#the watson/holmes story analysis thing. none of them looked at it from the inside of the story.

[grimbeak]

imo both gattaca and asteroid city are movies that unless you are able to see queer relationships in media for what they are (not just oh he was depressed and it was an ableist choice and that's it, oh augie was the only one grieving and jones wasn't), and i don't mean maliciously, because i've noticed that a lot of people just Genuinely Do Not Fucking Get It.

i expected to talk about the hair cutting implications at the end of gattaca when we discussed it in my film class last year and we didn't at all. like you guys watched the same movie right. you saw vincent give irene a single strand of hair as a gesture of romantic love and then at the end when jerome gave vincent a large amount of his own hair what did you see that as. what did you think was happening there. you cannot seriously think that jerome kills himself just because he thinks he's useless now because his completely platonic roommate doesn't need him anymore and the director wanted to be ableist. that cannot seriously be what you got out of the movie.

this morning my analysis of asteroid city was the only one that mentioned jones's and conrad's romantic relationship and acknowledged that jones was grieving throughout the entire movie. after hearing it one of my classmates was like "oh what you said with jones and the directors relationship i see that now". ... my brother in christ. they kissed on screen. they held hands. i just. okay. it's not like jones is clearly still mourning off set or anything. it's not like his grief is so much more obvious and real when he speaks about it through metaphor instead of him directly mentioning augie's dead wife or anything. it's not like he was desperate for an answer, to understand the play completely so that he could grieve conrad the "right" way, to really burn his hand on the griddle so he could finally understand what conrad wanted from the character and what he was trying to say. obviously that's just a hidden bonus interpretation instead of the Actual Fucking Plot Of The Movie.

[thorne93]

Curious Conundrum (Part 17)

Prompt: You’re John Watson’s sister. One day you decide to visit your brother for lunch, only to meet the infamous Mr. Holmes…

Word Count: 1935

Warnings: language, flirtation, sexual innuendos (maybe? idfk), murder/crime/case related stuff, angst, jealousy…

Notes: Beta’d by @carryonmyswansong Not only did she beta, but I literally couldn’t have written half these scenes without her help. She contributed majorly, even wrote some parts of scenes. I am forever in her debt.

Also, this starts AFTER Season 2, episode 1. I don’t follow all the episodes, but it does follow the timeline and hit some major events : )

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9| Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16 |

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The anniversary had definitely taken a backseat, what with Sherlock headlining here and there, getting awards, presents, and rewards from every case he helped. He couldn’t care less, but you knew John liked the (somewhat) glorification.

But then Moriarty had downright shocked you as he somehow managed to break the case to the crown jewels. He was, of course, arrested. But he had some form of plan. What was it? That’s what was eating all three of you alive.

You were less concerned with how, and more concerned with why he wrote “Get Sherlock” and what the end game was.

Six grueling weeks later and Sherlock was called to trial as a witness. Both you and John accompanied him.

“Remember,” you tried to say and he cut you off.

“I know.”

You let out a breath of frustrated air. “Sherlock, this is serious. Moriarty is not to be fucked with, you know this. Don’t--”

“Don’t do anything like myself. Don’t provoke them. I know.”

You closed your eyes, knowing it was useless.

Before the trial, Sherlock went into the bathroom and you waited outside for what seemed like forever before he finally emerged.

“Bloody hell, did you fall in?” you demanded.

“Sorry, had to deal with a flirting fanatic,” he noted.

“You... What?!”

But Sherlock calmed you down by shrugging it off, and of course, he had to enter court. Sherlock had asked you to tune into your deduction skills and watch all over the courtroom while he took the stand.

When it was all said and done, you three went over the facts, walking back into the flat.

“...Three of the most secure places in the country and Moriarity broke into them and no one knows how or why. All we know is--”

“He ended up in custody,” Sherlock finished.

“Don't do that,” John slowly requested.

“Do what?”

“The look?”

“What look?”

“You’re doing the look again?”

“Well I can’t see it, can I?”

John gestured to the mirror. “My face?” Sherlock asked, completely confused.

“Yes, and it’s doing a thing. It’s doing that ‘we both know what’s really going on here face’.”

“Well, we do,” Sherlock insisted.

“No, I don’t, which is why I find ‘the face’ so annoying.”

You’d been gripping your head in frustration before you finally snapped, “Oh for God’s sakes! If Moriarty wanted the jewels he would have them. If he wanted the prisoners free, they would be. The only reason he’s sitting in a cell is because that’s what he’s chosen. So now the question is why. Why does Moriarty want to be behind bars? What’s the point? What’s the end game?”

