Always my pleasure to be first to read your wonderful fic, and I feel I should be paying you, this has so many of my favorite things. *sends you a virtual pound of See’s chocolates*
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
It’s been a while, but I’ve finally written something new (well, same old theme, new thing!) Set between TEH and TSoT, it’s based on a prompt I received from @juldooz, back in the dim mists of time. So thank you @juldooz , and hope this isn’t too wildly off the mark!
Thanks, too, to @geekmama, for continuing to be a brilliant beta and a great encouragement. If you like a particular sentence, guaranteed she helped me to make it better.
Okay, prepare for mutual pining, awkward flirting, banter, bucket-loads of UST, and the closest thing I’ll probably ever write to casefic!
Here we are again folks, number 8! This time we’re continuing on from last week’s interview with a bit of role reversal, @ellis-hendricks posing questions to her friend and beta @geekmama, chatting about Brit-picking, bad writing habits, favourite authors, and, most importantly, which of Sherlock’s shirts does it for her.
But starting off with a recap of last week’s intro…
We are, respectively, a Californian and a Geordie, and we got to know each other through reading and reviewing each other’s fics (geekmama’s ‘Time of the Season’ series was one of the first fics I read and loved). Geekmama has been writing in the fandom for around 3 years, and I’ve been doing the same for around 2 years, spurred on by the end of series 4 (and the ILY scene in particular). We started beta-reading each other’s work around a year ago, and are always discovering new and unexpected words and phrases that don’t translate across the pond! Although we’ve used the same set of questions for these interviews, we haven’t seen each other’s answers – so it does mean that if nobody else is interested, at least we will be!
Series
ellis-hendricks: Was there a particular moment in the series that set the ship sailing for you?
Reblogging this so I can reply to @ellis-hendricks -- so happy we were of one mind re: the kitchen/Molly’s place. I found it very weird that they didn’t bother creating a space that reflected her personality, more, when they take such extraordinary care with 221B.
ETA: @writingwife-83, I know, right? Obviously it can be done with pen and paper (or a typewriter), and I truly admire the kind of skill and linear thinking that requires. But I know professional writers hailed the advent of word processing devices when they first appeared on the market (I still remember a particular piece by L.A. Times columnist Jack Smith that was written in this vein), and I believe the vast majority of writers, both amateur and professional, now take for granted the ease and flexibility of computer-aided writing.
It was Sherlock’s worst nightmare -- or so he claimed...
A little gift for @ellis-hendricks for Mothers Day, or ‘Mothering Day’, which was today in the UK (the Wikipedia entry on this is quite interesting), so it’s unbetaed - please forgive any errors. Domestic fluff, with references to real life issues. God bless all you mothers out there!
“You’ve what?” Sherlock exclaimed, staring at the wife of his bosom as though she’d taken leave of her senses -- as indeed she had, if he had heard her correctly.
Molly stood her ground. “I’ve already made the reservation. Lunch at The Goring with your mum and mine, and Alicia Smallwood -- Mycroft has already confirmed they’ll be there -- followed by champagne and Simnel Cake here at home -- I’m going to do the cake myself, I’ve always wanted to try making that one. And I’ve invited John and Rosie, too. We’ll have a special toast to Mary.”
“We’re bringing the children to The Goring? And you can’t have champagne, in case you’ve forgotten,” he almost sneered, gesturing toward the considerable swell of her abdomen, where their second son currently resided. “You’re bloody eight months gone!”
She flushed, but replied evenly, “I can have sparkling cider with Rosie and Will. And you know how well-behaved they’ve been when we take them to restaurants. They’ll be fine!”
“At The Goring? The Queen lunches there! This is ridiculous!” But he saw that, once again, he was blundering into Not Good territory. Her confidence wavered visibly, her eyes becoming suspiciously bright, and not in a good way. Backtracking, he said firmly, but in a more moderate tone, “Molly, it’s too much. You should be recruiting your strength, not spending extra hours on your feet to make a damned cake!”
