A candle (šromanceš); an offer (YES); a party (is it my birthday?) The future begins (with a dance).
It's been such a pleasure to revisit John and Sherlock in this universe, and to have you along for the journey. Thank you for reading, thank you for your comments š
āIād like to make a confession,ā the old man said. āNot because Iām religious, but because in everyone there is something that wants unburdening. There are things I have kept to myself which I would like you to know. As you are one of the youngest men Scotland Yard has promoted to Inspector, I think you might benefit from my experience. And I would ask you not to reveal what I say to anyone else.ā
āOf course,ā said his companion. āYou can trust me.ā
āThank you,ā he said, and began his tale. āWhen I was a young man, I went into the priesthood, not because I wanted to give my life to God. In fact, I was quite certain that God did not exist. For me, however, there seemed to be no place in lifeā no calling which let me exercise my deductive talents. From a manās fingers and boots and the knees of his trousers I could tell his profession and see how life had disappointed him. From a womanās shoes and shirtsleeves and jewellery I could tell what she did to earn money and whether or not she loved someone. If anyone had asked me how I knew this, I could have explained the observations that led me there. Most people, however, regarded my deductions as impertinent and a bit mad. So I became a priest and looked into menās souls, uncertain whether I had a soul or not.Ā
āOne night a man came to me for confession, and his voice told me that he was a murderer. It had been a long time since he had killed, but now he was dying and wished to confess what he had done.Ā
āHe had committed the perfect murder, he said, and knew it was perfect because heād never been caught. His cancer was a slow form that would give him another few years. He did not reveal any details of his crime, but said that no one had even realised that the death was a murder. He chose a person he had never met, and had no reason for killing them other than to see if anyone would notice. The victim was too young to have died of natural causes. Nevertheless, a natural cause was assumed. The family accepted this unsatisfactory reasoning and let it go. Ā
āThat is what the dying man confessed to me. He gave me no name, no date, no explanation of his method. Though I had many questions, I mumbled the words of absolution, and he left.
āThis event changed my life. I began to look at unsolved murders, mysterious deaths of past years. I devoted my life to solving as many as I could, and was remarkably successfulā so successful that I left the priesthood and became a detective. At first I worked with Scotland Yard, solving cold cases. Eventually, word of my successes spread, and I took on clients as a private detective. Solving crimes, finding murderers, restoring justice for victimsā to these I have devoted my life.ā
āIt has been a remarkable life,ā said his companion. āYou truly found your calling, I believe. Did you ever solve the case that started you off, the perfect murder, as you called it?ā
āI donāt know,ā he replied. āI solved many murders in my career, unlocked many mysteries that no one else noticed. Perhaps I did solve it. There really is no way to know, is there?
āBut here is what I wish to confess to you, my boy. I became obsessed, wondering whether there truly could be an unsolvable crime. It must obviously be a murder, but without any suspects, no weapon, and no opportunity for it to have happened. For many years I planned it, and at last I believed Iād invented the perfect crime. And so it was.ā
āYouā murdered a man? Just to see if you would be caught?ā
āI was unsatisfied, not knowing whether the man who confessed to me was telling the truth. Since I did not know if Iād solved the murder he committed, I had to try it myself. As far as I can tell, I have succeeded.ā
āWhy are you telling me this?ā asked the younger man, distraught. āI am no priest!ā
āI am telling you because you have a mind that seeks answers. Just as I did, you will try to find this murder and solve it. The idea of it will haunt you, as it haunted me. Is there a perfect murder? Is there a way to snatch a soul while life goes on around the deed, oblivious? My own death, which will happen eventually, will be so much more gratifying, knowing that another carries on after I am gone. This is my legacy to you.ā
āBut, Mr Holmesā surely, you canāt mean that youāve killed a man for nothing! Youāve spent your life working for justiceāā The young man struggled for words, then fell silent under the keen gaze of the old man.