By the end of your rant, you’d begun to pace.

“Y/N’s right, it’s part of his scheme,” Sherlock agreed.

At this, the three of you continued to mull over the “why”... Sherlock the most concerned with it.

-----------------

John went to the trial, to hear the sentence. Sherlock waited at home. You were actually doing your real job, busy at a trial of your own, but your mind was never far away from your boyfriend. You were nervous as hell, but you were sure they would find him guilty. How could they not?

But then the horrible news that he was found not guilty rocketed you into another dimension. John had called you after he called Sherlock. His voice was full of panic.

“What do you mean they found him innocent?!” you shrieked as you were on recess for your own trial.

“I don’t know. But they did. He’s coming for Sherlock, I know it. The bastard just hung up on me though.”

You tried to even out your breathing. “Okay, that’s okay. If Sherlock knows this, he has a plan.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“I know Sherlock and I know he weighed and thought about every possible outcome. If Moriarty is coming for him, he’ll be ready. In the meantime, I gotta go. Keep me updated.”

You ended the call and went back to your trial. When it was done (and you’d won the case), you raced to Sherlock’s flat where he was explaining everything to John. Apparently Moriarty had come by the apartment and had a little chat with him. Of course it was a threat, but none of you knew what the hell it meant or could possibly mean.

You and Sherlock seemed to spend the better part of two months going over anything he could be plotting. Romance, the anniversary, the relationship as a whole went on the back burner. All efforts and focus was either on Moriarty or an active case.

Then suddenly, a kidnapping case had come about. Sherlock was nearly giddy with glee as it seemed to be a rather curious case indeed. As luck would have it, you were with him when Donovan and Lestrade presented the case to him. You, John, and Sherlock were driven to the site of the abduction.

You watched Sherlock work (an aphrodisiac for you). He startled the nanny, and then graciously told her he believed her story and requested someone get her a bag to breathe into. The sheer confidence of the ordeal was enough to make you smirk appreciatively.

Donovan caught your approving face and skipped up next to you.

“You think him being a complete ass and scaring poor old women is funny do you?”

Your face lost all trace of humor, and anger ignited inside you. “I think Sherlock getting the job done as quickly as possible is good, yes. Or was that not the point? To get to the children as quickly as possible.”

“He sure has a funny way of going about it,” she muttered snidely.

“At least he doesn’t fuck around while on the job, literally. How is Anderson’s wife by the way?” you asked, turning to face her as you walked backward. A mischievous grin played on your face as you twiddled your fingers in the air at her like a wave before turning to follow Sherlock into the house.  

Watching Sherlock work, you remained silent. It was best not to speak while he was “in the zone” unless asked. He found a bottle and requested for Anderson. Anderson came and prepared the room for black light analysis. Without fail, Anderson gave a brilliant impression of a moron, to which Sherlock told him so.

He found some samples of the kidnappers boots that he said would behave like a map for them. Which would be true. Scraping some samples and the three of you rushing to St. Barts, Sherlock began his analysis, dragging Molly into it as well.

Every time you were around Molly, it was….strained. You knew she had known him longer than you had, you knew she had feelings for him -- still, and she stayed in line, not trying to cross the line of friendship with Sherlock. Yet every time you were around her, there was a touch of awkward tension in the air. Part of you respected her for being an adult, part of you didn’t like Sherlock around her because you knew of her feelings, and another part of you felt entirely sorry for her.

It must be one hell of a thing to watch the man you carry a torch for love another. Even if you and Sherlock never showed any sort of public affection, even if you kept it strictly professional while working a case, the fact remained that you were his and he was yours. This fact was glaring just by the looks you two shared, the way his gaze would linger on yours.The way he would shoot you a knowing smirk. The way he commended your deductions.

So now, you stood with John, helping him on some of the tests when Molly suddenly struck up a conversation with Sherlock that wasn’t science related.

“What did you mean ‘I owe you’?” she asked as she worked. Sherlock stopped his movements and you did too. You couldn’t help but listen in. “You said ‘I owe you’ while you were working,” she noted.

“Nothing,” he quietly said, shutting the topic down.

“You’re a bit like my dad. He’s dead. No… sorry--” she tried, realizing the social awkwardness of her statement.

“Molly, please don’t feel the need to make conversation, it’s really not your area,” Sherlock advised.

She made a face, a nervous, but bold face. “When he was dying, he was always cheerful. Lovely, except when he thought no one could see. I saw him once, he looked sad.”

