in the three students, too, and in what drives them. Even Sherlock isn’t immune from being called the best in his field and it being "cool" that he’s being invited to speak at Oxford. But he - unexpectedly, given his constant sense of being a misfit - ends up being the happiest and most successful of the whole bunch in this adventure, because he fully realises, quicker than anyone else, that has found his family (a doctor from Swindon and an accountant from Sociedad!) and knows exactly where he belongs.

I don’t suppose any of us were surprised that Sherlock’s awkward lecture would end up being the live solving of a case. (We all remember the BBC Sherlock’s wedding speech in season 3 of that show, after all.) Love how he took everyone to task though. Brutal. Fantastic. I knew there was a reason why I love this man.

Details that I loved:

Sherlock stealing everyone’s sausage rolls and framing Archie! 😂 The way Sherlock got demoted from best friend to "roommate" with very sharply enunciated consonants as a punishment cracked me up.

"when I am positively carbonated with the fizzing bubbles of resolution…" - I kept looking for the ACD story that quote comes from, but it’s apparently an Emory original! 👌

I adored John once again being Sherlock’s interpreter for social cues, and how much they’ve perfected their routine by now: Their super-quick "hyperbole or sarcasm?" - "affectionate hyperbole" exchange made me tear up with affection myself.

"I will merely emit a faint glow of intrigue for now." - Another quote that I could have sworn was ACD.

Things I did NOT like: The professor’s accent. This guy was literally painful to listen to. Oxbridge alumni in this fandom, please join me in confirming that Oxbridge professors do not typically talk like that.

So… like in ACD’s stories, we can’t and won’t always have high stakes, dead bodies and mortal danger, but that’s fine with me. These are stories about friendship as much as they are stories about crime, and in this one, insights abound in the former sense.

[nowiamcoveredinyou]

Hello! May I request 3+26 from the indulgence list for Sherlock?

"Rule my heart"

Sherlock x reader

Warnings:- age gap!

Word count:- 2257

A/n:- your request was interesting. I enjoyed writing it. I hope you like it too💗. Also I included cricket (again) can't help but push my favourite sport everywhere I get the chance too.

Prompt list !

"I know darling" I answered on my phone as I sat at the dining table with my breakfast. It's my ultimate routine to call my boyfriend in the morning, before he's out for office and with all the "love you", "you're mine", "darling" he says another thing everyday "your roommate is really good with the violin". Which is the utmost truth of all. While I call my boyfriend Lucas, my roommate Mr Sherlock Holmes spends time with his violin. The wise detective of Baker Street, cold to everyone, only we his friends know what a warm heart he has got. Friend I say, however in my heart I know, he's more to me, have always been. Yet he's fifteen years older than me, perhaps he wouldn't find such a younger girl like me to be his companion, partner... Let alone wife. I am a believer of marriage so it was better for me and him to go as we can, Lucas is my chance to have the dream marriage I want. He's almost my age, three years older, perfect husband material, caring and funny, but then Sherlock is also funny, caring, protective of me. That's where I get stuck everytime, every good thing I find in Lucas, is good to me because it's present in my roommate.

"Your roommate... Is he alright?" Came from the other end of the phone, I was brought back from my train of thoughts.

"Huh.. wh-what? Sherlock? He seems fine, I guess" I replied.

"His music... It isn't... Like everyday" he said, that's when I observed yes, he seems to be unable to concentrate. He's getting stuck, repeating, making mistakes, unlike other days flawless music. Even if sometimes he makes mistakes he handles them well, well enough for no one to know. He'd come to me later and confess, "remember during the time of the music of that note, I hit a wrong note, I hope no one realised".

It was surprising to listen to him today, "might be a stressful case Lucas" I replied.

"Hmm.. perhaps, anyway gotta go" saying so we hung up with a "love you" to eachother. After the call I called my roommate, "Sherlock, come and have your breakfast".

He hummed which was almost inaudible, but the sound of him putting down his violin confirmed he's on his way, he has to be reminded all the time to eat. He came and sat on the chair obediently.

"What was up with your violin Sherlock?" I asked pouring him his tea.

"It was awful wasn't it?" He replied softly taking a biscuit and dipping in his tea.

"No" I said laughing softly to make him feel less bad for the... Well, bizzare tune today, "it happens when you're anxious, stressed, hard to control the stressful thoughts." I stated my reasoning, "I understand it... Entirely."

He stared at me, wonder what was so thrilling in me munching my biscuit.

"You said you're dumb" he said.

"Am I not? I think I am" I replied sipping my tea.

"You deduced me, me!" He emphasised the word 'me' "and you say you're dumb?"

"Well, this was easy perhaps" I said giggling like an idiot because I loved the compliment coming from the wisest man in, I dare say, the whole country.

"Wish you saw yourself the way I do" said he and sipped all his tea at once, like what I did.

"You're stressed then ? Work pressure?" I asked, playing with the handle of my cup, admiring his matured features, matured frown, may I say matured immaturity too?

"Not exactly" he said, thinking, "it's... I'm not sure actually." He tried to come up with an answer. I always wrap my arms around his neck when he's upset, or stressed. I love it because I love him, who cares for me, brings me my favourite junk food and holds my hand while walking. Lucas does so, sometimes, doesn't feel the same though.

I got up and wrapped my arms around his neck, "aww, you'll be fine" I said leaning on his head, which was a successful attempt of making him laugh.

"You know how to make me laugh don't you?" He said caressing the back of my palm.

"Seems like I do Sherlock." I said, with no hurry to let go off him.

Our moments of silence is even comfortable than any useless chatting. Eventhough I'm the chatter in the house and he's the Listener. I wonder why can't I feel this sort of comfort with Lucas? He's nice... I guess, a bit "don't do that, don't do this, your books are boring, read mine" but that's okay.

"Lucas gets the same affection from you, lucky guy" his voice broke the silence.

"But you do too" I replied, only if you knew I would love to give all of my affection to you, but you're older and perhaps I'm too young for you, you don't have any romantic feelings for any woman you met, some of them are beautiful, same age, smart, even his friend Molly is also smart. Why would you think of me if they can't win you.

"He'll get all, for all his life" he said. Yes because... I can't believe I'm actually marrying Lucas, so perhaps that makes me his fiance.

"You'll attend it okay" I said letting go off him, the thought of marrying Lucas was... Well... Overwhelming.

"You know my thoughts on m-marriages" he replied taking his cup to the sink. And ofcourse I do, that's why I have to try to love someone. Because you... You... Nevermind.

"It'd just make me happy to have my fr-friend" the word stuck, friend?

"Friend" he said washing his cup, when did he learn all these? Oh wait he always does the dishes, since I came because he thinks I'm too young for it, even for doing the dishes... Forget about love.

"Yes friend " I replied "My friend... You ... To be a part of this joyous event."

He nodded, he agreed I hoped. Later that evening Lucas took me to a cafe, he talked about himself all the time, he's a fine looking guy and I've always dreamt myself with such a guy, but all the time I was with him I thought of Sherlock. Later as I came home I found the flat... Messy. Scattered papers, test tubes here and there and the detective smoking?

"Sherlock!" I furiously entered and took away the ciggerate, "you promised me not to ever smoke."

"I'm sorry " he said raising himself a bit, "I couldn't control."

"Please don't tell me you took... Those things that you used to take" the thought of him being a junkie again horrified me.

"I didn't" he said.

"What happened to you today?" I can't help but yell, it's hard to see the man child, the beautiful man like this, "why are you acting like this?"

"Nevermind" he said, "how was the date with Lucas?"

His cross question infuriated me. I couldn't help but let my eyes get teary, couldn't help any longer but speak the truth, "awful".

To this he looked concerned, he stood up from his chair and came a few steps toward me,

"Have always been like this, forced, awful, ridiculous to even try to love him".

The tears of rage fell and he, I bet never saw me like this, yes he's calmed me down from exam frustration, work stress, family fights but this..."couldn't you deduce I'm not happy with him?"

He stayed quite, just pulled me to him, cupped my cheeks and kissed my forehead. I closed my eyes wondering, perhaps I'm just a platonic adorable friend, otherwise those lips would've touched my lips.

"Lucas is a bit self absorbed." He said.

I stared at him, he knew?

"You knew it? He's not... Why didn't you say me?"

"Because he's exactly the kind of guy you like, remember when you came to my flat first time, and we started talking, you turned the TV on and watched cricket, that became our favourite 'us time', I learnt the whole sports from you-"

"Yet can't tell if it's a run out before the DRS" I interrupted and that made him giggle a bit.

"Guess that's a bit... Left to learn" he had difficulty to form sentences, "you told me about your favourite cricketer and every guy you had a crush on? Dated? I saw a pattern there, they looks similar with beard and specs, young, handsome, Lucas is all that. I thought you were happy to get to marry such a guy".

"Oh yeah" I said with a mocking laugh, not directed to him but my said thought,

"I assumed the same" gained some strength to finally say, "but he doesn't love me the way y.."

I stopped myself before I said too much.

"Is there a particular way to love?" Asked the detective.

"Oh?" He? He's talking of love? "What do you even know of love?"

He was taken aback, he's perhaps never seen me acting like this to him yet he replied, "to care for, to adore, to respect, wanting to be close to the person, to give her all she'll ever want, to ..." He smiled as he thought of more points this time, "listen to her.. nonsense in her words, to see her childlike amazement hearing and seeing my adventures, her.. leaning on my chest while I caress her, I think to me that's love."

I stayed quiet, because that's all me, we do such stuffs.

