#without me realising the correlation until right now as i make this post like 'ah yes that is what the system helps with and is for'

[elibeeline]

Oh thats. Stupid. I found a new trigger from something that shouldn't have been as traumatic as it was

[nightingveilxo]

How Do You Keep Sherlock Holmes Alive? You Make Him A Monster.

“He wasn't busy, he just... sometimes he struggled to fit in. He couldn't switch off, couldn't relax. He just struggled with people, I think. Yet the video... it showed the other side to him. He was rude, yeah. Arrogant. Apparently lacking in anything resembling empathy. But I'd forgotten just how funny he could be. He was so charming. So... human. It's bizarre because most people would say he was the most inhuman person they'd ever met. But he wasn't. He was everything a good person should be.“

TGG

JOHN (switching off the phone): Try and remember there’s a woman here who might die. SHERLOCK: What for? (He looks up at John.) SHERLOCK: This hospital’s full of people dying, Doctor. Why don’t you go and cry by their bedside and see what good it does them? (John looks away in disbelief. Unmoved, Sherlock looks back into the microscope but just then the computer beeps a result.)

SHERLOCK: People have died. JIM: That’s what people DO! (He screams the last word furiously, his personality changing in an instant.)

ASiB

On another occasion, two little girls are sitting together on one of the dining chairs while Sherlock paces in front of the fireplace. LITTLE GIRL: They wouldn’t let us see Granddad when he was dead. Is that ’cause he’d gone to heaven? SHERLOCK: People don’t really go to heaven when they die. They’re taken to a special room and burned. (Like Mary supposedly is in T6T, but Sherlock was supposedly buried after TRF. Odd...) (The two girls look at each other in distress.) JOHN (reprovingly): Sherlock ...

LESTRADE (looking at a bag of evidence): Well, according to the flight details, this man was checked in on board. Inside his coat he’s got a stub from his boarding pass, napkins from the flight, even one of those special biscuits. Here’s his passport stamped in Berlin Airport. So this man should have died in a plane crash in Germany yesterday but instead he’s in a car boot in Southwark. (Like Sherlock in TAB and TLD) JOHN: Lucky escape(!) LESTRADE (to Sherlock): Any ideas? SHERLOCK (examining the man’s hand with his magnifier): Eight, so far. (He straightens up and looks at the body again, then frowns momentarily.) SHERLOCK: Okay, four ideas. (He turns to Lestrade and looks down at the passport and the ticket stub of the passenger, John Coniston, who was meant to be travelling on Flyaway Airways [oh, good invented name, production guys(!)]. Straightening up again, he gazes up into the sky.) SHERLOCK: Maybe two ideas. (The shadow of a passenger jet passes overhead.)

In the street, Sherlock is doubled over with John on his back half–strangling him. John’s face is contorted with pent-up anger and frustration, and Sherlock is struggling to pull his hands off him. SHERLOCK (half-choking): Okay! I think we’re done now, John. JOHN (savagely): You wanna remember, Sherlock: I was a soldier. I killed people. SHERLOCK: You were a doctor! JOHN: I had bad days! (John, chill, son.)

MYCROFT: We’re in a morgue. There’s only so much damage you can do. (Sherlock inhales deeply and then blows the smoke out again.) MYCROFT: How did you know she was dead? SHERLOCK: She had an item in her possession, one she said her life depended on. She chose to give it up. (He takes another drag on his cigarette.) MYCROFT: Where is this item now? (Sherlock looks round at the sound of sobbing. A family of three people is standing on the other side of the doors at the end of the corridor, cuddled together and clearly grieving the death of someone close to them. Sherlock and his brother turn to look at the family.) SHERLOCK: Look at them. They all care so much. Do you ever wonder if there’s something wrong with us? MYCROFT: All lives end. All hearts are broken. (He looks round at his brother.) Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock.

THoB

JOHN: Um, Henry, your parents both died and you were, what, seven years old? (Henry is concentrating on taking his first drag on his cigarette. As he exhales his first lungful, Sherlock stands up and steps closer to him.) HENRY: I know. That ... my ... (He stops as Sherlock leans into the smoke drifting up from the cigarette and from Henry’s mouth and breathes in deeply and noisily through his nose. Having sucked up most of the smoke, he sits down again and breathes out, whining quietly in pleasure.) JOHN (trying hard to ignore him): That must be a ... quite a trauma. Have you ever thought that maybe you invented this story, this ... (Henry has exhaled another lungful of smoke and Sherlock dives in to noisily hoover up the smoke again. John pauses patiently until he sits down again.) JOHN: ... to account for it?

