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angeli-marco-writes · 3 years

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Sherlock Holmes - Kiss Me, Mr Detective

A/N - Season 1!Sherlock, the cutie. And friends to lovers. Two of my favourite things. I do not own Sherlock Holmes, the character, the universe, the adaptations or anything: this is a work of fiction set on the BBC adaptation of Sherlock. Did I still write 8.2k words (exactly) for it? Yes. I also don’t own the song or the lyrics used within, and if you fancy it, listen to ‘Kiss Me’ by Ed Sheeran while reading.

Warnings - Bad language. Mentions of murder and drug usage. Mild angst. Smut, loss of virginity, masturbation, oral m receiving, penetration, unprotected sex, so 18+.

Summary - After a fight with John leaves Sherlock feeling particularly down, he calls on the one person who is always there to support him. Only tonight, it’s different. Feelings come to a head, exploration ensues, but is this just a one time thing? That depends on whether she stays the night...

TO SHERLOCK, it’s just another normal day, whereas to John? He’d rather not admit how regularly these awful days roll around. Sure, the case didn’t go as well as it could’ve, and Sherlock admittedly could’ve made much more of an effort to comfort John after the apparent ‘heartbreak’ he endured. He just could not understand it. Why the hell was John so emotionally responsive to a case they’d been on for less than twenty four hours which turned out to be a bust anyway?

“You are absolutely unbelievable!”

“People die every day, John. You’ve killed people, as have I. It isn’t that great a surprise.” Sherlock deadpans, picking up his teacup, raising it to his lips, drawing a long sip from the warm liquid.

“Oh, yeah, of course. The proud, the cold untroubled heart of stone, that never mused on sorrow but its own.” John mocks. “Do you not even care that people are still dead despite the fact you solved the case?”

“They’d be dead either way,” he reiterates, “at least we got to them before they completely decomposed. Will me caring about them stop them from being dead? No, Dr Watson, it will not.”

“Sherlock!”

“John!” He mimics.

John slams his hands down on the desk, shaking the wood and everything resting on it, surely sending the vibrations through the floor and notifying Mrs Hudson of their ‘domestic’ as she so likes to call them. The buffalo even begins to swing. John’s tea is long forgotten, but Sherlock’s is keeping him grounded, calm, as John waggles his fist in Sherlock’s passive, blank face.

“You-” he pauses, gulping down breath. “You are a fucking machine, I can’t even deal with you right now. How dare you be so cold hearted and untroubled by this. You’re a disgrace.”

As if he hasn’t heard that one before, Sherlock scoffs.

Placing his teacup back down with a clink, he stands, the darkness of the night, of the room, closing in on them both. Nights like these really are danger nights, any night John leaves him. That’s what's coming next, but there isn’t a thing he knows to say or do to prevent the inevitable. He’ll simply just text Her instead, she’ll keep him grounded.

“Why? Emotional context? Emotion, whether of ridicule, anger, or sorrow, whether raised at a puppet show, a funeral, or a battle, is your grandest of levellers. The man who would be always superior should be always apathetic.”

With a huff like a bull, John viciously turns on his heel, blaspheming under his breath, cursing Sherlock out. He reaches for his coat and snatches it off the stand, slamming the door open.

“MACHINE.” John screams before pulling the door shut with a great slam, seething, the coat stand still rocking in his wake.

John’s footsteps thunder down the stairs, but before he’s even gone, Sherlock’s phone is withdrawn, and he’s tapping out a message.

Can you come over? Please? SH

It wouldn’t usually bother him as much. The case didn’t phase him, at all, but John’s opinion did. It always does. But today was a particularly long day of being brutish and rude, cold and distant, his usual and true self, but John’s more and more impatient with him now.

Being called a ‘machine’ is, again, nothing unusual, but this time it stings a little more than usual, especially after his recent arrest, and a fallout with Molly. He only has one person left, right now, who doesn’t hate him. His longest friend, the one he keeps away from it all so as to not tarnish her life with his misdeeds; Y/N, the one he can always rely on.

He knows she’s arrived by the sound of his window crashing open. Crawling up the bricks, skimming the drainpipe, latching onto the ivy; it’s her usual manner of entry. She never uses the door.

Putting his cups and saucers into the sink, he makes his way through the house, opening his bedroom door to find her already sitting there on the bed, her coat hung up on the hook, her work clothes clinging to her body.

“Hey there Mr Detective, you okay?” she asks as jovially as she can muster.

The way he ambles across the room, his dressing gown floating behind him, and slumps down onto the bed, instantly tells her he’s not okay at all. She can’t help but to look upon him sympathetically, edging a smidge closer to him, until he’s prompted enough to wrap his arms around her torso, finding his rightful place tangled around her. She knows him well enough - his past, and his current life - to realise she’s the only person he’s ever felt comfortable enough around to do this with, and that brings her a certain swelling pride in her bosom, one that doesn’t go unnoticed by Sherlock as he feels her skin heat up against his cheek.

It doesn’t take long, either, for his head to follow suit, burying into her chest. He’s always, always had a thing for her boobs, ever since they were in uni together.

That’s something so special about the two of them, he doesn’t have to say anything for her to know he’s not okay the way he does with everyone else. And naturally, he can read everything about her in a split second.

“I’m here, bud.”

Above all else, he just needs to know someone is there for him in moments like these. The world is cruel to him, and Y/N wishes more than anything that it wasn’t. Upon instinct, her hands stray, one to his back, pressing against the silk of his dressing gown, the other cradling his long neck, fingers knotting in the dark curls there.

She isn’t sure how long she stays there, simply holding him, feeling every twitch of his muscles, every breath of his against her skin, but she likes it. Of course she does, every time she likes it. Sherlock brings her an inordinate amount of comfort at the best of times, today is no exception, especially with what the day has held. Even when she’s the one comforting him, he doesn’t realise how much he helps her too.

His flat is so familiar, his bed as comfortable as her own. She knows his sock index, she’s studied his periodic table over his shoulder more times than she’d care to admit, and she even has her own toothbrush in the bathroom in case she has to pop over for an emergency freshen up. Sherlock has, and always will be, her first port of call, and that she remembers as she shifts further onto the quilted bedspread, her phone on his oak bedside locker.

His head begins to stir against her chest, his curls tickling her collarbones, small hums escaping his lips as he pushes himself up, his elegant yet trembling hands still splayed on her waist.

“I could feel your heart beating weirdly, what’s wrong?” he asks, quirking his eyebrows.

“Just the usual.” she vaguely replies.

Sherlock isn’t having it, though, and scans her a little more. “You’re still in your work clothes.”

“Great deduction. I was hoping you’d go a little deeper, though.”

“You hate wearing work clothes longer than necessary, which means you had plans straight after work, considering you finished… five hours ago? That’s your usual time for today. Counting overtime, forty five minutes, walk to your car, another ten, but your umbrella wasn’t working, round that up to an hour, leaving at 6. You arrived home, no, not home, at your boyfriend’s house for dinner. However, you’re not comfortable enough with one another yet for you to use his shower, or perhaps you are, but you elected not to, and stay in damp clothes that only had seventeen minutes to dry with the heater on in your car for the journey there. You ate dinner, Mexican, had a glass and a half of five percent wine, realised you couldn’t drive, but you didn’t particularly want to stay. Nonetheless you sat and watched the telly with him for hours, football, I can see the dreariness in your eyes. I know how much you hate it, and frankly, same. You stayed for almost all of the match, seeing as you’re now sober, but something else happened.” She lulls her head to the side, prompting him, her smile not meeting her eyes. “As soon as the match ended, he tried to make a move on you, he pressed his mouth to yours, he tried to push his hand up your skirt;” his throat bobs with a vicious gulp; despising the thought of anyone else laying a finger on her, “you swatted him away, rightfully so.”

He pauses a minute, his harsh tone of voice and his sharp face softening. He can see the vulnerability in her eyes, her walls about to crumble. This woman he appreciates so much. “He doesn’t deserve you.”

Smiling melancholically up at him, she brings her hand back to his hair, her fingers carding through the soft curls. His face buries back into her chest just as her voice offers a broken whisper, “I broke it off. I was the one who couldn’t commit this time.”

And as she lays her head on top of his, her breathing more shallow, resounding in her chest, he dwells over those very words. The way she said them, not to mention the words themselves, hold a myriad of meaning. What could she possibly-

Oh.

The subtext, yes, impeccable. She’s always had a way with implications and subtext, always knowing that the likelihood of him actually picking up on it is little to none. But now, now he’s become trained to her, her way of life, her way of thinking, her way of speaking. This is too good an opportunity to miss. If she means what he thinks she means, ever hopeful, then this is completely unfamiliar territory.

Gathering all of his courage in one deep breath, he begins to pepper kisses on her skin. The faintest brush of his lips on the tops of her breasts, all that’s available to him with her shirt the way it is. He feels her heart flutter, her breathing stutter, but despite the chemical flush of her chest, he still isn’t quite sure she likes it. Not until he feels her grip on his hair increase, and he glances up to see her head thrown back. Her spine delicately arches against his hand, thrusting her chest further into his face.

His nimble fingers reach for her buttons, undoing the top two, giving him space enough to find the valley between her breasts. Lathering kisses there, licking the swells of her boobs, his tongue pulsates with the increased thrumming of her heart. The sensation is new, so unbridled, and he doesn’t quite know what to do with the stirring in his loins right about now. That unknowing is only further amplified by the sound that rips from her chest when he involuntarily bites down on the supple flesh. It couldn’t be… a moan?

Sure, he understands the chemistry of it, the reactions that occur in the synapses of the brain, the pheromones and hormones released when one is aroused, but this is all new to him. And, from his embarrassingly basic level of theory, surely that doesn’t start until some more stimulation on other parts of the body commence? Nipples, perhaps something lower down… then again, what does Sherlock know?

Of course it’s an intimate moment, the closest he’s been to a woman before, and maybe that’s why he freezes, stops, and she tugs his head up by his hair, her gentle, pleasured smile with her lips softly parted deepening the look of bewilderment painted onto his face. Her eyes are twinkling, alight with an excitement he hasn’t seen for far too long.

“What are you doing?” she whispers.

He shrugs his shoulders with a sudden force, his dressing gown falling off a little. “I don’t know. But now I feel like I read your pining words all wrong.”

She gasps, a wheezing sound, sucking the air from the room. She smacks his arm gently, muffled by his button-down and dressing gown. “I wasn’t pining! I was saying.”

“Hmm, same difference.”

Everyone must acquiesce when it comes to Sherlock Holmes. “But no, you didn’t read them wrong at all, but I know you don’t see me that way, you don’t feel things that way.”

He pauses, his beautiful plump lips pursed, fidgeting on the bed. Brushing her hair off her face reveals the pain she expressed. However, her eyes glued on his, sadness is betrayed in every line of his young, clean-shaven face. His entire bone structure is taking a nosedive.

“For you, I’ve been feeling everything from hate to love to lust, and I guess that’s how I know I want to hold you close.”

“Sherlock...” she whispers, her singular word an inflection of surprise.

Never tearing his eyes from her, his hand comes up to her cheek, rubbing his thumb over the slightly blushing skin, searching her face, with his big blue eyes, for a shred of reluctance. But, all he sees is her, so he elects to do what his heart is yelling at him to do for once, and kisses her breathless. His full lips holding hers, his one hand on her face, the other still wrapped around her back. Hers fly around his neck, clinging to him for dear life.

It doesn’t take long, their movements steadily heating, for their previously slow, intimate kiss to grow into something more, Y/N pulling herself up from the bed and making herself comfortable on Sherlock’s lap. His breath hitches in his throat, a cute little hiccupping sound escaping his lips in between embraces.

As much as he loves just this, soft caressing and gentle petting, he just knows she wants more. He does too, that much is evident from the length prodding at Y/N’s inner thigh as she moves gently on his lap. She won’t make a move, though, he’s too inexperienced, and she’s too much of a sweetheart to corrupt him, so she thinks. Ever since he first saw her, she’s been corrupting him slowly. He didn’t realise at first, but over the years, he began to understand, and now he’s in too deep.

For Y/N? It’s always been him. Every breakup she’s had, she’ll come to Sherlock’s flat, full well knowing the real reason she broke up with them, because she couldn’t commit, because she was too caught up on him.

Skimming his hands beneath her shirt, he savours the press of his hands on her bare skin, warmth seeping from her body into his, his fingers dancing along her spine. Electricity shocks her in bursts, unlike anything else, from his touch alone.

“May I take your shirt off?” he asks.

“Fuck, yes.” she groans. “May I do yours?”

“Be my guest.”

In a tangle of limbs, a few buttons pop off, and eventually, two shirts make it out the other side, tossed from the bed and into the laundry pile. Aka Sherlock’s floor. He’s like that: sock indexes, yet he won’t get a hamper. A walking contrast.

His thumbs press beneath the band of her bra, savouring the pressure of the flesh that falls into his hands, but that’s as far as he gets.

“Never undone a bra before?”

He shakes his head sheepishly. “I know the theory. Just… you always wear peculiar ones.”

“I wear relatively normal bras, and this one is certainly bog standard. Had I known you’d be undressing me Mr Detective, I’d have worn something nicer.”

“Just do it for me.” He requests, chuckling.

She unfastens her bra, and allows her breasts to spill from the cups, into Sherlock’s awaiting hands. The gasp that erupts from him sends Y/N’s brain into overdrive. He’s cupped her chest through her shirt before, buried his nose into her cleavage countless times, but never before have they had such skin on skin contact. Her lips press to his neck, shifting her closer to him. Sucking on his pressure point, she receives a similar gasp in response, only this one is more guttural, more a sound of pleasure than surprise. He’s wilting from a single kiss to his neck.

“Has no one ever given you a hickey?” She husks in his ear, her voice alone sending tremors down his spine.

“N- fuck, no.”

“I’ll make it worth it. All of this.”

“I know you will.”

She fuses her lips onto his again, savouring the faint hesitations as he grapples with his breath, eager to get some control on his mind with all that’s happening. Never did she ever think Sherlock would be here beneath her, his rough fingertips brushing over her peaked buds, and his palms dancing over her waist. Never did she think she’d hear him whisper his next words, either, not in a million years.

“More.” he pleads. “Can we do… more? Whatever that entails?”

“That depends what you want to do.”

“Get me out of these damn trousers. They're rather uncomfortable.”

She snorts lightly, a piggy like sound, the one they bonded over all those years ago. “I can feel why.”

“I imagine you want out of your work trousers, too.”

“God, yes; they’re ghastly.”

“I don’t think so.” he hums. “You look nice.”

Her cheeks begin to burn, blood rushing to colour them, betraying her true feelings, but as he tweaks her nose playfully, the little snort escapes again.

They were in the dining hall, second week of university, almost ten years ago, and Y/N was sitting with her friends, downing enough coffee to sink a ship, eating her hangover away, when her friends decided to make her laugh with tales of last night's drunken events. Unbeknownst to her, one of the greatest minds of the twenty-first century was sitting just a few seats down on the half-empty bench, watching her perceptively in his periphery. That’s when he first heard the sound. The cutest thing, and it startled him into action, beginning his deductions almost instantly. Admittedly, her student ID on the table aided him a little.

He shocked her from her haze, too, as soon as he spoke her name.

“Y/N, eighteen, jurisprudence first year, freshers week over with. You left a boyfriend back home, but you’re more sad about leaving your dog, as I would be. You don’t particularly care about law but know it’s a good undergraduate to receive anyway. Dyed hair, extrovert, killer hangover, and apparently there’s a little piggy living inside your nose. Sherlock Holmes, would you like some aspirin?”

“That’s weird; what are you, some kind of detective?” She asked, sans malice, a playful bounce to her words.

“Chemistry, going for a masters. But I do like the mystery, yes.”

“So you’re… bright. Nice to meet you, Sherlock, and it seems you know almost everything you need to know about me. But yes, I will take that aspirin, if you don’t mind. How was your weekend?”

He smiled at her, the first true smile he’d given in a long time. “It was nice, thank you.”

And thus a friendship was born, all because he heard her little piggy snort.

Her slender fingers work wonders with the fastener and zip of his suit trousers, and even manage hers too, all within the space of a few seconds, but Sherlock is reluctant to let her go, even just to get her trousers off.

“I need to sit up, just for a minute.”

“No.” Sherlock commands, insistent. “We can make this work.”

“Sure we can, but it won’t be very comfortable. Come on.”

She’s barely peeled away from him and wrestled hers off before he’s drawing her back in for a kiss, his trousers settled just above his knees.

“Sherlock,” she protests, mumbling against his lips, her hands on his heavenly, broad, muscular shoulders. “Sher!”

Her squeal at his sudden tug on her panties disappears, captured by his eager mouth. And in fact, her panties seem to disappear along with it, thanks to Sherlock’s swift movements and nimble hands. Maybe he’s had some experience to be so good at this…

“You sure you wanna go this far?”

“More sure than I’ve ever been. I need you.”

He takes a deep inhale, dropping his forehead against hers, his breathing coming out in bursts as he tries to get a grasp on the situation. “Kiss me.”

She doesn’t need to be told twice, instantly getting to work on the waistband of his boxers as his tongue lavishes her own. His hips rise briefly, just long enough for her to tug the elasticated material from around him, slipping past her, and then he kicks it into their growing pile of clothes. His length falls into her awaiting palm, and-

“Wow.” She exhales in amazement. “If I’d known you were packing this much, I’d have jumped you long ago.”

“No you wouldn’t.”

“Absolutely not, until tonight I thought you’d just laugh at me.”

He pecks her lips affectionately, “Never. You’re bloody beautiful, I’ll let you do anything to me.”

“Hmm, anything, you say?”

Stifling a chuckle against her neck, he recommences, “Maybe not anything.”

Yeah, that's definitely the right call. Still, she finds herself all but clawing at him, her breath hovering teasingly just over his lips, their noses touching, her hands clamped to his cheeks, feeling the building heat there. She must be making such a mess of his bed right about now, but for one night? It can’t matter.

This is a one time thing, it has to be. Sherlock just needs to release some tension, she just so happens to be there. Still, she can’t prevent the little glimmer of hope shining through at the possibility of this being a more-than-one-time thing. The moral compunctions of their friendship after this don’t matter anymore, because he’s leaving a fire in his wake, his delicious fingertips digging bruisingly into her bum before trailing lightly up her spine, skimming her shoulder, brushing her neck - arched for him to reach where he wants, able to mark her as his own - and finally slipping over her lips, taken obediently by her awaiting mouth. Christ, if there’s one thing she hopes for tonight, it’s that his actions never relent.

Whether it’s what he intends to happen or not, his fingers in her mouth give her an idea, one she prays he goes along with at least a little, so she pulls away. The dirty, telling smile on her face hints at what she’s about to do, lending Sherlock to shift a little more up the bed, his eyes following her every move. Hands splayed on his thighs, her small fingers gripping onto the fine hairs there, she begins to take his tip into her mouth, never once breaking eye contact with him. Yeah, this is what’ll drive him insane.

Inch by inch, she takes him into the welcoming heat of her mouth, pulling off slowly, only to go down again. She adds her tongue into the mix at some point, too, and her hand, on what she can’t reach, tickling his balls, but further than that, his mind is blank. Hot white, washed with pleasure. The sounds he emits are other worldly, so much that he has to muffle himself with his own hand; what would Mrs Hudson say? He’s always had such control over his mind and body, but this… he’s slowly losing all semblance of control, and he’s not even mad about it. What he does know is that there’s a building heat in his abdomen, a coil about to spring, and his cock is beginning to twitch. If she keeps going this incredible way, her teeth grazing him ever so gently, adding another new sensation into the mix, he’s inexorably going to finish before he can help it.

“As much as I adore your torturous ministrations, I think I need to be inside you…” He husks, his voice deep.