"And I think love is simple, joyous, intimate, and another word that you say alot...cute" he said "I am not such a man, to do all these things, to love someone... cutely, I'm a cold detective who abhors romance, I'm not the romantic type and -"

"But all the things you said is love.." I interrupted, "you and I... We.."

He was stunned perhaps, he thought and said, "I... "

He couldn't yet believe, he actually,

"you love me? You said all those stuffs remembering us Sherlock?"

Sherlock was still thinking... Is he confused about how he feels or...

"Yes ... Oh my... Yes" he said with utter excitement, pacing around the floor, "I love you... Alot... Alot... You didn't know? Come on! You're smarter than that. You knew it."

"I never ... I thought I'm too young for you"

"Or I... Too old for you?"

"Never, I love you, have always loved you." I said as I ran to embrace him. He hugged me back tightly, and we both cried in joy. But...

"I'm engaged Sherlock " I said and his grip around me loosened.

"Your hand may be promised to him, you may marry him, doesn't change the fact that I love you and-" he stopped but his grip got tighter. I thought he was nervous of his vulnerability so I said,

"And I love you, I worried about our age gap, yes you're different than my type but I love you, I can't pretend anymore, truth is I don't love Lucas " I thought he'd say something but to our horror a third voice uttered,

"It was all a joke then" Sherlock... That's why he stopped and hugged me tightly, this time I turned,

"Lucas!" He was at the door, "wha-what are you doing here?"

"I see" he said, "not a good timing, my father thought you'd love these pastries, white forests so he..."

"She hates that pastry, black forest... That's what she likes" Sherlock clarified, and he was right, "still don't know her likes and dislikes, was about to Marry her?"

"How will he?" I said before Lucas could, "he only talks, never listens or observes."

"Cheated on me" he said, "now being a big mouth".

"She never did, I.. we never did" said Sherlock, "until tonight we never thought the other loved us".

"Lucas" I went to him, whatever he is, he was my boyfriend and I too feel guilty for loving someone else pretending when it's him, "I'm sorry, I... We are sorry, we love eachother."

"He's older...alot older than you" Lucas said.

"I don't care" I replied.

"Neither do I" Sherlock said.

Lucas looked at us, fuming and with a nod he left. We stood quietly not knowing what to say until I said,

"You listened to your heart?"

"Right time, right situation, right person... Makes you listen to it... The heart" answered Sherlock that made us, both giggle.

The day Lucas and I was to get married, I did get married infact but to Sherlock. That day he didn't acted like himself, he confessed because it was hard to keep all the love he had for me in his heart. And here we are... The ones that are supposed to be. And age gap? Barely matters doesn't it? Especially when your man says on the wedding day, "look I never trusted anyone with my heart. And here... I give you the power to save it, to break it, to heal it. You can do any of these or all three for I don't care as much as you rule my heart. Even getting Hurt from you, even, is my pride."

P.s.:- I'm making a tag list! If anyone wants to be included do let me know in the comments.

[marvelfanfn2187a113]

The Same Page Part 6/?

Hey guys! Part 6 is up, this one has more Sherlock this time around! I’ll probably have more of his friends, John/Lestrade, in future chapters.

Sherlock was worried, and worry was not a feeling he was used to.

Throughout the whole first week of his return, after you had gotten over your anger at his and Mycroft’s lies, you had been sticking to your older brothers like Velcro. He hadn’t been to Baker Street in three days, since the one night he had spent there while you seemed to be improving. You had backslid on your progress after that day, terrified to let either Holmes brother out of your sight.

Mycroft seemed strangely fine with this behavior of yours, and Sherlock feared that his older brother had spent the past two years becoming immune to your separation anxiety. He had no doubt that it had perhaps helped you while Sherlock was gone and you were grieving, but now that he was back it was simply concerning.

And he wasn’t going to ignore it.

…

“Sherlock, it’s too soon-“

“I don’t think so, Mycroft.” Sherlock’s voice was firm. He had thought this through, and he was resolute in his decision. “She’s been getting worse, and I think bringing her to Baker Street, just for a few days, might help. She needs a change in routine, and she needs to get away from this house, and-“ Sherlock hesitated. “And you.”

Mycroft nearly recoiled at the words, but managed to hold in all but a twitch. This didn’t keep Sherlock from noticing, of course.

“Don’t take it like that, it isn’t your fault. But she’s too attached, you know she is. It isn’t good for her.”

Mycroft gritted his teeth, “As if you’re some kind of expert on what’s good for her.”

Sherlock was perplexed.

“What’s that supposed to mean? I’ve cared for her for years.”

“Not lately.”

Now Sherlock was angry, too.

“We both know that I-“

“Don’t take it like that,” Mycroft taunted. “It isn’t your fault.”

Sherlock groaned, “This is getting us nowhere. We promised to stay on the same page, and you know I’m right. She’s practically stitched to your side, it has to end.”

“But taking her away for days? Sherlock, she isn’t ready.”

“What makes you say that? And what makes you think either of us will be able to tell if she’s ready? Mycroft, she’s only going to get worse unless we take action! We have to try.”

Mycroft was silent for a long moment. Sherlock hoped that that meant he was seeing reason, and simply didn’t want to admit it.

He was right.

“Fine.” Mycroft sighed wearily. “Alright, I’ll talk to her about it.”

…

“Baker Street?” Your voice was quiet as you pondered Mycroft’s invitation, trying out the words as though they were foreign to you.

“Only for a few days, just to try it out. After that, if you’d like, you can return here.”

You were silent for several seconds, watching Mycroft carefully. He was nervous, but you couldn’t quite discern why. Then it hit you.

“You…you’re not coming, are you?”

Mycroft winced, and you had your answer.

“Sherlock thinks it’s best…if I stay here while you go.”

You scoffed, “Since when do you listen to him?”

Mycroft sighed and leaned down to be with eye level to you.

“Look, I know you’re nervous about this. But I think with Sherlock around…you’ll be ok without me.”

You looked up to meet his gaze, “But what if I’m not?”

Mycroft straightened, his face becoming impassive, almost distant. You remembered that look. He had often looked like that before…

But you hadn’t seen what you called his “iceman stare” in almost two years, and it wasn’t exactly a welcome sight. His answer to your question was even less welcome.

“You will be.”

You couldn’t help but think that this answer was completely unhelpful.

…

John carried your small suitcase, and Sherlock let you lean on his arm up the stairs leading to 221B Baker Street.

It was the same as it had always been. The absolute, exact same. Not a single thing out of place, not even Sherlock’s skull had been thrown out by Mrs Hudson in his absence.

Speaking of Mrs Hudson, she all but strangled you in a bear hug the moment you stepped into the apartment.

You felt tears prick your eyes as you hugged her back. She had been like a second mother to you throughout your stay at Baker Street. You had seen her briefly a few times since Sherlock’s “death”, but somehow this felt different.

This felt like coming home.

…

“John put your suitcase in your old room,” Sherlock was practically pacing, walking slowly back and forth in front of the mantelpiece, clearly trying not to look awkward and failing entirely. You bit back a smile. He never did know how to start normal conversations.

“Yeah, great,” you said, smiling weakly. Ok, maybe Sherlock wasn’t the only one struggling with this conversation.

Sherlock nodded, “yeah. Great.”

You sighed, “Sherlock this is ridiculous. Can we…can we try to pretend like this is normal?”

“Right, normal,” Sherlock sat down in his chair, “so…what would we normally do?”

“Well we…” you hesitated, looking around the apartment as if lost. “We would…” you sighed. “Yeah, I don’t know.”

Suddenly, a very unexpected sound reached your ears. You turned to look at Sherlock, at first unsure if you were hearing things. He was doubled over in his chair, his shoulders shaking, his face red…

He was laughing.

And suddenly, randomly, you started to laugh too. It was one of this unexplainable moments, where neither of you really knew why you were laughing, but you couldn’t stop all the same. Sherlock caught his breath first, but one look at you and laughter overtook him again, sending you both back into fits of giggles.

Finally, you both caught your breath, and the laughter died out. Sherlock stood, and without hesitation you rushed into his arms.

You felt him stiffen at the unexpected display of affection, but you didn’t care.

Your big brother was alive, and you were home.

…

After you had unpacked a few things and got yourself reacquainted with Baker Street, you and Sherlock lapsed into a comfortable, silent state. He was in the kitchen working on a science experiment, John was out shopping, and you were reading in Sherlock’s armchair.

That’s how you spent the afternoon, in complete bliss. You didn’t have to do anything, because just being here, home, with your big brother seated where he had so often been, felt like one of your dreams come to life.

Every once in a while you would put down your book and play Mycroft’s game, convincing yourself that you were really here, and that this wasn’t a dream.

After a while, however, the game began to feel strange. You had never tried it at Baker Street before, and you had never used the technique without Mycroft by your side to help you through it.

And suddenly, even in this scenario that you had dreamed of ever since you heard of your brother’s “death”, you began to feel discontent. You couldn’t really understand why at first, after all having Sherlock back, having your old life back, had been all you wanted for two whole years.

But now you realized that your old life might not be enough. It took you a moment to figure out why.

Mycroft. Before, when you had lived at Baker Street, Mycroft was just the big brother that came by every once in a great while, usually because he was worried about Sherlock. He would greet you, if he was in a good mood he would let you give him a hug, and then he’d leave. But now…

You couldn’t go back to that. Not now that you and Mycroft were so close…

You needed him. Just as much as you needed Sherlock.

“So,” Sherlock’s voice jostled you out of your reverie. You hadn’t noticed him coming up to stand by your chair. “What should we do for dinner?”

You shook your head as though attempting to clear your old thoughts away. Maybe you couldn’t go back to your old life forever, but you could manage it for a few days of catching up with Sherlock. You owed both your brothers that much; to Sherlock, to get reacquainted, and to Mycroft, to let him have a few days of peace.