āSo kind of you to visit me in my retirement,ā the detective said. āThank you, Mr Hopkins. I wish you a long, successful career.ā
Once the inspector was gone, Holmes chuckled. āYou have a great gift of silence, Watson. I had expected to you give the game away before I had my tale told.ā
Watson puffed on his pipe for a moment. āMy dear man, even after knowing you for so many years, your ability to tell a boldfaced lie still astonishes me. Why did you tell young Hopkins all that balderdash?ā
āHeās a good policeman, and has potential to be the best, but heās not very skeptical. If he now looks at every case as the perfect murder, he will be more attentive and less inclined to accept easy answers.ā
āArenāt you worried that he may decide to try his own hand at murder?ā
āThat boy? Not at all! Lestrade says he almost became a priest.ā
Watson laughed. āAnd so did you, according to the tale you just told.ā
āOh, that part was true,ā Holmes returned. āI went to seminary before I studied chemistry at Cambridge.ā
Watson sat up, leaned forward. āHolmes, please donāt tell me you murdered someone just to see if you couldāā
āMy dear Watson, you know meā do you really believe me a murderer?ā
āOf course not. Though if you had turned your talents in that direction, I believe you could have gotten away with it. Thank heavens you did not! But tell me, did you ever find out the identity of the man who confessed that night?ā
āHere is the truth, Watson: it was not to me that he confessed. I was a student, remember, not an ordained priest. The priest who heard the confession was so unnerved that he told me, in confidence. He also told me the name of the man. I had already decided to leave the priesthood at that point, and knowing my talent for deduction, he said that I must look into the manās history.ā
āAnd you did, I presume.ā
āIndeed. He survived cancer and went on to have a long and deadly criminal career.ā
āYou eventually caught him, I presume.ā
Holmes lit his pipe again and puffed until a cloud of blue-grey smoke surrounded his head. āWe caught one another, Watson, at Reichenbach.ā
He waited, watching his friendās face to see this fact settle.Ā
Watson nodded. āAh, yes. Moriarty.āĀ
āBut you already knew that part,ā Holmes added. āAnd now you know the rest of the story.ā
Once when I was in undergrad, someone described something as āproblematicā in class and our professor was like, āThatās cool, but āproblematicā doesnāt really mean anything. It means that the thing youāre describing has a problem, and in and of itself thatās not bad. Art, especially, should always have problems, or else itās not interesting and not art, either. It sounds like youāre trying to say that this is bad, but you donāt want to say ābad.ā Is that right?ā
So from then on whenever one of us called something problematic, he would make us talk it out until we could name the ābadā thing we were hinting at. In this particular class, 7/10 it was some type of oppression, and the remainder was like, āIām uncomfortable because this is very new/confusing/pushing boundaries that made me feel safe.ā
Once we stopped calling things āproblematicā and stopping at that, class got way more interesting and... we all had to say, like, āthatās racistā or āthatās misogynisticā or āew capitalism grossā out loud, which a lot of us had never done in a classroom before. Or we had to be like, āUhhh... Iām not sure whatās so bad?ā and confront our own beliefs and that was maybe even more useful.
Anyway. Whenever I see the word problematic, I canāt help but think of this professor being like, āGood starting point, now letās get specific.ā I think when we have to commit to saying āthatās ___ā it requires a lot more careful thought about the truth and impact and complexities of whatever weāre claiming. Sometimes there really is some bullshit afoot, and also sometimes itās art, and it should be full of problems, because thatās what art is.
It is extremely disturbing. He canāt recall the last time he lost himself in here. In his own Mind Palace, no less. How did this happen? And where is the exit sign? The one reading: 221B Baker Street.
He finds many signs on his walk through the corridors but theyāre all wrong. They are pointing at the rooms, the nooks, the cabinets, the books, the floorboards; in short, everything. But not the exit to his physical home.
Sherlock is rarely frightened. Not anymore. Not since John moved into his flat. The feeling of fear courses through his body now, though. His claustrophobia ā the mania he hasnāt felt in years ā has made a dramatic appearance, making his skin crawl uncomfortably.
āI need to find the exit,ā he mutters to himself over and over, like a mantra.
