#this Sherlock is perfect and he deserves to finally bone down with the good doctor

[quilliums]

Dude given that this version of Sherlock is the most book accurate I've literally ever seen I was fucking SCREAMING.

If they're not gay I'm going to burn everything down.

Sherlock Holmes? [Yes…?] I’m here for my appointment. You’re seeking a flatmate?

ENOLA HOLMES 2 (2022)

[illuminating-dragons]

Dreams and Visions (34/51): Christmas Cuff Links

Time Period: Victorian 

Chapter Summary: It’s Christmas time in the City of London, but all’s not well.  Warning for minor character death (no one you know), reference to assisted suicide.

Read it on AO3

Cold and weary, Holmes finally managed to swing his bag down from the carriage and stalk off. He wasn't going to bother with slinging it to a comfortable position—no, that's what men did when they deserved to be happy. Which clearly, he didn't, or he wouldn't be stuck in Baker Street alone over Christmas.

It started when  Mrs. Hudson had suddenly been called away to nurse her sick sister. Of course she had to go—he and Watson could take care of themselves, after all. She'd even left them plenty of cold food, and instructions to go to Mrs. Turner up the street for Christmas dinner; the old boarding house would probably be full of strangers, but there'd be nice hot food.

Then Holmes had gotten called away on a case five days before Christmas. He hadn't wanted to go at all—he'd explained this to Watson three times in twenty minutes—but it was an important case. The fortunes of an old family depended on him discovering which one of the heirs was a murderer. Holmes hadn't felt the need to explain that it was his own godfather who'd just died, the very man who'd introduced him to the study of chemistry and logic when he was a boy of ten, and though the old man hadn't left him any money (per his own request), he was determined to discover his murderer.

Watson had been very cold about it, colder still when Holmes explained that Watson didn't need to go. Why subject both of them to an uncomfortable train ride?

Holmes had taken the train up north, where he discovered to his great grief that Lord Conan had indeed been killed—at his own request. His eldest daughter, Holmes' friend long ago and now the mother of five, tearfully confessed to increasing the dosage of her father's medicine after he'd begged to be put out of his misery.  Holmes commiserated with her, covered up suspicion by announcing his fervent belief that the old man had died of a heart attack, and the doctor's incompetence had led to this suspicious atmosphere. How he'd wished that Watson could have been there.

Just as he'd done so, there came a letter, delivered express. Watson had been invited by the Forrester's, Mary's old friends, to spend Christmas Day with them, and as Holmes clearly had no care for the season, he was going to accept.

Damn it all! Of course Watson was familiar with Holmes' contempt for many aspects of the Christmas holiday, but that was before...well, before this strange, new happiness the two of them had found. Holmes had barely wanted to leave in the first place, and now he didn't see much point in going back.

But he had his pride, damn it, and he wasn't going to stop his...what was the proper word for what Watson was to him? He wasn't going to stop John from having a good Christmas. So Holmes didn't respond to the letter and made arrangements to take the train home at the latest possible time Christmas Eve.

The train ride was long and hard, bitterly cold even wrapped up, and Holmes felt the beginnings of a fever seeping into his bones. He was coughing by the time he finally got to London. Spending an hour at the station attempting to catch the attentions of a cabby hardly improved matters, and now it was all Holmes could do to dig out two pound notes and hand them to his cabby. He waved off the thanks and stumbled up the seventeen stairs. The clock chimed midnight as he reached the top, and he groaned. "Happy Christmas," he muttered under his breath.

The fire was lit in the grate, and Holmes blinked in surprise. Surely John wasn't still awake?

His surprise deepened to see a Christmas tree in the corner, partly decorated with baubles. There were two wrapped packages underneath, one quite small and the other large. Out of habit, Holmes began to deduce what they were, then stopped. Watson wouldn't have wrapped them if he'd wanted Sherlock to know what they were.

The table was laid with two places, Mrs. Hudson's nicer plates and good silverware nestled amid sprigs of holly.

Holmes blinked hard. Perhaps Watson didn't intend to go away after all.