“What you mean is it’s not what you would like,” she said, a tiny quiver in her voice.
He sighed with a roll of his eyes, exasperated, yet well aware that he was losing this battle. He got in one more jab: “You knew I wouldn’t like it, else you’d’ve--” But her lip trembled, and he gave it up. “For God’s sake, don’t cry!”
“I’m not crying,” she asserted, even as she swiped at a tear that had spilled over to slip down her cheek.
Swearing under his breath, he took her by the wrist and pulled her over to the sofa.
Happily, they’d just put Will down for his nap. It took considerable time to soothe her, tenderly drying her tears and offering (mostly sincere) apologies for allowing his beastly selfishness to get the better of him. And after that, what with cuddling, tender kisses, and a fortuitous third-trimester mood swing, there ensued a really stellar interlude, one that went a long way toward reconciling him to Molly’s subterfuge, and even to the nightmarish prospect that loomed before him.
*
Sherlock had barely closed the door on the last of their guests when Molly piped up with an I told you so!
“There! I thought it went off beautifully,” she said, a lurking twinkle in her eye. “Would you like another sliver of cake?”
“Make it a big sliver,” he said, genially, but when she turned to go into the kitchen he was inspired to give her a light but nevertheless stinging smack on the arse.
She yelped in surprise and whirled to face him. “What was that for?” Her tone was resentful, but the laughter and shame in her eyes, and her flushed cheeks, told their own tale.
“You know what it was for,” he said, pulling her just a little roughly into his arms (as best he could, at least, with young Jon between them). He slid one hand down to caress her exquisite, and really only mildly abused backside (though a modicum of guilt still flayed his soul), and said, “Next time I’d like to be included in the planning of the event, if you please.”
Her cheeks grew pinker. “But you would have told me No! And I wanted this. We don’t know how much longer our mothers will be with us. Mrs. Hudson, too. I’m so glad she could join us. And Greg.”
“Mmm.” Greg’s mother had passed the previous year. And Molly was right. One never knew. So he said to her, more seriously, “I won’t say No next time. Alright?”
“You won’t?” She eyed him dubiously.
“It’ll either be Maybe or Yes.”
“It had better be Yes!” she said --
And gave his own backside a firm pinch.
“Vixen!” he growled, and kissed her. She was laughing beneath it at first, then hummed with pleasure, her hands beginning to roam provocatively. He followed suit -- there was, indeed, something to be said for trust and hard-won knowledge -- and he had just begun to ruche up the back of her skirt when a distant but familiar cry came to their ears and they froze.
Will, who’d gone down for a nap on their return from the restaurant, was apparently awake.
Sherlock sighed, “I’ll get him,” and reluctantly released his delectable armful of wife.
“I’ll cut you a slice of cake,” Molly replied -- but her fingers closed on the lapel of his coat, bringing him to a halt. She looked up at him, a half smile on her lips. “Later?”.
He bent and, in a low voice, said against her ear, “No Maybe about it.”
She’d tried to make it work… she really had. But it was hopeless.
Oh, the angst! Not my usual thing, but Ellis_Hendricks and I were discussing the end of Molly’s notorious engagement and I was inspired to write this short piece on the subject. This could be considered the prequel to Visiting Hours, the first Sherlock piece I ever wrote, three years ago now. How time flies. Many thanks to Ellis_Hendricks for looking this over for me.
They hadn’t spoken a word on the drive back to London. There had been nothing left to say.
In the beige and grey of their hotel room, she’d told Tom the whole -- or most of it. The basic facts, at least. Though it had turned out that these merely confirmed suspicions he’d done his best to ignore, right up to the moment when she’d stabbed him in the hand with her fork.
“So,” he’d said, his voice as dull as the room’s appointments. “You are in love with him.”
She’d sighed, weary with emotion, champagne, and the long day, but had not voiced confirmation of the statement. After all, what was the point?