“Let’s get takeout.”

…

Your determination to give Mycroft peace lasted about four hours. When the takeout containers had been cleared away, and night fell fast and dark, a familiar anxiety began to creep over you like a storm cloud over a bright sunny day.

Your usual fear of sleeping, of the nightmares always accompanied it, was nearly doubled by your current out-of-place-ness. If it had been a few years ago, you would’ve simply gone to bed whenever you began to grow tired, and Sherlock was almost always either working on a case or some experiment. If you had been at Mycroft’s tonight, you would have followed his strict sleeping schedule, and he would’ve sat in your room with either a book or his computer, waiting until you fell asleep.

But it wasn’t the past, and you weren’t at Mycroft’s, and Sherlock was so very concentrated on his microscope that you felt anxious at the very thought of interrupting him. You knew he wouldn’t be angry with you, he never was, but still you felt so strange being here like this, as though nothing had happened in the last two years. You were beginning to get a sinking feeling that that was how Sherlock wanted it. He wanted the old days back, he wanted to pretend like nothing had changed. In a way, Mycroft was almost acting like that too. He had spent the last week going through the usual routine, as if Sherlock hadn’t even come back. You were pretty sure it was only because of Sherlock’s persistence that you were standing here in Baker Street now.

But you couldn’t go along with either brother. You couldn’t sit here with Sherlock and pretend like the last two years hadn’t happened, like you were the same girl that had lived here. Like you hadn’t had your heart ripped out and replaced with anxiety and grief.

But you couldn’t pretend like nothing had changed, either. You couldn’t be the girl Mycroft had gotten to know, to take care of. You couldn’t pretend that your whole world hadn’t been flipped upside down—or perhaps right-side up—just last week, after two whole years of trying to get used to a life without one of your brothers.

You couldn’t be who Sherlock wanted, and you couldn’t be who Mycroft knew. So what were you supposed to do?

Who were you supposed to be?

…

It didn’t take long for Sherlock to realize something was off. He leaned away from his microscope to see you, no longer reading, your legs pulled up against your chest, your eyes vacant and unseeing. He rose from his seat, moving to stand by you. You looked up when he approached, and gave a valiant—albeit failed—attempt to smile. He smiled back, just to encourage you, and broke the silence.

“Wouldn’t you like to get some sleep?”

Pause. A nod. Apparently you didn’t feel like talking right now. Sherlock decided that that was fine, no harm in some non-verbal communication.

“Alright then, would you like me to come with you?”

Another nod, this one more timid. Sherlock didn’t understand your desire for his nearness, didn’t understand your sentiment, but he had expected it none the less. Mycroft had told him to expect it, and to try to make you feel as comfortable as possible. Baby steps were enough for now. You being away from Mycroft was probably stressful enough.

“Ok. After you go to sleep I’ll be working down here, so just call if you need anything.”

Another nod. Sherlock was starting to feel uncomfortable with this abnormal routine, but nonetheless he helped you upstairs, and stayed with you for several minutes before you finally spoke.

“You don’t have to stay. I’m ok.”

Sherlock nodded, “Ok then.” He left, feeling awkward but still glad that you were ok to be alone.

Maybe it meant you were getting better.

…

As soon as Sherlock was gone, you pulled out your phone. You had promised him, and yourself, that you would leave Mycroft alone for these few days. But you just couldn’t do it. You figured there was no harm in giving him a quick call, just to say goodnight, just to hear his voice, to know he was ok, before you slept. No harm at all.

You dialed, and pulled your knees up to your chest, holding the phone against your ear as you waited for him to pick up.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

You waited.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

Nothing. On it went, for the three attempts you made to call Mycroft. He didn’t pick up. You finally gave up and put the phone on your dresser.

Why didn’t he answer? Was he busy? Was he ignoring you?

From deep inside, more insidious questions bubbled to the surface.

Was he ok? Did one of his many enemies get to him? Was he on top of a building right now, like Sherlock had been?

You shook your head hard as though that would clear it of the awful thoughts. Those were paranoid thoughts, anxious thoughts, they weren’t true. Mycroft called them your “poison thoughts”, seeping in without any drop of truth in them, taking over your mind and pushing out any good thoughts, any truth.

Despite your attempts to turn your mind to better thoughts, to convince yourself that Mycroft was just busy, you couldn’t turn off your anxiety once it had been turned on.

It got so bad that you were beginning to feel unaware of your surroundings. You hugged your knees to your chest, looking around the room in a desperate attempt to focus.

Mycroft’s game. Maybe that would help.

It was 10:47. Your comforter…your comforter was purple. The door…

Your train of thought went completely off the rails, and you found yourself unable to grasp any coherent thoughts. A few thoughts floated around in your fogged mind, the only ones you could latch onto amid the darkness.

Mycroft. Sherlock.

“Mycroft,” your voice came out in a croak, and you felt tears dripping down onto your hands. “Mycroft!” Where was he? Wait…

No, you weren’t at Mycroft’s. You were at Baker Street. But how were you there? Sherlock was gone, he’d been gone for two years. Were your eyes deceiving you now? Were you so far gone that you couldn’t even tell where you were anymore?

“Y/n?” Somewhere far away, a voice flitted into the edge of your consciousness. It sounded like…but it couldn’t be.

Sherlock?

“Y/N, N/N look at me, look at me please!”

And there he was, the sight of him suddenly bringing back memory of the past week. Sherlock was alive! He was ok, he was here, he was with you.

It was then that you also noticed how hard it was to breathe, how tight your throat felt and how thin the air was.

“Sher…” you couldn’t even finish the word, too focused were you on trying to suck in air.

“N/N, it’s ok, you’re fine I’m here. Breathe, can you do that for me? Just breathe.” He grabbed your hand and held it to his chest, taking a deep breath and allowing you to feel his steady heartbeat.

Slowly but surely, you matched your breathing to his. Once your heart rate had slowed, you were surprised when Sherlock put his arms around you and held you against his chest. You leaned your head into him, comforted by his steady breathing and strong heartbeat.

“Thank you,” you said quietly.

“What happened?” Sherlock’s voice rumbled against the side of your head, and you gripped tightly to his arm, keeping your head down so he couldn’t look you in the eye.

“I, um…I tried to call Mycroft.”

Sherlock sighed, “We talked about this.”

Your lip started to quiver, and you blinked rapidly as you spoke.

“I know, but…I just had to hear his voice. Just for a minute. I couldn’t sleep. But he didn’t pick up,” you swallowed a lump in your throat. “Do you think he’s ok?”

“He’s fine,” Sherlock shifted, holding you at arms length and tilting your head up so you could face him. “I told him not to answer in case you called. We both decided that it would be good for you to just take a few days. But he’s fine, trust me.”

You stared at Sherlock, “You told him…I don’t understand.”

“We thought that it would be better like this. You…you need some distance. You know that he can’t be around all the time, right?”

You looked down, “I know, but-“

“Please, try to understand. You need a few days away from him, you need to be able to handle that. We’ll take it slow, I promise, but this is the first step.”

“The first step to what?” You pulled away slightly, looking back up at Sherlock. You had been right in your fears, going back to the past was what he wanted. But you couldn’t do it. “To going back to what it was before? To never seeing Mycroft, to only seeing you when you were between cases?! I…Sherlock, I don’t want that anymore. I can’t.”

Sherlock was taken aback, “Then…what do you want?”

You should’ve expected the question, but somehow it stunned you to silence for a long moment. Then…

“I…I don’t know.”

And you had no idea how to figure it out.

Taglist:

@navs-bhat

@isabellavere

@chaoticglitterkitten

@peachycupotea

@justforrose

[ciaossu-imagines]

No offence but why should people have to pay for stuff from you when 99% of creators on here would post the same things for free

Well, I really debated just deleting this. I really did. Or plain out blocking this anon. Because I really do try to ignore negativity in the inbox, truly, and normally do delete it. But I'll answer this one, in a mo', after I first say...putting no offense in front of an ask that is meant to be rude, to either hurt my feelings or make me feel bad, doesn't suddenly make it inoffensive. In fact, pretty much guaranteed that if you feel the need stick 'no offense' in front of something, you know it'll be offensive, or at the very least, rude, and you're trying to excuse a dick move. Question too...are you sending this ask to every fanartist accepting commissions too, or just the writers? My guess is a solid no, but hey, maybe you can prove me wrong.

Next point - nobody should be paying me anything right now. My commissions are temporarily closed. I'm not really accepting any at the moment because I'm on day 10 of a stretch of 12 days at work before I have one day off, after which I pull another 12 days before I get 2 whole days off. I'm struggling to find time to finish the two commissions I do have and to write to build up the queue on here again so I can continue to put out things on here again. I'm pulling at least one all-nighter a week just to make progress on those two things.

Again - free stuff. Because I definitely do offer lots of that. Commissions are done on top of me writing plenty for free, not instead of. It's simply not as long, or as detailed, and has rules around what I'll comfortably write.

Now onto actual commissions. All but two of the commissions I've handled have been incredibly personalized, either match ups for the actual person on the other side of the screen or working with people's self-inserts or OCs. The two that weren't were for incredibly rare pairs that don't have a lot of people writing for them (ShouheixYata from K Project and Sherlock Holmes (novel version) x Hiruma Yoichi from Eyeshield 21. Please show me even 5% of tumblr routinely putting out content for those pairings because I would enjoy reading anything from them.