A smirk gracing her lips, she looks up at him through half-lidded eyes, mischief glinting in her pretty little mesmerising eyes for a second, before she hollows her cheeks and takes him wholly, allowing his length to slip partially down her throat. Her moan reverberates around him, and Sherlock begins to thrash above her, scrunching the duvet in his hands, not caring if it creases. If there’s one thing Sherlock hates, it’s creases. And being called a machine by his best friend. Right now, though, it seems as though every misstep in his day has led him here, into the welcoming heat of Y/N’s mouth, taking him so eagerly, her tongue lapping at the vein on the underside of his dick, a string of saliva remaining as she pulls away.

“I think you’ve got a couple of rounds in you, Mr Detective. Can you do that for me?”

“Y-yes.” He stammers, his head tossed back in pure ecstasy a moment later as she begins to work on the head with kitten licks. “But… can I s- fuck me, say something?”

“I plan on it.” she chuckles, “anything.”

She goes back to peppering kisses all over his member, tip to base, brushing his balls, working her way back up.

“Touch yourself f- for me.”

“What? Why?”

Her tone is more inquisitive than anything else, but upon that playfully rueful look in his lust-darkened baby blue eyes, she knows he’s going to get her back for this little display, and he’s just worked out how. It works both ways, she can prepare herself for what’s to come next while pleasuring him. And he gets to watch. It’s a win-win for him. Maybe he likes this sex thing a little more than he’s letting on.

“Are you sure you want me to? I’ll just make a mess on your sheets, Sher.”

She swallows him again, bobbing her head up and down on his length a few times while he grapples with literal reality. He’s teetering on the edge. One more move, and he’s a goner. His head is already against the wall, lolled there.

“I don’t care about the sheets, darling, I need you ready for me.”

She gulps, nods, and reaches one hand around her, skimming over her stomach, until it nestles between her thighs. She rubs her thumb over his tip, collecting the pre-come beading there, while she rubs over her throbbing pearl, pressing softly. Then, as she inches down on his cock, taking him in her mouth, she also collects the slick from between her thighs, and uses it as a lube to push a finger inside herself. Of all the times she’s touched herself, she never imagined, even in her wild Sherlock fantasies, that she’d be doing it with his dick down her throat. With every bob of her head, she scissors herself more, sinking back onto her fingers.

“I think I’m-” Sherlock begins to say, his words cut off by an utterly obscene moan splitting the air.

She hastily abandons her one post, and wraps both of her hands around his girth, working on what she can’t fit into her mouth with her increased speed, licking and suckling his head as he begins to fall apart, coming, with a scream, down her throat, his one hand clamped over his mouth, biting down harshly to silence his cries; the other buried in her hair.

His whole body falls lax, completely spent, meanwhile, Y/N savours every drop she’s been able to draw from him. He softens in her mouth, allowing her change to slip away from him, grasping a tissue from the bedside to wipe away any excess. That’s certainly something she never thought would happen…

He’s calm, though, smiling lazily through hooded eyes, his breathing regulated once more, making beckoning motions to her with his big hands. He’s placated, though, and sliding her hands into his, she’s allowed time enough to get into place, smiling softly at him, raking her fingers over his scalp in a comforting way. Even as she sits herself on his lap, she can feel him hardening beneath her ass, slowly but surely. She was right about him, he’s definitely got another round in him.

“Do you have a condom?” he asks.

“No, sweetheart, they’re in my other bag. I didn’t plan on getting any for a while… do you?”

“Not in here, that I’m aware of. John may have stashed some in my less favoured dressing gowns or socks, and he definitely has some upstairs, but I’m unawares.”

“I’m gonna sound crazy here, but do we need one?” She says hesitantly. His eyes widen, he cocks his head to the side. “I was tested after my last partner, I’m clean, and on birth control. You’re a virgin. There’s no point, is there?”

“You have a considerably good point.”

With that, energy rejuvenated a little, he wraps an arm around her body, flipping them over so he’s on top, shadowing her, looming over her, gazing down at every inch of her naked beauty.

“Take your time. I’ll be your safety.”

“I know.” he whispers, a tearful smile making its way onto her face. “Thank you.”

He needn’t say more, because she already knows why she’s being thanked. For her kindness, for making him so comfortable, for accepting the fact he’s still a virgin in his late twenties and, if he’s being honest, has no damn clue what the practicality and reality of sex is. Sure, he’s seen porn. He’s also looked at John’s laptop. But that doesn’t prepare one for when the moment comes. It’s like all of that goes out the window, and he simply remembers the first time he opened a biology textbook at secondary school, pictures of flushed organs staring back at him, desperately waiting to be relieved. That’s what his own coock is like right now, already hard again, virtually pulsating with hunger in his palm. He strokes himself a couple of times, glancing down at Y/N’s wide eyes.

“Are you okay? Can I…”

“Yes, Sherlock,” she chuckles, “whenever you’re ready.”

Now, he thinks. He rubs two digits through her folds, gathering her wetness, enamoured with the way it glistens on his fingertips. Tentatively, he brings his fingers up to his mouth, swirling his tongue around them to get a taste. Eyes rolling into the back of his head, he moans. She’s better than any cup of tea he’s ever had.

His cock slaps against his lower stomach pleadingly, so he grasps it in his hand, and begins to enter her, pushing gently, feeling every flutter of her walls. Her arms fly out, hands grasping his shoulders, nails leaving crescent moons in their wake at the delicious stretch. It’s nothing like they’ve ever felt before.

“Can I move?” He asks, balls deep inside her, their pelvises flush against one another.

“Please.” She all but begs.

Before doing anything else, Sherlock hooks one strong arm around her body, malleable in his hands, and holds her chest against his. Her breasts push into his skin, her nipples gaining friction from the dusting of hair there. Her one hand cups his slender neck, the other, his sharp cheek. Their eyes meet in a fierce gaze of burning intensity, and he begins to move. Slow, calculated, sharp thrusts punctuate her core. With every heavenly stroke, he can feel the ridges in her velvet walls, squeezing around him unwittingly.

“Jesus,” she cries, her clutch increasing.

“Hmm, not quite.”

The smirk in his words is quite literally audible. He’s so cocky, so full of himself, and fuck if she can’t feel another gush of arousal coursing through her, drenching his cock. How does he manage to be so attractive when he’s so dishevelled?

“Is that good?” He asks, unsure.

“So good.”

She brings her legs up, skimming the clenched backs of his thighs, until they wrap around him, drawing his hips into her at a new and improved angle. Heels digging into the base of his spine, he begins to move with a new purpose, his thrusts more passionate as his breath is drained from him by her kisses, his eyes alight with a new flame.

“Oh my God, Sherlock.” She pants, pulling him in for a kiss he greedily returns.

He drives his hips deeper, squeezing his fingertips into her supple waist bruisingly. It’ll be a mark that she belonged to him once, even just for one night. That’s when he reaches that special spongy spot that makes her entire body buckle. She all but screams, pressing into him wholly.

The coil is building, ready to break. He seems to be nearing the edge, too, his member twitching inside her when he buries himself particularly deep. She’s oh so fucking close… She licks into his mouth filthily, desperately clashing her teeth with his, eager for his kisses to tide her over. Silence her. Shifting his supporting hand, he trails one dextrous finger around to circle her clit, adding the faintest pressure for a moment. She mewls as he groans into her hot skin, clawing at him, entirely at his whim. Now he knows where to press, he settled his grip back around her, and draws her in close. This time around, he bends his knees a little more to measure his movements more carefully, ensuring that he ruts up and brushes her sensitive bud with his pelvis, helped by the extra friction of his neatly trimmed pubic hair on every thrust within her, his tip just scraping her g-spot.

“I- Sherlock, please tell me you’re- oh sweet mercy- close.”

He grunts softly in her ear. “So close.”

Their lips meet tenderly, passionately, in what they acknowledge to be a final kiss, moans mixing between them, savoured by the other.

His thighs clench, her legs tighten around his waist, and finally, her sweet walls flutter, squeezing him as she reaches her climax, his not following long after, spilling inside her, painting her soft walls white, marking her.

“Y/N,” he cries in ecstasy as his orgasm reaches him. “Sher…” she repeats, her saving grace as pleasure washes over her entirely.

Their whole bodies wind up pressed together, bound together as one, skin on skin completely, becoming one another.

He lets her down gently, unravelling his grip, unsurprised when their sweaty skin sticks together. Her long legs unfurl, splaying in a butterfly. Sherlock tumbles ungracefully away, somehow landing with a certain gangly elegance on the space of mattress beside her, his arm instinctively flying over to place on her stomach, the skin hot and flushed red. Her chest moves hastily up and down with the thrumming of her heart, while his barely shifts despite his shallow breaths, his white skin glistening in the moonlight.

“Are you okay?” He huffs, turning on his side. “You look pretty fucked out.”

His baby blue eyes train instantly on her nipples, hard in the open air. This is the first notifier, the first inkling she has to feel self conscious, so she draws the sheet up around her as best as she can. Sherlock’s not having any of it, taking a stronghold on her arms, and pulling her until she’s lying on him, naught to separate them.

“I’ve never been this close to anyone physically and y'know.” He hums tiredly. She’s never heard him sound tired before…

She smiles up at him as best she can, “Are you glad?”

He begins to hold her ever closer, squeezing her tighter, feeling every ridge of her body.

“I’m so glad that you were my first, in so many ways.”

Praise from Sherlock is a rarity, and she’ll take it as and when she can, savouring every moment, this time by holding him like a koala, her grip not wavering.

“I’m glad too, Mr Detective.”

He brushes a kiss to her cheek, “As much as I like this, we need to get you cleaned up.”

A supporting arm beneath her bum, he picks her up, and unsteadily ambles into the bathroom.

“I don’t know much about this, but I know you should probably use the toilet, should you want to avoid a UTI, so if you’d like me to leave…”

He sets her down on the loo seat, cupping his hands over his nether regions, and he hurries to grasp for things, until she puts her hand on his arm, squeezing in a conciliatory manner.

“You do remember the camping trip, don’t you? You really don’t have to leave just because I have to pee, you never did before. In fact, you frequently annoyed me with it if you had a particular point to make, steadfastly refusing to leave the bathroom after following me in there when I went to pee. Why does this change anything?”

He shrugs, dropping whatever was in his arms, “It just doesn’t feel the same now, though.”

“Ooo, and now Mr Detective feels things.” She jokes, poking at his ribs.

He recoils, chuckling with her, “Only for you.”

As Y/N washes her hand, Sherlock begins to wrangle with a floorboard, clattering about until he eventually pulls out a small lock box, from which he withdraws a packet of brand new marks-and-spencer's ladies briefs.

“Why the fuck do you have these? Anything you wanna tell me?” she asks, eyes wide.

“John’s idea. He has plenty of girls over here who frequently stay the night, simply a precautionary error.” He takes a beat, gargling with some mouthwash, “they’re clean, new, I just don’t like the idea of you in dirty underwear, and I know how reluctant you are to go without them whenever you’re not in your own bed. I stayed with you enough nights in university to know that.”

Those nights were awfully painful. She’d take the floor, he’d take the bed, and every time she’d have to wash the sheets. He’d sweat and vomit, shake and cry, plead for the pain to be over. He wouldn’t go to hospital, he wouldn’t call his brother, he’d just turn up on her doorstep, high as a kite, almost in tears, knowing he’d gone a little too far. And each time, it was a little farther.

“Thank you, Sherlock.”

She takes them from him, and begins to shimmy them up her legs, only prevented by Sherlock moving to grab a handful of her arse.

“Hmm, I like this. Fancy another round?” He smirks.

“I’m too tired, babe. Give me a bit.”

He can see the lazy smile on her face, the tiredness in her pretty eyes, so he wets a flannel, and begins to clean her up with gentle movements between tender kisses.

“How do you know how to do all of this?” She asks, inquisitive more than anything.

“Instinct, I suppose. I never read or learned about it, seeing as I never thought it would happen.”

She snaps the waistband before moving her hands to his waist, leaning up onto her toes to reach him, kissing her softly.

“Look at you now.”

After brushing their teeth in an amicable silence, their pinky fingers overlapping on the porcelain of the sink, he aids her back to the bedroom, settling her on the bed. She has things here: deodorant, toothbrush, moisturiser, and yet somehow she doesn’t have underwear, even after all these years. Perhaps that's one too many things to explain…

With superfluous extravagance, he throws her his shirt, offering her a wry wink. She finds a blush clawing its way onto her cheeks, dumbfounded. It smells like him, just like a forest glade if it was rained on by tea and cigarettes. Maybe he’ll let her keep it as a memory.

In such a short amount of time, she’s learnt that he has a very sensitive neck. Very. A single kiss there has him biting back a moan. A low one at that, considering his deep voice also drops almost an octave when he’s aroused. His nipples are almost as sensitive as his neck, and he rather likes it when she tugs on them unwittingly.

His first orgasm comes quickly, but his refractory period is astonishing, and it takes longer to achieve a second high, long enough to make her come more than once, she assumes, though her first orgasm was mind blowing enough for two. Perhaps that’s just because it’s his first time, but it’s impressive nonetheless.

What’s the point in learning all of this if, once he comes around from his post-orgasmic haze, he’ll pretend like it never happened, in typical Sherlock style?

The shirt, though a small gesture, means a lot, and her vision begins to cloud as she looks down at the black cotton.

“You mean you want me to stay?” She croaks.

Sherlock turns to her from his set of drawers, his face full of apparent obviousness, brows furrowed in that cute bewildered way.

“Of course I want you to stay.” He states, like it’s the plainest thing in the world, like it’s stupid for her to even ask. But she’s silent, and when she says nothing in response, he launches into a long winded explanation: don’t show sentiment. “I- I just mean, i-it’s midnight, I’m not having you out in London alone. You stay with me. Only if you want to as well...”

She nods eagerly, “Yes. Yeah, course I want to stay.”

He all but leaps access the room, jumping onto the bed, before planting a proper smooch on her lips, grinning down at her. He slips into his usual side of the bed, and she takes hers, rolling to look at him.

“Don’t get cold.” He warns, tucking the duvet up around her shoulders. She giggles like a child, that small snort sounding again, prompting Sherlock to press his thumb to her nose like a button. “How are you… feeling?”

“I’m fine bub, really. That bloke doesn’t matter to me at all. Bit of a scumbag if I’m honest. You’re the one I’m with, the one I wanna talk about. How are you feeling? Must’ve been a pretty big blow up with John for you to call me and be so... teary.”

He sighs, crestfallen, “He called me a machine.”

Her gasp pierces the air, her hand flying to his hair, stroking in consolation, cooing senseless reassurances to him. She’s done this innumerable times, but now it feels different, like there’s no barrier.

“He’s done it so many times that it needn’t bother me anymore, but the way he looked at me, like I was this abhorrent monster, especially after the day and the disappointing case we had, it got to me. I hate having feelings.”

“You don’t have to hide them with me, though.”

He hums gently, burying into her chest. “I know. That’s why I treasure you so dearly.”

“That means you also have to trust me, and you’re not going to like what I have to say.” His chest heaves, shifting her whole body. That’s his way of giving in. “Please just talk to John. You know that whenever he leaves, he’ll come back, and try to pretend it never happened. He needs to know you’re human and that he upset you, but also that the case upset you as well. No one’s superhuman, and once you let John in on the fact that you’re not a machine, things between you will be so much easier, because you might agree for once.”

“I suppose you’re right.” He grumbles.

He pulls her into his warmth, hooking her leg around his as he snakes his arms around her back, breathing deeply from the crook of her shoulder. She begins to pepper kisses on his salty skin, savouring the taste with every small swipe of her tongue.

“Your heart’s against my chest, your lips pressed to my neck,” he breaks off with a faint whimper when she sucks a little harder, “I’m falling for your eyes, but they don’t know me yet.”

“Of course they do,” she whispers brokenly, hoarsely, “they’ve always known you.” She swallows thickly, “Does that mean it’s a feeling you’ll forget?”

“No, I don’t think I ever can.”

The silent words that pass between them both are so special, too special to be spoken aloud. ‘Think I’m in love now.’

“Kiss me like you wanna be loved.” He begs.

And really, who is Y/N to deny him? They just stay that way a little while, revelling in their lazy kisses, until she begins to fall asleep. It isn’t the first time she’s fallen asleep in his bed, not by any means, but it’s the first time she’s fallen asleep in his arms. She isn’t mad about it.

“Settle down with me, cover me up, cuddle me in. You were made to keep my body warm.” She smiles into her words, and embeds herself into him, entirely covered by the duvet, spattered in his kisses, safe in his arms. Sherlock feels safe with her legs around him, her fingers in his curls, holding himself against her. Amicable silence is how they drift off, Peaceful.

John re-enters 221B at a respectable hour. He got a fair amount of sleep on Greg’s sofa, having no girlfriend in the picture right now, but not enough to deal with Sherlock just yet. Not before his coffee. He expects to see Sherlock sitting in the exact same spot as when he left, perhaps just with a refill of tea, his fingers still steepled beneath his chin, eyes closed yet wide awake. Instead, he arrives at a seemingly empty, considerably clean flat, with no Sherlock in sight. Perhaps the unsleeping man must actually be asleep, he thinks, so he quietens down, and toes off his shoes before wandering farther into the flat. Even if the man does piss him off extraordinary amounts, perhaps he should just check he’s okay…

He gives the bedroom door a quiet rap, listening in momentarily before pushing it open. Frankly, he’d rather have found Sherlock with a cigarette in hand and the whole flat torn to shreds for the level of surprise he gets upon reaching the bed. His first idea is to scream bloody murder, but that might annoy Mrs Hudson, and upon stepping closer, even in the sliver of daylight through the curtains, he sees the duvet riding down a little. The last thing in the world he ever thought he’d see: Sherlock in naught but boxers pressed against a half naked woman, his palm splayed on her bare thigh. Sherlock? Spooning? It seems so, his entire body pressed to this woman. John feels himself go rigid, his feet glued to the floor, his gaze unmoving from shock.

It takes his phone to buzz in his pocket to get him moving, and when he does, all he tries to do is balance precariously on his tip toes in a wry attempt to get a birds-eye view of the whole thing. He’s not disappointed, or disturbed, once he does, though, his army agility proving useful. Sherlock’s hand is holding her, fingers entwined, just next to her chest. He wonders how comfortable it is, but if they’re staying this way, it can’t be too bad. Maybe all Sherlock needed to loosen up was a good shag.

She’s wearing his shirt, too; Sherlock’s black dress shirt from the previous day. And Sherlock? He never seeps in anything less than a full set of pyjamas, he’s weird like that .

This girl begins to stir, her lips parting gently, small hums escaping. Next, her eyelids flutter, and her hair shifts on the pillow. He didn’t make any noise, did he? John was specifically careful not to, just in case. He doesn’t fancy Sherlock’s wrath just yet.

One eye opens, and she whispers, almost incoherently, “Hi John.”

How she knows his name and who he is, he’s not at all sure, because he doesn’t think he’s ever seen this face in his life. The hair is familiar, and maybe, if she were more awake, he’d recognise her smile, but he’s never seen a woman in Sherlock’s company beside Molly Hooper. Speaking of…

Before he can even say anything, though, before he can ask who she is or if she wants tea or if she date-raped his roommate, she’s mumbling, and detaching her hand from Sherlock’s, rolling over. Dumbfounded, John just stands there and watches her cuddle into Sherlock’s chest, her arms wrapping around his torso like second nature. Even in his sleep, not consciously thinking about his actions, he grips her back - one hand resting just above her bum, and buries his nose into her neck.

John can’t help but smile to himself. Maybe their fight was for the best if Sherlock now has a girlfriend, someone he turned to for solace. So, he grasps for the top of the duvet and pulls it up over both of their figures, reaching their shoulders, and leaves, staring wistfully for a brief moment at the seemingly happy couple.

The weight of the duvet of what startles Sherlock, though, stirring him a little, inviting him to him against Y/N’s skin, smiling with eyes barely open. This is really nice, he thinks to himself, not waking up alone.

She smiles back blearily, and in her morning voice, whispers to him, “Kiss me Mr Detective.”

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justiceraffles · 4 years

Text

About the Gosho Boys and literary crime fiction

This is a lengthy text wall in which I ramble about detectives. It started out with me thinking about the Gosho boys and their relationship with classic mystery fiction and literary/fictional detectives and it ended up derailing into a Hakuba rabbit hole in which I overanalyse details pointlessly for hours because I guess that is simply how most of my free time is spent.