They’d packed their bags in silence, checked out of the DoubleTree with a minimum of fuss, and returned to London, arriving at her flat in the small hours of a starless night.
“I’m sorry, Tom,” she’d said, bleak and dry-eyed as she’d watched him set her suitcase on the pavement beside her.
“I’m sorry, too,” he had replied, a bitter note in his voice. A brief pause, then, “Goodbye, Molly.”
And that was that.
It was the inevitable conclusion of a process that had begun months before, on the day she’d opened the door of her locker to find Sherlock reflected in the inadequate mirror, a quizzical, almost tender smile on his lips and in his eyes. She’d whirled to face him with a small gasp, and there he was, towering over her, warm and alive. The happiness, the blessed relief…
And then she’d remembered.
“You’re back,” she’d managed to say, and then frowned. “Have you been in a fight?”
“John was less pleased at my return than you appear to be.”
“Oh.”
She hadn’t seen John for a long time. It had been too awkward, and now, she’d thought, it would be more awkward still. Mycroft Holmes had told her she’d nothing to worry about, legally speaking; he would see to that. But nothing would alter the fact that she’d deceived Sherlock’s closest friends for over two years.
So many lies.
In the end they’d understood, and forgiven, even John, knowing it had all been part of the game -- a very serious game.
But she hadn’t told Tom much of it at all, until that night at the hotel, after John and Mary’s wedding and that nerve-wracking reception. And by then it was too late.
Though maybe it always had been too late.
*
A month later, Sherlock was standing in her lab looking both dissipated and coldly indifferent as she ran the drugs panel and she could not help wondering what insanity had prompted her to throw over Tom for this. Like the Watsons, she hadn’t seen Sherlock in weeks, but the shock she’d felt when they’d first dragged him in had rapidly turned to fury as she worked, a fury that was well able to vie with John’s, and, when she had the final results, surpassed it. There was no way she could have kept from stripping off her gloves, marching over to her bloody, wasted Nemesis, and giving him just a taste of what he so richly deserved.
She felt a moment’s satisfaction at having hit hard enough to penetrate that seeming detachment, and followed up her assault with a demand that he apologize. But of course, even out of his skull on opiates, Sherlock was more than capable of a cutting riposte.
“Sorry your engagement’s over -- though I’m fairly grateful for the lack of a ring.”
After which all she had been able to come up with was, “Stop it! Just stop it!”
*
How she managed to work the rest of that day she had no idea, but she was a professional and she did it.
A couple of her co-workers had somehow heard about what happened and begged her to come out for a drink when her shift ended. There was nothing she wanted less.
She made her way home, angry at Sherlock, livid with herself. Idiot was the word of the day, and when she got home even Toby sensed that she’d snapped, retreating under the bed in the guest room after she’d slammed her front door upon the world.
No matter.
She fetched the bottle of good white wine she’d been saving for a special occasion (oh, the irony!), poured herself the first of several enormous glasses, put Toby’s dish of wet food out where he would eventually dare to find it, and flopped down on her couch to watch crap telly. God knew she needed the distraction.
*
It was several hours later when she woke to a dull sense of depression, lingering inebriation, and the sound of her mobile phone noisily vibrating and blaring its current ringtone (‘Happy’ of all things. Irony upon irony). She grabbed the phone to shut it off, but saw that it was John and accepted the call.
“Hi, John,” she said, her voice rough.
“Molly? Are you okay?”
“Yes. Of course. What is it? Sherlock again?”
“Molly… yeah, it’s Sherlock. We were on a case and… Molly, he’s been shot.”
“What?” she blurted, sitting bolt upright, her head swimming.
Bad… chest… surgery… not sure…
She could barely take it in.
But John’s last words were, “... will you come? I mean, there’s not much we can do until he’s out of surgery -- if he makes it. But I thought…”
“I’ll come. I’ll be there,” Molly said, firmly.
“Good. Yes, that’s good. See you soon.”
John ended the call.