Sherlock almost weeps with relief when Mind Palace John magically appears in the hallway outside the library.
āJohn,ā he whispers reverently.
āFancy meeting you here,ā John quips, mirth visible in all his features.
Sherlock wants to kiss him but thatās not allowed. John is his friend, nothing else. He is as heterosexual as Sherlock is homosexual. Not a great match, that.
When Sherlock decides to ask John for the way out, John has vanished. The space he recently occupied still radiates a warm glow.
***
Sherlock wonders how long heās been trapped. He canāt even recall why he entered in the first place. Was it to search for something, or was it to escape his own living room? He never leaves - at least unnecessarily - to his Mind Palace if John is present, but perhaps he went out on a date again. If Sherlock isn't playing the violin or performing an experiment to stave off the tedium of John's absence, he tends to walk through this place for a while. The fact that he canāt remember the reason for coming here, is unsettling.
Mycroft has of course taught him everything about the comings and goings, but Sherlock canāt remember if he ever mentioned how to escape his own head if he got stuck. Most likely, it didnāt occur to his brother that it was an option. Mycroft has always had better control of his emotions than Sherlock. He will obviously deny this to his dying day, but inside his mind he can afford to be gracious.
āAre you still here? Iām waiting for you, you know. Thereās tea and biscuits.ā
John has returned, but he disappears faster than Sherlock can respond.
***
At the end of the corridor is a green sign, which Sherlock supposes is the one heās been searching for, but when he walks toward it, the sign transforms into a painting.Ā
The Reichenbach Falls.
It had been a gift fromā¦ a client? Or was it some politician? An insignificant detail at this point, obviously.Ā
The painting gives him the shills; an expression John would use. It is ominous and if he concentrates, he can hear the sound of the grand waterfall.
āJohn? Where are you?ā
Why hasnāt he thought of calling out for the man earlier?
Sherlock contemplates that he might be drugged. Perhaps he isnāt ā
āYou called,ā John says calmly, suddenly standing beside him.
āI did. Thank you for coming. Iā¦ I canātā¦ā
Sherlock is slightly embarrassed to admit that heās adrift in his own head.Ā
āLost, are you?ā
āYes,ā Sherlock whispers.
To his horror, he feels a burning sensation in his eyes.
A warm hand slides into his, and the words ācome onā are uttered.Ā
Is John holding his hand?Ā
Sherlock looks down and sees that they are indeed holding hands. However, this is Mind Palace John, a fictional version of his friend, not the real one.
āHere we are,ā John says softly.
They stand before a door which opens a crack. Scents of tea, gingernuts, leather, books, and dust invade Sherlockās nostrils. Thereās also the unmistakable and unique smell that belongs to the man whoās sitting in his chair sipping tea from his RAMC mug ā John. The real John. His John.
***
āYouāre back,ā John says with evident relief and warmth.
Sherlock blinks and nods; his voice seems to be out of order at the moment.
āCome sit. Thereās tea and your favourite biscuits,ā John coaxes.
Sherlock stands from the sofa and walks over to his chair.
āDid you finish cataloguing?ā John asks.
The look on his face is different somehow. More open, fond, andā¦ something else Sherlock is unable to deduce.
Tea first, then āĀ
āYou donāt remember, do you?ā
Johnās voice is sad all of a sudden.
āWhat?ā
āWhy you retreated to your Mind Palace,ā John explains.
His voice is still āĀ
āOh!ā
Images of John cupping his face, kissing him softly on the lips, telling Sherlock that heā¦ loves him.
āOh,ā he repeats.
āRight,ā John sighs, āthat didnāt go according to plan, I see.ā
āJohn.ā
His words elude him, and John seems unable to decipher what Sherlock is trying to convey.Ā
Action, Holmes.
He steps closer to Johnās chair, pries the mug out of his hands, and curls up in Johnās lap, mirroring the army doctorās ministrations from earlier.
āI love you too,ā Sherlock whispers after glorious minutes of kissing.