For my match ups, smutty ones are at least 5 pages, while romantic and platonic ones have never gone below 7 pages and have, at times, gone as long as 15 pages and include intensely thought out explanations of why they're compatible with that character, what the relationship would be like, how the commissioner fits into the Canon universe, and at least 3, usually more other characters they could be compatible with, how those characters would know the commissioner and fit into their story and why the relationship might not work. I struggle to find blogs willing to do matchups even half that length and intricacy so please, direct me to the 95% of writers that will do that for free.

For my stories, the shortest I've done was 10 pages where I made a whole $1 per page. The longest has been 65 pages where I made $50. They all also come with a music mix and a storyboard with alternate ways the story could have gone and at least 5 new headcanons about the OC and the ship. Please, again, direct me to the 95% of tumblr writers willing to do that for someone else's self-insert ship or OC ship for free, of that length, with the extras. Most writers I know might occasionally write a friend's OC but not just anyone's and usually not 30-60 pages for them.

Long story short, I don't force anyone to commission me. If you don't want to and just want to enjoy the free stuff, that's perfectly cool with me! If you don't like that I take commissions, block me. If you feel everything I write is so generic and boring that 95% of other writers have wrote the exact same thing, my blog isn't for you, block me.

[mariana-oconnor]

The Bruce Partington Plans pt 1

I feel like I get this one mixed up with The Naval Treaty…

I don't hold out much hope for the police in this story as last time the entirety of Scotland Yard seemed to be experiencing the same mass delusion.

Maybe this time they'll show a little more knowledge of basic human anatomy.

In the third week of November, in the year 1895, a dense yellow fog settled down upon London. From the Monday to the Thursday I doubt whether it was ever possible from our windows in Baker Street to see the loom of the opposite houses. [...] the greasy, heavy brown swirl still drifting past us and condensing in oily drops upon the window-panes...

Victorian London sounds like such a great place to live. Honestly, the chain-smoking in the earlier story was probably still better for your lungs than the 'fresh' air on the streets. Air should, as a rule, never be 'greasy'. Unless you are actively deep-fat frying something, in which case I guess it has to be, but that doesn't mean we should like it.

Meanwhile, Holmes:

Was it Holmes who was desperate for the outside world, or Watson? One must imagine a certain amount of authorial leeway on his behalf. I can imagine being stuck inside with Sherlock Holmes on his newest 24 hour a day obession with 'the music of the Middle Ages' - bearing in mind this man does not understand circadian rhythms - Watson must have wanted to risk breathing in the grease himself.

“The London criminal is certainly a dull fellow,” said he in the querulous voice of the sportsman whose game has failed him.

I'm sensing a theme to all of these beginnings.

"The thief or the murderer could roam London on such a day as the tiger does the jungle, unseen until he pounces, and then evident only to his victim.”

I feel like his relentless coughing would give him away a bit. And his victim is as likely to have already keeled over from oxygen deprivation as be alive.

“Well, well! What next?” said he. “Brother Mycroft is coming round.”

Mycroft!

Actually... Mycroft, not a good idea. I doubt you have a particularly good lung capacity at this point. You spend most of your day sedentary in silence. Don't go outside Mycroft. Don't go outside!

"By the way, do you know what Mycroft is?”

So far he has been described as a train, a planet and a seal...

"You would also be right in a sense if you said that occasionally he is the British government.”

This is where that line is from. Ha. I knew it was around here somewhere. Also, even more reason for him not to venture forth into the greasy air.

"All other men are specialists, but his specialism is omniscience."

Mycroft is god, confirmed.

This does feel very much like a 'don't put all your eggs in one basket' kind of thing. Also the man has the most set routine in the whole of London. That's terrible security. The fact he hasn't been kidnapped and tortured is quite frankly madness to me.

"But Jupiter is descending to-day."

I can't decide if these are just our usual frilly narrative or if Sherlock is indeed making fat jokes this whole time. Selecting Jupiter specifically seems like a fat joke.

"The case was featureless as I remember it. The young man had apparently fallen out of the train and killed himself."

These days you would have to work pretty damn hard to fall off a train on the Tube. I know it was different back then, but imagining him trying to shimmy through the gap in one of those tube train windows is highly amusing to me. Although the purpose is not amusing, so maybe not.

“He left Woolwich suddenly on Monday night. Was last seen by his fiancee, Miss Violet Westbury..."

Another Violet to add to our ever growing collection. I've found some lists of the most popular baby names in 1870 and 1880 and apparently Violet was #100 in 1870 and #68 in 1880, then #43 in 1890, (this story is set in 1895, assuming that she's going to be somewhere around 20-25, so it is a top 100 name for the period and would have been even more common among women of that age at the time he was writing. It's still quite a high number of Violets to be knocking around. I guess ACD liked the name. It doesn't appear to be a family name, looking at his family tree I can't see a single Violet.

This is unimportant, we've just had three of them now.

"The body could only have come on the line in that way. Had it been carried down from any neighbouring street, it must have passed the station barriers, where a collector is always standing. This point seems absolutely certain.”

Were there no access tunnels in those days? I feel like I always see access tunnels to underground lines in films and TV shows. And it makes sense to have shortcuts to parts of the line that are more remote. But I don't know if they actually exist. I guess I just assumed that there would be midway access points for maintenance. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe the maintenance people have to walk along the long dark tunnel to wherever they need to get to... that does see dumb, though. You'd think there would at least be something near the points. Whatever, I am probably thinking about this too much.

“The trains which traverse the lines of rail beside which the body was found are those which run from west to east, some being purely Metropolitan, and some from Willesden and outlying junctions."

Willesden Junction is now on the Bakerloo line, btw, which is one of the lines Baker Street is on. Just saying. Although the Bakerloo line wouldn't open until 1905. At this point I think it was on an overground line? idk. The Metropolitan Line was definitely open at this time, though, and Baker Street is on that one, too. Baker Street is on a lot of lines.

"...at what point he entered the train it is impossible to state.” “His ticket, of course, would show that.” “There was no ticket in his pockets.” “No ticket! Dear me, Watson, this is really very singular."

The surprise is probably due to something else entirely, but the idea that Holmes is shocked by the idea of a fare jumper amuses me.

"According to my experience it is not possible to reach the platform of a Metropolitan train without exhibiting one's ticket."

Willing to bet that was not true at all. I bet people managed it. But for the sake of the story, let us say it would be impossible for him to get on a train without a ticket. These days, of course, dropping your ticket would be a bad idea because you have to use it to get out again at the other end (if you don't just tap in and out) But then he was thrown out of a moving train, apparently, it makes sense he might lose a ticket in those circumstances. Particularly if he was holding it rather than having it in a pocket.

"He had also a check-book on the Woolwich branch of the Capital and Counties Bank. Through this his identity was established."

Once more the tried and true method of identifying someone through the name written on something in their pocket. With a cheque book I guess it's more likely that it's actually him. But there's another version of this where he's a conman who avoids paying ticket fares and has stolen someone's cheque book.

A moment later the tall and portly form of Mycroft Holmes was ushered into the room. Heavily built and massive, there was a suggestion of uncouth physical inertia in the figure, but above this unwieldy frame there was perched a head so masterful in its brow, so alert in its steel-gray, deep-set eyes, so firm in its lips, and so subtle in its play of expression, that after the first glance one forgot the gross body and remembered only the dominant mind.

Oh hai Mycroft!

Just in case you have forgotten since last time Watson described Mycroft. Or since all those comments of Sherlock's earlier, Mycroft is fat. Did you know that he's fat? But you'll immediately forget after a moment, except for how Watson will never let you forget.

At his heels came our old friend Lestrade, of Scotland Yard—thin and austere. The gravity of both their faces foretold some weighty quest.

Oh hai Lestrade.

Love you two working together. Beautiful moment. Perfect. No notes. It's the team-up I've been waiting for.

Impressed that you both seem to be breathing properly as well.

“Surely you have heard of it? I thought everyone had heard of it.” [...] "It has been the most jealously guarded of all government secrets."

I feel like maybe they haven't heard of it because it's a jealously guarded government secret, Mycroft. Just an idea. If everyone has heard of it, it's a bloody terrible secret.

"The plans [...] are kept in an elaborate safe in a confidential office adjoining the arsenal, with burglar-proof doors and windows."

What exactly constitutes a 'burglar-proof' door or window? That sounds more like a challenge than a fact. Genuinely, don't think there is such a thing, particularly at Victorian technology levels.

Also, we know from previous stories that all anyone needs to do is wait for some clerk to take them out to make a copy, then wait a little longer for them to need a coffee break and the plans will no doubt be left unattended on a desk somewhere for you to walk in and grab.

Who wants to bet that Cadogan West was just a bit of an idiot, really? That seems to be the standard level of junior clerks in the civil service in this series.

"If you have a fancy to see your name in the next honours list—”

I find it odd that Mycroft would even suggest this when, on the whole, he knows his little brother pretty well. There's no way Sherlock would want to be on the honours list.

"The actual official guardian of the papers is the famous government expert, Sir James Walter, whose decorations and sub-titles fill two lines of a book of reference. He has grown gray in the service, is a gentleman, a favoured guest in the most exalted houses, and, above all, a man whose patriotism is beyond suspicion."

I automatically hate and suspect him.

But no vibes only facts.

“Yes; his brother, Colonel Valentine Walter, has testified to his departure from Woolwich, and Admiral Sinclair to his arrival in London; so Sir James is no longer a direct factor in the problem.”

Because we know from these stories that Colonels are the most upstanding of gentlemen.

“The senior clerk and draughtsman, Mr. Sidney Johnson. He is a man of forty, married, with five children. He is a silent, morose man, but he has, on the whole, an excellent record in the public service. He is unpopular with his colleagues, but a hard worker."