And Molly, hopeless idiot that she was, collapsed against the sofa cushions and began to sob.
Welcome to interview number 7! Guys, this is a two-parter with fandom friends @ellis-hendricks and @geekmama posing a similar set of questions to each other. Ellis won the coin toss, so she’s up first – discussing why her husband is to blame for her Sherlock obsession, fluffy realism, and why John reminds her of a sad walrus – with geekmama’s turn coming next week.
Ellis_Hendricks (interviewed by geekmama)
We are, respectively, a Californian and a Geordie, and we got to know each other through reading and reviewing each other’s fics (geekmama’s ‘Time of the Season’ series was one of the first fics I read and loved). Geekmama has been writing in the fandom for around 3 years, and I’ve been doing the same for around 2 years, spurred on by the end of series 4 (and the ILY scene in particular). We started beta-reading each other’s work around a year ago, and are always discovering new and unexpected words and phrases that don’t translate across the pond! Although we’ve used the same set of questions for these interviews, we haven’t seen each other’s answers – so it does mean that if nobody else is interested, at least we will be!
Questions about the series
geekmama: Was there a particular moment in the series that set the ship sailing for you?
@ellis-hendricks, I LOVED reading your answers to the questions! And fic from you exploring how Mary became such close friends first with Janine and then Molly would be so very much appreciated. In the last couple of days I read “Completely Backwards” yet again, and I have to say that it holds up amazingly well for a first fic in this fandom. You are a wonderful writer, technically, plot-wise, and in characterization, and, as I have said before, I am always thrilled and feel it a great privilege to get that first look at your stories.
Thank you so much for filling my prompt with your fic Uncertain Terms. It's an excellent story and fun to read! I really like your writing style. Sherlolly forever!
Indeed! And thank you for reading and letting me know you enjoyed -- and for posting that interesting prompt in the first place, lol!
It was late afternoon when she finally stepped off the boat and her eyes had been searching for him since they’d made port.
It had been a quiet voyage across, but Molly had bee restless the nearer they got to New York. She read Mycroft’s written instructions over and over, running her eyes over the words just as a comfort since she’d memorized it almost upon receiving it.
She ran her fingers over the fabric of her coat, feeling the stirrings within her. The baby seemed to know something was happening, shifting and moving and Molly reminded herself that she needed to keep herself calm.
Molly walked down the gangplank, walking past the crowds of people greeting their loved ones. Her eyes spotted the sign (The Dancing Men Inn) and made quickly for it, nervously biting her lower lip.
“What is that ghastly thing you’re wearing?”
Molly spun around at the sound of his voice behind her and took a second to take him in before launching herself into his arms. They held each other tightly, and Molly felt herself start to cry. Six months was much too long of a separation and she’d been so desperately afraid and lonesome for him, even with Mycroft keeping her updated.
He moved her veil aside to kiss her deeply, and Molly felt lighter, worries lifting from her with each passing moment. He continued to kiss her face, her nose her cheeks and she kept her arms tightly wrapped around him.
“Honestly, Molly a black veil?” he said when pulled back to get a better look at her, his eyes bit misty but smiling widely.
“I’m supposed to be in mourning, you clot,” she laughed as he wiped away her tears with his thumbs, her own hands holding onto his wrists. She wanted to hang onto him, feeling him solid and real with her.
“Well, that’s enough of that, then,” he said with a grin. His eyes drifted down the swell of her belly. He seemed to freeze for a moment and Molly felt a bit of apprehension until he raised his eyes back to her and she caught a look of wonder.
His adam’s apple bobbed a bit as he swallowed thickly. “Molly…”
She bit her bottom lip trying to hold back her grin. “Take me home, Sherlock.”
Better late than never, right? My short but sweet offering for one of the SAW prompts...
“So, bad day, was it?”
Sherlock, who’d just slammed into his newly renovated flat, whirled and gaped at Molly, who was occupying her yellow chair– and at his behest, he now recalled. The experiment requiring her input was still strewn over most of the kitchen table, exactly where it had been when he’d texted her a few hours ago, just before Mycroft’s summons.