āThank God! I thought Iād scared you away,ā John exclaims, so relieved it nearly breaks Sherlockās heart.
āNever!ā Sherlock says emphatically.
āWhat took you so long, then?ā
āI couldnāt find the correct sign, but then I called out for you. The other you, and he led me back.ā
āClever guy that one.ā
āMost definitely no idiot.ā
āHigh praise, love.ā
Sherlock hides his blushing face in the crook of Johnās neck and wonders if he will ever get used to being called āloveā.Ā
He doesnāt say it out loud, but apparently John knows him too well.
āI will repeat it until you believe it, but I willĀ neverĀ stop,ā John assures him, and that is the best answer Sherlock has ever got in his life.
with as much gentle encouragement as possible: fandom is a verb. if you want people to engage with you / your art, engage with theirs too. reblogging fanworks is a large part of that on tumblr. and above all itās fun
Hi! Itās been really exciting to see all the takes on proper beta reader etiquette- I feel like beta readers have fallen out of fashion recently and itās good to know that people are still interested.
I was wondering if itās possible to be a beta reader without being a published fic author. I love reading fanfic and editing peopleās writing (mostly grammar, sentence structure, etc.) but I havenāt published anything myself. Iām sure most people looking for a beta reader would prefer to read something that the reader has written to make sure styles and such align, but would any writers be open to a beta reader with no published works?
Of course you can beta read without being a writer yourself! You still have thoughts and opinions that can be shared. And as we've discussed, there are many types of betas:
grammar and spelling checkers
canon compliance checkers
characterization checkers
localization and translation help
consistency and logical flow help
reading for sensitivity to marginalized or underrepresented groups
assisting with AO3 tags and summary
cheer reading (being an enthusiastic reader to motivate the author to keep going)
Betas are often a rare resource in fandom - especially now when they aren't talked about as much. Putting yourself out there as a volunteer would be appreciated. I'm sure of it!
noliarus: If youāre still taking requests, would it be too much to ask for Sherlock confronting John about how heās made of kittens? ; u ;
and sherlock never solved another case
he was too busy buying milk and making tiny jumpers for cat watsons
comedymakestheworldturn: please draw Sherlock being followed and fussed over by loads of cats! I donāt know why, but I always imagine Sherlock being oddly attractive to catsā¦
the post where john watson is a collective consciousness of cats = OVER FOREVER
Captain John Watson stumbles into an arrangement with Major James Sholto. In a warzone, it canāt mean anything.
There are rules.
John learns them.
He becomes exemplary.
Inspired by the fabulous @dragonnan's Blood and Romance (included by permission)
*
Too old for this: my first half-thought as I flail and thrash my way back to consciousness. Iām underwater, aching to breathe, but Iāll die if I do; but it isnāt cold enough, Iām not wet, where the hell I hurt all over and somethingās wrong, itās dark where is Sherlock
If Iām not under water, I can breathe; I open my lips a hair and no water floods in, so I take a careful breath and itās air. Not sweet, God no, tastes like mould and sewage, but definitely air, and shakily I suck it in.
I blink and try to focus but canāt see anything. Where the hell am I, and where is Sherlock? Thereāa second complete thought, even if itās just the ragged scraps from before stringing together into sense, thatās got to be a good sign.
Okay. Okay. Stop, where am I. Listen.
In a silence so loud, a darkness so complete, I can hear my racing heartbeat even over my ragged pantingābut nothing else, not close by. I canāt breathe through my nose at all. I try to shift to generate some sound, get some idea at least of what kind of surface Iām near or on. Take stock: everything hurts but I canāt tell from what, I canāt gather any sensory data to extrapolate anything from. (Sherlock would say, deduce. Iām not Sherlock. Heād know what to do to get some clarity here; Iām just starting to panic.)
finish reading on AO3
*
A Thousand Words: A picture's proverbially worth a thousand words and often inspires them, though the words may be many more or many fewer, as the Muse decides. Each chapter is a one-shot, inspired (so far) by @kettykika78, @justanobsessedpan, @stephdrawsjohnlock, @bluebellofbakerstreet, @petite-madame, and now dragonnan: more to come.