(Fair warning that this is probably ridden with mistakes because I am capable of only 1.3 thoughts at a time)

So, when it comes to Shinichi, Heiji and Kaito, they all have a literary character from classic detective fiction that they’re closely associated with. Namely, it’s Sherlock Holmes for Shinichi, Ellery Queen for Heiji, and Arsène Lupin for Kaito. The relationship they hold with each of these figures (and with crime fiction in general) is very different, but it’s quite telling of their personality, character, their relationship with literature, and their respective approach to their profession. I talk about each of them a little bit and then just spend half the time talking about Hakuba.

Shinichi is born in a household where mystery fiction is extremely important. He is surrounded by this type of story and his parents nurture this interest actively. Detectives and mysteries permeate his life wholly. For Shinichi, Holmes is seen as the maximum exponent of a genre. Holmes is The Great Detective. The archetype, the one that defines what it means to be a detective and the one later writers will seek to emulate one way or another. Detective fiction is what it is today because of Holmes, so it makes complete sense for Shinichi to have him as his idol. Holmes is what he strives to be and it’s what people associate him with.

Heiji is a lot more subtle than Shinichi is, but he is also very much a lit nerd. Ellery Queen is both a character and a pseudonym for the writers that created him. As a character, Ellery Queen is such a perfect choice for Heiji’s favourite detective. He’s a mystery writer who doubles as a sleuth and helps his father, a police inspector, in solving crimes. Wonder if that sounds familiar, huh. Aside from similarities in the character (I could go on about some passages that have such strong Heiji vibes I’d be here forever) the Queen novels challenge the reader very directly. They tell you to pay attention, that you are presented with the exact same clues as the detective and should therefore be able to solve the mystery as well. The mystery story is a competition and the author issues a challenge by presenting it to the reader. I love this because Heiji has a huge competitive streak, and this is highlighted from his introduction. To find that the stories he’s passionate about also encourage this side of him is just so fitting and appropriate.

The case where Shinichi and Heiji meet always makes me think of the contrast between reading a Holmes novel and a Queen story. Personally, I feel like the enjoyment of a Holmes story often relies on letting yourself be awed by the deduction. You can follow along with the mystery but a big part of the charm is based on the detective himself and the way he explains the thought process that leads him to his conclusion. You’re meant to sit down and enjoy as Holmes explains himself, and admire his brilliance. There’s a focus on the truth and the way to reach it, which is very, very Shinichi. A Queen novel, on the other hand, invites you to play along as you read. You are on equal standing with the detective, and it’s up to you to reach the same conclusion he does. These are the principles of “fair-play” in mystery fiction. As it implies, it is very much a game! So Heiji challenging Shinichi to a battle of wits and deductions goes perfectly in line with what he’s reading. Holmes is the genius detective you look up to with admiration, Queen is a sleuth that invites you to solve the crime alongside him. These suit the vibes that Shinichi and Heiji give off themselves very well.

Kaito is much, much different for obvious reasons. He’s not a detective, and he’s not nearly as much of a mystery geek as the others are. The entire KID persona is closely associated with Arséne Lupin because Toichi fashions it accordingly. Even if phantom thieves aren’t quite the same as Leblanc’s original idea for the Gentleman Burglar, they still have a clear origin in Lupin and there’s important similarities to be made between them. Storytelling-wise, KID heists work on the same principles as Lupin stories. You know the criminal is there, hidden amongst the cast presented to you, and you know he will carry out the crime. And, regardless of whether you have an inkling of an idea of how he’s going to pull it off or not, you still allow yourself to be amazed by his methods regardless when the trick is revealed! Even when the schemes are outlandish and border on the fantastical and unbelievable, the stories are best enjoyed when you suspend your disbelief and allow the plots and characters to be over the top. But well, the connection between Lupin and KID is fairly self-explanatory. So, rather than KID, I think it’s more interesting to think about the relationship between Lupin and Kaito himself.

Kaito doesn’t seek to be seen as a modern day-Lupin in the same way Shinichi wants to be a modern day-Holmes. Unlike Shinichi who becomes a detective in great part because he has Holmes as his idol, Kaito doesn’t become a thief because of his admiration towards a literary character, but because of his love and admiration towards his father. Kaito dons the KID suit with pride because it’s something his father left behind, and he embraces each part of it because it can lead to answers and understanding. But, always cryptic, Lupin doesn’t provide a whole lot of answers and understanding, and neither does Toichi. Lupin admits that he struggles to recognise himself under all the disguises and roles he has played. The truth behind his father’s character seems to become more elusive the more Kaito becomes involved with thievery. The “gentleman thief” persona, despite being charming and theatrical, has consequences on a personal life.

...And then there’s Hakuba.

Hakuba is complicated.

But, Raffles! You say, Saguru is another Sherlock geek!

Well, yes. Of course he is. The deerstalker outfit and him naming his hawk Watson make that clear. Hakuba is an absolute Holmes nerd.

I’m here to read too deeply into it when it’s most definitely not that deep at all. But, there’s never enough information about Hakuba and I have a blast overthinking stuff. So that’s what we’re gonna do!

Despite obviously being a big fan, Hakuba’s relationship with Holmes is different from that of Shinichi’s.

First, we don’t get to see Hakuba nerding out about Holmes novels and stories in the same way Shinichi does. He doesn’t quote Holmes at length or go on about how much he loves the books. Instead, we know Hakuba’s a nerd because he’s apparently passionate enough about this character to include things associated with him into his own personal image and identity.

Second, there’s the way others perceive him. Shinichi and Kaito (as KID) get “Heisei Holmes” and “Reiwa Lupin”. Despite irking a couple officers every now and again, Heiji is held in high regard and considered a great detective by the police force. Hakuba has a considerable amount of fame, but he doesn’t receive the same amount of trust people place on Shinichi and Heiji. It’s easy to forget because Hakuba acts with a lot of confidence and familiarity around crime scenes, but several of his appearances highlight the way his presence is tolerated at heists because of his father’s influence and is generally seen as an outsider. The police take orders from Shinichi and look up to him for advice— it’s not quite the same with Hakuba. More often than not, Nakamori treats Hakuba like a visitor or observer than a consulting detective. All of this rambling to say that even though he presents himself that way, Hakuba isn’t (or, at least, isn’t seen as) the Holmes he admires.

So, if not Holmes, is there anyone that suits Hakuba better?

I’d say yes and no.

As far as I can recall, the series never makes any explicit comparisons or references to other detectives when Hakuba is concerned. That said, much like you’d associate the deerstalker and Watson to Holmes, Hakuba has some other quirks and behaviours reminiscent of other detectives. Now, I’m not here to say that Hakuba was made deliberately as a compilation of references to literary detectives. These similarities are admittedly mostly coincidences. That said, deliberate or not, I think an argument can still be made that the connections exist! And well, considering the lack of concrete information about Saguru, thinking about them is fun. So this is what I think:

One of Hakuba’s most prominent quirks is his fixation with time and exactitude. His pocket watch is a memorable prop and being precise about minutes and seconds is an important part of his character. You can find very similar behaviour in Agatha Christie’s Hercule Poirot, who also carries a pocket watch around and is extremely particular about punctuality and numbers. Another thing interesting about Poirot is that he’s most interested in the psychology behind a crime, in understanding the mindset of the killer. Poirot mysteries have each of the suspects explaining their own version of events, because the detective wants to understand everyone’s version of perceiving the truth. In other words, Poirot mysteries have a focus on the whydunnit.

You can probably tell that now I’m going to gesture wildly at Hakuba’s “Why did you do it”

Speaking of Hakuba’s signature question, it’s probably also worth mentioning the Father Brown stories by G.K Chesterton. The sleuth is a catholic priest, and after his deduction and identifying the culprit, the stories usually end with the priest spending time with the criminal. Before an arrest is made, Father Brown has a private meeting with the killer (or thief). It’s implied that this is carried out as a personal confession of sins, and expresses a need to seek out an understanding of the motive as perceived by the criminal themselves.

I say this because the catchphrase does come off as a little strange. It’s curious that Hakuba asks why when we usually expect the detective to be able to sort it out by himself. But, it’s really not that strange to find equivalents to it in stories that focus on the psychological part of the crime and empathy towards them.

(Also worth mentioning that both Christie and Chesterton were presidents of the Detection Club, a group of writers during the golden age of detective fiction that based their stories around the concept of “fair-play” that I mentioned earlier when I was talking about Heiji.

Back on track: Hakuba and Poirot share key similarities.

HOWEVER! There are also differences between them. I’m referring to the fact that Poirot puts the most emphasis on this psychological level of a crime. Poirot says “I am not one to rely upon the expert procedure. It is the psychology I seek, not the fingerprint or the cigarette ash” On the other hand, I’d argue that out of all of the Gosho boys, Hakuba is the most fastidious about procedure. He has some level of knowledge of forensic investigation and places importance upon it.

Sherlock’s methods do draw inspiration from precursors of forensic science, so you could trace it back to that. You could also go to R. Austin Freeman’s Dr. John Thorndyke, who is inspired by Holmes, but places a heavier focus on the scientific method behind deductions. Thorndyke is probably the one to properly kickstart the forensic/medical sleuth subgenre that grows later with the improvement and development of DNA evidence and technology. We have Hakuba being observant enough to find one of KID’s hairs, and then use Hakuba labs to narrow his identity down. It doesn’t resemble Poirot’s methods, it also isn’t quite Sherlockian, but it does resemble other classic british sleuths!

OKAY, COOL. WHERE ARE YOU GOING WITH THIS RAFFLES.

I’M NOT REALLY SURE! I NEVER KNOW WHAT I’M DOING! I JUST WANTED TO TALK ABOUT HAKUBA AND DETECTIVE STORIES.

Alright. This is more of a personal interpretation/headcanon than anything else, but unlike the other three Gosho boys, who have one clear inspiration/basis/model, I like the idea of Hakuba reading a vast array of detective novels and picking up the little habits, methods, that he finds interesting or comforting. The deerstalker, the name for his hawk, his pocketwatch, his signature question, his methods, his knack for competition, all of them handpicked from the things that he enjoys most about detectives.

It’s also worth mentioning that all of the authors for these stories I’m associating with Hakuba are British. The thought of him being passionate about English authors as a way to understand his English side of the family is a headcanon I quite enjoy. And, technically, the same could apply to his Japanese side as well. I can imagine young Saguru reading Rampo’s Kogoro Akechi stories and also wanting a rival like the Fiend of Twenty Faces and jumping at the chance of chasing KID because how much he resembles the character. Or appreciating Akako’s cryptic clues because Rampo’s fiction also has supernatural edge to it.

I don’t know. I just like the idea of Saguru learning about the world, his family, and himself through literature? This is pure, unapologetic self-indulgence on my part, I have to admit.

Though, if I HAD to assign one specific detective to Saguru, I think it would probably be Poe’s C. Auguste Dupin. Poe’s stories with the character as seen as the start of detective fiction, and Dupin serves as the prototype for detectives to come — even Holmes, even if he doesn’t get nearly as much recognition as Conan Doyle’s detective today. Despite the fact that Hakuba is the original teenage detective in the series, and he’s also often forgotten and neglected by both Gosho and a big portion of the fandom. Even so, he paved the way for Shinichi and Heiji, and is very important regardless.

Anyway! I don’t know why I wrote this and I am now very embarrassed but thanks for reading all the way!

#In which Raffles rambles #I am a very boring person and this is what I do for fun #Do you think my professors would accept Hakuba as a valid topic for a research thesis?#I am very bad at this #this is embarrassing #dcmk #gosho boys #hakuba saguru #saguru hakuba #shinichi kudo #hattori heiji #conan edogawa #Kuroba Kaito #kaitou kid #detective conan #magic kaito #detective fiction

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enviedear · 4 years

Text

secrets that i keep → peter parker

part two to this fic.

DESCRIPTION ⌙ it’s almost peter’s birthday and you’re searching for the perfect gift.. and the perfect way to exact you new mission. but peter’s curiosity and your habit of loosing things might make this mission a fail.

PAIRING ⌙ peter parker x fem!reader

WORD COUNT ⌙ 1.6k

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

“he’s impossible mj!” you groan, placing the toy lightsaber back on its shelf. “i mean good god, i went so far as to call him.. babe, last night. and he still hasn’t picked up that i like him.”

she shrugs, looking around the lego store, “i don’t know dude. it’s peter, you’re going to have to be a little more straightforward.”

“i can’t.” you huff.

“then stop complaining. if you won’t do anything about it then it’s your own issue. and please, make it an internal one. i don’t want to hear about your thirst for my ex.” she smirks.

you roll your eyes. of course, she was right. subtlety was not going to land you the boy. you really didn’t know how to land peter. no amount of shy flirting was going to show him you liked him. so here you are, in one of the busiest shopping areas in midtown searching to find him the perfect gift for his birthday.

your idea was that if you gave him something both special and romantic, he’d have to see you were enamoured by him. hopefully.

but if he still couldn’t figure it out then you’ve already prepared a sappy love letter for him. you were just really wishing it wouldn’t have to come to the letter. no amount of breathing exercises would be able to calm your nerves if it came to that.

just the thought of him reading all of those three am romantic thoughts you possessed.. unnerved you.

you found it much more enjoyable for the thing to stay in your back pocket. away from the world.

“well y/n, shopping’s been cut short. ned just texted me saying that he and peter are ready for movie night.”

you sigh, “text ned that we need at least another hour. i don’t want to leave until i find the perfect gift. i dunno make something convincing up like… we got caught in traffic?”

mj gives you a deadpan look, “y/n we walked here.”

“okay and then we took an uber home.. easy fix.” you say, craning to look at items on the top of the shelf.

“okay well you can stay here and search while i take my happy ass to peter’s. i’m not eating cold takeout.” she smiles sarcastically.

you bow your head, “i’ll stop for the day. but only because i don’t want to walk there alone. our search begins again tomorrow.”

she nods, happy to be the victor of your little disagreement.

the walk to peter’s apartment is nice. you and mj talk about the adventures you both want to take for the remainder of summer break. the air is warm and the sun shines brightly as though it’s making up for its absence in winter. you’re feeling really peaceful and at ease.

that is, until you walk into peter’s apartment.

“hey mj! hey y/n!.” the boy smiles as he opens the door.

he’s completely shirtless, sweatpants hanging low on his hips, and hair wet. you almost forget to greet him as you stare at him.

“put on a damn shirt parker.” mj grumbles, pushing past him and into the living room. leaving the two of you alone.

“uh, i- well, i’m just gonna follow mj, but nice pectorals peter. glad i was able to see them at,” you look down at your phone. “four pm.. this fine afternoon.”

he gives you a weird look but keeps his smile on his face, “pectorals?”

you wave your hand dismissively at him and rush to meet your two other friends.

nice pectorals? why the fuck would you say that? anything would have been better than that.. it wasn’t even funny.

you take a seat on the couch and turn to ned on the armchair, “what have you been getting into?”

he grins, “well, i just finished all my summer work, so now i’m going to start on the TIE fighter lego set. my mom bought it all the way back in december and i finally have time for it so.. might as well.”

mj looks up at the two of you from her spot on the floor, “the real question here is, who’s turn is it to pick a movie?”

you furrow your brows in thought. last time was mj, who picked sweeney todd. before her was peter, who picked back to the future. and before him was ned, who made you sit through the notebook. and by sit through you mean absolutely ball your eyes out.

“y/n’s picking the movie tonight.” peter says, sitting down beside you.

“what’s it gonna be then, asswipe?’ mj asks, clicking the tv on.

you think for a moment. you could go the easy route and pick something scary so that you had an excuse to snuggle up to peter. but he’s a jumper and you’d rather not deal with trying to subtly cuddle someone while they hop around due to a movie. so instead, you go for something classic.

“you guys ever heard of big fish?” you smile.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

“i didn’t expect it to be that.. emotional.” ned sniffs, eyes stuck on the credits.

you laugh through your drying tears, “right? but hey at least it was a good movie.”

peter chuckles, head on your shoulder, “good pick y/n. i mean, ned and i liked it. mj’s been out since the ten minute mark.”

you lay you head gingerly on his, “i don’t mind, i did kind of wear her out with all the walking today.”

you look at mj, who’s sleeping peacefully. her head is on one of may’s throw pillows and her legs are up, resting on the armchair along with ned.

“it’s not fair i’m going to have to wake the beast and get her all the way to my house..” you grumble.

ned laughs, “i’d say i was sorry for you, but i’m just glad it’s not me. anyways, i’m taking a shower. and peter,” he looks at his friend. “you better not have used up all of my conditioner. i left it here. i did not give it to you.”

peter gives him a look, “i didn’t use it, i promise.”

with that, ned rushes off to the bathroom. it’s then you become acutely aware of the pretty boy leaned against you. it causes you to feel light. the works. butterflies and heated face.

“wanna split the last two fortune cookies?” you ask, trying to hide your hot face from him.

“sure, they’re still in the takeout bag in the kitchen. you can grab a drink too if you’re thirsty.” he smiles, moving to let you up.

you make your way into the kitchen and find the left over cookies. without thinking you slip them into your back pocket. you open the fridge only to gasp in abrupt realization.

the note.

you take the cookies back out and feel. no note.

oh dear god. somewhere out there is your disgusting display of affection.

it could be anywhere.

you groan. where was the last place you had it?

was it the lego store?

it had to be, before you went in you checked your pocket and it was there. and so what if you dropped it there, if anything the employees just threw it away, and maybe that’s for the better. you’d probably die if peter ever actually read anything you wrote. you let out a sigh of relief.

everything’s gonna be fine, y/n.

you walk back into the living room, peter’s hunched over looking at something you can’t see.

“i’m back with cookies!” you exclaim, startling him.

he gives you a shaky smile and takes one out of your hand, “ya know y/n.. if there’s anything you want to tell me, i’m all ears.”

you furrow your brows, “um, well i guess i should tell you that fortune cookies have only about 15,000 unique fortunes. it’s not a lot if you take into account how many are produced daily.”

he nods and you break open your cookie, “well, go on. what’s a fortune cookie without sharing the fortune with your friend.” you giggle.

you look down at the tiny slip of paper and pull it from the cookie, turning it over to inspect it.

‘nothing is impossible to a willing heart.’

you smile and look at peter, who’s staring at his fortune as if it could crumble in his hands at any minute.

“what does yours say, peter?” you inquire, scooting closer to read it.

on the paper, in blue lettering, ‘this person’s love is just and true. you may rely on it.’

peter looks at you, brown eyes as soft as a puppies. his hair is a little messy but so perfect.

“i read your letter. it.. it was on the couch and..” he trails off.

you suck in air, “oh.”

“y/n.. i,” he falters, and sighs, “fuck it.”

once those words are off his lips, those lips connect to yours. sweet and soft. his hands clutch your face bringing you closer, as close as possible. you feel as though you come to life in his arms. the kiss continues and when he finally pulls away you can’t knock the smile on your face off.

“i like you too.” he says simply, smile matching yours.

you’re about to speak when you hear a gag.

mj.

“this couldn’t have happened in a different room? i mean, to wake up and see two ninnies eating each others’ faces. utterly revolting.”

“i thought it was sweet,” ned says from the hallway. “my airpods were still playing ‘best part’ and it really added to the moment. well at least for me.”

peter groans, “so you were both watching me.. kiss her? that’s so weird.”

mj scoffs, “i was forced. ned’s just a sap.”

your smile doesn’t leave your face as you watch the people you love most. sure mj was a little dark, ned was a tad sappy, and sure, peter was a dork. but they were your people.

and most importantly, peter was your person.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

tags:

@slytherinambitious @watson-emma @urbanwirter

#—myfics !#peter parker x reader #peter parker x y/n #peter parker x you #spiderman x reader #spiderman x y/n #spiderman x you #mcu fanfiction #mcu #marvel fanfiction #peter parker fanfiction #spiderman fanfiction #spiderman far from home #x reader #peter parker

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musicnoots · 4 years

Text

Are You Afraid of the Dark?