Sherlock gave her a warning. “Molly…”

“You look said,” she continued, ignoring his tone of caution, “when you think they can’t see you.”

Both of their gazes flashed to the two of you, but you made quick work to shift your own eyes and make your hands start fiddling about.

“Are you okay? Don’t just say you are, because I know what that means when you think no one can see you.”

“You can see me,” he noted.

“I don’t count,” she commented, and a pang of sympathy washed through your chest for her. “What I’m trying to say is, if there’s anything I can do, anything you need, anything at all. You can have me.”

Red shot into your cheeks as you kept your face down, still pretending to work.

“No, what I mean is... I just mean... If there’s anything you need… It’s fine,” she stammered, ending her olive branch speech.

“But what could I need from you?” Sherlock asked and his tone made it clear that he would never need her.

“Nothing,” she replied, sorrow in the back of her voice. “I don’t know. But you could probably say thank you.”

Sherlock stuttered a thank you and she quickly exited the lab. Standing for a moment, you weren’t sure what to do. You wanted to talk to Molly, but on the other hand it would be best if you left it alone. Your tenacity got the better of you and you put your tools down, following her out into the hall.

“Molly,” you called, jogging to catch up to her.

She spun and faced you, not saying a word. You knew she didn’t like you, at all. She was polite to you around Sherlock because of him and John, and because she’s a nice person. But you knew if she could have a wish, it would be to get you out of the picture.

But that wasn’t the case. You were here to stay, and Molly needed to realize what her place was in Sherlock’s life.

You pressed your lips into a flat line as you peered at her, her waiting for you to say something.

“Look... I… I know you love him,” you started and she seemed to stiffen, probably awaiting you to demonize her. “I know how hard this must be for you. I wanted to let you know I appreciate you being an adult about this. And I really appreciate you not crossing that line and trying to be something more.”

Your gaze held hers for a second, a hardness settling into your eyes, while the rest of your face remained soft. “He doesn't have many friends, and it’s nice to know you’re there for him and support him.” You reached up and gripped her arm gently, a reassuring squeeze coming from you. “He and I are lucky to have you in our lives.”

Molly nodded, staying quiet a long time. “I--I--Yeah, you’re welcome.”

You smiled at her, the grin loaded as you let her go. Her gaze lingered on you a moment longer before she walked off to the cafeteria.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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[simplysherlockfanfic]

The study of a haunted mind

A Spin-off of Connection - inspired by a few requests for a one shot or spin off continuing the Connection Universe and the TAB period sparked by @jiuweihututku

(Connection)Reader x Sherlock

Word Count: 4327

The lofty round chamber was illuminated by well placed lamps around the table situated in the center to create a cavernous setting. The men seated around the rather ornate table unobservable in such dramatic lighting preferred the secluded atmosphere for the discussion of topics that would not pass through the heavy doors. The artificial cavern was perfect for the equally artificial men who occupied the chamber.

Mycroft Holmes brought the meeting to an end and I needed no instruction to stay seated and keep my eyes low. I preferred my place tucked in between the door and heavy drapery that blocked any natural light. Being the only female in the room was not lost on me nor the men who spanned a multitude of positions in various government entities. The group of seven men held different beliefs of where a woman of any standing had a right to be, never the less one whose native country was not the same as their own.

I had no illusions to the temperaments of the men in my company as some would refuse to acknowledge me as company. Mr. Holmes was the only reason I held such a station. He was a man who answered to none and none would speak against his appointments. Even after all my years in his employ, I did not know precisely his position, only that he was of such grave import none would oppose his view save for the very highest and I've only witnessed it once. I was sworn to secrecy and not due to the nature of the discussion but, I believe, because of who came out on top.

The men filed out of the room in silence. I closed my book and placed my items in the crook of my arm as I rose taking hold of my cane.

Mycroft strolled toward me, “what of your findings?”

“Two found your second point a hard pill to swallow.”

He nodded, “mark them in your notations.”

“As always.” I often wondered if he saw the same ticks I observed that betrayed the men who thought so highly of their ability to show the world only what they desired to let them see and he merely used me for confirmation of his own theories. I wouldn’t mind in the least because I often relied on him to confirm my own skills at times.

I wasn't ashamed to admit I had to battle back from a harsh mental climate after an unfortunate incident that forced me to hold a cane at all times outside of my own home. My body wasn't the only thing battered and bruised and I relied on my family and friends to fight back to where I am today.

Mycroft walked by my side to the door, he preferred the slow pace that my injury presented me but also felt it rude to walk ahead of someone he considered his equal. I did not share his opinion of myself for he had accomplished far greater things but I acquiesced to his compliment when he shared it. 