His gaze fell on the sofa, and he smiled. Watson was curled up there—he'd clearly fallen asleep without meaning to, head tilted awkwardly, body leaning towards the fire from lack of blanket. Holmes hesitated, fearing to wake him but wanting to cover him to keep from catching cold.

As fate would have it, he sneezed and Watson woke in surprise. "Sherlock?" he mumbled.

Holmes smiled, laying down his bag. "Happy Christmas, my dear John," he whispered, kneeling next to the sofa. "I'm home."

Watson smiled sleepily, reaching out a hand and caressing Sherlock's face. "Knew you would be. I got Christmas ready for you."

Holmes leaned into the touch. "You said you were going to go away for Christmas," he said quietly.

Watson blushed. "Never should have written that," he said gruffly. "I was angry with you for leaving, I thought perhaps you wouldn't care that this was—"

"Our first Christmas together?" Holmes finished. "Never." He swallowed guiltily. "I'm sorry John, I should have explained, I don't know why I didn't."

"Mycroft did," Watson replied. "I was summoned to see him."

Holmes chuckled, relief soothing the burn in his throat. "I don't understand why you always call it summoning."

"And I fail to see how you call it anything else."

Holmes laughed, then sobered. "I am sorry I didn't tell you. I thought it would be over with quickly, and I—"

"Was grieving and didn't want to spoil my holiday?"

Holmes swallowed the sudden lump in his throat. "He was a good man," he whispered. "We hadn't written in some years, but I always thought that he would still be there, somehow."

Watson leaned forward to rest their foreheads together. "I'm sorry, dear." He pulled away with a frown. "You're warm, Sherlock."

"A touch of fever, I think," Holmes said quickly. "Nothing to worry about."

Watson didn't look entirely convinced. He stood, pulling Holmes up with him. "Go to bed, Sherlock. Christmas can wait until we've had some sleep."

Holmes nodded. He started to go, then turned and kissed Watson full on the mouth. Watson drew him close, and they didn't let go for a long time.

The next morning there were cold meats and warm eggs and coffee (Watson could cook a little bit), and a promise to dine with Mycroft at his home later that evening was revealed, an invitation that hadn't been extended since an incident with the turkey that Holmes had to swear would not be repeated. Gifts were opened: Holmes' large package was a brand new set of commonplace books of various sizes, perfect for any type of note taking, while Watson was charmed by his new inks, all in various colours.

And when they joined Mycroft at his table that evening, they both wore their new cufflinks, Holmes' set engraved with J.W., Watson's engraved S.H. It was an entirely suitable exchange of jewelry for two old friends.

And if they both wore those particular sets as often as they could, and certainly every Christmas day, no one thought anything of it.

[abumblebeeat221b]

Why Mary Should Have Lived.

Okay. First off. Sorry for the mini-hiauts. I know I should have written a bunch of metas by now, and I *was* going to. But then series 4 happened. John emotionally cheating on his wife happened. Mary’s death happened. John beating Sherlock up happened. Euros happened. And I noped out.

Or I would have if this had been the fan fic it felt like.

Basically, I spent the past 3 months searching for the little ‘x’ in the corner.

Did I find it? Is that why I’m back?

Not quite.

For the record, I did try to finish a few things during the past 3 months, but every time I went beyond the safe shores of the first paragraphs, no matter what originally my post was going to be about, it ended up being a collection of reasons why Mary should not have died. Why the general idea behind The Lying Detective is genius, but I’m not sure what Mofftiss were thinking when they sat down to write it. How on earth they wrote The Final Problem and thought it was a good idea. Or generally, why odds are the real Moffat and Mark Gatiss got abducted by aliens after writing The Abominable Bride.

And I realised to break that slightly self-destructing pattern, I need to sit down and explore that monster of a post that is begging for my attention. So, here it is. A short, comprehensive guide to why killing Mary off was the worst creative decision in Moffat and Mark Gatiss lives (and no, this post is NOT contradicting the message behind ‘The Final Problem does not deserve this’. I still believe writers are allowed to write whatever they need to to get *their* story out there. I’m allowed not to like everything about the end result. I’m not allowed to try and ruin their careers or attack them as a person).