Carwood Lipton/Reader

Prompt “Did you hear that?” and “Stay here and don’t move. I’ll be right back.” requested by anon

Synopsis: He cares about more than you can ever imagine.

Tags: @not-john-watsons-blog @dumpofdumblings @majwinters @junojelli @curraheev @medievalfangirl @bandofmarvels @those-dusty-jump-wings @alienoresimagines @gottapenny @dustyjjumpwings @higgles123 @wexhappyxfew @inglourious-imagines @david-weepster

GIF Source

Curled up in a random foxhole you found while making your rounds with Eugene scrounging for supplies, you long for the moment you’re able to actually shut your eyes and drift off into slumber. You can’t recall the last time you’d actually slept through the night without running off to the call of a medic, no longer belonging to a foxhole and instead wandering from foxhole to foxhole making sure your boys were okay.

You’ll admit that things have been hard since the roads were cut and the airborne were surrounded in the Bois Jacques dead smack in the middle of winter—firefights and mortar attacks galore, not to mention that you’d run out of supplies faster than anyone would have ever thought. Your nights were spent waiting for the calls for a medic, days running in between companies seeking for medical supplies, dark rings donned the area under your eyes and you were beginning to look far from healthy as the temperature dropped below zero and the calls started to become more frequent.

“Doc.”

Your head snapped towards the direction of the voice, watching the figure approach you out of the dark.

“First Sergeant Lipton,” you greeted. You scooted to your right to make space for him, patting the dirt for him to sit.

“Last time I was here, I didn’t know I had a certain medic assigned to my foxhole,” he climbed in and settled right next to you, drawing his knees up to his chest. The moment you opened your mouth, he decided to save your apologies and wasted words for something that was worth your time. You already looked terrible to begin with, and the word spread that you weren’t sleeping in the weeks you’d been stranded in the woods. “Don’t apologize, Doc. I know.”

“Yeah.”

The night before, you had been holed up in a foxhole with Bill and Buck, wedged into the small space between them. Your lieutenant had tried to coerce you into sleeping, but the night ended with both of them being knocked out cold—Buck drooling on your shoulder and Bill fast asleep snuggled into your side until the call of a medic sent you running.

Of all the foxholes you’d taken residence in, you’d always find yourself being taken care of by the men who relied on you to make it home.

“You don’t have a blanket,” you lift your head to look up at him. He’s concerned for you, you can tell from the way his forehead creases and his lips drop into a frown.

“I know,” you said. “I gave mine to Toye. Trench foot.”

He gave a nod in understanding. “When’s the last time you’ve slept?”

You shrug. The last time you shut your eyes was in a foxhole with Chuck, who promised to get you a syrette of morphine if you slept for a good two hours. You’re still waiting on it. “I feel fine, Car.”

“I feel fine…” he muttered under his breath. “You’re good at hiding your exhaustion, Y/N. You do a lot for us. You, Eugene, and Spina. I can’t tell you how grateful we all are to have all three of you.”

You smiled in response to him. It’s not often your brothers showed gratitude, especially during these trying times. “We’ve been managing. Running low on supplies, and it’s been really tough for us.”

“Is that why I’ve been seeing you and Eugene taking turns running back and forth?” You nodded. “Thought you little boogers were playing tag. Tag, in the middle of a war! Who woulda thought?”

You smiled. “We’ve been looking for morphine and scissors...say, Lip, you don’t happen to have any? Got any syrettes? Sharp scissors?”

He laughed. “No, I don’t have any on me. Nice for trying, though.” There was a reason he wished you’d stop overworking yourself. Under all that tough skin, there was a real person who had made his Toccoa experience less miserable. Someone he’d confide in during his most stressful days, and someone who would share K rations with him on a regular basis—needless to say, Carwood missed when you weren’t working yourself to overexertion. In a way, you had become the person he was closest to in a world where nothing is fair.

“I want you to get some sleep tonight,” he said, all jokes aside. “Is there something bothering you that you can’t sleep?”

He hates seeing you so tired when you should be sleeping peacefully with the other medics. The last time he saw you well rested was back in Nuenen when you were playing with the stray kitties together.

You turned away from him, crossing your arms across your chest. “It’s nothing really.”

“Are you afraid of the dark?”

“What?” Afraid of the dark? That’s silly. “No, that’s...that’s stupid. I’ve been working in the dark for months now.”

“Then you should sleep, Y/N. Look, I know I’m not your mother, but you look dead on your feet and we can’t risk—“

“Did you hear that?”

You gripped onto your bag for dear life, eyes inspecting your surroundings for anything suspicious. The sound of bushes being brushed against had startled you shitless, and if you being severely sleep deprived was bad enough, something or someone potentially hiding out there was making matters worse and Carwood knew it.

He had his eyes looking frantically at the darkness around you, his hand instinctively grabbing your arm and pulling you towards him. “Hear what?”

“Sounded like someone walking through the bushes or something. It came from...over there,” you pointed to your right, and you were sure that it came from there.

Now, Carwood knows that there wasn’t a single thing rumbling against the bushes. If anything, it was probably one of those rodents searching for whatever food they could get their hands on, but you were adamant that there had been something to spook you. “Stay here and don’t move,” he climbed out of the foxhole. “I’ll be right back.”

You nod and watch as he disappears into the dark, out of sight from the comfort of a hole dug into the Earth.

In reality, he does step out to have a quick look. The last he wants is you getting hurt because he didn’t believe you. After five seconds, he comes back without anything too concerning. “There’s nothing out there,” he says, wrapping an arm around you to rub your shoulder in reassurance. “And even if there was, I'd go to hell to fight it off for you.”

You nod, grateful. “Thank you, Car.”

He mutters a quiet Yeah before letting you curl up against his side. Your head is on his shoulder, and he takes into account the blue-ish tint of your lips amidst the unhealthy color your skin had turned after days of constantly working. You needed to sleep.

“Get some rest, Y/N.”

“But—“

“I’ll wake you up in an hour. I promise,” you nod, feeling safer than you had ever felt in the months you’d been stuck in Europe.

You end up having the first real sleep since arriving at the Bois Jacques, and you deserve it. He doesn’t wake you up in an hour like he had promised earlier and instead he lets you sleep for the entire night, falling asleep right next to you knowing that he had done his best to look out for you.

#band of brothers #band of brothers fanfiction #band of brothers fanfic #band of brothers imagine #band of brothers imagines #hbo war #easy company #carwood lipton #carwood lipton x reader

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klaineharmony · 6 years

Text

Why We Ship : Harry/Hermione (Harry Potter)

Since I have declared myself a Fandom Old, can I just say for the record that the proper name for this ship is Harmony. Or, if you happen to ship Harry/Hermione/Luna, it’s Lunar Harmony. Yes, I’ve been around that long. :)

Seriously, though, I have no desire to get into the Endless Fandom War that is Harry and Hermione vs. Ron and Hermione, so I will say from the start that I really love Ron. He’s an amazing character. He’s smart and funny and loyal, and a good strategic thinker, and a wonderful friend. I just don’t think that he and Hermione happen to suit each other, and I’ll talk about that a little more as we go.

So why Harry and Hermione? What sticks about these two?

For me, it’s the ways that they do complement each other, I think. For example: Harry tends to leap before he looks. He’s got very good instincts, both about people and situations, but he doesn’t usually pause to think things through, and it can cost him dearly (see: what happens at the Department of Mysteries). Hermione, on the other hand, is a planner - she thinks everything through, possibilities and plans and back-up plans, and she often sees potential problems that Harry misses. Hermione is the one trying to convince him in OotP that the Department of Mysteries is a trap, that Sirius is fine, that Voldemort has figured out his link to Harry. In Half-Blood Prince, when they disagree about Draco, Hermione actually has good reasons for questioning Harry’s perceptions of what’s going on. She turns out to be wrong, in that case, but her logic is sound.

Hermione’s logic and Harry’s instincts also make for a great combination in terms of teamwork. They work well together, even in dangerous situations like the one in Godric’s Hollow in Deathly Hallows. When they go back in time to save Sirius and Buckbeak in PoA, they manage to avoid a million potential pitfalls by working together. And Harry, even when he disagrees profoundly with Hermione, will still usually listen to her and consider her point of view (not always - he does get terribly angry with her over the Firebolt, for example - but usually). I also like to think that Hermione brings out the logic in Harry, letting him step away from his emotions and instincts, and Harry brings out the emotion in Hermione, letting her feel things instead of always relying on her brain.

I think this ship is also, to a certain extent, really about what I love in a ship. I am a sucker for the friends-to-lovers trope, and it works so well here. These two go through a lot, and they see each other at their absolute worst, and they still stick together. And to a certain point, that’s not romantic - it’s about tenacity and grit and loyalty and sheer stubbornness, sometimes, that determination to stick by a person - but if it does become romantic, it can make for an incredibly solid relationship foundation.

But KH, I hear you say, couldn’t that also work with Ron and Hermione?

At the risk of making a lot of people frustrated - and really, that’s not my intention; this is just my opinion - I tend to think not. I think Ron and Hermione make great friends, and I think they work well together when they’re on good terms. But when they get angry with each other, they make it personal and hurtful and really painful, and that’s a type of emotional damage that sometimes never goes away. And to a certain extent this is a two-way street - I think both Ron and Hermione say things to each other that are much more along the lines of “I hate [this] about you and I can’t stand being around you.” They don’t say it that way, but that’s the implication, and it’s vicious, and it feels like a huge red flag.

When Hermione and Harry argue or fight about things, they’re not usually arguing because something about the other person makes them furious. Hermione is usually concerned for Harry’s safety. Witness in Prisoner of Azkaban, when she tells McGonagall about the Firebolt - she’s absolutely right that it could have been cursed or tampered with, that someone would try to hurt Harry with it. The same thing applies with the Prince’s book - she’s worried about the person who wrote it and his motives, and annoyed with Harry because he doesn’t see the danger in it.

In other words, when Harry and Hermione get angry with each other, it’s more about “I really disagree with how you’re handling this/I’m worried for you/scared for you and I think you’re being stupid, and that makes me angry.” It’s not about personal traits in each other that they don’t like. That’s maybe not an easy distinction to see, but it’s one that feels absolutely real to me in regard to this particular ship. That’s a long way from hating something about the person, and being deliberately cruel about it when you get angry.

(Side note: I think JKR has a bit of a thing for the idea that antagonistic relationships make good romances, and she’s hardly alone. We see it not only in Ron and Hermione, but in Snape and Lily, and in James and Lily at least in the beginning. It’s an idea that is all over popular media, and one that I disagree with profoundly. Antagonism is somehow supposed to equal sexual attraction, which to me is the same as saying that the kid who bullied you and made you miserable in school had a crush on you. It’s an idea that I wish would die a sudden and complete death. Ron and Hermione, incidentally, are at their best when they aren’t being antagonists, and when they can function together as friends.)

Going back to things that attract me to a ship, I’m also a sap for the “nerdy girl gets the hero” trope, which also works brilliantly here. Emma Watson is beautiful, but Hermione, as she’s described in the books, isn’t conventionally attractive. Though she eventually does shrink her teeth and learn how to get her hair under control if she wants to, it’s her mental prowess that defines her, and that frequently keeps Harry alive, and I would like to think that he would come to appreciate that about her. :)

To sum up: friends-to-lovers, sticking with someone even through their ugliest moments and the worst parts of life, nerdy-girl-gets-the-hero, and complementary skills. All things that I adore in a ship, and all of them are present in this one. <3

@jackabelle73, @sothinky, @redheadgleek, @crayonsandteaparties, @whatstheproblembaby, @ohyeahharmony, @delusionalforharmony, @hpstuffs, @actyourshoesizegirl, @msjessicaraines

#Harry Potter #Hermione Granger #Harry and Hermione #Harmony #otp: friendship bravery and love #shipping #meta #Why We Ship

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moriartysqueen · 5 years

Text

“Are you really a doctor?” - TJLC META / Scene Analysis

Today I would like to discuss a scene from Sherlock season 4 that has really stuck with me, because it seemed so unnatural. I am talking about the scene in Culverton’s “favorite room” before Faith appears.

In TJLC, which by the way got basically completely destroyed by season 4, it was believed that John’s profession as an army-doctor stood in as a metaphor for his bisexuality.

Unfortunately I do not recall who first mentioned/developed this theory, but to quickly summarize:

His profession as a doctor is a metaphor for being attracted to women.

His profession as a soldier/army-man is a metaphor for being attracted to men.

But John is an army-doctor, read attracted to both. And we have seen in many scenes that John is only his most authentic self when he can be an army-doctor, not reduced to just one of the two professions. The most memorable scenes to underline this theory are

1) the scene in The Abominable Bride, after John finds Sherlock in 221b.

“You’re not a soldier, you’re a doctor.” – “NO, I’m an army-doctor.”

2) when he tries to appeal to Sarah in The Blind Banker, clearly disregarding the side of him that is attracted to men

“Might be a bit mundane for you. Since you are… a soldier.” – “…And a doctor.”

and finally

3) when Sherlock returns for John in the beginning of A Study in Pink

“You’re a doctor… in fact you are an army-doctor.” – “Yes.”

Clearly, John is only his truest self when he can embrace every part of who he is, including his bisexuality and often times, the only person her can be this with is Sherlock.

For our analysis today I will be going off of the belief that the entire episode of The Lying Detective is actually just happening in Sherlock’s (drugged) mind palace, which makes a proper reading of this scene a lot easier.

The scene of course starts off with Culverton, John and Sherlock entering the morgue, and then Culverton and John conversing about Culverton’s crimes, which Sherlock just observes.

It is notable that in Sherlock’s mind, John is figuring out everything that is going on without any help, since Sherlock is just standing off on the side waiting for Faith Smith. This supports the reading that Sherlock clearly sees John as a lot smarter than other people.

But let’s get right into the important stuff: Sherlock of course feels like he has disappointed John, since he couldn’t protect Mary like he had promised. Therefore, in Sherlock’s mind, any chance he could have possibly had to be with John seems to have disappeared. This makes what comes next very blatant.

Looking at Sherlock’s effort from The Six Thatchers to reunite with John; it clearly shows that Sherlock was hoping to continue a life with John. Maybe even now, possibly after a mourning period, he could finally be with John in a romantic way.

But since Sherlock had experienced nothing but rejection after Mary’s death, he now believes in his sub-conscience that all hope is gone and John isn’t (and possibly never has been) in love with him.

Because I go off of a reading where everything in The Lying Detective happens in Sherlock’s head, I read Culverton Smith as the embodiment of everything negative and vile in Sherlock’s head.

Culverton is a murderer, and this is how Sherlock sees himself after shooting Charles Augustus Magnussen. Culverton is witty, clever but also very eccentric. Remind you of someone? But also, since Culverton is very frank and sometimes even intrusive, Sherlock pictures him having a conversation with John the way he never could have, confronting him about his sexuality and his feelings.

The conversation goes as follows:

Culverton: “Let me ask you this… are you really a doctor?”

John: “Of course I am.”

John answered without a moment’s hesitation. This symbolizes how sure Sherlock is that John isn’t (and possibly never has been) in love with him. While John is answering, his eyes stay on Culverton; in fact he isn’t looking at Sherlock at all throughout the entire conversation. Which is very telling; Sherlock and his feelings obviously get ignored by John.

Culverton: “No a medical doctor. Not […] media studies or anything…”

John: “I’m a doctor.”

Culverton mentioning “media studies” is a metaphor for the fact that John and Sherlock just present themselves as “straight” for the public eye. So Culverton is basically accusing John of putting on his straight persona just for the media. Read: “He’s just a doctor in media”. In The Reichenbachfall we have the iconic scene of John reading a newspaper, which names him “a confirmed bachelor”, after which he tells Sherlock that they “need to be more careful”, clearly implying that there is something to hide and they need to change their public image.

Being a “medical doctor” of course has a practical/physical connotation to it, which can be interpreted as “are you also physically straight?”. So Culverton is basically asking John whether he is celebrating his heterosexuality physically (sex, kissing,etc.) or if he is just putting on a “theoretical” act for the media.

John just answers with “I’m a doctor”, after which he nervously laughs.

Sherlock obviously knows who John really is; he has always accepted him as his most authentic bisexual self. But he has also seen John try to convince others of his heterosexuality, which of course isn’t entirely true. This is why Sherlock imagines John to nervously chuckle, afraid that someone could catch his lie. Clearly neither John nor Sherlock are convinced of John being just a doctor.

Culverton: “Are you serious? Are you? Are you ACTUALLY serious?”

Whenever I watch this scene, this is where it always seems so over-the-top for me, almost like they are hitting you over the head with it. They WANT us to question John’s sexuality. Culverton questions his sexuality and therefore, Sherlock does.

Why would they put this scene in, with a character repeatedly asking John if he is serious about being straight, if we aren’t meant to doubt John’s sexuality and attractions?

While Culverton is asking this question, John’s expression changes from a confused one to a sad one.

Firstly, John might be confused because he thought he had already “proven” his sexuality (by marrying a woman and having a child) and therefore there shouldn’t be any doubt. But we all know that John isn’t 100% straight, he HIMSELF knows this, so he is worried/sad that someone could find out about that.

Culverton: “I’ve played along with this joke. It’s not funny anymore.”

…meaning that Culverton (Sherlock) is done trying to keep up a fake public persona (=joke). The whole joking in the earlier seasons of “is he your boyfriend?”, “[…] for you and your date.”, “Will you need two bedrooms?”, “live-in p.a.” is not funny anymore. It’s real, it’s happening. John’s and Sherlock’s feelings for each other are not a joke. And they have both played along with it for too long.

Culverton: “Look at [Sherlock]. Go ahead, look at him Doctor Watson.”

Culverton comically emphasizes on the word “doctor”, once again implying that John isn’t just a doctor. But also, Sherlock wants John to look him in the eye and realize it. And eventually decide – is there really nothing he feels for him?

I wanted to stop my analysis right here, because the rest of the scene is still too hard for me to read, I am working on it though.

The last quote I want to leave you with is the following, where Culverton addresses Sherlock directly (after avoiding him for the entire scene so far):

Culverton: “I think you need to tell your faithful little friend how you’re wasting his time because you’re too high to know what’s real anymore.”

There is two ways I’m reading this quote.

The first way: it’s a fourth-wall break. The writers want to endear us, the audience, with “faithful little friend” and tell us that because Sherlock Holmes is on drugs, we should be questioning what is actually true (in this episode/season) and what isn’t. They don’t want us to waste our time by trying to read these scenes literally; we get encouraged to read between the lines.

The second way, and probably the more likely one, is Sherlock telling himself how much he has wasted their (John & Sherlock) time together. We have seen time and time again how Sherlock tried to cope with/repress his feelings using drugs. If Sherlock would have instead opened up to his “faithful (read: always by his side, believing in Sherlock) little friend” earlier, they could have avoided so many things. They could have avoided John’s heartbreak when Sherlock committed suicide, they could have avoided John’s engagement and marriage to Mary and eventually John’s heartbreak at her loss. If Sherlock wouldn’t have relied on drugs as much as he had, maybe this all would have turned out differently.

But to summarize, John clearly looks miserable in the entire scene. Because both John and Sherlock know that John being a doctor is not his most authentic self. While the part of him that is attracted to women isn’t made up (not “media studies”), it’s not all there is to him. But his attraction to men (soldier) or moreover his attraction to both genders (army-doctor) isn’t mentioned at all in this scene, clearly showing how Sherlock has lost all hope that John could actually still be in love with him after everything that went down.

Thank you all so much for reading. Season 4 has been tough on all of us but this is my attempt on reading this scene. Also as you probably noticed, I am still quite new at writing meta, so please excuse.

If you agree, disagree or have anything to add, let me know.