Sherlock’s brotherly wrath (which would be addressed later) was driven away by those words, evoking as they did the vision of a younger Molly, eager, innocent, naively thinking he was something wonderful…
He winced, assaulted by the vivid memory, an episode which in no way redounded to his credit (even the research utilizing the riding crop had ultimately proven inconclusive). And then he felt a flush rising, for Molly’s smile was shifting from teasing to something close to rueful.
She started to speak, rather gently. “Sherlock—“
But he cut her off, blurting, “Coffee. Would you like to have some?”
Her brows rose, and her smile reasserted itself. “Black, two sugars?” she asked, playfully.
He replied, as casually as he could manage, “I thought you always took one sugar, and cream.”
She chuckled, “Very observant!” and rose from the chair, saying, “I think I can find the coffee maker somewhere in the depths of your kitchen, though how you’ve managed to recreate the chaos so qui--”
But he’d crossed to her in two purposeful strides, effectively silencing her, and he took her hands, holding them, small and cool, in his own. The memory of those hands, their skill and comfort as she’d nursed his wretched self through that last bout of withdrawal, was now superseded by the present moment. The hands were trembling a little, and the expression on her face completed the tale. He said, “I meant we should go out for coffee. If you’re willing, of course.”
She replied, slowly, “You know I’ve always been willing.” And then, realizing what she’d said, she gave a nervous laugh and tried to pull her hands away. In typical Molly fashion, she made bad worse by adding in would-be jest, “I suppose you’re going to give me another peck on the cheek, too.”
“No. Not at all,” he said, and, abandoning failed precepts, he dared to pull her close against him. With the back of his fingers he stroked the silken hair at her temple; then he nudged her chin up, bent, and kissed her. Properly.
It was an astonishing sensation… delicious, in every possible way… though she was stiff with shock, at first. But shock soon gave way to acquiescence, and then to a sort of shivering intensity indicative of both joy and fear. For Sherlock, the experience was staggering, delightfully so, and it flashed through his mind how foolish he’d been…
But regret was useless. There was nothing to be done about the past, and perhaps it had all happened for a reason. But the future… a future replete such moments as this…
He pulled away, just a little, and could still feel her breath against his lips as he said, “Is this better?”
“Sherlock!” she whispered, and, coming to her senses, she began to squirm.
But he tightened his embrace, stilling her. “Coffee. There are things we need to discuss, Molly Hooper, and I don’t think we should do it here.” He kissed her lips once more, very tenderly, and then carefully released her. “Will you come with me?”
She stared up at him in a sort of freshly ravished wonder for a long moment, then pulled herself together. She straightened to her full height (his lips twitched against a smile), took a deep breath, and held out her hand. “Yes, I will,” she replied, her voice steady.
Hello my lovely Sherlollians:) It was suggested that I make a side blog for Sherlolly Appreciation Week, so here we are! I actually think this is great because now if you aren’t into absolutely everything that I post on my main blog, no big deal - just follow here and you won’t miss anything!!
It’s late here and I have work in the morning, but when I get home tomorrow, I’m going to start getting this blog up and running with all the awesomeness that our two love nerds deserve! Please follow so you don’t miss out on all of the fun and reblog to signal boost!
Everyone always wants to talk about Hook or Pan. Everyone always wants to debate which one is good and which is evil - who we’re supposed to follow and who we aren’t. The Peter Pan mythos has pretty much shrunk down to nothing but Hook and Pan (Hook, SyFy’s Neverland, Pan, OUAT, etc). Occasionally Tinkerbell factors in (Hook, Disney’s Tinkerbell, OUAT, etc). There’s one character, however, that always gets sidelined - which is puzzling since they are the main character of both the play and the book. That character is, of course, Wendy Darling.