Now him, I like. 😄

No, seriously though, why do his colleagues dislike him? I feel like that is crucial information. Is it because he's a stickler for the rules, or is it because he's a creep? Or is it because he once ate someone else's lunch?

“Many circumstances could be imagined under which he would pass London Bridge. There was someone in the carriage, for example, with whom he was having an absorbing interview."

Talking to a stranger? On the Tube? No, sorry. Too unbelievable. I can accept rabbits being mistaken for humans, but this is too far.

I guess he doesn't specify that it's a stranger.

"He would naturally have made an appointment with the foreign agent and kept his evening clear. Instead of that he took two tickets for the theatre, escorted his fiancee halfway there, and then suddenly disappeared.”

Has no one in this room ever heard of spycraft? A trip to the theatre would be the perfect cover for a handover. You drop your program, someone else picks it up and hands it back to you with a few extra pages folded up inside it. Easy. Taking the fiancee makes it less suspicious. Sure, she might get caught up in things, but that's a risk you have to take. They then have the entire course of the play to sneak away and make copies/take photographs of the papers before returning them to you, perhaps in the pocket of your coat at the coat check, with a little bit of extra money tucked into your hat?

Also, it's a public place with witnesses, so the bad guy is less likely to just straight up kill you so they don't have to pay. Admittedly, if they don't pay you don't get the opportunity to directly threaten them... I don't know, I'm not a spy, but I'm sure the theatre would be a great handover spot.

“It seems to me perfectly clear,” said Lestrade. “I have no doubt at all as to what occurred. He took the papers to sell them. He saw the agent. They could not agree as to price. He started home again, but the agent went with him. In the train the agent murdered him, took the more essential papers, and threw his body from the carriage. That would account for everything, would it not?”

But why not take all the papers, Lestrade? Why bother taking the time to go through them to see which are the most important? Why leave any behind at all?

“The ticket would have shown which station was nearest the agent's house. Therefore he took it from the murdered man's pocket.”

And that would just be poor work on the foreign agent's part. Never do anything near where you live.

I was going to say 'if Mycroft could make it to Baker Street, why not just go to the scene of the crime himself?' but then I remembered that this is the London train system and therefore it is wholly inaccessible to anyone who can't or doesn't want to climb up and down fifty million steps (in 1895, especially, and still at least partially today). The sudden shock to Mycroft's system of that increase in activity, coupled with the fact he's already committed chemical warfare against his lungs by going out in the smog, would definitely shuffle him off the mortal coil. Far better if Sherlock goes, considering that apparently the entirety of Britain relies on Mycroft not dying.

[sandcobangevent]

Sherlock & Co. Flash Bang Project - "Of Tango and Spinning Thoughts"

This is a writing part of our Sherlock & Co. Flash Bang Project - mine, @voilaammayi​, and @morguhimechan. Check out the end of this post or go to their profile to see the awesome art they’ve created as the complementary part of the project. Enjoy!

the prompt: He knew he shouldn’t, but he couldn’t help himself. He picked up the phone and read the text.

Of Tango and Spinning Thoughts

Sherlock was yet to fully acknowledge the fact that Watson would probably never stop to astonish him.

He was rather proud to say that he - colloquially speaking - has worked Watson out. By now he learned most of his routine and habits. For example, Sherlock knew that for breakfast he liked to eat toast with jam, occasionally with honey or cottage cheese. So a sugar bomb, if it was matched with a coffee that he usually bought out in the neighbourhood. The doctor claimed those walks were to clear his head and get a positive attitude for a day, Sherlock! To which the detective used to reply that if not for the Patreon people, all this positivity would soon become despair at the state of your wallet, Watson. But then he never complained, when he was given biscuits from the cafe.

He also got to understand Watson’s texting etiquette, although it took him some time. The Internet was a vast and useful space, but text chats? They posed a real challenge. Half of the people acted there completely differently than they were in reality. The second half insisted on using slang, abbreviations, truly weird interpunction, and God knows what else far more frequently than Sherlock found it necessary or appropriate, really. All that, with its variety and unsaid rules or meanings that he was still learning to decipher, usually got him pretty tired pretty quickly.

Thankfully, both Watson and Mariana were rather consistent and truthful in the way they were communicating on the internet, so eventually Sherlock got a hold of it.

Watson was quite similar online as he was in the flesh - many jokes and changing topics. Using the damn abbreviations, but always explained them every time Sherlock asked him what in heavens does tbh nvm man lol or other absurd things mean. Almost every sentence in a separate message, as if to visualise how the next and next thought popped out in his mind, prompted by the previous one and impatient to get out. Sometimes his texting stopped in the middle because he had to do something else and then forgot to finish. From time to time he had a phase when he was sending emojis rather excessively and - to Sherlock’s worry - using a whole variety of them. Other than those relatively understandable ones, every else with a meaning that seemingly only Watson had in mind, Mariana too baffled by them on a regular basis.

Speaking about Mariana, sometimes Sherlock had an irresistible urge to leave everything he was doing at the moment and go thank her. She was so clear and straightforward in her messages, using just punctuation marks combined instead of emojis. Dots at the end of most sentences and usually commas where they belonged. A beautiful example of effectiveness and intelligibility in the detective’s opinion.

Sherlock himself has taken over only two of the internet habits yet. First, voice messages which were a blessing in knowing that he would be heard correctly, intonation other way completely lost in this so-called modern way of talking that was texting. And second, gifs. At first, he almost caused a war on Baker Street, when he said the word aloud with a letter j instead of g. Watson went on a half-hour rant about how pronouncing it other than gif is immoral and inhuman. Sherlock argued that the inventor of the thing itself called it jif so he too would do as such. The fight was yet to be decided, for now forbidden to continue by Mariana. She wisely didn’t choose a side.

Anyway, Sherlock found gifs brilliant. Certain communicate in captions at the bottom joined by a certain visual reaction. Quick and clear. By now he had a whole folder in his app gallery of thoroughly chosen gifs for particular occasions. Sometimes, when he had no energy to bring his thoughts into words but needed to get a longer message through, he just sent gif sets containing the meaning as a whole.

Watson claimed it was hypocrisy if Sherlock were using gifs instead of words and then complain about using emojis. Sherlock said in response, that Watson is nowhere as consistent in using emojis in terms of their meaning as Sherlock is with gifs.

All this knowledge gained and yet he still became a victim of online texting. Well, after a bit of thought he had to admit, it was less a texting thing and more a matter of his naivety and curiosity, let it be damned. Although there was always a safe option of just saying that Watson and his mischievous schemes were to blame. Because when one day Sherlock saw messages popping on on his phone’s screen and about trains of all things, he just jumped right in.

John H. Watson: Hey sherlock 

John H. Watson: Sherlock mate

John H. Watson: Do you know what time it is??

John H. Watson: Yep that’s right sun is shining birds are singing and all that

John H. Watson: So are you ready to hear your train fact of the day from your personal source john watson md?

John H. Watson: Bet you don’t know this one!!!!

John H. Watson: Did you know the longest UK train station name is Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwlllantysiliogogogoch

John H. Watson: Don’t ask me to say it

You: Yes, I did.

You: You missed an “I” on the “Illlanty”

You: It is quite an amusing fact though, I must say.

John H. Watson: You have no idea how long that took me to type

John H. Watson: Actually made me chuckle that one!!

John H. Watson: Anyway

John H. Watson: Now I have your attention

You: What is that supposed to mean?

John H. Watson: Sherlock Holmes, I do believe it is your time to do the washing up

You: Bugger…

That way Sherlock ended up in the kitchen, elbow-deep in the sink. It was truly awful, touching all the wetness and sliminess there, and he would ditch the task immediately if it weren’t for the fact, that Watson was already washing the dishes five times more frequently than him - precisely because Watson knew how much Sherlock hated it, so the detective had the decency to do it at least once from time to time as a show of gratitude.

He had to come to the kitchen also because when he ghosted next messages from Watson, the doctor showed up at Sherlock’s door personally to walk him to the sink and gave him both a dish soap and a sponge courteously, as it was some treasure, saying:

- Your crown jewels, my lord.

In the end, of course, Watson caved in and after letting out a dramatic sigh he pushed himself off the countertop where he was leaning and joined Sherlock at the sink. To keep the balance, as Watson phrased it, he denied actually washing the dishes and agreed to just dry them with a kitchen cloth, their fingers brushing while passing the plates.

He also couldn’t resist taking onto a cupped hand some of the foam that had gathered in one of the pots from the dish soap, and splashing Sherlock with it. The opalescent, bubbly, and - to the detective’s distress - wet thing all over his dark curls. All over the place, too, to be honest, because it escalated into a full-blown battle for a minute or two. Watson was glowing with victory afterward, no matter the sheer amounts of dish soap on his clothes.

(Sherlock just couldn’t bring himself to touch the slimy contents of the sink longer than necessary, so he took the almost full bottle of dish soap as his weapon. Well, let’s say it wasn’t so full anymore.)

Watson went to the bathroom to bring them some towels while murmuring to himself something along the lines That’s exactly how it ends, you ask him to clean and there is only more to clean afterward - but at the same time, his laugh still heard across the flat even though he was a few rooms away.

Mariana eyed them in a very suspicious manner for a long moment of silence, when they had no other option than to knock on the Baker Street 221A’s door later that day and ask if she would lend them some more dish soap, so Sherlock could actually finish washing those bloody dishes. She looked rather intimidating with hands on her hips and a raised brow.

- And what have you done with the one I bought you just yesterday…?

There was a bit of emptiness in the boys’s minds when they looked briefly at themselves, hopefully getting their stories aligned in some telepathic way, for the sake of their crumbling dignity. Then they said at the same time:

- Watson started a fight.