#tjlc #johnlock #sherlock #sherlock holmes #john watson #the lying detective #meta #spoilers #season 4 #tjlce

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airisuwatoson · 6 years

Text

my friends got me on a dgs2 high recently, and it got me thinking a lot about Iris Watson

(major, MAJOR dgs2 spoilers, right up to endgame)

*******

iris’s relation to her real parents wasn’t really a “big deal” in the grand scheme of things, and i’m okay with that.

despite this tumblr’s URL being her, i struggled with iris’s place in the narrative for a long time. while i adore iris a whole lot, and her familial bond with sherlock makes me cry for a million years, her place in the narrative was a complicated subject for me. her relationship with klimt felt a bit like an afterthought, answered at the end of the story. i didn’t know if it was “wasted potential” or not.

but, recently, as i went home one day after discussing the game and its writing with my friends, i finally have an answer. and yeah, i’m sure there’s people who won’t agree with me, but iris’s story is fine. heck, i love it, now that i’m given time to think.

- to me, iris’s involvement in the story is more character-driven; rather than providing us The Clue to solve the conspiracy, we would instead watch her develop as the story goes on and we jump headfirst into the swirling darkness of the conspiracy.

in the first game, we spent the first case solving her presumed father’s murder. when ryuu and susato go to london, they meet iris, who claims to be john watson’s daughter. we get an “Oh, Shit” moment as we now struggle to consider whether we should tell her about her father’s demise. during her conversation at the attic with gina, ryuu and susato, she expresses that she misses her father, even when gina expresses her grievances regarding parents.

in the second game, we get in depth about the mystery, and how iris feels about her missing father. we learn how desperate she was to find out who her father is, even going so far as to have stolen government documents just to learn her father’s name. she is crushed to learn that not only is john watson just a nobody to her, the man who wrote the manuscript for sherlock’s cases wasn’t her father either.

it’s important that we got the scene in the middle of chapter 5 where iris feels a bit sad that she wasn’t yuujin’s daughter (as that would’ve made her susato’s sister), showing how she is still yearning for that biological connection. after susato and ryuu tell her that they’re perfectly fine in being her siblings despite having no blood relation, that’s when she starts to change her mind.

plus, with this exchange, we get an astonishingly heartwarming scene about the baker street family’s bond, even though only two of them are tied by blood. (”ryuu: i’ve got the strongest family backing me, after all” “me: my eyes are sweating”)

and in the end, we see that iris, who has certainly watched how the trial went down while having tea with Queen Victoria (lol), finally decided to stop trying to look for her biological father. she stops yearning for someone who most likely isn’t coming for her, someone who may not be the good father she may have imagined him to be... because she has sherlock, an amazing father who has been by her side this whole time, even if he may be eccentric and flawed.

- (insert me crying for years)

- when iris has her talk about seeing sherlock as her father, she says how she’s caused so much trouble for everyone during her quest to find her father. and it’s true - in the first game, gina goes to the pawn shop to look for the manuscript and gets arrested for murder, while sherlock gets shot; and in the second game, she stole the document about klimt’s autopsy report, which is just?? a bad thing to do??? daughter no

speaking of that, i really appreciate that moment because it’s iris acting out of a strong desire to connect with her father. i’m so glad that it’s plot relevant that susato and ryuu gain access to the document (which also reveals who sherlock’s partner really is), and also a character moment of a sad little girl who’s desperate enough to commit a crime. it kind of reminds me of pearl fey in 3-5, when she does That Bad Thing for a “good” reason? yeah

- i also think that iris serves as another person linked to the overarching theme of “Family” in the dgs series.

we have asougi & genshin, susato & yuujin, barok & klimt. except for ryuu, who is the lens we see this story through, the core cast has a family member, and we seen how... troubling these relationships are.

genshin and klimt’s deaths, as well as their actions before those deaths, have haunted asougi and barok for many years. we also know that susato and yuujin has a rocky relationship, due to how he straight up left the family after susato’s mother passed away. genshin, klimt and mikotoba aren’t 100% good people - and klimt is a heck of an understatement - and it’s caused varying degrees of emotional harm to the younger ones.

i suppose the only one who doesn’t have that is sherlock. he is, instead, linked to iris as her adoptive father. and it makes for a powerful scene when iris, one of the people haunted by the idea of “biological family”, calls him her “papa”. he is genuinely touched by that, considering her gratitude to be the most moving of all, compared to the many thanks he received from people he met in the past.

also sherlock is dadlock and i love the baker street family so much

on a lesser note is gina & gregson. in the first game, gina comes from a lonely past, jaded by how her parents abandoned her. in the second, she goes under the wing of gregson, who is yet another person who has committed numerous atrocities, but is well-meaning in general. in a way, gregson is an unstated father figure for her, and even if he may be bad, he still contributes to her growth. basically gina & gregson also make me cry a lot

to conclude this point, the “found family” narrative is one we see time after time in many stories, but the way DGS expresses this is wonderful.

- another thing is that, the reveal that klimt was iris’s father, felt less like a reveal, and more like the answer to “why hasn’t sherlock and yuujin told iris about her father, despite knowing who he is?”. for me, when i got to the reveal, my reaction was “ahhh, so that’s why they didn’t want iris to know!”

it’s also precious characterization for Klimt van Zieks, the man who committed crime after crime because he felt despair towards the darkness of london’s evils. klimt refused to tell barok about his unborn child, instead trusting this secret to genshin and asking him to help his family. klimt didn’t want iris to be raised in the van zieks household, and then known forever as the professor’s daughter, in case the true identity of the professor is revealed.

it shows that he may have strayed from the path of justice, it also shows that he still loves his family despite everything. after all, vortex managed to blackmail klimt by threatening to harm his wife.

if the dgs games were localized, i have a feeling we’d get so much discourse about klimt, lmao. but to me, it’s nuanced character writing. and if you know me, you know how much i love my flawed characters. klimt is a murderer, and don’t get me wrong, let’s not excuse his crimes, but he feels very human. and this is something we can explore in fiction. klimt van zieks is a tragedy, a good man who faced evil with justice and became the villain in the end.

- in a way, it’s also characterization for sherlock and yuujin, the latter to a lesser degree. they didn’t want iris to find out who her father is at her young age, because they were worried that they’d find out about the atrocities her father committed in the past.

they never intended to let iris know the name of her father, either - it’s only through her discovery that she found the document signed by john watson. at that point, sherlock had to go along with the lie, because to him, that’s better than telling the truth about her murderer of a father, and let her shoulder that truth for the rest of her childhood. he cares about iris, as cruel as his actions may be.

of course, lying to a little girl and letting her believe that her father is a complete stranger isn’t GOOD. but like i said, it feels nuanced, that our good lovable cast is very much imperfect. imo sherlock holmes is Good when you show how hecked up he is as a human being alongside how good he is as the famous detective

- “but john watson WAS involved in the professor case!” the imaginary person in my head says. “iris could still be his daughter, and it could still keep the idea that iris’s parentage would be problematic to the public.”

this is coming from a place of hindsight and being able to see the big picture as a player, but, like. between one of the few people centrally involved in concealing the truth of the the professor’s crimes... and THE guy, the person who committed said heinous crimes? the man who, in this particular narrative, is much more important to learn more about? i’d give the characterization to klimt every day of the week, no question.

and maybe it’s because i don’t have as much of an emotional connection to the sherlock holmes canon, but i don’t really mind that the man named John H. Watson wasn’t as important in the narrative as takumi’s original characters. just because takumi wanted to write sherlock holmes fanfiction, doesn’t mean he has to completely rely on the characters and conventions of sherlock’s stories, i feel?

i mean, we have Mikotoba Yuujin. just because the guy named john watson isn’t the man we know and love in THIS story, doesn’t mean our “sherlock” and our “watson” isn’t still there. i’m okay with takumi and the writing team twisting sherlock canon to fit their narrative. and besides, i’m going to be vague because spoilers, but it’s not as if certain TV shows adapting sherlock holmes haven’t changed the characters to fit their own narratives.

*******

it’s funny to say this, but after writing all that, i feel like i have much more of an appreciation for iris watson’s story, and dgs’s narrative in general. it’s such a good game, and i’m so glad i got to experience this story myself.

#dgs azumisc #i just checked the word count and it's got 1.7k words....... amazing #i even got the '17' number like the idol trash that i am! incredible. astounding. i am unsurprised by my shamelessness #but yeah. i have a lot of feelings about iris watson

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smoaking-greenarrow · 6 years

Text

Broken Love- Chapter 4

Read on AO3.

Just Short

Arguing with Oliver Queen was never fun. They were both too stubborn to be productive, and even when she won an argument, it didn't feel good. Still, she wouldn't give up that phone Watson gave her for anything. Felicity knew perfectly well that it was "hush money" so to speak. Her reward for keeping quiet about Samanda's less than legal negotiations. But she didn't care.

For two weeks, she'd gotten to speak to her husband every night just before bed. It was her secret. And she knew she was being selfish, but she was afraid that if anyone knew she could reach Oliver, the privilege would be taken away. He didn't mention it either, never asked for more than their nightly conversations.

"Felicity," Oliver says her name in that parental tone she hates. Authoritative and superior. She groaned in irritation, but he ignored it. "I don't want you to do this. Working with Slade-"

"Like you did," she interrupted, listening to him grunt in response.

"I worked with Slade to survive on Lian-Yu. Then again, because I had to rely on him to save the people I love. I almost died trying to save his son. None of those situations involved a hit list, Felicity!"

"Would you do it for me?" She asked.

In the silence that followed, Felicity turned onto her side, closing her eyes and nestling into her pillow. For a long moment, she listed to his breath on the line and the crickets outside her window. "What do you mean?" He finally mumbled.

Knowing that he knew exactly what she meant, Felicity clucked her tongue. "If I were in prison, and the only way to get me out of there was to go after a bunch of murders and sex traffickers, would you do it?"

When he paused, she knew that he would tell her the truth. Of course, the answer was yes. He would. But she was glad that at least he wasn't about to bullshit her. Annoyed, Oliver sighed. "Yeah, Felicity. But you haven't done the things that I've done. You don't have a long list of people you've killed. I do. I deserve to be in a place like this. You wouldn't."

"Okay. What if I did?" She countered, "what if our roles were reversed here, and I killed countless people in my life so that I could survive. And what if you fell in love with me despite all of that. Would you still try to save me?"

He let out a deep breath, "of course I would."

"Then trust me," she whispered back.

The next breath he took was shaky, and she closed her eyes at the sound. "I do trust you, baby. I always have. This was never about trust. I just don't know how I'm supposed to live with myself if anything happens to you or William. I feel-" he cut himself off.

"What?"

"I'm going crazy in here, and it's only been a few weeks. I just can't stop thinking about Diaz. If he comes back... I dream about it, Felicity. I made a mistake, and now he's out there, and I'm in here." She closed her eyes as he let his fears out, his rushed confession sounding more like her own babbling, frantic and unfiltered. It broke her heart to hear him so desperate for control, trapped in a place where he had none. "The last thing I want to do is scare you, but I can't help but worry...and it terrifies me, Felicity. I trust Dig, I do. But it should be me keeping you safe. You and William are my family, I should be the one protecting you."

Looking up at her ceiling, Felicity wasn't sure what to say. There was nothing she could say that he didn't already know. That John would die for them if he had to. That it was Oliver's decision to condemn himself and create this whole situation. That his fear is valid...Diaz probably was still out there, and they both knew it.

"Felicity," Oliver choked, "please say something."

Sighing, Felicity struggled to choose between comfort or honesty. "I love you, Oliver," she said slowly, "and I'm sorry that you're so anxious. I don't even want to imagine what Slabside is like for you. The people that you're in there with. But I'm also so angry with you," she paused when he whimpered, a muffled sound. "I love William, you know I do. But I never wanted to do this alone," she breathed, blinking back tears as she finally admitted it. "I thought when I married you, that things would change...that you would include me, instead of making decisions for me. And I thought that we would raise William together, a true partnership. We're both his parents, and I can't stop wondering why it feels like you left us."

He inhales sharply, and then releases the breath, his voice strained as he answers, "I'm so sorry..."

"I know you are," Felicity forces a smile as she speaks, hoping he can hear it in her voice.

"Felicity... I know I don't have the right to ask, but could we please table this for now? I don't want to get into something that we can't take back. I understand how angry you are, and you have every right to be. But please, can we just take some time before we decide what happens next?"

She knew what he was getting at. He was afraid she was angry enough to leave him. Although that wasn't the case, she did agree that dropping the conversation would be best.

Before she could say anything else, Felicity heard a floorboard outside her room creak. She shot up in bed, her instincts heightened now that she slept alone. "William?" She asked lowly, waiting for a response.

Her heart began to race when she heard the footsteps walking away, down the hall. She scrambled out of bed, whimpering her step-son's name one more time.

Everything in her body told her that it wasn't William.

"Felicity?" Oliver's voice in her ear reminded her that she was still holding the phone. It was clear that he could sense the shift, the tone in her voice. "What is it?"

After all the things he'd just revealed about feeling helpless to protect them, Felicity pursed her lips shut. She didn't want to make it worse if she was just being paranoid. "I don't know," she whispered back, opening the door as quietly as she could.

William's room was right across the hall from hers, and with both of their doors open, she could see him sleeping soundly in his bed, illuminated by the nightlight in the corner. She watched his chest rise and fall peacefully, catching her own breath. "Maybe I'm just going crazy," she whispered to herself, not seeing anything out of the ordinary as she glanced around the upper level of the home. The hall was empty. Bathroom was empty. Guest bedroom was empty.

"What happened?" Oliver asked, his voice low, stressed.

"It's okay," she breathed, moving to the window in the hallway to close it, shivering at the breeze coming in. "Everything's okay."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, William's fine, I just thought-" Felicity froze as she realized that she never opened the window.

William was asleep by the time she'd come upstairs. And it was closed when she went to bed.

As if on cue, Felicity heard more movement downstairs. A guttural grunt and a thump...coming from the kitchen. There was no mistaking it this time. "Oliver," she whispered, "someone's in the house."

The sound that came out of her husband was pained. "Get William and get out, Felicity."

"John and Lyla..." she trailed off, taking a step towards the stairs, thinking of her friends sleeping down there, unaware and unprepared. "JJ is here," her voice broke. She couldn't just run.

"Felicity, please," Oliver begged. This was his worst nightmare coming true, and for a fleeting moment, she thought about hanging up the phone so that he didn't have to hear whatever came next.

"Where are the weapons, Oliver?"

"I've seen layouts of the house, you can make it out through the second-story window. The one between William's room and yours?" The one someone had opened just to scare her? "It's a short drop from the garage roof to the ground, and then you need to run. Felicity, I'm begging you." She closed her eyes and focused on listening for more sounds. In her hesitation, Oliver huffed, "or go in William's room and lock the door. Take your phone and call Dig, let him know. Just, please, Felicity..."

"I can't just leave them, Oliver. In a safe house like this...where would they hide the guns?"

He choked on a sob, and she could practically picture him pulling at his hair, desperate to do something. Staying on the phone and listening was the only option, and it was killing him. After a moment, he mumbled "under the floorboards. In the corner by that window, one of the boards is loose. There should be a gun there." His voice was empty of emotion, but she ignored it, checking the edges until she found what she was looking for.

Diggle had taught her how to shoot a gun years ago, when Oliver refused. She wasn't an expert, but she had to try. Before she went down the stairs, she quickly and quietly closed the door to William's room, locking it behind her.

"Okay," she breathed, her voice barely a whisper as she took the stairs slowly on her bare feet, careful not to make a sound. The house was silent again, but she didn't doubt herself this time, she knew what she heard. Holding the gun up and ready with one hand, Felicity cradled the phone to her ear in the other, creeping through the house towards John and Lyla's room.

As she snuck by the kitchen, the first thing she saw was blood.

A trail of it lead from the island to the dining room table, and that was where she found Rene. He was slumped against the wall, a blood-stained hand on his abdomen. When she dropped to her knees and crawled to him, he glanced up at her, his eyes going wide. "He's here," Rene grit out through his teeth. "Diaz. I saw him through the window and I tried-" His jaw clenched as Felicity put more pressure on his wound, pushing her hand over his. The phone fell from her shoulder and landed on the floor beside them, forgotten while she watched her friend bleed out.

He was paler than she'd ever seen him, the life in his eyes dimming.

None of their past struggles mattered in that moment. Her eyes welled with tears, "you're going to be okay, you're gonna be fine, it's okay," she hurried the words, trying to convince herself as much as she was trying to convince him.

Rene chuckled, the sound wheezing. "Don't lie to me, blondie. You suck at it."

"Rene," Felicity blinked, clenching her jaw and trying to muster up the confidence that they both needed.

"Just wanted to be a hero," he sighed.

"You are. Hey," she got his attention, leaning in until he looked at her. "We're lucky to have you next door."

Smiling, Rene shook his head. "I screwed things up more than I helped," he whispered, and she shook her head. "Listen," he heaved, "I stabbed Diaz in the side, you need to hit him there. Get Dig, and please take care of my girl, she's-" he stopped himself when his voice cracked. "It's okay, go." The thought of leaving Rene to die alone was terrible, and her legs felt too heavy to move. "Felicity," he called her by her name for one of the first and only times she could remember. Rene looked her right in the eyes, his gaze confident, "this is my redemption. I'm okay with it. Go,"

Letting out a low, strangled cry, Felicity nodded.

First, she brought a towel to him. Pressing it against his stomach uselessly, both of them knowing that it would do nothing to stop the bleeding at that point. Then she gave him one last look as she picked the gun back up, thanking him. He nodded, and she moved towards John and Lyla's room. The door was closed, and she tried the knob. "John?" She whispered. The door immediately swung open, and Lyla dragged her in.

"Diaz is here," Lyla said frantically, her eyes didn't leave JJ, asleep on their bed.

"I know. Where's Dig?"

"He went to get you and William. You didn't see him?"

"No, I-" She paused, watching as Lyla looked down at her, seeing her shirt and hands covered in blood. "Rene. I don't think he..."

Lyla closed her eyes, "I should have killed that son of a bitch," she growled, "Watson's jurisdiction be damned."

"I have to go find them," Felicity mumbled. She waited for the inevitable argument, but when Lyla said nothing, Felicity realized that unlike John, Oliver, and the rest of the team, the woman had no intention of stopping her, telling her she couldn't, or trying to protect her.

Lyla lifted her chin, "do what you have to do," she mumbled lowly.

She didn't have time to think about how Lyla was doing the same, staying behind to keep JJ safe while John went out there alone. Felicity nodded, "be ready to let William in. I'll send him down." Lyla nodded back, and then Felicity took a deep breath and moved to the door.

With a hand on her arm, Lyla stopped her. She took the gun out of Felicity's hand and cocked it, adjusting Felicity's fingers to the correct grip. Then she met her eyes, "be careful," Lyla said, her full A.R.G.U.S voice coming out.

"Yeah," Felicity breathed, "thanks."

As she heard the door shut behind her, Felicity moved to the stairs, gasping when she saw Diaz for the first time. He stood with his back to her, at the top of the staircase. Her gaze flickered down the hall, following Diaz's attention. Beyond him, Felicity could see John standing tall by the balcony over her head, and right behind him, William was crouched down, hiding behind Dig's back.

Feeling her eyes on him, William looked down through the bars of the railing.

John was unarmed, but she could see a gun hidden in the waist of Diaz's pants. Not to mention the knife in his hand. Unfortunately, they knew that Ricardo Diaz wasn't a fair fighter. Oliver had learned that the hard way. And she wasn't about to risk William's life on it.

Seeing Diaz take a step toward John and William, Felicity yelled before thinking. "Hey!"

John's head snapped down to look at her, and Diaz turned to do the same. "There you are, Felicity! I was wondering when you'd show up to the party."

"You want me?" She asked breathlessly, "then come get me." Diaz cocked his head to the side, probably suspicious of her bravery. But she'd rather die than let William or John get hurt. His eyes flickered from William to her, as if debating who to exact his revenge on. "Come on you coward," Felicity taunted, staring at him. "You didn't go through all this trouble just to harm an innocent kid. Where's the courage in that? I thought you were supposed to be scary."

He narrowed his eyes at her, smiling like he knew she was baiting him. Yet he still started coming towards her, her words hitting his pride.