All right. Let’s talk Sherlock series 4. Let’s talk Mary.

I came into the Sherlock fandom as someone who used to bingewatch NCIS. And as much as Gibbs and his pre-Bishop teams will always have a place in my heart (no idea what the show is like now) something I have always loathed about it was the lack of women. Everyone and their aunt uncle and their dog had a dead mum. Seriously. How difficult can it be to add a few not obviously sexy female characters to a show?

So, when they aired A Study in Pink, I was over the moon that we had Mrs Hudson. We got Sally who did not have to cater to anyone’s opinions. And that they did not turn Molly into some bone saw swinging eye candy. And no dead mums as far as my eyes could see (apart from the sadly deceased murder victim, of course, but even she got to play her clever part and her death was not used to highlight some man pain). Who’d have thought something like that was even possible. On a crime show.

An episode later John’s new girlfriend did not have to sacrifice herself for the sake of the plot.  

We met Irene Adler who was allowed to trick the genius hero of the show and live.

Even The Reichenbach Fall did not feature any overtly tragic deaths of female characters.

Well. And then they gave us Mary and said they’d like to issue a correction: Doyle did not mention Mary would die in the original. And I think it was that moment that I really, head-over-heels fell in love with this stupid show and pledged everlasting loyalty to it.

Of course, the obvious next step from there was that in the first episode of the next season Mofftiss killed her off.

See my issue? No? Good. You don’t need to.

During the last hiauts Mofftiss kept saying that actions come with consequences. And apparently, they thought they were referring to how they shouldn’t have married John off. They thought they were stuck with the problem of having an overtly skilled ex-super-spy who’d always have John and Sherlock’s back.

*Oh no, how could they ever rise the stakes again and write a good story?*

They tried to reset the show, they let Mary sacrifice herself for her best friend.

You asked for consequences? Here, have some consequences, because where does that leave them? What did they end up with?

A sometimes reckless ex-army doctor with an unhealthy adrenaline craving which demands to be fixed.

A (hopefully) recovering ex-junkie who LOVES solving crimes.

And a baby.

Guess who of these have the necessary skills and patience to deal with a child?

John. Because he is a doctor and loves his daughter. And because there are plenty of single dads doing a good job raising children (although probably not as many as NCIS wants you to believe).

And Sherlock. Because he’d certainly try to make an effort. He likes Rosie, and John, and Mary and he’d do it for them. Being part of John’s social network he would promise to be available for baby sitting duties - he knows if it takes a village to raise a child, then it takes a village, a consulting detective, a former secretary of a drug cartel who also did some dancing, a pathologist, and the British government to raise one who has to grow up without one of her parents.

And even if Greg knocked at 221b with the perfect ten of a case he’d say no.

Once.

Twice.

Three, or maybe ten times. The number doesn’t matter. In the end, he is Sherlock Holmes, who is married to his work, and who has been neglecting his wife.

John would understand. He’d stop writing the blog, not because the last time we looked at it, it was a fake PICTURE of an even faker website, but because he wouldn’t be there to record their adventures. Sherlock’s adventures. And not reporting from first hand experience just wouldn’t be the same.

And he’d be fine between being there for Rosie and juggling his shifts at the clinic, having his own little adventures. Believe it or not, children change people. Especially your own.

He’d be fine till one far too early morning reality would remind him that the reason Sherlock had asked him to come along all those years ago hadn’t only been because the pompous prat had needed a friend.

This time Sherlock would live.

And John would make him promise not to get himself into a situation like that ever again, knowing Sherlock’s words are not worth the air. Because he knows Sherlock. He’s been there. He’s seen it happen.

Sherlock would try to step down a little. For John’s and Rosie’s sake. For Mary’s. For the sacrifice he would have never ever asked for.  He, John and we know in this show there is no plot armour, even the major characters can die.

But it’s just a matter of time and Greg would show up with another perfect ten. One, he hates to cross 221b’s threshold with, but it’s an emergency. And with Mary’s death looming in his mind palace, Sherlock wouldn’t allow John to come along.