BARRYMORE: You’re one of the conspiracy lot, aren’t you? (He grins as Sherlock rolls his eyes.) BARRYMORE: Well, then, go ahead, seek them out: the monsters, the death rays, the aliens. SHERLOCK (nonchalantly): Have you got any of those? (Now it’s Barrymore’s turn to roll his eyes.) SHERLOCK: Oh, just wondering.

SHERLOCK: The sugar, yes. It’s a simple process of elimination. I saw the hound – saw it as my imagination expected me to see it: a genetically engineered monster. But I knew I couldn’t believe the evidence of my own eyes, so there were seven possible reasons for it, the most possible being narcotics. (Narcotics = monster.)

JOHN: Yes, you said: fear. Sherlock Holmes got scared. You said. (Sherlock catches him up, takes hold of his arm and pulls him round to face him.) SHERLOCK: No-no-no, it was more than that, John. It was doubt. I felt doubt. I’ve always been able to trust my senses, the evidence of my own eyes, until last night. JOHN: You can’t actually believe that you saw some kind of monster. SHERLOCK: No, I can’t believe that. (He grins bitterly for a moment.) But I did see it, so the question is: how? How? JOHN: Yes. Yeah, right, good. So you’ve got something to go on, then? Good luck with that. (Doubt, not fear = monster)

MHR

When we see real doubt begin to take hold. For Sherlock, and John.

TSOT

This is when Mofftiss really starts integrating Rathbone/Bruce versions of the stories into the Sherlock series, and there are items in the box John receives that directly correlate to those versions. Terror By Night, Trains, & Sherlock ( x )