John took a step to stop him, but Diaz turned quickly on his heel, throwing the knife in his hand. And a moment later, John was on the ground, the blade buried in his thigh.

"Shit," Felicity gasped, slipping on the rug beneath her feet. One last look up at the balcony told her that William was trying to help Dig. And she ran, finally listening to Oliver's advice.

She ran straight for the door, hearing Diaz's quick steps coming down the stairs, chasing her.

Her adrenaline was racing, and Felicity flung the door open, glancing over her shoulder to make sure he was behind. She just wanted Diaz out of the house. Away from her family. And that was all she could process. It was clear that he came to get revenge on Oliver. Like the scum that he was, targeting his wife and child in the security of night, sneaking into their house because he knew they'd be vulnerable.

Her heart was pounding in her chest, her breath shallow, and she had no idea how long she'd be able to run when she was already breathless, or how far he'd follow her until he gave up and went back for them.

She didn't have to find out though, because as soon as she reached the street, Felicity's bare feet got the better of her. Tripping on the uneven pavement, pain shot up through her toes. Felicity fell on her knees in the middle of the street, yelping as she felt at least one toe break.

Diaz whistled from behind her, and she turned over, crawling away from him as she struggled for air, her legs dragging against the tar.

He closed the distance quickly, leaning over and looking down at her like she was an injured animal. Like prey. When Diaz hovered above her, the pity in his eyes made her furious.

She immediately rammed her leg up and into his groin. As Diaz crumpled forward, grabbing his pants and whining, Felicity sat up and punched him where she could see blood on his side. The wound Rene inflicted. Then she scrambled to her feet as he fell to his knees in front of her.

Her legs were bleeding from where she fell, and her toes were definitely broken, making balance hard. But she ignored the pain and gripped his head between her hands.

Thinking of Oliver, of Rene, John, William, and Quentin; every person who had somehow been hurt or taken from her because of the disgusting rat in front of her... Felicity put all of her power into her next hit.

Her knee connected with his face, so hard that she had to let go of her grip on him to let his head snap backwards. She panted as Diaz screamed, blood gushing from his nose, and then between his fingers when he reached for his face.

"You're going to pay for that, you stupid bit-" His words were cut off by a sharp metallic ring from behind him. Diaz's eyebrows furrowed at the sound. Before he could turn to look behind him, Felicity watched a sword emerge from his chest. In through the back, out through the front.

She let out a surprised, breathless yelp, just like she had the week before.

Gasping, Felicity stared as Ricardo Diaz's body hit the wet pavement, cringing at the sound of the sword being pulled out of his chest, letting him fall in a bloody heap.

Felicity blinked up at Slade Wilson, feeling a shocked sense of déjà vu. "We've got to stop meeting like this, miss Smoak."

#arrow #olicity #broken love #olicity fanfiction

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newstfionline · 6 years

Text

The bridge of desperation

By Katy Watson, BBC, Aug. 23, 2018

The humanitarian crisis in Venezuela has led to one of the largest mass migrations in Latin America’s history.

President Nicolás Maduro blames “imperialists”--the likes of the US and Europe--for waging “economic war” against Venezuela and imposing sanctions on many members of his government.

But his critics say it is economic mismanagement--first by predecessor Hugo Chávez and now President Maduro himself--that has brought Venezuela to its knees.

The country has the largest proven oil reserves in the world. It was once so rich that Concorde used to fly from Caracas to Paris. Now, its economy is in tatters.

Four in five Venezuelans live in poverty. People queue for hours to buy food. Much of the time they go without. People are dying from a lack of medicines. Inflation is at 82,766% and there are warnings it could exceed one million per cent by the end of this year.

Venezuelans are trying to get out. The UN says 2.3 million people have fled the country--7% of the population. More than a million have arrived in Colombia in the past 18 months.

Many of those Venezuelans have come over the Simón Bolívar International Bridge.

The bridge is about 300m long and 7m wide. It straddles the Rio Táchira in the eastern Andes, a river that snakes along the border between Colombia and Venezuela. The river bed can sometimes dry up but heavy rains soon change that.

The two small towns the bridge connects--San Antonio del Táchira on the Venezuelan side and Villa del Rosario in Colombia--are in two very different worlds.

Colombians rarely pop over the border to do their shopping in Venezuela like they used to. It’s almost entirely one-way traffic nowadays.

Every day at 05:00 Colombian time, (06:00 in Venezuela), the sound of a fence being dragged across tarmac breaks the silence in the valley and marks the opening of the bridge to pedestrians.

The queue from Venezuela into Colombia usually builds steadily overnight. When the gates open, it’s like athletes out of the starting blocks. Venezuelans can’t get over quickly enough.

Some people are stopped by guards and told to open their bags. While most do so without drama, you can see panic in some faces when people realise they are about to be caught.

With Venezuela’s economy in crisis, there’s an incentive to smuggle staples like meat and cheese into Colombia so it can be sold for higher prices. The people doing it aren’t Mr Bigs--they’re mostly just Venezuelans desperate to raise money to buy other essentials.

One woman, whose meat is confiscated, wails: “What am I meant to do?” The guard replies gruffly: “This is a humanitarian corridor--you can take food into Venezuela but you can’t take it out.” And so it repeats throughout the day.

Those with nothing to declare--or perhaps just the lucky ones who aren’t stopped--walk on through. The trundle of suitcase wheels is the soundtrack of this bridge.

When you get to the end of the bridge, you reach what’s known as La Parada, or “the stop” in English. It’s a bustling community that makes its money from border trade. Market sellers, pharmacies, shops and bus companies all vying for sales from those crossing the bridge. Most of the street traders here used to be Colombians--this is after all Colombia.

But increasingly, Venezuelans have also started setting up shop here, trying to sell their wares in a country where the currency hasn’t been decimated.

Right at the end of the bridge, amid the chorus of street-sellers, one man shouts: “Who wants to sell their hair?”

In front of a metal barrier protecting the bridge, Laura Castellanos sits on a plastic stool. The 25-year-old has long wavy brown hair to the bottom of her back. She looks uneasy.

A woman is stood behind her, scissors in hand. Laura is about to lose most of her hair.

She’s nursing her two-month old daughter Paula who is wrapped up in a big fluffy blanket and wearing a stripy pink hat. She yawns as she lies patiently in her mother’s arms, unaware of the border chaos around her. Laura’s husband Jhon Acevedo is nearby looking after their two older daughters.

The hair-cutter is lifting up the top layer of Laura’s hair and cutting what’s underneath right back to the roots. She doesn’t want to talk much.

With every snip she hands a chunk of hair to another woman standing next to her. The hair buyer says nothing and looks away. It feels like a cold transaction, nothing more.

Laura is getting paid 30,000 pesos ($10) for her hair. It’ll be sold on to make extensions or wigs.

“It’s the first time I’ve done it,” she says with a mixture of nervousness and embarrassment. She’s come for the day from the town of Rubio, about an hour from the border.

Laura is selling her hair because her eldest daughter, eight-year-old Andrea, has diabetes and the family needs to raise money to pay for her insulin which she takes three times a day. The family has run out of supplies and it’s been three days since little Andrea last had her shots. Jhon’s salary as a saddler doesn’t always stretch to pay for his daughter’s drugs.

“There’s no medicine, it’s hard,” says Laura. “People are dying in Venezuela because they can’t get the medicines they need.”

After five minutes of cutting, the family heads off to find a pharmacy. At first glance you can’t tell Laura’s had most of her hair removed. The hair-cutter has left a thin layer of long hair on top to hide the truth. Laura admits she feels a bit sad.

“It will pay for something at least,” she says. Her husband Jhon says they’re looking for a “pirate” pharmacy--an informal stall that sells drugs in plastic cabinets on the street. Insulin pens will be cheaper there than in a walk-in drug store.

But on the streets around La Parada there’s no way of knowing that what they are buying is the real deal. Counterfeits abound but it’s a risk Laura and the family think is worth taking.

“There’s no insulin back home, you can’t get it anywhere,” Laura says as she eyes the best-before date on the side of the insulin pen. They pick up two dark blue pens for 8,000 pesos each ($2.65) and go on their way. That will last them nearly two months before they have to begin the search again. It’s not enough time for Laura’s hair to grow back.

“President Maduro is the worst thing Chávez left us.” That’s a feeling shared by many. When Hugo Chávez came to power in 1999, there was hope. He was a man who championed the poor in what has always been a deeply divided society. He was a vibrant and controversial figure who wanted to lead a socialist revolution in Venezuela.

But Chavez was helped by strong commodity prices that funded his ambitious social programmes. With a fall in oil prices, President Maduro has had no such luck--and little of the charisma his predecessor had. During his leadership, the country has fallen into economic decline.

“The government does whatever it wants, it has all the power,” says Celene. “Only God can help us--it’s the only thing left.”

But Celene has a lifeline. Her mother-in-law lives in the US and sends back $500 every couple of months. With her new baby, and two older children who are four and eight, Celene is unable to work. So she relies on that money to keep her afloat. It’s money that she also shares with her sister, her brother-in-law and their baby.

Ten minutes’ drive away into the centre of the nearest city Cúcuta, the Erasmo Meoz hospital is creaking under the pressure.

In the emergency ward, patients are lined up in hospital beds along the wall and in front of doors. Family members are gathered around the beds, comforting their relatives.

Those who are able to are sitting on a row of plastic chairs. Other patients are in wheelchairs, attached to drips. Outside the ward, in the hospital courtyard, more people are waiting. In among the mass of people, a group of prisoners, chained by the wrists, is guided to another part of hospital for treatment.

The emergency ward has capacity for 75 beds. But there are currently 100 patients in this room. There’s hardly any space to move.

In a room off the main ward, a dead body lies waiting. Covered in a white cotton sheet, and tied tight around the neck and feet, it’s there for all to see until a member of staff finally wheels it through the crowds of beds and on to the mortuary. There’s no space or time for a peaceful exit in this chaotic hospital.

Each bed is marked with the patient’s nationality.

Ángel Escobar, 28, is one of the Venezuelans. His mother is wrapping bandages around arms which are red-raw, blistered and weeping.

Ángel, his brother Teobaldo and their mother Cecilia recently made the journey from the city of Barinas, 350km from the border. They didn’t have the money for a bus ticket, so instead they hitched several rides, nursing Ángel and his wounds along the way.

Ángel used to be a motorcycle mechanic. Five years ago, he was fixing a bike in his workshop when a spark caused a petrol tank to explode.

“I got second and third degree burns,” he explains. “I waited in hospital in Venezuela for help--it never came.”

Instead his situation got worse. He contracted three infections in hospital and he went downhill rapidly.

The injuries he’s got look so red and recent but this has been five years of daily pain. The seeping raw skin is the aftermath of the infections, not the burns themselves.

“They didn’t treat him because they didn’t have supplies,” Cecilia explains.

Ángel has got large scaly scabs on top of his skin that are slowly coming off now he’s in hospital.

His arms are deformed because of an error made by the doctors in Venezuela. In Colombia he says he’s being looked after at last.

Dr Andrés Eloy Galvis Jaimes, who is in charge of the emergencies ward, says the situation is getting out of hand.

“Thirty per cent of our patients in emergencies are Venezuelans,” he says. “The national government isn’t giving us extra money. There’ll come a moment that we won’t have any more resources for anyone. That’s a real fear.”

Around the corner, a middle-aged man is lying on a bed in the corridor waiting for a gall-bladder operation. He came over from San Antonio, the town just across the bridge. He’s been lying here for four days.

“In Venezuela you can’t get anything, you just die,” he says. “There aren’t even sedatives,” he adds laughing. He used to work in a bag factory but it closed down.

Now, he earns his money smuggling petrol.

“There’s nothing else to do,” he says. Every night he works in “las trochas”--the word used for illegal trails that cross the border. It’s a journey of 20 minutes, there and back, he says. He does the trip two or three times a night.

“They give it away in Venezuela,” he says, of the heavily-subsidised fuel.

While hyperinflation has seen prices of most goods soar in Venezuela, petrol prices have remained low. A bottle of water can cost 30,000 times the price of filling up a tank in Venezuela.

To smuggle 250 litres, he says he pays off the soldiers with 15,000 Colombian pesos ($5) and gets 20,000 pesos himself.

Smugglers earn a tidy sum reselling fuel over the border. It’s one of the reasons President Maduro said earlier this month that he wanted to get rid of universal subsidies and allow prices to rise to international levels.

President Maduro and his administration often paint themselves as the innocent victims in this story of Venezuela’s decline. And they paint those who leave as deserters of the socialist cause.

As the day goes on, the queues carry on building on the border. Hundreds of people wait in line at immigration for a stamp in their passport to make their onward journey more straightforward.

There are queues at money transfer houses where Venezuelans wait patiently to pick up much-needed funds from relatives and friends who live abroad.

And there are queues for buses--people waiting with suitcases piled up high, their entire possessions carefully packed as they head to meet their friends and families across South America.

But for every Venezuelan lucky enough to be moving on, there remain dozens who don’t have the resources to go anywhere.

Johnny, Angel and Yember are hanging around the middle of the bridge, waiting for Venezuelans to come over. Dressed in T-shirts, ripped jeans and trainers, they’ve each got a luggage trolley in hand with rope wrapped around the handles--they’re ready to tie up the heavy bags of incoming Venezuelans and help them get to the nearest bus stop.

They’re all recent arrivals from the capital Caracas, Valencia and San Cristobal. They’ve stayed by the border to earn some money before moving on. But business as a “maletero” is slow.

“The people coming from Venezuela are immigrants with nothing,” they say. They’re coming in search of money and better lives so few nowadays have the spare change for a luggage-handler.

On a good day, they earn 15,000 pesos ($5) but on a bad one, not even a cent.

They’ve given up hope of change back home. With President Maduro winning the elections, he now has another six-year term they think he’ll complete.

“If things could end peacefully, then that would be the best thing,” says Johnny. He dismisses the idea of the military turning against the president. “A coup could mean lots of people, including children, would die. But if things could end, well...” he trails off, thinking of the options.

From the bridge where the maleteros are, you can see a blue-painted cage. Inside is a figure of the Our Lady of Mount Carmel (Virgen del Carmen). She’s the patron saint of drivers and of the Army in the Andes. In a part of the world where hope is fading, faith remains strong. Fitting too that her home is an insecure frontier town, an area where soldiers operate around the clock.

The virgin sits across a dirt road, in front of a metal yard where Pompilio Rincón is throwing slabs of aluminium on to a scrap heap.

He says there are lots of metal collectors that come over from Venezuela.

“Before, Venezuelans would come in their cars and trucks,” he says. Now, people are bringing metal on their backs--women and children too.”

As he chats, a young teenager in a smart checked short-sleeved t-shirt comes in with a big bag and dumps his treasure on to the massive set of scales on the floor of the warehouse. He hopes to get 1,500 pesos (50 cents) per kilo of his metal.

Breiner Hernández, 15, comes from San Cristóbal in Venezuela. He goes to school in the morning and when he’s not studying, he’s looking for metal. Every few days he jumps on the bus with his bag to sell on the other side of the border here in La Parada.

“With scrap metal, what I make in one month in Venezuela, I make in one day here,” he explains, adding that the money goes to help his family eat. He lives with his grandfather who looks after Breiner’s two younger siblings so his salary matters.

He’s been doing this since the start of the year.

“The situation is really difficult,” he says. He can’t vote but it doesn’t stop him having an opinion on his country’s politics.

“No one wants Maduro, he treats people really badly,” he says. “We need a change.”

As the sun starts to set, more and more Venezuelans head back over the bridge, their jobs done for the day. Food purchased, medical appointments met. One passer-by loaded with nappies shouts “what a humiliation”--people having to leave their country to buy basic goods so they can survive.

But even as the afternoon fades, there are still plenty of people still trying to enter Colombia. They’re queuing up along a bright yellow metal fence, like corralled cattle, waiting for their turn to show their documents and be allowed in.

The Bolivarian National Guard--Venezuela’s army--usher them through to the Colombian side. On one fence, there’s a billboard.

“Territory of peace” it reads. But one soldier mutters. He sounds fed up. He may work for the government but he suffers the same as his compatriots. His salary doesn’t stretch and he can’t eat a decent meal.

“I wonder how long I can last here,” he tells me as he too contemplates his escape.

#Venezuela #Venezuelan economy #Venezuelan migrants #Simón Bolívar International Bridge #Venezuela-Colombian border

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green-violin-bow · 7 years

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Hawksmoor, BBC Sherlock and historiographic metafiction

First:

This piece is not of academic quality or rigour. I left university eight years ago; I studied literature in two languages and did well at it. Nevertheless I am no longer in academia and have not written an essay since then. My sources are partial, dependent on what I can get access to through my local library, through academic friends, or what I choose to pay for on JSTOR. I work full-time and have put no time into e.g. referencing (always my least favourite part of essays).

Although I personally hold out hope for unambiguous Johnlock still, I would not class this as a ‘meta’ arguing that it will certainly happen. This is a reading, undertaken for my own satisfaction and interest, jumping off from the inclusion of ‘Hawksmoor’ as a password in one scene of The Six Thatchers. I do not particularly mean to suggest that Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat are deliberately playing with/off literary criticism. They may well be holding two (or more) time periods in tension, however, in a way that I choose to explore through the lens of the literary tools described here. I do not seek to challenge or disprove other fan theories.

I am no television/film studies scholar. There are probably layers and layers of nuance and meaning that I’m missing because I simply have no frame of theoretical reference in that field (and one of the primary ‘texts’ we are talking about here is, after all, a television show). The abundance of television and film references discovered by Sherlock fans have made it clear that the show’s creators deliberately allude to other visual media within modern Sherlock all the time. I believe my approach here is valid because Hawksmoor, a literary text, is pointed to in the show, and because ACD canon itself was a literary text. But I want to flag up this important way in which my analysis is deficient.

I tagged a few people in this but I’m aware this is more of a musing/essay than a traditional ‘meta’ so don’t worry about reading/responding if it’s not your thing!

The Six Thatchers

In The Six Thatchers, Sherlock visits Craig the hacker, to borrow his dog Toby. On the left of our screen (taking up an entire wall of Craig’s house, realistically enough…) are lines of code, in the centre of which is written ‘Hawksmoor17’.

I was interested in finding out more about this. I decided my first port of call would be the ‘detective novel’ Hawksmoor, by Peter Ackroyd.

Peter Ackroyd

Peter Ackroyd is a historian and author, who has written a huge array of fiction and non-fiction, including:

London: The Biography (non-fiction)

Queer City: Gay London from the Romans to the Present Day (non-fiction)

The Last Testament of Oscar Wilde (an imagining of the diary Oscar Wilde might have written in exile in Paris)

Dan Leno and the Limehouse Golem (novel, presenting the diary of a murderer)

Hawksmoor (novel)

In his work London is present, constantly, a character in itself, woven into the very fabric of the story as irrevocably as it is into the mythos of Sherlock Holmes.

Hawksmoor

In brief, Hawksmoor is a postmodern detective story, running in two timelines. Each timeline focuses on a main character: in 1711, the London architect Nicholas Dyer; two hundred and fifty years later, in the 1980s, Nicholas Hawksmoor, a detective, responsible for investigating a series of murders carried out near the churches built by Dyer.

Ackroyd plays with the ‘real history’ of London throughout, muddling and confusing the past with fictional events, with conspiracy and rumour.

There was a real London architect named Nicholas Hawksmoor who worked alongside Christopher Wren in eighteenth-century London to design some of its most famous buildings. He also designed six churches. Ackroyd chooses to change the eighteenth-century architect’s name to Nicholas Dyer, and to make Nicholas Hawksmoor the twentieth-century fictional detective instead – a deliberate muddling together of timelines and of ‘facts’.

Ackroyd had drawn inspiration for Hawksmoor from Iain Sinclair’s poem, ‘Nicholas Hawksmoor: His Churches’ (Lud Heat, 1975). This poem suggests that the architectural design of Hawksmoor’s churches is consistent with him having been a Satanist.