- Archie ate it.

Sherlock opened his mouth looking almost insulted. Watson elbowed him under the ribs. Mariana raised the second brow, too.

- No soy una idiota, boys.

All that was the reason why the next night’s events looked the way they did.

It was late and Sherlock didn’t feel particularly tired. No, quite the opposite. Energy came to him from nowhere around midnight and settled rather comfortably in his body, so he had no choice but to use it in some way. It was not unusual, actually, that’s the way it was his whole life. His mind is uneasy and with a whole plethora of thoughts to keep yourself busy with. Many threads that once started, then wait to be analysed and brought to a conclusion. But simultaneously, his interest in things coming one moment and gone the other, each next thought more fascinating than its predecessor. Always looking for more, craving for something new or unusual that could keep his mind entertained.

So it was bound to happen - both periods of unbearable boredom and excessive activity. In the first case, when everything around seemed almost painfully mundane and his brain was burning out on itself, trying to find anything worth his attention. And the second one, when there was even too much to do, too urgent and compelling, so he stayed up at weird hours at night, completely absorbed with whatever it was that interested him this time.

Tonight it was violin. In the depths of the internet the other day he found music of Antonio Agri, some Argentinian musician, that filled his head completely for now and refused to leave it. So here he was, practising Los mareados at three am. He drew the bow across the strings, sounds of tango filling his room - probably seeping through doors and windows, into the flat and outside, onto Baker Street.

But then, just when he was about to play the trickiest part, his phone buzzed. And again, and once more. And it continued to, every dozen seconds, no matter how Sherlock tried to ignore it and get back to his violin. He didn’t have to check to know who it was, texting him this late at night. Watson probably didn’t like a live performance of Argentinian music when he was sleeping.

It didn’t stop after a few minutes, the buzzing more insistent in Sherlock’s ears than his own music. If he reached out for the phone to look at its screen, he was expecting to see some caps-locked messages scolding him for making sure no one in the building would never lend them an egg when needed, as Watson liked to phrase it. Maybe, if Watson was more sleepy than pissed, something closer to Sherlock my dearest roommate and companion I know music is the greatest gift and it must be lovely to play but will you please shut up.

Sherlock actually had a whole catalogue of messages like that in his memory (and on text chat with Watson), so he allowed himself to not check out this one. He went back to playing, and after a while his phone went silent and his room once again filled with nothing else than violin.

It took him some time, but finally, he was satisfied with the effects and decided it was enough for today. He could finally go to sleep, unbothered by pent-up energy. He changed his clothes and got ready to go to bed. But while burying under the covers he forgot himself and checked the phone.

Suddenly he felt uneasy again, what he was seeing not the thing he had expected. There was twenty or so unread texts from Watson, the list so long that the whole of it wasn’t visible on a lock screen. And in those that were, Sherlock couldn’t find a word about violin.

John H. Watson: Okay mate you’re not gonna believe it

John H. Watson: The train we took last time, right?

John H. Watson: The one to Chessington

John H. Watson: For the case

John H. Watson: Did you know that the same station where we got off is where seven bodies were found in the last three years?

John H. Watson: Seven Sherlock!

This was where the notification box ended, more text available if he unlocked the phone. He hesitated for a second, suspicion rising. What if Watson was baiting him again? He would open the chat, curious about the supposed train crime, and then boom!, as Watson would exclaim if it was him saying it, Sherlock would be caught by an accusing message, scolding him for not doing his laundry or something.

His scepticism was abruptly interrupted by an incoming text from Mariana.

Mrs. Hudson: Gracias a Dios you finally stopped playing or I would come upstairs and confiscate that violin of yours.

Mrs. Hudson: Performances appreciated but in the daytime, please!

Mrs. Hudson: Go rest, Sherlock. Good night :))

You: Noted. Good night mrs. Hudson.

Her texts took up the place on screen from Watson’s, but not from Sherlock’s thoughts. His curiosity won.

John H. Watson: How come people still want to even step foot on the platform

John H. Watson: No way to know if where you’re standing just now isn’t a place of somebody’s death

John H. Watson: You could stand where somebody bled out and have no idea

John H. Watson: How do they even get those blood stains off the pavement

John H. Watson: Sake the bloody thing is harder to wash than cranberry

John H. Watson: And I know a thing or two about washing off cranberry cause it was the only ice cream flavour I liked when I was eight

John H. Watson: Half of my clothes had cranberry stains and my mother almost crossed me out of her will cause I wouldn’t stop eating them

John H. Watson: Oh wait

John H. Watson: Oh the thing I just did

John H. Watson: Wrote I mean

John H. Watson: Saying “the bloody thing” when I was talking about literal blood a second earlier

John H. Watson: Heh

John H. Watson: Sorry it wasn’t intentional

John H. Watson: But you have to admit it is a good one

John H. Watson: Eh good old wordplay

John H. Watson: So unappreciated in this cruel modern world

John H. Watson: Anyway

John H. Watson: So that train yeah?

John H. Watson: Did you know that every one of those people was found with an unused train ticket for a Plymouth-Cardiff ride

John H. Watson: That’s on the whole other end of a country!!!!

John H. Watson: Every one of them I repeat

John H. Watson: A ticket that was never used and dead the same day it was bought

Texts ended. Nothing like So what do we reckon? or Well? Are you interested mate? to follow up on the case description. Because, maybe interrupted by a few digressions and unbidden thoughts of Watson’s, it was practically a case he was offering Sherlock. But it all felt unfinished, weirdly suspended. The weirdest of it all was a bubble at the bottom of the chat, insinuating Watson was still writing something, even though almost twenty minutes passed since he sent the last message.

He gave it all a few seconds of his mind insight.

After that, despite all his intelligence he suddenly felt very stupid.

He rushed out of his room, leaving the phone and warm, welcoming bed behind. All this urgency he had to abandon the moment he stepped a foot outside the door because if he woke up Archie with his frantic moving through the flat, he wouldn’t hear the end of it (or of Archie’s alarmed barking). Watson would eagerly add the dog’s turmoil to Sherlock’s list of things why neighbours hate them.

Sherlock didn’t know it yet, but at the same time, John was lying on his bed - eyes open but lights not on. His sheets were somewhere on the floor, he wasn’t sure on which side. He was still too hot anyway but had no actual energy to get up and open a window to let some cool night air into his room. Even less energy, since the violin music stopped playing and there was nothing else anymore to keep him from his own thoughts.

The story behind it all was as old as time. Well, not really, but it sounded good that way. It wasn’t even as old as John himself, since most of his life he was blissfully free from PTSD and its nightmares. Funny thing, he considered many worries before joining the army, but not ever that this bloody illness would get him. Was it an illness or a disorder? Rather a disorder, he thought after a moment. He should finally accept that it wasn’t going anywhere and will stay with him for a long time - till the end of time, probably - and just go to therapy. Get some meds or his brain fixed, anything really. But the thought was heavy and with a responsibility. He knew it’d be good for him in the end, but he wasn’t quite ready.

He considered it safer to deal with one existential crisis at a time. First, he had to deal with coming back to the country from Ukraine. Getting sacked from the army. ‘Sake, becoming a criminal in a technical sense. And still, nothing compared to dealing with being blown up, hospital convalescence, and the knowledge that there are scars on his body that would stay there forever. Itching every time he woke up from a bloody nightmare like this.

Secondly, he dealt with the matter of where he’d even live and what he was gonna do with his life. It was all a bit of a coincidence, really. But in the end and all things considered? Sherlock and Mariana, this whole thing they three created, were the best thing that ever happened to him. That’s it, nothing else needed to be said.

So the third thing was getting used to that. That he had a stable life - as much as it could be phrased like that, considering what they did for a living - and that it was good. With a purpose, relatively safe, and filled with warmth. Baker Street felt so warm. Sometimes he was still learning to feel comfortable with that, to acknowledge it all. He smiled every time.

Then yeah, the fourth thing could be dealing with PTSD and all his past on therapy. In a while. Just not know, when everything was more or less okay. Let the monsters sleep for a bit more.

But John wasn’t sleeping. He woke up with a gasp and just sat on a bed for a moment. Details of the nightmare already fading, but a bad feeling connected to it not going to leave his mind until further notice, thank you very much. When his breath calmed down and heart stopped racing, he tried to collect his thoughts. Yes, the dreams were still disruptive to his nights, but by now he got quite used to them. Sometimes there was one that was leaving him particularly shattered, but mostly they were just… inconvenient. Causing him to be tired the next day because of not getting enough sleep. Or so he told himself, but that was not something John would officially admit.

Right now he knew two things - that he was not gonna fall asleep again and that he had to distract himself immediately to not go down some very unpleasant spiral of thoughts. He also realised that there was music in the air. Sherlock was not sleeping, too, and playing the violin. How could he not hear it the last fifteen minutes? He knew the answer - the question was rather rhetorical, don’t mind him - but John didn’t dwell on it and instead focused on listening. The melody was somehow familiar.

He reached out for his phone, not exactly sure why. He had no way of checking what the music was even if he’d like to. But thankfully his phone had endless means of distraction. Soon he found out it wasn’t working - he could scroll Instagram as much as he wanted to, but at some point, his mind repeatedly stopped paying attention to what was on the screen and went back to the nightmare - even though it was a complete blur by now - and all the other things that was making him anxious. Prompted by the dream coming to the surface.

He needed someone else to distract him. Another person determining the topic of his thoughts. Just somebody to talk to, please. For a moment he fought with himself, laying on the mattress again and staring at the ceiling.

