Soph - 40 - Bi - any pronouns are okay, but prefer my name - Yorkshire kid in Edinburgh - massively into Sherlock Holmes and Dead Boy Detectives, SophB_Holmes on AO3 - pfp by @anaa_aart
Illustration for chapter 3 of my BBC Sherlock & Dead Boy Detectives crossover fic A Study in Living. In this chapter, some of the characters from both worlds finally meet.
Lineart of the illustration for chapter 3 of my BBC Sherlock and DBDA crossover A Study in Living. The chapter just went to my beta. In it, characters from both fandoms finally meet.
To celebrate Sherlock’s birthday today, here’s a sneak peek at chapter 3 of my Sherlock & Dead Boy Detectives crossover fic A Study in Living.
John nods darkly. He has a deep-seated loathing of institutions of this kind. “Somehow, the name St. Hilarion’s rings a bell,” he muses. “Haven’t really figured out how exactly. I think I know someone who went there. Don’t remember who, though. Could have been one of my fellow officers, or even someone I met at Med School.”
“My school’s team fenced against St. Hilarion’s a few times,” offers Sherlock, spinning his phone in his large hand absent-mindedly. “I remember attending competitions on their premises.
John’s head whips round to him. “Whoa, Sherlock, what?”
“You heard me.”
“Yeah, but a statement like this demands an explanation. Or several. You fenced at school? Were actually on the team? How come you never mentioned that before?”
“Because it was not important.”
John stares at him. “But were you any good?”
Sherlock gives him a small smile that tells John that he’s actually pretty chuffed. “Quite decent, yes.”
Shaking his head, John grins. “Quite decent meaning bloody good, I bet.”
Sherlock shrugs, ducks his head. “I managed to beat St. Hilarion’s champion one year, even though he was two years my senior. But after that one – rather remarkable – success, I dropped out of the team.”
“Why?”
Sherlock bites his lower lip, gazes out at the statue of Anteros in the middle of Piccadilly Circus as their cab crawls past. He shrugs again. “I wasn’t exactly popular with my teammates,” he says at length. “Or most others at Harrow, really.”
“Meaning you were being bullied?” clarifies John while trying to keep anger out of his voice.
Sherlock sighs, turns to him again. “Of course I was being bulllied,” he returns with some sharpness.
I learned from an early age that happy endings only occur in books and films – never in real life.
“Everyone dies, all hearts are broken,” I told my brother numerous times; trying my best to shield him from the world’s cruelty.
Unfortunately, Sherlock was more influenced by our father than by Mummy. Her analytic and logical brain - which made her an extraordinary mathematician – was quite similar to my own.
“Sentiment is never an advantage, Mycroft,” she used to say, and I wholeheartedly agreed, much to Father’s despair.
Even as a small child Sherlock was fiercely intelligent, but his personality was like our father’s – kindhearted, romantic, and naïve. It made him vulnerable, a target for ruthless people.
After his first year at school, though, I was able to persuade Sherlock to build his defence; an impenetrable wall around his heart. He was ruthlessly bullied by the other children who didn’t understand his brilliant mind. Unlike me, Sherlock was unable to form alliances that could be beneficial for him later in life.
“I just want a friend, Myc,” he cried.
His crying always broke my heart; I hated to see him hurt. Sometimes, when I couldn’t bear it any longer, I held him, rocked him, soothed him, but as he grew older, I tried to prepare him for the future, and indulged no longer. Till this day, he resents me for it.
So, instead of friends, my brother turned to drugs, which let his brain rest or race, depending on the substances he craved.
By then, I was climbing the proverbial ladder to power within the British government, and Sherlock had become adept at avoiding CCTV cameras, both at Cambridge and in London.
Never in my life, had I thought I would be forever indebted to a police officer, but Gregory Lestrade saved Sherlock’s life by offering him a job as a consultant. When my brother appeared at my doorstep, begging for help to get clean, I barely believed my ears.
My brother was clean, and I started to relax, which was a huge mistake. It took me embarrassingly hours to get a hold of John Watson, and by then it was too late. I saw it in my brother’s eyes after the good doctor had shot Jefferson Hope to save Sherlock’s life – he was enrapt. Not that the former soldier was any better; he glowed when Sherlock looked his way.
It was all rather hateful.
So, when Moriarty entered the stage, I knew the end awaited. The deranged Irishman was obsessed with Sherlock, and vice versa; it could only end in misery.
“I will burn the heart out of you,” Jim Moriarty promised Sherlock at the pool.
My own heart constricted painfully when I heard the audio, but for once, I was helpless. The man was unpredictable, highly intelligent, and his associates were situated in every layer of society; keeping track of them was a fulltime job. Time I did not have.
I had just returned to the country from Washington when Sherlock asked for my help again. As I feared, Moriarty had managed to outplay my brother, and Operation Lazarus was set in motion.
It was a bizarre feeling to watch my little brother jump off the roof of St Bartholomew’s Hospital. Despite that I knew he would survive, my pulse was thundering in my ears, and my normally dry palms were damp. I had to avert my eyes from John and his shock and horror, which later emerged into bottomless grief.