“Have I presented my gratitude recently?”

I shook my head, “this position is gratitude enough.”

He smiled as he stopped at the door, “ah, yes when one can stomach the ignorant.”

“We learned that long ago.”

“The best of us had to.”

Mycroft Holmes, man of refined inclinations and unmatched mind, had in recent years softened around the edges in a different way. From the very day my son William came into this world, he began to decrease in size. He was still a tall, large man but different choices had made him, in the words of my good friend Dr. Watson, no longer a man challenging death.

I stepped into the hall and another tall figure moved toward us. Just over six feet, not as excessively lean these days yet still his presence filled the space. His sharp eyes met mine and his purposeful steps slowed to a stop in front of me. I stared up into warm, intelligent eyes that spoke more than I ever thought possible.

Mycroft closed the door, “why, Sherlock, how unexpected.” His smile revealed otherwise.

“Mycroft.” Sherlock inclined his head, “I had some business in the building and heard you were concluding a meeting.” His piercing gaze turned back to me and he tipped his hat belying nothing save for the glitter of his eyes, “Miss Doyle.”

“Holmes.” I nodded with a hint of a grin.

Mycroft folded his hands over his stomach, “yes, well. That will be all for today, y/n. I'd like the meeting’s pages on my desk by nine.”

“Yes, Mr. Holmes. Don’t forget Mr. Melas will be meeting you at the club at seven.”

He eyed me, no doubt perturbed by my persistent formal use of his name, but decided against commenting upon it. “Thank you.”

“May I accompany you out, Miss Doyle?” Sherlock proffered his arm and the elder Holmes’s eyeroll was hardly hidden.

“I’d be delighted.” I took his arm giving the elder Holmes a final nod before turning with Sherlock.

“Good-bye, Mycroft.” Sherlock tossed over his shoulder in a way that only those brothers could, with challenge and love.

“As to you.”

We walked in silence through the building exchanging minute touches around corners and in empty halls. His elbow cheating back to brush his fingers against my wrist, palm, and in between my fingers. Muscle mastery that could entice a rousing masterpiece on his violin and a soothing or inspiring composition in me. I could always tell how his day was going by the way his fingers alighted my skin. He was mixing his piece, half soothing and half enticing. Today was a good day but he wanted to ease the ache in my hip.

His fingers swept over the plain silver band on my ring finger just before he pulled his arm forward and we stepped out the front door where a cab awaited me. He opened the door, plucked up my cane, and held my hand to help me inside. I sat and he placed the cane neatly at my side. “Where may I ask should I send you?”

“I have a meeting with the Society before I venture home.”

He nodded and gave the address to the driver before closing the door. I leaned forward, “a good afternoon to you, sir.”

He smiled with just a hint of delight in his eyes, “a good afternoon indeed.” He stepped back and the cab bounded off.

I closed my eyes and let his composition accompany me through the muddy streets of London.

~~

Baker Street was still bustling even though the air had turned brisk. I had long since grown accustomed to London’s gray sky but I had no doubt more clouds would roll in within hours. Sherlock would scoff at my prediction but the quirk at the corner of his mouth gave him away every time.

I strolled down the sidewalk with one gloved hand tucked in my pocket trying not to lean too heavily upon my cane. Despite the weather, the people hustling and strolling about were in good spirits. They may complain year round but they loved their city, gray skies and all. I smiled, tucked my head against the wind, and returned to mulling over our most recent research into the human mind.

My study pursuing a way to ease, if not erase, dark memories that haunt or, in other cases not so lucky as mine, debilitate those who survive such terrors had been slowly gaining traction. While my research into a mind that felt compelled to inflict such pain had been flourishing and my fellows were already contemplating offering their opinion on suitable titles. Due to the rise in sensationalist stories of Jack the Ripper, I was disinclined to give any more public notoriety to despicable behavior.

I turned my mind from the distant past and recalled the thoughts that had been trying to lure me from my analysis throughout the afternoon. If I closed my eyes, I could still feel the way his nimble fingers caressed my palm amidst the quiet halls. I will forever be amazed by his ability to take my breath with a single touch.

“Mama!” The shout drew me back to Baker Street. William’s dark curls bounced over his bright face as he rushed toward me filling me with a completely different warmth.

I knelt down and opened my arms just before he carefully latched onto me, “hello, my love.” I wrapped him in a tight embrace. “How was your day?” I glanced up and smiled at the little sandy haired girl rushing toward me.