As well as changing the historical figure Hawksmoor’s last name to Dyer, Ackroyd adds a church, ‘Little St Hugh’. Seven, in total.

The architect Dyer writes his own story, in the first person and in eighteenth-century style.

Only in Part Two of the novel does Nicholas Hawksmoor – a fictional detective with a real man’s name – appear, to investigate the three murders that have so far happened in 1980s London. Written in the third person, the reader is nonetheless invited into Hawksmoor’s thoughts, his point of view.

As the novel proceeds, Ackroyd employs literary devices so that the stories – separated, apparently, by so much time – begin to blur. In particular, the architect Dyer and the detective Hawksmoor are linked. For instance, both men experience a kind of loss of self, a “dislocation of identity”, upon staring into a convex mirror (Ahearn, 2000, DOI: 10.1215/0041462X-2000-1001).

The cumulative effect of all the parallels is that the reader starts to lose any sense of temporal separation between the time periods; starts to see Dyer and Hawksmoor as almost the same person; to suspect each of them of being the murderer and the detective at the same time. The parallels between the time periods “escape any effort at organization and create a mental fusion between past and present” so that “fiction and history fuse so thoroughly that an abolition of time, space, and person is […] inflicted on the reader” (Ahearn, 2000).

Importantly, I believe, Hawksmoor again and again “tries to reconstruct the timing of the crimes, but this is from the start impossible” (Ahearn, 2000). This is a rather familiar feeling to Sherlock Holmes fans.

At the end of the book, Dyer and Hawksmoor come together in the church, take hands across time, or perhaps out of time. They become aware of one another. Their perspectives dissolve and seem to merge into one person, into a new style of narration not like either of them: “when he put out his hand and touched him he shuddered. But do not say that he touched him, say that they touched him. And when they looked at the space between them, they wept” (Ackroyd, 1985).

Historiographic metafiction

Hawksmoor is a postmodern detective story. It has been classified by critics as a work of ‘historiographic metafiction’. As a detective story, it lacks the most familiar feature – a detective who is able to sort and order the events and facts, before finally drawing together all the threads to present a coherent, satisfying and plot-hole-free conclusion. In other words, a solution to the mystery.

So what is ‘metafiction’? Waugh defines it as “a term given to fictional writing which self-consciously and systematically draws attention to its status as an artefact in order to pose questions about the relationship between fiction and reality” (1984).

In Hawksmoor, Ackroyd uses a popular literary form (the detective story) to unsettle our understanding of fiction, reality and history. An Agatha Christie detective novel (for example) relies on an accepted, understood structure, where the reader has definite expectations of what the outcome will be; as such, Christie’s novels “provide collective pleasure and release of tension through the comforting total affirmation of accepted stereotypes” (Waugh, 1984). In metafiction, however, there is often no traditionally predictable, neat, satisfying ending: accepted stereotypes are disturbed rather than affirmed. The application of rationality and logic to the clues gets the detective no closer to solving the crime. Readerly expectation (“the triumph of justice and the restoration of order” [Waugh, 1984]) is thwarted.

Hutcheon coined the term ‘historiographic metafiction’, fiction where “narrative representation – fictive and historical – comes under […] subversive scrutiny […] by having its historical and socio-political grounding sit uneasily alongside its self-reflexivity” (Hutcheon, 2002). It is a kind of fiction that explicitly points out the text-dependent nature of what we know as ‘history’: “How do we know the past today? Through its discourses, through its texts – that is, through the traces of its historical events: the archival materials, the documents, the narratives of witnesses…and historians” (Hutcheon, 2002).

Whereas a ‘historical novel’ will present an account of the past which purports to be true, a ‘historiographic metafiction’ has a combination of:

deliberate, self-reflexive foregrounding of the difficulty of telling ‘the whole story’ or ‘the whole truth’ especially due to the limitations of the narrative voice;

internal metadiscourse about language revealing the fictional nature of the text;

an attempt to explain the present by way of the past, simultaneously giving a (partial) account of both;

disturbed chronology in the narrative structure, representing the determining presence of the past in the present;

‘connection’ of the historical period structurally to the novel’s present;

a self-consciously incomplete and provisional account of ‘what really happened’ e.g. via ‘holes’ in the [hi]story which cannot be resolved by either narrator or reader (Widdowson, 2006, DOI: 10.1080/09502360600828984).

The above points are certainly true of Hawksmoor. The reader of Sherlock Holmes will find some of them very familiar – for example, Watson’s self-conscious in-world changing of dates, names and places; and the impossible-to-resolve timeline. The audience of BBC Sherlock will also find these features very recognisable, especially from Series 4 of the programme.

I’d like to examine BBC Sherlock itself as a ‘historiographic metafiction’: a ‘text’ which self-consciously holds the past and present fictional events of Sherlock Holmes’ life in tension, not merely as another adaptation of the source text, but as a way of destabilising the accepted ‘[hi]story’ and mythos of Sherlock Holmes.

The Great Game

The Sherlockian fandom is well-known for its practice of ‘The Great Game’:

“Holmesian Speculation (also known as The Sherlockian game, the Holmesian game, the Great Game or simply the Game) is the practice of expanding upon the original Sherlock Holmes stories by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle by imagining a backstory, history, family or other information for Holmes and Watson, often attempting to resolve anomalies and clarify implied details about Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson. It treats Holmes and Watson as real people and uses aspects of the canonical stories combined with the history of the era of the tales' composition to construct fanciful biographies of the pair.” [x]

There are a number of interesting features about the Great Game. It:

pretends that Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were real people;

ignores or explains away the real author Arthur Conan Doyle’s existence;

attempts to use ‘real’ historical facts (texts…) to resolve gaps in a fictional text;

in turn, produces additional (meta)fictional texts, often presented as ‘fact’ in journals set up for the purpose;

in so doing, adds constantly to the (meta)fictional destabilisation of chronology and holes in the story, as different, competing ‘versions’ are added by a multitude of authors.

The Sherlock Holmes fandom, as it attempts to elucidate ‘what really happened’, only destabilises the original (hi)story further – drawing attention, over and over again, to the gaps and inconsistencies in the original canon tales.

I would argue that the Sherlock fandom has been engaged, for over a century, in an act of collective historiographic metafiction.

The writers of BBC Sherlock are aware of themselves as fans, and of the wider Sherlockian fandom. They paid tribute to Holmesian Speculation in the episode title of Series 1 Episode 3. The title – ‘The Great Game’ – is a signal, an early marker of postmodernity in BBC Sherlock, a sign that the Sherlockian fandom will not be absent from this metafiction.

Implicating the reader/audience

There is an interesting moment in Hawksmoor where Detective Chief Superintendent Nicholas Hawksmoor goes to investigate the murder of a young boy near the church of St-George’s-in-the-East. The body is beside “a partly ruined building which had the words M SE M OF still visible above its entrance” (Ackroyd, 1985).

As Lee says, the “missing letter is "U," ("you") the reader” (1990).

Elsewhere in the book, Hawksmoor receives a note instructing him “DON’T FORGET … THE UNIVERSAL ARCHITECT” alongside a “sketch of a man kneeling with a white disc placed against his right eye” (Ackroyd, 1985).

Lee suggests that this drawing refers to “detective fiction’s transcendental signifier” Sherlock Holmes, and that the “Universal Architect, here, can only be the reader, since it is he or she who is in possession of all the histories: the historically verifiable past, the eighteenth-century text and the text accumulated through reading”. Thus, the reader is “doubly implicated not only as a repository of the past, but also as a co-creator of artifact and artifice” (Lee, 1990). In the Sherlock Holmes fandom, this is more true than in almost any other; co-creators indeed.

The missing ‘U’ in Hawksmoor can be clearly linked to the daubed ‘YOU’ in ‘The Abominable Bride’, a sign that, from that point on, BBC Sherlock will be clearly and mercilessly implicating its audience; putting the Sherlockian fandom back in the story, where it has always belonged. This includes the writers and creators of BBC Sherlock.

I also think there is reason to link the ‘YOU’ daubed on the wall to another piece of graffiti in BBC Sherlock – the yellow smiley face in 221b. An all-seeing, ever-present audience within Sherlock and John’s very home.

It is often repeated that Arthur Conan Doyle only continued to write Sherlock Holmes stories out of financial necessity and due to public demand; that he was bored and exasperated by his creation. The Sherlock Holmes fandom is (possibly apocryphally) known as having worn black armbands in the street in mourning for the fictional detective when Conan Doyle attempted to kill him off in The Final Problem.

The Sherlock Holmes fandom has long been considered importunate and unruly. As Stephen Fry puts it in his foreword to The Case Book of Sherlock Holmes: “Holmes has been bent and twisted into every genre imaginable and unimaginable: graphic novels, manga, science fiction, time travel, erotica, literary novels, animation, horror stories, comic books, gaming and more. Junior Sherlocks, animal Sherlocks, spoofs called Sheer Luck and Schlock; you think it up, and you’ll find it’s been done before. There is no indignity that has not been heaped upon the sage and super-sleuth of Baker Street” (2017).

And yet, with every new adaptation, there is a tendency to regard it as a blank slate, in direct conversation with the canon of Arthur Conan Doyle. There is a tendency to forget the changes that fandom itself has wrought on the figure of Sherlock Holmes – a weight of stereotype and expectation which warps the character to a pre-fit mould in every incarnation. As Fry says, Holmes:

“rises up, higher and higher with each passing decade, untarnished and unequalled. Because, I suppose, we need him, more and more, a figure of authority that is benign, rational, soothing, omniscient, capable and insightful. In a world, and in daily lives, so patently devoid of almost all those marvellous qualities, how welcome that is, and how grateful we are, for its presence in our lives. So grateful, that we won’t really accept that Sherlock Holmes could ever be classed as ‘make believe’. Between fact and fiction is a space where legend dwells. It is where Holmes and Watson will always live” (2017).

This is the traditional understanding of Sherlock Holmes and its fandom, and is highly reminiscent of the voiceover by Mary Morstan in Series 4 Episode 3, ‘The Final Problem’: “I know who you really are. A junkie who solves crimes to get high, and the doctor who never came home from the war. Well, you listen to me: who you really are, it doesn’t matter. It’s all about the legend, the stories, the adventures. There is a last refuge for the desperate, the unloved, the persecuted. There is a final court of appeal for everyone. When life gets too strange, too impossible, too frightening, there is always one last hope. When all else fails, there are two men sitting arguing in a scruffy flat like they’ve always been there, and they always will. The best and wisest men I have ever known – Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson.” [transcript by Ariane Devere]

The conception of Sherlock Holmes as “a figure of authority that is benign, rational, soothing, omniscient, capable and insightful” shows what we, the reader, want: a traditional detective story, with an all-knowing detective, who uses rationality and logic to assess the clues and brings us smoothly, at last, to a solution which reasserts the order of things; where justice is done and society is made safe once again.

BBC Sherlock, however, resists these comforting fictions. The detective unravels, becoming more emotional, more human as the story progresses. Mysteries go unsolved. The narrator gets more unreliable with every episode. Characters inhabit strange states, seemingly alive or dead as the story demands. The ‘rules’ of traditional detective fiction are flouted left, right and centre.

Viewed as a historiographic metafiction, BBC Sherlock aims to hold up the historical text (ACD canon) against the modern one (BBC Sherlock) in such a way as to slough away a century of extra-canonical fan speculation and addition, and give a new reading to canon.

‘Writing back’: re-visionary fiction

I would now like to look at Peter Widdowson’s journal article, ‘Writing back’: Contemporary re-visionary fiction’ (DOI: 10.1080/09502360600828984). He argues that there is a “radically subversive sub-set of contemporary ‘historiographic metafiction’” which, while being “acutely self-conscious about their metafictional intertextuality and dialectical connection with the past”, ‘write back’ to “formative narratives that have been central to the textual construction of dominant historical worldviews”.

Widdowson explains that his term ‘re-visionary’: “deploys a tactical slippage between the verb to revise (from the Latin ‘revisere’: ‘to look at again’) – ‘to examine and correct; to make a new, improved version of; to study anew’; and the verb to re-vision – to see in another light; to re-envision or perceive differently; and thus potentially to recast and re-evaluate (‘the original’)” (2006). He points out that this is closest to Rich’s approach to feminist criticism: “We need to know the writing of the past, and know it differently than we have ever known it; not to pass on a tradition but to break its hold over us” (Rich, 1975).

This act of ‘knowing it differently’ can also be achieved by “the creative act of ‘re-writing’ past fictional texts in order to defamiliarize them and the ways in which they have been conventionally read within the cultural structures of patriarchal and imperial/colonial dominance” (Widdowson, 2006).

Widdowson lays out what he regards as the defining characteristics of re-visionary fiction, first negatively by what it is not:

Re-visionary fiction does not simply take an earlier work as its source for writing;

It is not simply modern adaptation – instead it challenges the source text;

It is not parody – whereas parody takes a pre-existing work and reveals its particular stylistic traits and ideological premises by exaggerating them in order to render it absurd or to satirise the ‘follies of its time’, a re-visionary work seeks to bring into view “those discourses in [the source text] suppressed or obscured by historically naturalising readings. The contemporary version attempts, as it were, to replace the pre-text with itself, at once to negate the pre-text’s cultural power and to ‘correct’ the way we read it in the present” (Widdowson, 2006).

As to what re-visionary fiction is:

First, it challenges the accepted authority of the original. “[S]uch novels invariably ‘write back’ to canonic texts of the English tradition – those classics that retain a high profile of admiration and popularity in our literary heritage – and re-write them ‘against the grain’ (that is, in defamiliarising, and hence unsettling, ways)”. This means that “a hitherto one-way form of written exchange, where the reader could only passively receive the message handed down by a classic text, has now become a two-way correspondence in which the recipient answers or replies to – even answers back to – the version of things as originally delineated. In other words, it represents a challenge to any writing that purports to be ‘telling things as they really are’, and which has been believed and admired over time for doing exactly that.”

Second, it keeps a constant tension between the source and the new text. A re-visionary fiction will “keep the pre-text in clear view, so that the original is not just the invisible ‘source’ of a new modern version but is a constantly invoked intertext for it and is constantly in dialogue with it: the reader, in other words, is forced at all points to recall how the pre-text had it and how the re-vision reinflects this.”

Third, it enables us to read the source text with new eyes, free of established preconceptions. Re-visionary fictions “not only produce a different, autonomous new work by rewriting the original, but also denaturalise that original by exposing the discourses in it which we no longer see because we have perhaps learnt to read it in restricted and conventional ways. That is, they recast the pre-text as itself a ‘new’ text to be read newly – enabling us to ‘see’ a different one to the one we thought we knew as [Sherlock Holmes] – thus arguably releasing them from one type of reading and repossessing them in another.” The new text ‘speaks’ “the unspeakable of the pre-text by very exactly invoking the original and hinting at its silences or fabrications.”

Fourth, it forces the reader to consider the two texts together at all times: “our very consciousness of reading a contemporary version of a past work ensures that such an oscillation takes place, with the reader, as it were, holding the two texts simultaneously in mind. This may cause us to see parallels and contrasts, continuities and discontinuities, between the period of the original text’s production and that of the modern work.”

Fifth, they “alert the reader to the ways past fiction writes its view of things into history, and how unstable such apparently truthful accounts from the past may be”, making clear that the original text, though canon, was also just a text and should not necessarily govern our perceptions and understanding forever.

Sixth, “re-visionary novels almost invariably have a clear cultural-political thrust. That is why the majority of them align themselves with feminist and/or postcolonialist criticism in demanding that past texts’ complicity in oppression – either as subliminally inscribed within them or as an effect of their place and function as canonic icons in cultural politics – be revised and re-visioned as part of the process of restoring a voice, a history and an identity to those hitherto exploited, marginalized and silenced by dominant interests and ideologies.”

That last point, I think, should also apply to queer re-visionings of source texts (and indeed, Widdowson uses the example of Will Self’s Dorian: An Imitation re-visioning Oscar Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray in his article).

We can view BBC Sherlock as a re-visionary fiction which aims to ‘speak’ “the unspeakable of the pre-text by […] hinting at its silences or fabrications.”

BBC Sherlock as re-visionary fiction

Not only does BBC Sherlock have to hold itself up against the original canon of Arthur Conan Doyle; there is also a century of accumulated speculation and creation by an extremely active and resourceful fandom to contend with.

I think that BBC Sherlock asks us to re-vision ACD canon, but has a few sly jabs at the Sherlock Holmes fandom (including the writers themselves) along the way. Let’s look at some concrete examples:

John Watson’s wife:

In BBC Sherlock, the woman we know as Mary Morstan has no fixed identity. Her name is taken from a dead baby; she is not originally British; she is an ex-mercenary and killer; she is variously motherly, friendly and threatening; she shoots Sherlock in the heart – or does she save his life? In Series 4, her characterisation is more unstable than ever. She is a romantic heroine, a ruthless killer, a selfless mother, a consummate actress, a wronged woman, a martyr, an ever-present ghost, and the embodiment of John’s conscience. She is also the manifestation of the Sherlock Holmes fandom’s speculation about John Watson’s wife: did he have one wife, or six? Was she an orphan, or was she at her mother’s? When did she die? How did she die?

Ultimately, however, if you hold BBC Sherlock up against ACD canon, it highlights the fact that so many Sherlockians have tried to compensate for: in order to reconcile the irregularities in Mrs Watson’s story as narrated by Watson, she would need to be a secret agent actively hiding her identity. Examining BBC Sherlock against ACD canon makes us apply Occam’s Razor – the idea that the simplest explanation will always be best. John Watson’s wife was only written into the story because homophobia was so pervasive at the time that ACD was writing that his characters – and by extension he himself – would have been suspected of ‘deviance’ if there had not been a layer of plausible deniability in the shape of a wife.

And there you have it: the central problem of Mary Morstan/Watson, in both ACD canon and BBC Sherlock – she shoots Sherlock in the heart – or does she save his life? Look at ACD canon again. Does Mary Morstan’s engagement to John Watson hurt Sherlock Holmes, to the point that he replies, at the end of SIGN, “For me, …there still remains the cocaine-bottle”? Or does Mary Watson save his life? In the nineteenth century, suspicion of a romance between Sherlock Holmes and John Watson could have meant imprisonment or even hanging; many men suspected or accused of same-sex relationships chose suicide rather than total disgrace. Mary Watson’s presence provides Holmes and Watson with a lifesaving alibi.

Let’s have a look at this against the criteria for a ‘re-visionary fiction’:

Challenges the idea that Watson ‘told things as they really were’ – instead, it introduces the idea that Watson deliberately obscured the facts of his and Holmes’ partnership

Keeps the pre-text Mary Morstan constantly in view – a startling contrast, which rather effectively comments on the position of both women and queer people in the nineteenth and twenty-first centuries

Enables us to abandon our “restricted and conventional ways” of reading the original – if it makes no sense for Mrs Watson to have existed in ACD canon, then the reader must radically reconsider Holmes and Watson’s relationship; no longer ‘just’ a friendship, but a lifetime’s commitment, as close and loving as a marriage. BBC Sherlock encourages this re-visioning by setting Mary up as a rival to Sherlock; by having her attempt to get rid of him; by highlighting that she both kills and saves him. It re-casts Sherlock Holmes as the dominant romance of John Watson’s life, in every version.

It causes us to see parallels and contrasts between the two time periods: the societal homophobia that made Mrs Watson a necessity in ACD canon has largely gone in modern Britain. But BBC Sherlock hints at a profoundly closeted bisexual John Watson who strives after a ‘normal’ wife who “wasn’t meant to be like that”. The continued presence of a Mrs Watson very effectively shows us that societal attitudes are not as profoundly different as we may think.

BBC Sherlock shows us how the existence of a Mrs Watson has been written not only into the [hi]story of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, but into the fabric of society: Sherlock Holmes is a great man, but God forbid he should also be a happy, human man, in a loving relationship with another man. The cultural script has been written: the great figures are either straight, or they are nothing. There is always a wife.