FLASHBACK.  John’s blog entry entitled “The Bloody Guardsman” drifts across the screen for a moment, then fades to a view of Sherlock standing in the living room of 221B looking at his information wall behind the sofa.  He turns to where Mary is sitting at the dining table and John is sitting in his armchair and looking at his phone. [That case was June 29th, but John and Mary’s invitation will read May, the sign at the wedding has no date, and John’s blog entry is in August. x ] SHERLOCK: Need to work on your half of the church, Mary.  Looking a bit thin. MARY (smiling): Ah, orphan’s lot. Friends – that’s all I have.  Lots of friends. (We get a glimpse of the paperwork on the wall and realise that Sherlock is organising the hell out of the wedding.  There is a list of things which need to be done, all of them ticked off, and the wall is divided into areas which are headed, “Transport,” “Catering,” “Rehearsal,” “Wine,” and probably other items too.  On the table beside Mary is a cardboard 3D model of the reception venue.) [Transport, not transportation….] SHERLOCK: Schedule the organ music to begin at precisely 11.48. MARY: But the rehearsal’s not for another two weeks.  Just calm down. SHERLOCK: Calm?  I am calm.  I’m extremely calm. MARY: Let’s get back to the reception, come on. (He walks over to the table.) MARY (handing him an RSVP card): John’s cousin.  Top table? SHERLOCK (looking at the card): Hmm. Hates you. Can’t even bear to think about you. MARY (looking up at him): Seriously? SHERLOCK: Second class post, cheap card … (he sniffs it and grimaces) … bought at a petrol station.  Look at the stamp: three attempts at licking. She’s obviously unconsciously retaining saliva. MARY: Ah.  (Over her shoulder to John) Let’s stick her by the bogs. [Transcriber’s note: ‘bogs’ is a slang word for ‘toilets.’] SHERLOCK: Oh yes. (He sits down.  Mary leans closer to him.) MARY: Who else hates me? (Instantly Sherlock hands her a sheet of paper.  There’s a long list of names on it.) MARY: Oh great – thanks(!) JOHN (looking at his phone): Priceless painting nicked.  Looks interesting. [Same idea as TRF.] MARY (looking at paperwork on the table): Table four … SHERLOCK: Done. JOHN (chuckling at something on his screen): “My husband is three people.” MARY: Table five. SHERLOCK (looking at a list): Major James Sholto.  Who he? MARY: Oh, John’s old commanding officer.  I don’t think he’s coming. JOHN: He’ll be there. MARY: Well, he needs to RSVP, then. JOHN (firmly): He’ll be there. MARY: Mmm … JOHN (reading from his phone): “My husband is three people.”  It’s interesting.  Says he has three distinct patterns of moles on his skin. SHERLOCK (standing up and speaking quick fire): Identical triplets – one in half a million births.  Solved it without leaving the flat.  Now, serviettes. (He squats down beside the coffee table, reaches under it and pulls out a tray with two serviettes folded into different shapes. He gestures to them as he looks up at Mary.) SHERLOCK: Swan, or Sydney Opera House? MARY: Where’d you learn to do that?! SHERLOCK (looking down): Many unexpected skills required in the field of criminal investigation … MARY: Fibbing, Sherlock. SHERLOCK: I once broke an alibi by demonstrating the exact severity of … [The John alibi Post-It note.] MARY: I’m not John.  I can tell when you’re fibbing. SHERLOCK (exasperated): Okay – I learned it on YouTube. [MHR itself] MARY: Opera House, please. (She leans to one side and reaches into her trouser pocket.) MARY: Ooh, hang on.  I’m buzzing. (She takes out her phone and lifts it to her ear.) MARY: Hello? (She listens for a second, then stands up.) MARY: Oh, hi, Beth! (John’s eyes lift from his phone as Mary heads for the kitchen.) MARY (into phone): Yeah, yeah, don’t see why not. JOHN (standing up and looking at Sherlock): Actually, if that’s Beth, it’s probably for me too.  Hang on. (He heads for the kitchen, while Sherlock sits down on the floor cross-legged and facing the coffee table. In the kitchen, John smiles at Mary as he walks closer to her.  They talk quietly.) JOHN: He knows we don’t have a friend called Beth.  He’s gonna figure out that it’s code. [TLD burning up = cipher to be broken] MARY: He’s YouTube-ing serviettes. JOHN: He’s thorough. MARY: He’s terrified. JOHN: ’Course he’s not. MARY: Right, you know when you’re scared of something, you start wishing it sooner just to get it all going?  That’s what he’s doing. JOHN: Why would he be scared that we’re getting married?  It’s not gonna change anything – we’ll still do stuff. MARY: Well, you need to prove it to him.  I told you to find him a new case. JOHN: I’m trying. MARY: You need to run him, okay?  Show him it’s still the good old days. [You mean like a dog, Mary?] (She nods encouragingly to him.  He doesn’t immediately respond, and she nods again and gestures towards the living room.  He looks around, then turns and slowly starts towards the door between the kitchen and the living room.  Mary puts her hands on his back and shoves him forward. Sherlock is still sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the coffee table, his head propped up on one hand.  He briefly looks round at John, then turns back and gestures at what’s in front of him.  There are at least seven serviettes folded in Sydney Opera House shapes on the table, and sixteen or so more on the floor.) SHERLOCK: That just sort of … happened. (He looks round at John again, who frowns but then smiles.  Glancing back into the kitchen for a moment, he walks towards his friend.) JOHN: Sherlock, um … (Sherlock stands up.) JOHN: … mate … (Again he frowns briefly, perhaps wondering if he is overdoing it.) JOHN: I-I’ve … (He walks over to the dining table. Sherlock glances towards the kitchen where Mary can be heard talking as if she’s on a phone call, then they both sit down at the table.) JOHN: I’ve smelled eighteen different perfumes; I’ve sampled … (he stops to think) … nine different slices of cake which all tasted identical; I like the bridesmaids in purple … [TLD ends with cake.] SHERLOCK: Lilac. JOHN: … lilac.  Um, there are no more decisions left to make.  I don’t even understand the decisions that we have made.  I’m faking opinions and it’s exhausting, so please, before she comes back … (He glances towards the kitchen, activates his phone, clears his throat and holds the phone across the table.  The screen is showing Sherlock’s “Science of Deduction” website.) [Which isn’t even used anymore. They were using John’s blog by this point.] JOHN: … pick something. (Sherlock’s eyes flicker down to the screen a couple of times.) JOHN: Anything.  Pick one. SHERLOCK: Pick what? (John blinks a few times and then laughs.) JOHN: A case.  Your Inbox is bursting.  Just … get me out of here. SHERLOCK (leaning closer and speaking quietly): You want to go out on a case?  N-now? JOHN: Please, Sherlock, for me. [Don’t be dead.] (Sherlock takes the phone.) SHERLOCK (quietly): Don’t you worry about a thing. I’ll get you out of this. [Again, alibi.] (He starts to flick through messages on his website.  After only a few seconds he finds something of interest.) SHERLOCK: Oh.