“Auntie y/n!” Rosamund pressed into my side wrapping us in a hug all her own.

“Hello my little dove!” I chuckled and looked up at Mary walking over with a smile lighting her face. My heart jolted and I shut my eyes.

“They’re very excitable today,” Victoria’s voice was bright and when I again looked up, her red hair replaced the blonde I thought I saw. Her face, now whispering concern, was nothing like the ghost of the woman in my mind.

I smiled with a slight shake of my head, “the chill.” I stood as the children released me chattering over each other about their trip to the park. “What great timing. I was going to send a telegraph.”

We turned and guided the children back toward the flat. “Come along William, Rosamund.” I leaned into her side while the children skipped ahead of us. “So, you heard?”

With a curt nod, she glanced my way, “Molly sent a telegraph about an incident in Sussex.”

“Sussex? Mycroft spoke of a different matter.”

Victoria’s eyes lit in excitement, “how delightful.”

The door to two hundred and twenty one B opened and Mrs. Hudson appeared shaking her head but all signs of discontent were dispelled by the children who immediately swarmed her. Victoria and I stepped inside and removed our coats and gloves.

“You read the new story then?” Victoria said with chagrin.

“Who needs silly stories when I am in the presence of the lovely ladies and gentleman of the house?”

“My dear Martha, this will always be your house. You are not a servant.” She smiled. I had to admit I over indulged in our innocent teasing on most days.

Her gaze was pulled by the sprites at her legs vying for her attention and Victoria elbowed me. We parted as a black cloaked woman complete with black veil rushed down the stairs, in between us, and out the front door without a word. Victoria and I glanced at one another before making our way upstairs.

The patter of the children’s feet followed along with Mrs. Hudson who no doubt would herd them into the kitchen.

I stepped into the sitting room where Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson were seated in their chairs by the fireplace in which a small fire crackled. I leaned my cane against the wall by the door not usually needing it for short distances, due in no small part to Mycroft’s swift thinking and action after the incident more than three years ago.

Sherlock’s gaze trailed over me, his ever watchful eye not missing a thing. I saw on his alert face what answers he had gained in his quick yet efficient observation and knew some piece I would miss gave him some knowledge of half my thoughts today. I winked before turning to the other presence.

Lestrade gave a tip of his head in greeting before his gaze was drawn to William rushing over to Sherlock. “Papa!”

Sherlock lifted our son onto his lap and leaned in, “my dear boy, what adventures did you find?”

“I hear John’s sister is doing quite well in the Queen’s service,” Lestrade said.

I grew confused at his words for all present were in good standing of our situation. But then it alerted me to an outside source from which I was still unaware. “I do what I can.”

Victoria chortled, “yes, who dared to think…”

“Victoria that would be quite enough.” John’s curt remark bordered on offensive.

I turned toward him with a look of disapproval, “now, dear brother.”

“Husband.” Victoria’s admonishment was so that one had to know her thoroughly to hear the dangerous undertone.

Sherlock grinned, “I believe Watson was simply trying to steer back to the matter at hand with our guest.”

William had crossed his leg over the other just like his father trying his best to match the posture down to the crook of his arm holding an invisible pipe to his mouth. Sherlock pulled a small pipe from his pocket and held it out for him. He grabbed it, fumbling it slightly in his excitement and shoved the mouthpiece into his mouth and blew. A few bubbles shot out and William turned such a look of contempt on his father but the sheer delight visible in Sherlock counteracted even the most stubborn of our son’s attributes.

I chuckled softly at my boys as I stepped further into the sitting room and Lestrade moved aside. A man, quite unkempt with messy straw-like hair and dirty overcoat, was seated in a chair on the right side of the room placed directly in front of the couch. “My dear sir, how terribly unkind of me and in my own home. Have you not treated the man to a drink?” I saw the signs of anxiety on his taut face, in his stiff shoulders, and uneven breathing that Sherlock had no doubt already deduced.

Sherlock Holmes may not be an expert in Psychology but he trained himself to catch even the slightest twitch of the eye from a lying man. He knew enough about the emotive ticks to judge the state of the man in front of us.

“That would be grand…” His wild eyes darted from Sherlock and William to me, “did you say your home?”

I walked over and offered my hand, “why yes, y/n Doyle. Pleasure to meet you.”

His gaze flicked to Sherlock and then to John. If I hadn't known better I might think he was about to take flight. “I thought your sister’s name was Harriet?”