Music was still playing in the flat. Sherlock was still not asleep. His phone was somewhere near, probably, and John’s still in his head. But it was three in the morning.

John tried keeping down all the worries for a moment and got himself together. He researched for a bit, jumping from one Wikipedia article to another and making a stop at a news site - to at least be able to message Sherlock something that was of interest if he were to bother him this late at night. 

He opened the text chat and started typing.

Soon about twenty messages or so were sent. He wasn’t thinking about how much he wrote, busy with getting words out of his head and onto a screen. Truly distracting himself for a few minutes. Then he watched his phone expectantly, waiting for a replying bubble to appear. A moment passed, then a second one. Nothing happened, his texts didn’t show the read marks. The violin was still playing.

He sighed, a bit disappointed but mostly just tired. He couldn’t blame Sherlock, honestly. It was the middle of the night and the detective wanted to have some privacy and time for himself. Not that Sherlock was equally polite but that was a thing for another day. Anyway, he was probably so caught up in playing, as usual, that he had no idea what was even going on around him. Someone could break into the flat and he would just turn a page of the music sheet.

John smiled, no matter all things. Sherlock was just something else. The most brilliant and bizarre person he has and will ever met bit in the podcast intro was not far-fetched. Also the most infuriating at times but God help anybody that would try somehow taking Sherlock from his life. He was a doctor, he knew how to heal bones. But a soldier, too, so he also knew how to break them. 

There was tapping on the floor panels and John realised, first a bit spooked, that Archie entered the room through a gap in the unclosed door. He slowly came to the foot of the bed and made a noise, something similar to sneezing.

- Oh, come here.

He crouched down and lifted the dog. ‘Sake, he forgot how heavy it was. He would never admit it but Sherlock might have been right in saying Archie was a little fat.

- You sensed I was upset, huh? Good boy. This time I will let you sleep on my bed. But don’t get used to it, alright?

Who was he fooling, he would let him sleep on the bed anytime the dear creature would want to.

And so they were lying together, Archie next to John’s ribs. John wondered if Archie acknowledged feeling his heartbeat, just as now he acknowledged feeling the dog’s. He smiled again and scratched him behind the ears. He decided to not think about the nightmare again - although he was sure he didn’t have much say in the matter - and instead try to decipher what Sherlock was playing. There was absolute certainty we wouldn’t get it, but it occupied his mind at least.

He hadn’t realised that, but he started drifting off to sleep. And he probably would completely, if the music didn’t stop abruptly. He needed a second to orient himself. When he realised what happened, the hint of disappointment appeared again, but it didn’t have time to settle, because the door to his room creaked the tiniest bit.

John guessed it was Sherlock and held his breath. Without any particular reason, he felt heat crawling up his neck. 'Sake, why was he embarrassed? There was no shame in his nightmares, besides Sherlock already knew about it all. Get yourself together, man. Yeah, no, the heat was still there.

After a moment passed, he heard knocking. Huh, Sherlock was not one to knock.

- Can I come in, Watson?

His voice was so hesitant that John almost forgot about his embarrassment, he was so taken aback. Sherlock and shyness, who would have thought?

- Yeah.

Apparently his voice wasn’t great either, great. He cleared his throat when Sherlock was slowly opening the door. John felt his eyes, scanning him up and down. He also suddenly realised that we went to sleep without a pyjama top, his Jaws-themed t-shirt crumpled on the floor. He frantically reached out for it and pulled it over his head, noticing Sherlock’s eyes hadn’t left him, instead watching as he was putting his arms through the sleeves. The heat reached his cheeks.

A moment of silence passed.

- I’m an awful detective, Watson.

In that simple way they both understood the shared knowledge of John’s nightmare, his text’s flood, Sherlock playing, the end of it and why was he now standing in the doorway.

John felt he was melting inside a bit. A huff escaped him, along with a small chuckle.

- Don’t be silly, mate.

At this moment Sherlock felt relief filling him whole. He couldn’t help but let his face act on its own accord, his brows lifting and eyes narrowing because of the smile that appeared on his face. He started playing with the fingers of his right hand. Watson seemed relatively okay, despite his ignorance. There was no harm done because of how long he let himself be occupied with the violin.

They stood like that, not really doing anything, just looking at each other. Watson’s eyes glowed almost unnoticeably in the faint yellow light that seeped through the window from the street. Sherlock felt quite enamoured by that. Didn’t notice Archie on the bed, who was now asking for lost attention by climbing onto Watson’s lap. So that’s why it was so easy to get through the flat in silence, the main disruptor was already here.

It was Watson who spoke up first:

- Could do with one of those pressure hugs, though.

- Oh. Oh, certainly.

So Sherlock sat on the bed next to Watson, their feet on the ground. Watson smiled at him and Sherlock put his arms around him. One reaching further, across the doctor’s back to his shoulder, and the second only as far as somewhere between his chest and abdomen. Archie started licking it. Sherlock winced a bit but didn’t do anything else. He was rewarded with Watson’s hand on his own. Warm spread from there through his skin.

There was silence again, this time more comfortable. Just their breaths and sometimes a faint noise from the street. Watson’s head landed in the space between the end of Sherlock’s jaw and his collarbone, the man’s hair tickling his cheek. He wouldn’t complain, because thanks to that Watson wasn’t feeling nor seeing Sherlock’s ears, red by now. Or at least he hoped so.

There were some unfamiliar thoughts, forming in his mind over the weeks that passed by, caused by situations like this. But pleasant. Warm ones and accompanied by remembrance of Watson’s smiles. Sherlock was slowly realising that he noticed new things about the man and that they made him feel in a new way about his companion. About John.

He didn’t dwell on those thoughts, leaving them for when he would be ready to understand them. And ready for the consequences. But it all made his head spin.

Suddenly Watson spoke again:

- What was it that you were playing? It sounds familiar.

- I highly doubt it is in your range of interest. More of the classic side of things. It’s the music of Antonio Agri, an Argentinean violinist. I found out about him this morning.

Watson just laughed quietly.

- Ah, so Los Mareados, then. Now I remember.

Sherlock opened his mouth. Then closed and opened them again.

- I did a presentation about him in high school - Watson added, smiling. - Each one of us had to choose a musician from a different country. I picked a name at random in some book from the library.

Yes, he would never stop astonishing him.

- I’m sorry, John.

Watson squeezed his hand.

- That’s fine, Sherlock.

Mareado meant faint in English, as Mariana told Sherlock. But also giddy, feeling like everything is spinning around. With his eyes closed, remembrance of the violin sounds, and mind empty for this short moment, he found all those meanings quite suitable.

[asexxxualerotica]

Last night I had the strangest dream—in regards to how coherent it was. Basically, I was in the middle of a Sherlock Holmes story (don’t remember if I was Sherlock or Watson) where in between cases Sherlock was a Kingsman-like super-spy who got into spy vs spy shenanigans—or at least he used to be. The dream started off with some pretty normal, routine Sherlock deductions, before suddenly bringing up that he didn’t do the crazy spy heroics anymore. Eventually Moriarty showed up, and he was clearly Sherlock’s old spy vs spy rival because he was expecting more of that—and when he didn’t get it, he instead tried to convince Sherlock to pick it back up again, before walking off with a threat of some wicked plan he has. Something about what Moriarty said kicked Sherlock back into action, and when we next see him he’s all tricked out in super-spy attire, including a new umbrella with interchangeably see-through or mirrored underside and bulletproof top. Also, throughout all of this was this theme of gadgets—the umbrella he got and refined from a street vendor that was selling super-spy accessories to tourists, and there was this whole B-plot of like my parents and my sister and her boyfriend competing in this couples’ costume competition where the focal point was oversized props—someone did Ghostbusters with a ghost pack that had glowing streamers shooting out of it, and another was some cowboy with a lasso mid-swing overhead that could spin and spark up because they were doing a play on a human dust devil? I think the climax was meant to be there was a bomb at this competition, and in the middle of dealing with it and taking out Moriarty, Sherlock and his Watson got mistaken for applicants and are awarded the win at the end, but I’m not sure because I woke up right after Sherlock showed back up and showed off his new get-up to Watson and Moriarty.

Also, it’s beyond important to me that you know that during the part where Moriarty was trying to convince Sherlock to come back, and when Sherlock did show back up in his super-spy outfit, The Other Side from Greatest Showman was being sung by the characters.

[gascon-en-exil]

How do you feel the two set of travelers from the Octopaths compare? I assume that in general the 2nd game wins for developing them more than the first, but in a case by case scenario?

Even while being charitable it's very hard to rank any of the travelers from OT higher than their counterparts in the second game. OT2's presentation is just so much stronger; it's more cinematic, its stories are more varied in genre and structure (not every chapter follows the same gameplay formula), it employs its voice acting more effectively, and it's better about integrating the stories into a mostly solid whole. I'd probably prefer even my least favorite OT2 traveler (Ochette) over my favorite one from OT (Primrose).

I do think Primrose's story is more dramatically satisfying than Agnea's...but that seems like an unfair comparison when they're so different in tone and theme. Throné's is closer to Primrose's in those respects, and her story is extremely solid until it flubs the ending because it has to escalate to the whole "grooming a vessel for a fallen god" thing. Therion's is alright - doesn't blow me away anywhere and I don't love his character type, but he's got one of the stronger stories of the OT cast.

Alfyn's story is more honest about its low stakes than Partitio's, which is nonsense if you attempt to apply any serious economic themes to it but ushers in an industrial revolution nonetheless. But even still - Partitio's story is delightfully silly in the best ways and quite a bit gayer to boot. Tressa's story...exists, and if we're comparing it to the lightest of the OT2 travelers Agnea's comes with an actual developed antagonist and fun fourth-wall leaning moments in the end. Castti meanwhile is peak melancholic drama that actually pulls off the amnesia plot cliché fairly well - hard to compare her to anyone in OT, really.