They’d get lucky again. And soon Sherlock would get hooked, telling himself, always the addict, he’d know how to calculate the risks.

Till one time he would not.

And Mofftiss sacrificed Mary to get some creative freedom.

What freedom?

Also, please note, it’s not Rosie who’s stripping the story off its possibilities, but Mary’s death. It’s what makes this show far too real for comfort.

[nerdywerdyprincess-blog]

The Final Solution (last episode revision)

So I can’t live with it. Sorry, I just can’t! I’m re-writing the episode the way it should have been written, tying up all loose ends and making good on that promise to “make history”. What follows will be a chapter by chapter revision of The Final Problem, re-titled the Final Solution. Featuring M-Theory, M/M, Fluff, Eurus’ and Moriarty’s comeuppance and a kiss we should have gotten. It will feature scenes from the The Final Problem trailer and some actual dialogue from the original episode so you could argue the Final Problem trailer could apply to this story as well.

Here’s the teaser Prologue. Cue the comments and let me know if you want more.

The Final Solution -----------------------      Prologue -----------------------

All he could register at first was the cold. Though his mind was slow and drugged, he found himself pulled from blissful oblivion forcefully by the sensation of freezing limbs and shivers that shook his entire body. There was pain as well of course; his head pounded in a way that reminded him of the morning after his stag night with Sherlock. He’d been so drunk! And for good reason, he now realized.

Sherlock…. Was he speaking to Sherlock now? Yes, yes, he was! He remembered now. Sherlock had held him close as he cried, and he could still remember the scent of his aftershave and the way his elegant, soft hand had curled around his neck a little awkwardly, holding him close as he shamefully wept.

And then he remembered something else. His therapist, one blue eye and one brown…..a gun.

The east wind.

John Watson slowly opened light brown eyes to take in his surroundings, fully expecting to be in a hospital or perhaps, if he were quite unlucky, some version of the afterlife. He felt too groggy and too drugged to do more than blink a few times and move his head to try and figure out where he was. Definitely not a hospital…

Everything was too dark to make out at first, and yet there seemed to be some pale light streaming down from above, allowing his eyes to adjust and illuminate stone walls. He suddenly realized he was wet. Very wet! And sitting at the bottom of…..something. A well maybe?!

“Christ!” John swore as he started to try and pick himself up out of the water. He could die of hypothermia alone if he remained immersed in it! But where the hell was he?

“Hello?!” John called up towards the round opening at the top, even as he started to semi-blindly feel around him, hoping to find some kind of hand-hold that he could pull himself up and use to climb to the top, although admittedly that would be difficult as it was so high up. He moved freely…. He felt nothing weighing him down like a chain or anything, which was lucky he supposed. He did frown as he heard the clink of something at his feet and reached into the water which was waist deep and came up with…..bones….

“Shit,” John whispered softly, because the bones were small. Dog bones? He certainly hoped so! Although the femur….as he could see that’s what it was…tended to be angled more like a human bone.

There was a sudden vibration and then ringing in his pocket and John felt his heart pound in shock and hope as he realized he had his mobile phone on him.

Eurus….his therapist….the woman Sherlock had spoken to! Had she been so careless as to leave him a means of communication? And why had she done this? What was the plan? Why pose as his therapist and drug him with some kind of tranquilizer and then place him here? It seemed an odd game to play.

He suddenly wondered how his mobile could survive being submerged in water, but the answer was obvious as he reached for it, and it implied that him having it on him was entirely deliberate, as someone had wrapped the small device in a plastic, water-tight bag. John’s hands shook as he unwrapped it quickly and then answered the phone which was still ringing.

“Hello? Hello, Sherlock?!” John asked anxiously with a shamefully desperate waver in his voice, having not even glanced at the caller I.D. and somehow assuming that it would be Sherlock, who must be looking for him, right?

“Did you miss me?”

The voice one the other end of the line made him feel even colder than he already was. He literally couldn’t feel his own feet for a moment as he registered that Jim Moriarty was speaking to him! Or at least, someone who had a recording of his voice and sounded just like him.