Well,” John shook his head, a delay as the struggle continued in his mind, the only thing that came to me was trust in the man before us, “Mrs. Doyle is… adopted… and well, she…”

“She is a woman out of her time.” Sherlock spoke matter of factly and caused a blush to stain my cheeks, his gaze on me with pride and so much more.

I watched John, his conclusion finally eased his features. I laid my hand on our guest's shoulder hoping to assuage some of his nerves. “A relationship like the one John and I share is much like family but without blood relation in this society is, shall we say, frowned upon. It is much easier to tell those less minded that we are in fact blood related. It avoids scandal.”

“Anymore scandal,” Sherlock quipped pointing the mouthpiece of his pipe at me.

“By Jove, Holmes! How anyone could see you choosing a bride of such ordinary tendencies is just beyond…” John chuckled with another shake of his head.

“Or choosing a bride at all from those stories in The Strand,” Lestrade said with a grin at John.

“You're married and a child? But she doesn't bear your name!” The man cried, leaning forward as his stress increased.

I patted his shoulder, “a matter of security I can assure you.” I walked over to the decanter and poured him a drink.

John laughed, “poppycock. You'd no less take that name than…”

Victoria glared at him, “husband.”

I walked over to our guest, “the Holmes name has a notoriety that I would prefer to avoid. Sherlock is a man that takes no offense to my position. He delights in it.” I handed him the glass but his gaze was riveted on John and his hand so shaky, the liquid sloshed about.

“But your stories, you say it’s cocaine or ambition.”

“I believe the line you're thinking is the man alternates between his drug of choice and ambition. She would be that drug,” Victoria quipped with an amused smile. “And sometimes ambition.”

“Is it still only a seven percent solution?” John tossed at Sherlock.

Sherlock grinned, they were enjoying this far too much for decency. “Ah, I do believe I’ve far exceeded that dosage for quite some time now. Some days, at least, but then I tend to be quite fanciful these days.” He met my gaze and I smiled before turning away.

“Gentlemen, I do believe we may only be furthering his distress. That cold drink would do your mind and a good amount of deep breathing would help clear some of that anxiety.” I squatted in front of him, “now, if you would permit it, I would like to help you with that anxiety.” He nodded, still watching me warily. “With me, deep breath in.”

Sherlock, John, and Lestrade continued discussing whatever this man had brought them as I directed him into a calmer state. After a few minutes, he opened his clear, soft gray eyes and gazed into mine.

“May I ask what your speciality is?” His voice was smoother and deeper without the stress tightening his vocal cords.

“Psychology. It's the study of the mind.”

His laugh was like a crack of a whip in the room and everyone turned toward him, “but that's simply a fake…”

I smiled as I stood, “I am a member of the Society of Psychical Research and I'll have you know this area of study is exploding especially in America. I just calmed you with techniques I have perfected through my own research, sir. Feel your heart and listen to your breathing, your brain is no longer running in circles. You are now comfortable for the first time since the incident. Are you not?”

His eyes widened and he looked at Sherlock, “is this some kind of sorcery?”

“My wife is of high intellect and sorcery is of no use in this household. You’ll find no parlor tricks here.”

“She is published, both medical journals and novel!” John said tightly, eying the man he had only moments ago allowed a clearance like no other outside our circle.

“Dr. Watson trusts you highly for certain things to be spoken so easily in your presence. I hope you measure up to the worth of that trust.”

He stared at me but the thunder coming from the stairs drew our attention to the door just before it flung open. A large man in an unleashed rage heaved at the doorway, his wild gaze jumping around the room and growing all the more incensed. “Which of you is Holmes?”

I walked toward him and held up my hands. “Good sir, won’t you take a breath and know that no harm will come to you here.”

His bloodshot eyes burned in my direction, “a woman who doesn't know her place!”

I was sure by now my husband would know more about this man than I ever cared to but I could only see the tension in every muscle that spoke of panic and wild rage, a dangerous animal. “And you will lower your voice in my home.” I inwardly flinched at such a careless mistake but dared not show the slightest bit of weakness.

A flash of confusion shadowed his rage but only for a moment before it flared back, “your home!” His gaze darted toward the fire place where John and Sherlock were still seated. “The busy body has a woman with no control!”

His huge hand reached out for me and I snatched his wrist from the air, twisted it swiftly down and around his back as I shoved the mountain of a man off balance and into the door frame. “And you would do well to keep your hands where they belong. Men who foolishly think they can overpower women simply because they are bigger only prove how very uneducated they are.” Malice seeped through my every word and my pulse was pounding in my ears. I had focus on my breathing simply to hold back from injuring him any further.