“He is my friend.”
Never had I heard a more broken voice, and I sighed when I realised what I had suspected for more than a year was true: John Watson loved my brother. In the romantic capacity. When my thoughts went to my brother’s similar feelings, an excruciating pain set in my chest.
Two weeks later, I got a visitor in my office at the Diogenes Club. Gregory Lestrade looked like I felt – hollow, defeated, and full of regret.
“I should have…come before to…to offer my condolences,” he managed.
“No need, but thank you,” I replied.
I avoided to call him by his name or rank – the latter was after all history at this point, though I assumed it would be rectified in the future. If Sherlock came back.
It astounded me that I wanted to reach out to the detective before he left. Personal and intimate relations were not my forte; I had never wanted, nor longed for them. Apparently, time – or the right person – can change one’s preferences. I would never pursue this, least of all with Gregory Lestrade. He was a married man, and adultery was an appalling act. It didn’t matter that I knew his wife did not share my view on this topic.
Before I went back to the endless emails and reports on my computer, I reinforced the wall around my battered heart. Britain needed me more than ever. I would let Anthea keep an eye on Sherlock and his loved ones from now on. This unhappy ending was the kind I had no desire to be privy to.
The DBDA Digital Coloring Book is now available for download here!
Thank you to the wonderful artists for all their hard work over the past few months. This has been such a fun project and we can’t wait to see people enjoy these pages!
This is completely FREE to download, please do not pay anything for it!
As mentioned earlier, we are currently testing the version formatted for professional printing. Once that is 👌, those files will will benadded and we will make an announcement!
THIS IS A DIGITAL DOWNLOAD. NO PHYSICAL PRODUCT WILL BE MAILED.This item is 100% free! Please do not pay anything for it.Introducing the Dea
All of my four Dead Boy Detectives Letters to Santa (read the full letters on AO3).
There has been demand for more. I’m gonna take a short break to finish my other Christmassy fic I Lay You Down, and then I’ll return to this series. Happy Holidays, folks.
These DBDA Letters to Santa were inspired by this Cameoden for @creamsoda1998
There will be ficlets (the letters) to accompany the drawings. I will post them here as soon as the colour versions of the arts are finished. Will also post them on AO3. The letters are:
“It’s Christmas Eve and we’re not tied up somewhere.”
“Well, John, you’re not entirely untied, are you?”
“Yeah, okay, if you put it that way. But it’s a way of being tied up I approve of for a change.”
“That’s good to hear. Although I have come to suspect that despite all your complaining the previous years, you didn’t entirely mind being tied up with me.”
“Okay, fine. Yes. I admit it had its ... advantages. By the way, think we should help the two ghostly chaps over there? After all, what they did to us last year helped us sort out our shit at last.”
“True, and therefore we should let them hang there for a bit longer to help them in the sorting out department. They don’t look entirely unhappy, do they?”
“How on earth did they end up there in the first place?”
“Tried to catch some sprites and got entangled in the magic-proof fairy lights they strung to ensnare the creatures, apparently.”
“How unfortunate for them.”
“Indeed.”
This is this year’s Christmas Card. Those who have been following me for a while know the drill: if you would like to be sent one, please DM me and do a little charitable thing for your community. Previous card motifs (and accompanying ficlets) can be found here:
Ink lineart for this year’s Sherlock and Dead Boy Detectives Christmas card. For the past seven years, each holiday season I drew a card, wrote a ficlet, printed some cards and sent them to whoever wanted one. Once this year’s card has been coloured, I’ll do the same. If you’d like to receive a card, let me know.
Previous motifs can be found below and their ficlets here: https://khorazir.tumblr.com/tagged/christmas+card
Illustration for chapter 1 of my new Payneland fic Fantasia, the third installment in my Wispy-Verse series. Wispy is the will-o’-the-wisp next to Edwin’s head.
Summary: Sherlock returns to the needle after Mary's death, and his reliance on drugs only worsens after John's beating at Smith's hospital. Perhaps he's beyond saving, this time.
Note: will I ever get tired of exploring Sherlock's mental health during and post S4? NOPE.
My brother Sherlock is not a killer. He hasn’t the temperament for it. I warned him: undercover work requires a heart of ice. His heart is far kinder than mine.
I have been called the Ice Man. Hard-hearted. That’s fair. Winning requires sacrifices. I will never let someone hurt my family.
I understand the hold she had over John Watson. He has the heart of a soldier, both ruthless and kind, loyal and tactical. It’s a paradox: he knew what she was, loved and hated her.
Dutiful husband to the end, he left with the ambulance.
I can't believe that in three weeks December is upon us! This means, that I will finally be able to share my Christmas fic with you. It is utterly self-indulgent this year - no prompts from anyone but myself. What I wanted to achieve was to capture that magical glory - the expectations - the days leading up to to Christmas entail.
The fic is parent!lock and the essence is Rosie's (magical) advent calendar, interspersed with domesticity, Christmas preparations, family dynamics, past history (not all happy - yes, the Fall) and loads of cocoa.
stormborns
izzy806
ellievsbear
annaxmalina
jbbartram-illu
dededos
tangentwithtanner