As discussed above, the presence of Mrs Watson is also important politically and culturally. It draws attention to the total lack of agency for nineteenth-century women, and to the restrictive narratives imposed on female characters in today’s culture. It makes terribly clear the extent and dangerousness of the homophobia in nineteenth-century Britain. It highlights the fact that there are still countries today where people are forced to hide their sexualities for fear of being imprisoned or killed.

The Watson baby:

In BBC Sherlock, the woman we know as Mary Morstan is revealed to be pregnant on the Watsons’ wedding day. In ACD canon, Watson never mentions a child from his marriage. In Holmesian speculation, plenty of children have been suggested for Watson, especially since it is often posited that he must have had more than one marriage (that Watson might be infertile is not something the proponents of the ‘Three Continents Watson’ school of thought often like to suggest).

As a re-visionary fiction, then, BBC Sherlock forces us to examine the source text: in a time when reliable contraceptive methods were virtually non-existent, why did John Watson and his wife never have a child?

The options, broadly, are:

Mrs Watson was infertile (if Watson only had one wife)

Watson was infertile (if he had more than one wife)

They didn’t have sex, either due to ignorance (but Watson was a doctor…) or reluctance

Mrs Watson only ‘existed’ because societal homophobia made her a necessity (see above).

John Watson:

In Series 4 of BBC Sherlock, John behaves in an unrecognisable manner: he beats Sherlock bloody, so that his eye is still bloodshot some little time later. This is said to be due to the pain of losing his wife, and the fact that her death is Sherlock’s ‘fault’.

Viewed as re-visionary fiction, as metafiction, BBC Sherlock here satirises the idea of the ‘deutero-Watson’ which has existed since Ronald Knox wrote his Studies in the Literature of Sherlock Holmes. It also, however, critically examines the fact that, in ACD canon, there are (at least) ‘two Watsons’: one, the narrator, seemingly the most reliable and loyal of fellows, straight (in all senses) and true, good in a fight; and a second, the ‘true’ John Watson behind the narration, the man we discern when we look beyond the surface of the tales. A man who is devoted, above all, to Holmes; prepared to adopt Holmes’ habit of ‘compounding a felony’ to follow the idea of justice as opposed to law; prepared, in fact, to break the law if Holmes thinks it right; prepared to abandon his wife at a moment’s notice, when Holmes calls; prepared to alter all kinds of details in his stories to protect their participants. (Also, presumably, a bit of a joke about the accidental ‘dual personality’ that ACD gave his Watson by naming him James and John on different occasions.)

Looking at ACD canon through the lens of BBC Sherlock, the entirely unreliable nature of Watson as a narrator comes to light, but the enduring feature of his stories – his love for, and loyalty to Holmes – provides the obvious answer to why he should be so unreliable. Watson may be ‘two people’, but he lies, he breaks the law, he abandons his wife and his patients for only one person: Holmes.

Ultimately, the reader understands that they have been lied to, because the truth would have been impossible to tell at the time ACD was writing. Famously, the final story in the Sherlock Holmes canon, The Adventure of the Retired Colourman, ends with the words, “some day the true story may be told.”

If BBC Sherlock is seen as re-visionary fiction, Series 4 of the programme becomes a representation of the artificiality of the construct that we think of as BBC Sherlock and – viewed through its lens – ACD canon becomes visible as an equally artificial construct, filtered through the writings of an unreliable narrator and governed by the societal and cultural imperatives and prejudices of its time.

Every trick has been employed in Series 4 to highlight its artificiality: lack of coherent structure, temporal uncertainty, incoherent character arcs, introduction of a deus ex machina character, fluctuations of genre, and members of the crew actually appearing on screen. Just as in Hawksmoor, the ‘case’ of Series 4 defies solution. BBC Sherlock and Hawksmoor are both postmodern detective fictions. We have been told that this is ‘a show about a detective, not a detective show’. The form of the show, like the form of the traditional detective novel, leads us to expect a neat, tidy ending, explained carefully by an all-knowing figure of authority. The makers of BBC Sherlock, however, have done everything they can to pantomime a lack of care for, or understanding of, their own show. They have simultaneously inserted themselves into the story (Mark/Mycroft; giving varying accounts of when/how Series 4 was written; lying and saying that they lie) and withdrawn the ‘grand narrative’, the fiction of the omniscient narrator.

Why?

For over a century, ACD canon has been read in the same way: as the most archetypally logical detective story available to us. The fact that the canon is a huge mess of inconsistencies, requiring the collective effort of thousands of people to pick away at, is typically explained by the idea of an omniscient but uncaring storyteller: Arthur Conan Doyle.

This is particularly ironic for a fandom which supposedly wishes to disavow the existence of an author at all.

And yet, the problem is, if you don’t slip into extra-universe speculations on ACD’s attitude to Sherlock Holmes, you have to face head-on the conclusion that Watson is a very, very unreliable narrator indeed.

And you have to face why.

@devoursjohnlock @garkgatiss @221bloodnun @tjlcisthenewsexy @may-shepard

#sherlock meta #hawksmoor #bbc sherlock #acd canon #historiographic metafiction #postmodern detective fiction #hawksmoor17

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ask-the-chan-family · 6 years

Text

The Adventure of Sherlock Thomas and Dr. Prosecutie Watson

April 3, 1904, once again Dr. Prosecutie Watson and I are stuck yet another sticky situation. After meeting up with our good friend Jacob Wisp at Diamond Dog town, he was able to give us more information about the Diamond Dog that rob the jewelry store, and the location where he usually hangout at. When Jacob Wisp escorted us to the nearby pub, we were able to locate the Diamond Dog we been looking for, and try to come up a plan to ask him some question. When Jacob Wisp was able to get some answers from the Diamond Dog for us, the Diamond Dog already notice Dr. Prosecutie Watson and I from a distance, which force him to call his friends, and fight us. Usually I’m not the type that like to fight very often, I rather use my head then to prove myself with brawl strength, but once you’re dealing with thieves that barely use their mind that much, you really don’t have much a choice. During our engagement with the Diamond Dog and his bar buddies, Jacob Wip was able to knock out a few of them like it was nothing. It a good thing that Jacob gotten use fighting against them, since he usually see a bar fight now and then. Dr. Prosecutie Watson was using his magic to make a shield to protect our young friend Sepian Tone from danger. As for me on the other hooves, I’m doing my best at dodging some of their attacks, while searching for the diamond dog we been searching for. I remember before the fight even started, the Diamond Dog was able to call out his friends to face us, but instead of joining the fight, he was manage to slip through the crowd, and escape somewhere in the pub. While dodging their attacks, I was able to fly over some of the goons, and take a quick look around to see where he ran off to. Before I had the chance to look further, I notice that Dr. Prosecutie Watson, and Sepain Tone side were surrounded by a bunch of goons, and it look like Dr. Watson was running out of energy to keep up the shield. I know I need to search for the culprit, but my priority need to be change and have to head over to help them. I manage to fly over to them, and see what I can do to help them. There was too many of them for me to fight alone, and Jacob Whips was busy facing off a few gryphon that got a hold of him. I use eyes to see if there was anything I could use, and finally notice a set of candle lantern were hanging about where the goons are. I use my brain to come up a simple solution, and fly over to where the rope was holding the candle lanterns. I saw from the distance that Dr. Watson was out of energy and had no choice but to lower the shield down. The goons were happy that the shield was gone and gotten closer to them. Sepian Tone hid behind Dr. Watson, hoping they won’t hurt her. Dr. Watson try conjure a bit of magic to see if he can push back a few of them. Just before they even got a chance to harm them, I was able to call goons out, just to let them know that the great Detective have them fooled. When they look at me for a moment, they didn’t relies that I was loosen a rope that was tie up by the wall, which fly up in the ceiling. The goons had no clue what going on, until one of them look up ceiling and saw the candle lanterns were falling a top of them. Relief that my little planed work, and both Watson, and Sepain were safe. I walk over to them, and see if they were doing alright. Sepian Tone walk towards me and gave me a gratitude hug, thanking me for saving her and Watson. Dr. Prosecutie Watson finally reach up to us, and stand by my side, I was thinking he was going to than me, but gave me one of his could had done something simple lecture. Dr. Prosecutie Watson: Mr. Thomas, you know you sort of cutting that a bit short there. Sepian and I were this close going to get hurt by the goons. Sherlock Thomas: I know Watson, and I apology for cutting a bit short. I was doing my best to calculate a simple solution to save you both by using my brain to knock them out with the candle lanterns from the ceiling. Dr. Prosecutie Watson: well I have to say it was a brilliant idea you did there, but maybe next time do it a little faster. Sherlock Thomas: *he tap Watson on the shoulder* and I’m happy to save you, and young Sepian life. Dr. Prosecutie Watson: …… Sigh, it a good thing we are good friends Mr. Thomas. That all I’m going to say. Sherlock Thomas: indeed we are my dear Watson. Now then, Ms. Tone I presume, I’m a bit curious of why are you doing here, instead with Ms. Notepade we spoken with a little while ago. Sepian Tone: I’m sorry for coming here Mr. Thomas sir, but Ms. Tone assist that I follow you guys, and see if I can gather something for her paper. Dr. Prosecutie Watson: is she crazy to send a young child on a dangerous mission like that. Especially we were heading for Diamond Dog Town. Sepain Tone: I know Ms. Notepad make some bad choice once awhile, but I had dealt with much worse situation before. I’m just glad that you and Sherlock Thomas saved my life. I’m forever in your debt. Sherlock Thomas: we’re happy that you’re safe Ms. Tone, but I’m afraid that we need to hurry and search for the Diamond Dog, before he get the chance to escape. Jacob Wisp: no need to fear Lads and Lassie. Your dear of friend Jacob Wisp is here to save the day. When all of us hear Jacob Wisp, we and notice that he was carrying someone over his shoulder. When Jacob Wisp reach up to us, he drop the person on the floor, and it was our man of honor the Brown Diamond Dog we were looking for. I was impress that Jacob Wisp was able to capture, which Watson and I congratulate him. Sherlock Thomas: excellent work on capturing him Jacob Wisp. Dr. Prosecutie Watson: a splendid job indeed Jacob, we thought for sure that Diamond Dog was going to manage to escape from us for sure. Jacob Wisp: it’s no problem at all you two. When I first saw him trying to escape the pub, I did my best to catch up with him, but a few lads were in the way and I thought for sure I was going to lose. But lucky for me my dear sweet lass Scoria who own the pub was manage to knock him out for me. Dr. Prosecutie Watson: Oh that right! Lady Scoria is the owner of this pub. I guess I see why you come here very often. Jacob Wisp: but of course, my dear Scoria family own this pub for many generation, and she does her best to keep this place running. Sherlock Thomas: you do your best by making sure there is no bar fight, right? Jacob Wisp: *he laugh nervously* well not all of us can be perfect Mr. Thomas. Sherlock Thomas: ….. I guess so. Now then, if we done chatting for a moment, let see if our dear friend here can chat with us for a moment, and tell us a little more about our dear friend Moriarty. Jacob Wisp was able to manage to wake our dear friend from his doggy nap. When the Diamond Dog woke up, he notice that he was surrounded, and had no chance of escaping from us. I notice on his face that he wasn’t happy that he got caught, and started to say some harsh towards us. Diamond Dog: I can’t believe that blimey brawd manage to catch me off guard like that. Jacob Wisp: best watch you said about me girl lad, or you want her to come over her, and show you a true meaning of fear. Diamond Dog: easy mate, I was only kidding about that, you and I both know how dangerous she can be when she mad. Sherlock Thomas: then perhaps it time for you to answers more of our question, or I allow Jacob to call Lady Scoria over, and we allow her to finish the job. Diamond Dog: alright, fine. Go ahead, and ask your stupid question MR. Thomas. Sherlock Thomas: very well then, did you and several of your Diamond Dog friends rob a jewelry store on Wednesday Morning of April 2? Diamond Dog: yes, me and some of me mate were planning to rob the jewelry store on that day. The boss gave us the proper plans of how to rob the place, without causing the alarm to go off. Dr. Prosecutie Watson: that why the place wasn’t damage too much. Usually Diamond Dog cause more damage than planning. Sherlock Thomas: but that Jewelry store still had some still had some priceless jewelry the Diamond Dog could had easily stolen. Tell me why neither you, nor your friends didn’t bother stealing the other jewelry? Diamond Dog: that because the boss order us only to steal certain jewelry. We ask the boss if we can steal some other, but he only care about the one he want, and nothing else. Sherlock Thomas: I see, but we did notice that one or two jewelry were stolen from a display, which I found a trace of your hair. Diamond Dog: ….. That could be anyone hair, you can’t prove that could me mine. Dr. Prosecutie Watson: do you really want to test his skill good sir. Especially he was able to find you here without a problem. Sherlock Thomas: with some help from our friend Jacob Wisp. Jacob Wisp: thank you. Diamond Dog: *he snarl* ok so I did stole a few diamonds from the one the boss doesn’t want. He didn’t pay us very well from that heist, so I had no choice to steal a few, just to make a few extra coins. Sherlock Thomas: figure as much. Your greed is the main reason why we were able to find you very easily. Diamond Dog: oh yeah! How so smart guy? Sherlock Thomas: your boss plan of robbing the jewelry store was very well planned. You and your co-host go inside at the right proper time, and steal the certain jewels that he needed, but thanks to your greedy instinct, you stole some extra jewelry for yourself, which your fur got caught from the display glass, and left it for us to find you. Diamond Dog: ……… Lucky guess. Dr. Prosecutie Watson: not luck good sir, pure skills. Sherlock Thomas: Thank you Watson. Now good sir, since you kept on mention about your boss, care to tell us that this boss of yours is actually Professor Valo Moriarty, or someone else that impersonating him, or someone else that pulling the string? Jacob Wisp: and you best answer him quickly lad, I’m in a mood for another round. Diamond Dog: Ok, don’t try to kill me. Yeah the one that running that heist is Professor Valo Moriarty, and yes he is most definitely alive. When the Diamond Dog said those key words, everyone in the room were silent for a moment. I on the other hand already figure that Moriarty was indeed alive all this time. When you face someone like him your entire career, they never stay silent, until their true mission of crime was satisfied. Dr. Watson was a bit nervous of what the Diamond Dog said and him personally if he was lying. Dr. Prosecutie Watson: you got to be kidding, there is no way for Moriarty to be alive, I was there when Mr. Thomas and Moriarty fought each other, when his castle was caught on fire. Sherlock Thomas was lucky to escape that place with his life. Diamond Dog: *he laugh* well you have no idea how dangerous the boss really is. He may have defeated him that night, but he manage to find able to beat death, and come back for another round. Sherlock Thomas: if he did come back, what is your boss planning? Diamond Dog: don’t know, I was only there for the jewelry heist. The only few people that actually know his true plan are. When he was about to tell us the name, he stop in the middle of his sentence when he felt something strange was happening to him. I notice that he had his paw holding his chest, like someone was hitting on it too much. Then I notice that was coughing a lot, and spitting out some foaming substance from his mouth. We all had no clue what was happing to him, but Watson and I are well aware of what going on. Dr. Prosecutie Watson stand by the Diamond dog side, and see if he can help, but before he could do anything to help him, the Diamond dog was already gone. Everyone were shock to see the Diamond Dog died in front of us, especially young Sepian Tone who not use to see something like that very often. Jacob Wisp was nice enough to stand by her side, and does his best to comfort her. Dotocr Watson and I on the other hooves try to examine the situation, and figure how the Diamond Dog die in front of us. Dr. Prosecutie Watson: I can’t believe the Diamond dog died right in front of us Mr. Thomas, and just when he was going to tell us something important Sherlock Thomas: indeed, it ashamed that the Diamond dog had to die so suddenly, but I’m still surprise that he lived long enough, just before the poison take effect. Dr. Prosecutie Watson: hold on a second Mr. Thomas, are you saying that you knew he was poison? Sherlock Thomas: not at first, but when we were having our conversation with him, I notice a few sign that was out of the ordinary. Dr. Prosecutie Watson: really! Like what for example? Sherlock Thomas: for starter, I notice that his body was starting to sweat a lot. I know Diamond Dog are in the same species as normal dogs, and they don’t have the same ability to sweat from the body. The second thing I also notice that his eyes were becoming a bit more red than usual, At first he must the smoke, but I haven’t smell any type of material for him to do that. Dr. Prosecutie Watson: that right, I did see his eyes were a lot redder than before. But if he was poison, how on earth would poison him, and do it right under our noses. Sherlock Thomas: by my guess, it could be one of Moriarty allied could have done this, but it got to be someone who is an expert that dealt with poison. Dr. Prosecutie Watson: Jacob, do you happen to know someone that dealt with poison? Jacob Wisp: I know a lot of lads that dealt with the stuff, but none of them aren’t even that good of poisoning someone like that. I do know one person that could have the information on the person you seek. Dr. Prosecutie Watson: and who that might be? Sherlock Thomas: I already know who he going to say Watson, and I’m not in the rush of meeting her. Do. Prosecutie Watson: what do you mean by that Mr. Thomas? Jacob Wisp: oh come now Mr. Thomas, you know the lass like you so much, that she been bugging me to ask you in person to pass by her bar for special treatment. Sherlock Thomas: and she already know the same answers I told her before. Dr. Prosecutie Watson: Mr. Thomas, can you please tell me what going on. Who Jacob Wisp is talking about. Sherlock Thomas: ……….. Sigh, Rhetta Stone, that who Jacob was talking about. Do. Prosecutie Watson: Rhetta Stone, as in the Rhetta Stone. One of the most notorious griffin gang leader of London. You actually know her. Jacob Wisp: he more than know her, if you actually catch my drift *he laugh* Sherlock Thomas: Watson didn’t need to know about that Jacob Wisp, but yes, Rhetta Stone and I had some acutance in the past, but that was long time ago, and continue on our own personal life. Dr. Prosecutie Watson: ok then, but it doesn’t sound like Rhetta Stone went on her own life that much, since she still have a crush on you. Sherlock Thomas: which why I want to do my best of not meeting her. WE will find some way to locate Moriarty a different way, like we always do. Dr. Prosecutie Watson: and even if we do Mr. Thomas, we back to square one, and the only person that can lead us to the right direction, is killed by one of Moriarty allies. Sherlock Thomas: true, but we still have that particular riddles that he left behind. If we can solve that riddle about the puzzle cube, we might have an extra edge against him. Speian Tone: oh I just relies something Mr. Thomas sir, I was able to figure out the riddle about the puzzle cube. Sherlock Thomas: brilliant Ms. Tone, I knew I can count on you. Speian Tone: do you want to hear it right now? Sherlock Thomas: not here, it best to tell it at our place, it a lot safer there then here. Dr. Prosecutie Watson: I agree Mr. Thomas, since we had no clue if the coulprit that poison the Diamond Dog, could be hiding in this very pub. Sherlock Thomas: Elementary Dear Watson. Jacob Wisp, you be alright dealing with the body, until Scotland Yard pass by? Jacob Wisp: of course Mr. Thomas, I stay here until the copper pass by here. I tell them what here, including the dead body as well. Sherlock Thomas: excellent, and if you see Inspector Lestrade, just mention my name, and she will deal the rest. Dr. Prosecutie Watson: is it wise that we let him tell Dashie that we were here. You know how she warn us of not getting involved. Sherlock Thomas: true, but right now we have a much bigger case than the jewelry theft. Valo Moriarty is alive, and he is up to something. So we have to be ready for anything. Things have finally gotten very interesting. At first it was going to be a simple case, but after hearing Moriarty was alive, I already know that this going to be the biggest case I ever solved. To be continued. Well that was fun, Valo Moriarty is indeed alive, and they were this close to find out more. Lucky for them that their young friend was able to solved one of the key clue they needed. What clue they going to get, best to stick around to find out more. This story was done for valo-the-pony-drawer Special guest character Prosecutie: @ask-prosecutie Wisp the diamond dog: @ask-wisp-the-diamond-dog Sepian Tone: @ask-postmodernpony

#ask uncle #fan fiction #fan fic writing #Fan Fiction Writing #valo-the-pony-drawer #ask-postmodernpony #ask-wisp-the-diamond-dog #askprosecutie

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