“The conversation is most entertaining but I believe my wife has just shown you to the door, sir.”

The controlled lilt that hinted of danger in Sherlock’s voice tempered my heated blood. I released the man and backed away. A slight fright at the amount of rage that still pulsed through me. My gaze darted around the room and I was thankful that William was no longer present.

“When I have my say…” He rubbed his wrist and turned but stepped backward into the doorway. He glanced at me with a vicious look before returning his gaze to Sherlock.

Sherlock stood from his chair, his face tight and his nostrils flared but it was Victoria who stepped toward the man, “I believe you have done enough for one day. What would Scotland Yard have to say?”

Lestrade turned toward the man and he huffed, muscles rippling in aggravation as he ignored Lestrade and stabbed a finger toward Sherlock, “do not meddle in the affairs of Dr. Grimesby Roylott!” Then he spun awkwardly and lumbered down the stairs.

I turned to Sherlock and raised my brow in question when John’s old friend seated behind me exclaimed, “good Lord! You…” I turned and met his astonished look with confusion, “you… madam are extraordinary.” There was a lingering fear in his stiffened muscles and I could only conclude that John’s trust wouldn’t be the only thing holding this man to our loyalty.

“A woman can surprise you if only you let them.” Sherlock gave a sharp tug on the bottom of his vest, “if you would excuse me for a moment. I need to speak with my wife.” Sherlock walked toward the kitchen and paused with his hand held out toward me.

Victoria slipped something into my hand as I passed her. I stepped into Sherlock’s side and he took hold of my arm, the soft caress of his fingers on my palm soothing as we walked into the kitchen then around the children and Mrs. Hudson.

I quickly read the telegraph Victoria had handed me as Sherlock guided me into the hall for a touch of privacy, but the words handwritten there didn't make sense, meet me at his boathole in cemetery. I.A.

I squeezed my eyes closed and shook my head at the sudden burst of pain. When I again looked at the paper, it was a simple telegram from Molly. He stopped us and turned to face me as I inquired, “do you know the meaning of the bull at our door?”

“His step daughter made her leave before your entrance.”

“The woman… dressed in black?” A tingle of fear itched the back of my neck. What I had just done could very well be reflected back on her.

He nodded, his fingers brushed over my cheek then he kissed me with a quiet reverence. “You taught him a lesson that I should...”

I pressed my finger to his lips, “it's not that bad. Just the weather. Promise me that woman won’t be alone with that man. If my actions...”

His hand brushed my hip where the ache always flared up in cold weather. “Watson and I must catch the next train to take his step daughter’s case. I believe he’s going to have her killed much like her sister.”

I nodded, “Victoria received a telegram asking for our assistance in a matter in Sussex.”

“Lamberley?”

“Yes.”

“This lady in need of assistance is Peruvian?” He asked with a smile.

I looked upon him in amusement and he kissed me again. “I received a letter of the same matter. I shall send word that an associate of highest caliber will be arriving.”

I turned toward the kitchen, “Mrs. Hudson, could I ask you to watch the children for us until tomorrow?”

“Of course! Oh, how lovely, are you finally going on holiday?”

“Oh no, we have two…” my gaze froze upon the scrap of paper tacked to the wall just behind Mrs. Hudson, “different cases.”

She shook her head with a chortle, “of course.”

The odd stick figures in different positions called to me, something whispering that I should know. “The dancing men,” the words spilled from me but still brought no understanding except for the flash of a woman’s face, dark hair, red lipstick, and clever eyes. You understand.

Sherlock caressed my neck, “still waiting on more data for that. One case at a time.”

I turned back to him, his lopsided grin and a pinch in his brow. “Right.”

“Associates.” His palm pressed against my cheek, “then I shall see you again tomorrow.”

I held his hand on my face with the most peculiar feeling of living this moment before yet the emotions were different, more afraid. “Does your case have an increased element of danger?”

“None higher than others.” He searched my face, my eyes.

I nodded, “until tomorrow then.” He lifted a brow, “just simple instinct, I suppose the bull may have increased my own anxiety for the girl. A cornered animal is a dangerous one.”

He pressed his lips to mine, a slow and sensual kiss that only heightened my sense of being here, saying such a stressed, intense goodbye before. “I will see you no later than tomorrow night. I guarantee this will be wrapped up by morning light.”

John’s story of the events of Reichenbach swarmed my mind and I held onto him tighter. I hugged him tucking my head into his chest, breathing him in. Losing this man was not a possibility.

He bent down just enough to press his lips to my ear, “I’m invincible, you know that.”