Transcript ( x )

TLD

At MI5, or wherever it is, Mycroft walks into the surveillance room, a grim look on his face.  Lady Smallwood is standing behind the computer desks. LADY SMALLWOOD: We can keep tabs.  You didn’t have to come in. MYCROFT: I was talking to the prime minister. LADY SMALLWOOD: Oh, I see. (Mycroft looks at the screens, and particularly at a camera watching Sherlock walking along a road.) MYCROFT: What’s he doing?  Why’s he just wandering about like a fool? LADY SMALLWOOD: She died, Mycroft.  He’s probably still in shock. MYCROFT: Everybody dies.  It’s the one thing human beings can be relied upon to do.  How can it still come as a surprise to people? LADY SMALLWOOD (turning to him): You sound cross.  Am I going to be taken away by security again? MYCROFT: I have, I think, apologised extensively. LADY SMALLWOOD: You haven’t made it up to me. MYCROFT: And how am I supposed to do that?

FAITH (offscreen): Sex. (Walking with her along Regent Street towards Piccadilly Circus, Sherlock looks round to her.  They are now each carrying a can of energy drink.) SHERLOCK: I’m sorry? FAITH: Sex.  How did you know I wasn’t ... getting any? SHERLOCK: It’s all about the blood. (Close-up of the bloodstain on the paper, which Sherlock now gestures to.) SHERLOCK: This one comes from the very first night.  You can see the pen marks over it.  I think you discovered that pain stimulated your memory, so you tried it again later.  I’m no expert, but I assume that since your lover failed to notice an increasing number of scars over a period of months, that the relationship was no longer intimate. [Pain stimulated your memory. So if this coma, trance, EMP or whatever, this is our queue that Sherlock’s pain is stimulating his memory.] FAITH: How do you know he didn’t notice? SHERLOCK (shrugging): Oh, well, because he would have done something about it. FAITH: Would he? SHERLOCK: Wouldn’t he?  Isn’t that what you people do? FAITH: Well, that’s interesting. SHERLOCK: What is? FAITH: The way you think. SHERLOCK: Superbly? FAITH: Sweetly. SHERLOCK: I’m not sweet; I’m just high.

MARY: So all he needed to do was find the first available lunchtime appointment with a female therapist within cycling distance of your surgery. (While she speaks, John turns his head away and rubs his nose briefly.) MARY: My God, he knows you. (The ambulance drives past the limo.) JOHN: No he doesn’t. MARY (smiling): I’m in your head, John.  You’re disagreeing with yourself. DRIVER: You ready, sir? (John is alone on the back seat.  He turns and looks at the blank space, speaking a little angrily.) JOHN: Yes, I am. (He turns to look into the rear-view mirror where the driver is watching him in the mirror through sunglasses.  The man turns his head away.) MARY (back sitting beside him): He is the cleverest man in the world, but he’s not a monster. JOHN (looking at her): Yeah, he is. MARY: Yeah, okay, all right, he is.  (She mock-shudders.)  Urgh! (She chuckles.) MARY (softly): But he’s our monster. (John turns away again.) In a TV studio, Smith smiles into the camera. SMITH (in a loud whisper): I’m a killer. (Outside the building, a large billboard is being carried away by a couple of people.  The image shows someone – presumably a man but the picture only shows him from the neck down – wearing a suit and tie and holding up a large sharp knife covered with blood.  To the right of the person, text reads: ROWBANK MEDIA A ROWBANK ORIGINAL SERIES ROUGE [in bright red] SERIES PREMIERE 8TH MARCH EXCLUSIVE TO PLAY TV Along the bottom of the poster it reads: ON MARCH 8, THE SECRET WILL BE UNLEASHED