“W-Who is this?” John asked and took a deep breath to steady himself. He had to stay calm. He was a soldier damn it, and he had to stay calm! “What sort of game is this?”

“It’s time for the final problem. Do you know what it is? Once upon a time there was a doctor named John!” Moriarty’s voice taunted him over the phone.

“This is impossible. You’re dead! You can’t be alive. This is a trick!” John insisted angrily, even as he looked around desperately for a way out. But it was then he noticed that the water level was….getting a little higher…

“John’s Daddy was mean to him and his Mummy died when he was little. So he decided he wanted to go to war and prove to his Daddy that he was a tough man’s man!” Moriarty continued as if he hadn’t heard him, saying ‘man’s man’ with a kind of mock-macho voice. “Only he wasn’t, was he? No, John has a secret. A secret he’s never told anyone!”

“Stop it!” John snapped sharply, even as he started to breath faster. The water was rising…. He wasn’t imagining it. “Just stop it, alright?! What do you WANT?!”

He didn’t care who it was now. Eurus or Moriarty or the devil himself. He just wanted out!

“John left the army and he made a new friend. A friend named….Sherlock,” Moriarty whispered softly, the name sounding like a caress on his lips. “Only trouble was, Sherlock already had a friend, and John just got in the way. And so….John had to go.”

There was a click as the phone and the line went dead. John’s heart pounded in terror as he glanced down and realized that Moriarty or whoever it was hadn’t just hung up! The entire phone was black with loss of power.

“No, no, no! Work! Work, you have to work!!” John exclaimed and tried for several seconds to power his mobile back on, but it was useless. It was as dead as the bones that lay at the bottom of the well.

John dropped the phone in disgust and as the water started to rise, he felt himself shivering again with the cold and treaded water to keep his head above it. He started to think about his life, and how it was likely to come to an end quite soon, and all the regrets he was going to have.

Mary was one of them. He’d known it was a mistake, but he’d gone through with the wedding anyway, and looking back that had been cruel to both of them! But she’d deserved better. Granted, he had too, he admitted to himself with a dark and bitter scoff. He hadn’t deserved the lies or the manipulation, but she had deserved someone who hadn’t thought about cheating on her or who had actually wanted to carpool to work with her! Someone who had….loved her….the way she deserved. It still killed him, her last words to him, and how she thought him so perfect and how grateful she had been to him. Even crying about it and admitting it out loud didn’t take away the sting entirely. He found himself grateful for Rosie though… She was something he could never regret.

But even greater than his regret over Mary was his regret over someone else.

“Sherlock…” John whispered to himself, closing his eyes briefly as he realized how much he’d left unsaid, and how much he had failed Sherlock too. He was still haunted by his actions back at the hospital, where he’d literally been beating Sherlock while he was down on the ground. In that moment, he had become the worst version of himself.

He had become his father.

And he’d never gotten the chance to apologize for that. He’d never gotten the chance to apologize for blaming him or for pushing him away or for….any of it. He should have done it that same day, he berated himself. The day when he’d finally let go and Sherlock had comforted him, though it was the last thing he deserved! But John, as always he realized, had been too wrapped up in himself and his own demons to consider trying to address Sherlock’s. And yet, he knew that even if he’d tried, it would be difficult because John had never been good with expressing his own emotions.

Which was why, he realized suddenly, he was going to die without ever having voiced out loud to anyone the truth. The secret which….somehow….Moriarty had known.

Too late now, he realized as the water rose faster and he had to struggle to keep from going under. He was going to die here, alone, at the bottom of a well. And Moriarty or Eurus….or maybe both of them….would go after Sherlock and there would be nothing he could do to stop them.

The thought brought tears to his eyes, which drowned in the water just as he knew he would, and though he treaded water with all his might to keep from going under, he knew it was only a matter of time before his muscles gave out and he ended up as just a pile of bones in the bottom of a well.

-------------------- CUE INTRO MUSIC

TO BE CONTINUED....