I squeezed tighter. “Tomorrow then.” 

PART TWO

[impossibleleaf]

The real social experiments in Sherlock

So, I was looking again at the explanation thelostspecial.com gave us for doing its supposed con and I can’t stop chuckling.

So they made a social experiment? Well then, my friend I’m 79% is just playing with our nerves and is the real deal, if that’s really what you were doing you missed everything.

What did they want to prove again? Let me check again “I couldn’t resist the opportunity to run a sociological experiment with a vicious fandom in denial.” Basically, they decided to give us something random with an appearance of logic and take note of how some fandom decided to wave a story around it to fit their fantasy.

Bullcrap.

Here’s a real social experiment: how long can queerbaiting last until a fandom throws a fit?

What is happening isn’t new at all. Queerbaiting happens in every show. You don’t need to look far: destiel is seen as queerbaiting, narusasu as well. You enter a fandom, you will have a league of fans telling you their ships isn’t canon for the only reason they are of the same sex.

Most of the time, the other fans manage to silence these people, they’re the minority, they’re delusional, clearly you’ve never thought these characters could be gay, right? Sherlock fandom? It is the oldest fandom, the first one in modern time to genuinely wonder if Holmes and Watson really were just friends. There is nothing new under the sun, it’s all been said and done before.

This time however, people had expectations, genuine expectations. Sherlock is in love, really? With whom if not John? His sister? “Romantic attachment, while fulfilling for other people will complete [Sherlock] as a human being?” It doesn’t help at all that for years people had kept adding their two cents by using metas, sorry, filming analysis. They broke down the narrative, they followed the breadcrumbs and at the end of the road concluded: ‘This is it.’

Only, and that’s the thing, queerbaiting rests of plausible deniability. So what if you throw away seven years of narrative? The ending doesn’t matter anyway, just the road we take. Yes, we can’t write female characters and use male interactions to fulfil our emotional quota but it’s just for fujoshis, you can’t expect us to man up and say how it is, right?

The Sherlock fandom however is made of stronger stuff. It boasts his cleverness, this is the fandom that looks at something and thinks: if this doesn’t mean anything, then what was the point of it? Here’s my deduction, now I expect a resolution. Worse, this is a fandom that lives on three episodes and says: I need to deduce the ending in less than three weeks with what I’ve been given. We want everything to be clever.

Queerbaiting is devastating for several reasons: it harms queer people by giving them hope and snatch it away and it keeps telling you that you’re delusional for having noticed what they were doing. So you can’t even trust what you see and the story that’s being told?

Then what’s the point in watching it? Why do they keep using that disgusting trick for a larger audience? They want their fans to be morons?

From then, three groups appeared after TFP: one gave up and nobody can blame them, one is throwing a fit and hopefully is being listened for once because that’s the only way queerbaiting is going to stop and another said fuck it, I know what I’ve seen, I know there is far more at work and I refuse to give up. A portion of the fandom decided to watch queerbaiting straight in the eyes and say: I refuse this to be the end.

So what did they do? They rewatched an episode they despise until they finally could see the real problems inside. And. There Are. So. Many.

They got a hypothesis and decided to use it. What if Mofftiss is still hiding something in their sleeve? There is no way Gatiss and Moffat would use that dirty tactic, not them. And, guess what? That hypothetic works. That’s, in fact, the only thing that works. Nothing is stopping it, everything fits. Queerbaiting is literally killing Sherlock, this reading is the only way you can save it.

Here’s another social experiment: what power does a fandom have over the show it’s invested in?

Oh yes, we got supposedly trolled by thelostspecial.com and some trolls send ciphers but guess what? They get solved. There is a logic. You see people being clever, sharing their findings and laughing together. None of this would go anywhere without the fandom mentality. I don’t see anyone being delusional, I just see people having fun and deciding to take Mofftiss in their own game, screaming because they want to finally win it. The sources we can completely trust aren’t failing us, they give us strength.

What is happening has never been done before: the fandom is an essential part of the show, they are playing the game. If it stops, all is lost. If there is a Lost Special, Mofftiss desperately needs us to win, if not, they will have to bend and give up. This isn’t denial, we are perfectly aware of the stakes and that’s why we can’t stop playing the Sherlockian game.

Now, a final social experiment: can we recreate the Final Problem’s phenomena? Thanks to you, the answer is yes. People are talking about this on media, we are being listened and nothing can make us shut up. At this point, a few wobbles won’t change the direction we’re heading. Queerbaiting won’t be the final destination, we are going to rewrite the ending and avoid Samarra.