Cyrus and Ophilia vs. Temenos and Osvald...yeah, that's a double loss on both counts, even if I think OT2 pulling the Sherlock Holmes routine again (with a straight-up homoromantic Watson homage, nonetheless) comes off a bit stale. Ophilia's familial motivations are a bit more present than Osvald's, but again - nothing in OT could even hope to measure up to the unique presentation of Osvald's opening chapters.

Olberic and Hikari hit a lot of familiar fantasy clichés, although Hikari's comes off slightly less so to me because it's not Western fantasy in his case. Olberic is a bit gayer with his rival, I guess?

I suppose I prefer H'annit's more personal stakes to Ochette's being basically a Pokémon journey with mostly-unaddressed racism and colonialism going on in the background. But that accent...not a fan.

That's about as good as I can give re: the OT cast.

[slow-burn-sally]

Ok, yeah, so I think I'm autistic, and through studying up on autism traits, I've started looking at the world around me very differently. Which in turn, led me to reevaluate why I like my favorite characters, and so here's a list of my favorite characters that I believe are autistic, and why. This is just my interpretation, and my headcanons, so please don't assume I'm trying to state this as unassailable fact.

ps. I'll totally do an ADHD version of this next.

1 - My precious bean, Thomas Jopson - The Terror AMC

I mean, just look at him. He's so well organized and dedicated to his job. He's riddled with childhood trauma, and this results in him doubling down and trying really really hard to keep history from repeating itself (losing a parental figure or someone deeply important to him to illness and death). He only really makes eye contact comfortably with Crozier, and he's very single minded. Being a steward is his special interest, and he is EXTREMELY INTO IT. He's uncomfortable talking about himself, and once his order and routines are taken away, he pretty much goes off the deep end. My poor bean. Very autistic.

2 - Gilbert Norrell - Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell

Probably the most cut and dry example of an autistic character in entertainment media history. He loathes socializing, hates parties, and just wants to be left alone with his books and his magic (his special interests). He's also ace, so he finds most human beings, with their obsession with sex, and their need to gather and talk loudly together, completely incomprehensible. He's always felt like an alien, and a loner, and struggles to make social connections. When he does, he hangs onto them (namely Childermass). My grumpy, socially inept baby. Ily Gilly, and now I know why I identify so strongly with you.

3 - Sherlock Holmes - All Media Types (but for the purposes of this post, I'll focus on BBC Sherlock).

I almost don't have to say anything else. The whole fandom knows this bad boy is neurodivergent. He's got insane sensory issues, will disappear into his special interests (criminology and deduction) until he literally keels over from lack of food and sleep. He's socially inept, blunt, uncomfortable with touch, and doesn't like anyone but Mrs. Hudson, John, and Detective Inspector Gary Lestrade. He's probably a virgin, and could be ace, depending on how you see him, but as I've written a lot of Johnlock smut, I don't see him that way all the time. He's incredibly intelligent, and knows a lot about the world, but with strange gaps in his knowledge that can only be explained by not at all being able to drag his focus away from his special interests to learn things like basic astronomy, or what to say to people at a party.

4 - Tintin - The Adventures Of Tintin

This boy is very autistic to me. I'm not honestly sure why I feel this about Tintin. Based on the 2011 movie, which I'm the most familiar with, he seems both driven, goal oriented, and socially naive. He stumbles into danger by not reading the situation, and he lives alone with his dog. His best friend is a hyperactive-type ADHD alcoholic, and he strikes me as queer and autistic. If you feel the same way, let me know what you think.

5 - Fitzwilliam Darcey - Pride and Prejudice

I saw this hc in a recent youtube video by Yo Samdy Sam, and I cannot unsee it. Look at this autistic boy. He's grumpy, anti-social, and really into reading, but he also cares deeply about his loved ones, and strives to do what's morally right. He is so socially unaware, that he can't understand why Elizabeth would have rejected his proposal, even though he just totally ripped on her whole family. To be fair, Elizabeth's family are an autistic person's nightmare. All the wild cackling and gossiping, and obsession with who's marrying whom. Four sisters in law, two of whom are inordinately obsessed with ribbons and giggling, and only one of which is also autistic (*cough*Mary*cough*)

6. Bunty Windermere - Father Brown

She has zero filter, and often does not understand why the things she says are hurtful or inappropriate. She's obsessed with fashion, and she's got a keen mind. She could sit around in some posh mansion somewhere, but she chooses to spend all her time with an old priest, and a grumpy church lady, solving crimes and putting herself in danger. She likes fast cars, (and can get under the hood to fix them too) handsome men, and really cute handbags, but is also perpetually single. She doesn't fit in in the world of cocktail parties and society events that surround her, because she's just too blunt, and bucks convention by being independent, unmarried, and slutty).

8. I know this is turning out to be a list of grumpy introverts, and I don't want it to seem like that's all there is to autism, but JUST LOOK AT THIS AUTISTIC BOY - Hermann Gottlieb - Pacific Rim

Hermann is pretty classically autistic. Obsessed with math and numbers. Needs order to feel safe. Is very frustrated with other people's messy, inexact opinions. He only really warms up and comes out of his shell when he falls head over heels for his ADHD-as-fuck cannon boyfriend Newton Geiszler.

9. Last but not least (for this list anyway) DI Richard Poole - Death In Paradise.

Another clear cut case. Tons of sensory issues to light, heat and crowds. Everything must be in its own special place. He's rumored to have never had a girlfriend, and can't understand people's obsession with frivolous things like friendly greetings, small talk, or anything that's not crime solving. He falls madly in love with Camille Bordey, and pretty much flubs any chance he has with her, before dying because he's bad at facial recognition. I love you so much Richard. Never change.

Again, just my opinions. This is helping me figure out my own internal world. There are definitely more than one way to read these characters, but to me, they feel autistic.

[pokemon-legends-and-legacies]

💥🥞🌋🌏✏️☄️ for Ronan?

💥 COLLISON - what emotions do they have trouble dealing with?

Because Ronan has a complicated relationship with his parents due to perceiving them as being “irresponsible”, he tries to be as different from them as possible. But, this just means that Ronan often rejects his own emotions and impulses that he thinks are troublesome. Whenever he finds himself wanting to try something spontaneous or messy, he suppresses the urge and mentally berates himself for it. However, over time he finds that rejecting his true self is harming his creativity, something he takes pride in, and has to reconcile with being more similar to Flint and Volkner than he’d like, and that it might not be such a bad thing to take risks and be spontaneous like they do.

🥞 PANCAKE - what is their comfort breakfast?

Ronan loves to cook, breakfast being one of his favorite meals to make. Because neither of his parents are morning people, it meant Ronan usually had the kitchen to himself in the mornings. Getting to cook in peace and have the house essentially to himself was a highlight of his morning routine. His favorite to make and eat is a simple, traditional Japanese breakfast! He’s made the various dishes enough that it's second nature, and he finds going through all the steps to be relaxing in their routine. Once he moves out, he tends to take his time when getting ready in the morning, really savoring the cooking process and each bite, so it’s a very special meal for him!

🌋 VOLCANO - how bad is their temper? is it a slow boil, or an instant explosion?

Ronan is very easily irritated, with seemingly everything able to annoy him depending on the circumstances. However, his actual temper is more of a slow-burn. Ronan is very prickly in his everyday demeanor, but when actually angry he’ll give the cold shoulder. Once he stops his grumbling and needling and is just quietly glaring and seething, that’s when he’s really mad at someone. His anger tends to pass fairly quickly, however, since he finds it tiring to be that upset for long periods of time and it’s easier for him to just avoid people who get that much on his nerves than waste energy being angry at them.

🌏 EARTH - will they give up the world for someone they love? is this decision easy for them?

Ronan finds it incredibly difficult to open up to people and struggles with his own feelings of affection and love to others. He sees himself as a loner and rejects attempts from people who try to grow closer to him beyond casual friendships. However, when he does let someone into his heart, he becomes completely devoted. He’s picky enough with who he allows close to him that anyone that does become that important to him, will be someone he’d do anything for, as they deserve it in his eyes. At his core, though, Ronan is someone who looks out for himself first and foremost, so while he might not give up everything for someone he loves, he would do everything in his power within reason to provide for them as long as it meant he could continue to exist alongside them as well.

✏️ PENCIL - is there a particular quote / lyric that you associate with them?

I don’t usually have quotes or lyrics written down or memorized for specific characters, but as for general inspiration a lot of Ronan’s influence came from the idea of him being inherently contradictory. He’s passionate at heart - but closes himself from those strong emotions, he’s methodical and precise - but secretly also enjoys pouring his heart without care into his poetry, he keeps himself isolated and aloof - but when he does love it’s with his whole being. So I tend to associate him with other characters that fit those tropes as well! (Also a friend told me he looks like BBC Sherlock and I can’t unsee it now and I hate it so there’s that too.)

☄️ COMET - what do people assume about them? are they right?

Generally, what you see with Ronan is what you get. He dresses in dark colors and has a permanent scowl on his face. He’s brooding and irritable and doesn’t like socializing. His consideration of fashion, seen in his more formal, stylish clothing, hints at his more refined side, which is emphasized in his “carefully chosen words that often have hidden meanings” (he will quote poetry when he doesn’t know what else to say). However, Ronan does have hidden depths for those willing to dig for them, but most people don’t want to put up with him long enough to do so or just like his dark and brooding exterior as is and prefer to imagine their own fantasies on how he’d be with someone he’s close to.