Peter Pan is Wendy’s coming of age story. Wendy who decides to run away from home. Wendy who realizes that she must grow up - and that there’s no shame in that. Wendy who sees Peter as deficient and sees Hook as empty and decides that, no, she doesn’t want to be a part of that. Wendy gets the adventure she’s always wanted and she turns away because she realizes that it’s lacking. She’s the only one who truly sees the hollowness of being young forever. Barrie even says “You need not be sorry for her. She was one of the kind that likes to grow up. In the end she grew up of her own free will a day quicker than other girls.”
People always debate on who the hero is. When they learn that Peter could be horrid they assume it has to be Hook. Of course, the answer is that neither of them are the hero. Wendy is the hero of the story. You’re not supposed to be like Peter, who kept every good and bad aspects of being a child and can’t tell right from wrong. You’re not supposed to be Hook, either. He let go of everything childish and loving about him and became bitter and evil. They’re both the extreme ends of the scale. You’re supposed to fall in the middle, to hold onto the things about childhood that make it beautiful - the wonder, the imagination, the innocence - while still growing up and learning morality and responsibility. You’re not supposed to be Hook. You’re not supposed to be Peter Pan.
i think one of the most interesting things is how, ever since the 19th century, the gothic has become almost synonymous with dark and eerie things, vampires and the like. artists and writers in the 19th century looked at those old and grimy buildings and were like, hell yeah, spooky shit. but it becomes even more interesting when you realise that those dark and grimy buildings weren’t dark or grimy at all when they were built; that darkness comes from years and years of smoke from candles and other grime building up. look at this picture from the restoration of the cathedral of chartres:
how fucking cool is this? so not only are those dark and creepy gothic stories from the 19th century just a fiction of the imagination of 19th century edge lords, but the actual medieval cathedrals were light and colourful. it makes you think about what age in history really deserves the term ‘the dark ages’, huh
“The Dark and Middle Ages! The Nineteenth Century had an impudent way with its labels. For there, under the window in Arthur’s Gramarye, the sun’s rays flamed from a hundred jewels of stained glass in monasteries and convents, or danced from the pinnacles of cathedrals and castles, which their builders had actually loved. Architecture, in those dark ages of theirs, was such a light-giving passion of the heart that men gave love-names to their fortresses. Lancelot’s Joyous Gard was not a singularity in an age which has left us Beaute, Plaisance, or Malvoisin—the bad neighbour to its enemies—an age in which even an oaf like the imaginary Richard Coeur de Lion, who suffered from boils, could call his castle “Gaillard,” and speak of it as “my beautiful one-year-old daughter.” Even that legendary scoundrel William the Conqueror had a second nickname: “the Great Builder.” Think of the glass itself, with its five grand colours stained right through. It was rougher than ours, thicker, fitted in smaller pieces. They loved it with the same fury as they gave to their castles, and Villars de Honnecourt, struck by a particularly beautiful specimen, stopped to draw it on his journeys, with the explanation that “I was on my way to obey a call to the land of Hungary when I drew this window because it pleased me best of all windows.” Picture the insides of those ancient churches—not the grey and gutted interiors to which we are accustomed—but insides blazing with colour, plastered with frescoes in which all the figures stood on tip-toe, fluttering with tapestry or with brocades from Bagdad. Picture also the interiors of such castles as were visible from Guenever’s window. These were no longer the grim keeps of Arthur’s accession. Now they were filling with furniture made by the joiner, instead of the carpenter; now their walls rippled doorless with the flexible gaieties of Arras, tapestries like that of the Jousts of St. Denis which, although covering more than four hundred square yards, had been woven in less than three years, such was the ardour of its creation. If you look closely in a ruined castle even nowadays, you can sometimes find the hooks from which these flashing tapestries were hung. Remember, too, the goldsmiths of Lorraine, who made shrines in the shape of little churches, with aisles, statues, transepts and all, like dolls’ houses: remember the enamellers of Limoges, and the champlevé work, and the German ivory carvers, and the garnets set in Irish metal.”