SHERLOCK: I’m at the bottom of a pit and I’m still falling and ... (he shakes his head and clenches his eyes closed) ... I’m never climbing out. (Mrs Hudson turns away sadly and goes back to the kitchen.) SHERLOCK (standing up): I need you to know, John – I need you to see that up here ... (he gestures to his temples with both hands) ... I’ve still got it, so when I tell you that this ... (he walks to the side table to point to the open laptop) ... is the most dangerous, the most despicable human being that I have ever encountered; when I tell you that this-this monster must be ended, please remember where you’re standing, because ... you’re standing exactly where I said you would be two weeks ago. (Grimacing in pain, he slumps into a chair beside the table.) SHERLOCK (more quietly): I’m a mess; I’m in hell; but I am not wrong, not about him. (He points to Smith’s photo on the laptop.) JOHN: So what has all this got to do with me? (Folding his arms, he smiles humourlessly at Sherlock.) SHERLOCK (savagely, still looking at the photo): That creature, that rotting thing, is a living breathing coagulation of human evil, and if the only thing I ever do in this world is drive him out of it, then my life will not have been wasted. (Related to the wet paint discussion, because there is something dead rotting away. Culverton also talks about H.H. Holmes, the man who built a hotel to use as a deathtrap. Because, at this point, there is a bigger monster than Sherlock could ever be.

SMITH: Oh, I don’t know. (He pulls back the sheet on the table to reveal the head and shoulders of the corpse.  There is a Y-shaped cut, sewn up, in the chest.) SMITH: No, I’ve always found ’em quite pliable. (As he says the last word, he reaches out to the body – which we can now see is an elderly woman – and pulls her jaw down with his fingers.) JOHN: Don’t do that. SMITH (staring at the woman intensely): She’s fine.  She’s dead. (He smirks, still holding her jaw down and staring at her misty eyes and stained, misshapen teeth.  He finally releases her jaw.) SMITH: H. H. Holmes loved the dead.  He mass-produced ’em. SHERLOCK (probably for John’s benefit): Serial killer, active during the Chicago Fair. (He walks off and starts wandering around the mortuary.) SMITH (raising his head to look at John): D’you know what he did?  He built a hotel, a special hotel, just to kill people.  You know, with a hanging room, gas chamber, specially adapted furnace.  You know, like Sweeney Todd ... (He reaches out to the dead woman’s jaw and moves her mouth up and down with his fingers while he speaks through clenched teeth as if manipulating a ventriloquist’s dummy.) SMITH: ... without the pies! (He chuckles, releasing her and turning away.) SMITH: Stupid.  So stupid. (Instantly John grabs the sheet and pulls it over the woman’s face.) JOHN: Why stupid? SMITH: Well, all that effort.  You don’t build a beach if you want to hide a pebble; you just find a beach! [Insert the visual of Mycroft’s feet at the pebble beach at Musgrave in TFP] (Sherlock has stopped at the far end of the room and is leaning back against a sink.) SMITH: And if you wanna hide a murder, or wanna hide lots and lots of murders, just find a ... (He pauses for a moment then meets John’s eyes.) SMITH: ... hospital.  x )

TFP

MYCROFT (looking at him): Memories can resurface; wounds can re-open.  The roads we walk have demons beneath ... (he turns his gaze to Sherlock) ... and yours have been waiting for a very long time.  I never bullied you.  I used – at discrete intervals – potential trigger words to update myself as to your mental condition.  I was looking after you. SHERLOCK (softly, intensely): Why can’t I remember her? (Mycroft pauses for a moment, glancing in John’s direction but not looking at him.) MYCROFT: This is a private matter. SHERLOCK: John stays. (John had been about to get up but now looks across to Sherlock, surprised.  Mycroft leans forward in his chair.) MYCROFT (in a harsh whisper): This is family. SHERLOCK (loudly, firmly): That’s why he stays. (The brothers lock eyes for a long moment.  John smiles and lowers his head. Eventually Mycroft sits back.  John clears his throat.) JOHN: So there were three Holmes kids. (He pulls the lid off his pen and re-opens his notebook.) JOHN: What was the age gap? MYCROFT: Seven years between myself and Sherlock; one year between Sherlock and Eurus. (Capable of reprogramming people since age 5.)

MYCROFT: Musgrave. (Sherlock and John stand either side of him a few paces behind him.) MYCROFT: The ancestral home, where there was always honey for tea. (Not sugar or coffee)

MYCROFT: After that, our sister had to be taken away. SHERLOCK: Where? MYCROFT: Oh, some suitable place – or so everyone thought.  Not suitable enough, however.  She died there. JOHN: How? MYCROFT: She started another fire, one which she did not survive. SHERLOCK (firmly): This is a lie. (John looks towards Mycroft, who hesitates only for a moment.) MYCROFT: Yes.  It is also a kindness.  This is the story I told our parents to spare them further pain, and to account for the absence of an identifiable body. (Supposedly why Mummy and Daddy never said anything else or ever showed photos of Eurus? Pfft)

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