Thank you to all the artists who do fanworks: you are a Ā constant inspiration. And to the betas (@copperplatebeech for this ficlet) you are a godsend. And to the readers: we wouldn't be posting our stories without you.
Thanks for reblogging! Let me know whether to tag or untag you.
A bit of Heaven and Hell, and a new addition to the Words, Words, Words series:
Panacea
@chriscalledmesweetie
@totallysilvergirl
@scrub456
@imnova
@calaisreno
@almosttomorocco
@peanitbear
@raina-at
āBecause the truth is, tech doesnāt have an image problem. It doesnāt have a message problem. It has an intention problem. Whatās wrong with the axe murderer who broke into my house is not that he hasnāt successfully persuaded me to buy into his narrative. Whatās wrong is that heās trying to kill me with an axe. Similarly, when you launch a product thatās designed to put millions of people out of work, block access to sources of verifiable truth, replace human creativity with slop, and lower the barriers to every sort of atrocity, the problem isnāt that you havenāt told the public a good story about those things. The problem is that you are trying to do them.ā
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Characters: John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, Harry Watson, Mrs. Hudson (Sherlock Holmes), Rosamund Mary āRosieā Watson, John Watsonās Family
Additional Tags: Minor Character Death, Coming Out, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Post-Season/Series 04, Confused John, Supportive Sherlock, complicated feelings, Donāt Post To Another Site
Series: Part 10 of Just Johnlock
Summary:
Even Sherlock Holmes is human enough to know that love is more than the things that bind us; itās the things that set us free. John doesnāt need to ask, he only needs to say it.
taking the threshold of adulthood as 18, you are likely to spend at least 52 years as a fully grown adult
at the age of 30 you have lived less than one quarter of your adult life (12/52 years)
'middle age' is typically considered to be between 45-65
it is extremely common to switch careers, start new relationships, emigrate, go to college for the first or second time, or make other life-changing decisions in middle age
it's wild that I even have to spell it out, but older adults (60+) still have social lives and hobbies and interests.
you can still date when you get old. you can still fuck. you can still learn new skills, be fashionable, be competitive. you can still gossip, you can still travel, you can still read. you can still transition. you can still come out.
young doesn't mean peaked. you're inexperienced in your 20s! you're still learning and practicing! you're developing social skills and muscle memory that will last decades!
there are a million things to do in the world, and they don't vanish overnight because an imaginary number gets too big
I put off writing this for the last twelve hours, but I have no choice now, and I can't sugarcoat it. I was braced to move into my car indefinitely tomorrow, with my plan to park at various McD's, Dunkin's, and the Barnes & Noble in town, hanging out inside so I could have bathroom and electricity access, to keep my phone charged. Had a wee errand to run today, but my car wouldn't start. Long story short? I can't move my car anywhere now because the alternator died. Estimates for replacement & labor are $500-$1,000. So basically, I'm screwed.
I got two nights grace from a relative who can't really afford it, to allow me a couple nights more in a room before I'm out on the street. There's no way I can live in my non-working car in the motel parking lot. To try to walk to the nearest public restroom as needed is out of the question with my heart condition, let alone the heat. I'm nearly out of time and nearly out of hope. So here I am again, begging for the kindness of strangers--honestly, I'm so worn down by the Struggle to Survive, there are moments I just want to lay down, fall asleep, and not wake up.
Hey, but don't worry, I could never take my own life. First, because as I'm sure I've mentioned, I'm the most stubborn b*tch that you might ever meet. And more importantly, there's this quote that has stuck with me my whole life since reading it in my teens, from Samwise Gamgee in The Two Towers:
"...but where there's life, there's hope..."
Yeah, a Hobbit's wisdom. Tolkien's wisdom. Keeping me hanging on by a silver thread.
Anyway, if anyone can help, I'm setting the goal at $600, fingers crossed the job can get done, and soon, for less. Amen, Lord. AMEN. And bless anyone that answers this plea!
$0/$600
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