An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Dead Boy Detectives (TV), Pismo Beach
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Relationships: Edwin Paine | Edwin Payne/Charles Rowland, Charles Rowland/Barbara Lasagna
Characters: Charles Rowland (DCU), Edwin Paine | Edwin Payne, Barbara Lasagna
Additional Tags: Drag Queens, Falling In Love, Magic, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Loneliness, Drag Queen Edwin Payne, yes you heard right
Summary:
“So, Brit pick,” she drawls, and laughter trails up from the audience, “you have a name to go with your rude attitude and -’ she pauses and circles the air head-level in front of him “ - ridiculously gorgeous face?”
“Charles,” he says, and tags on with a little stooped bow, “Miss. At your service.” He can be a little playful, too.
“Oh, at my service?” Barbara echoes flirtatiously, playing the audience for more laughs. She steps forward to grab his chin, forcing him to raise his eyes to meet hers. From so close, he can smell her, hair powder and makeup and a bit of musk from where the stage lights must make her sweat in her sequin frock.
Her fingers are warm on his face, her grip strong. Something zings in the air between them - chemistry, he thinks, thrilled. He knows he’s grinning, but so is she, unable to hide her delight. “We’ll see if you can be of service,” she announces dryly, to roaring laughter, painted lips curled into a smile, her voice dripping with innuendo.
Since I'm taking my time with my second Fandom Trumps Hate story, I've decided to give you all a small teaser. I won't give the title away yet, but the prompt from the brilliant @totallysilvergirl was that John can sing. Really sing. And he's managed to keep it a secret. Even from Sherlock! Yes, that's right.
As is my wont, I always rec fics (influenced long ago by my lovely recipient) and to my astonishment, I found that there are very few fics with this topic. Another reason to write one.
Excerpt:
John’s blog.
Anniversary Post
Congratulations to me on my tenth blog post! I know for a fact that the main character I’m writing about won’t even notice, but to me it is kind of a milestone. If you think that this is the tenth case I’ve been privy to, you’re wrong. Not every case is worth writing about. Some of them are actually classified if you can believe it. Shh…
If you are a regular reader, you know how this normally goes – clients and/or the police want Sherlock to help with their predicament. This time, though, things were slightly different.
I got an email from an acquaintance I hadn’t spoken to – nor thought of – in years. Claire Burnell nee Turnbull who I went to school with back in the day, has moved up in the world apparently. She is now the lady of Matfen Hall: Northumberland’s only five-star hotel. In fact, it is also a spa and a golf resort. Very posh going by the website, which is extensive. Or excessive, as Sherlock described it.
Anyway.
A little digression – you all know how heedful Sherlock is of his brain capacity, which is why I was utterly befuddled when he seemed to know Claire’s sister, Chloe. I only remember her as a clingy eight-year-old, but of course, she’s a grown woman now. And an acclaimed classical pianist. Hence Sherlock’s knowledge, I suppose.
Having read the email, I was quite certain I would have to disappoint Mrs Burnell – the case was a five at best – and Sherlock refuses to even leave the flat for less than a seven. If we were to help with this one, though, we’d have to leave London for the rural parts of Northumberland. My hopes weren’t high, but for the sake of my previous relations to Mrs Burnell, I decided to at least ask Sherlock when he got home from wherever he was at that particular moment. He sure wasn’t at Tesco to get milk, I can tell you that much!
I won’t bore you all with Sherlock’s deductions about my previous relationship with Claire Turnbull (now Burnell) – let’s just say they were just as substantial as Matfen Hall’s website.
To my utter befuddlement, Sherlock readily agreed to take the case.
“You do realise we need to travel to Northumberland, yes?” I asked, just to be sure he’d understood what it would entail to solve Mrs Burnell’s plight.
“Don’t be obtuse, John!”
And that was apparently that, because the next day we were on the 8.30 train from King’s Cross, which would reach Newcastle a little after 11 a.m.
Sherlock fandom. TW: canonical suicide, blood, depression.
It Was My Fault
Somehow, I can’t shake the feeling that I was to blame for Sherlock’s suicide. I should have observed more carefully. When I think about our last encounter – before the roof incident – God, I was so angry with him! But now, I’m able to peel away his obnoxious behaviour and to see how anxious he was. He already knew what he was about to do next - once he got me to leave - and it must have terrified him. Even the great Sherlock Holmes couldn’t have been indifferent to jumping from a building to his inevitable death.
“You have blood on your hands, Watson. His blood.”
This is a mantra I tend to torment myself with when I wake from a nightmare; a horrible dream where I see him fall in slow motion to prolong my agony. When I finally reach him - no one stops me this time - I place my palms on his beautiful face, wipes away the blood, closes his eyes, and pecks his lips.
“Sleep tight, Sherlock. I love you. I’m sorry.” I whisper in his ear.
The dream always ends with people appearing to take him away. I fight them like a tiger, but to no avail.
I wake with his name on my lips, tears streaming down my cheeks, and my heart shatters once more.
***
He looked like twelve that day – his last day on Earth. Just like he did the first time I met him. Seen in hindsight, something was different, though.
There was a bone deep sadness in his features when he played with the stress ball as if he’d realised how I and his other friends would react once they realised that he was dead. And yes, he did have more than one friend; I was just one of many.
Mrs Hudson, for starters. In fact, she was more like a mother to him. She grieves as if she were, for sure.
Then there’s Greg, Molly, Angelo, Wiggins, Mike; his entire homeless network, for goodness’ sake! Not to mention everyone who owed him a favour; there must be dozens, if not hundreds.
And still, he was dead (pardon the pun) serious when he declared that I was his only friend after we’d solved the Baskerville case. I could tell that he wasn’t shamming; trying to get into my good grazes again. It was pure honesty. By then, I had learned to discern the difference.
I can’t spend too much time thinking about that, or I’ll break down.
Why did he feel the need to take his own life when…
***
I’ve stopped bringing Mrs Hudson when I visit his grave. She’s so fragile. It’s as if her sassy personality died that day too.
In the beginning, I always stood in front of his elegant gravestone like a soldier keeping watch, but now – if the weather allows it – I sit cross-legged on the grass instead. It’s oddly comforting to talk to the black stone as if it is actually him.
“Hi, Sherlock. I miss you. The flat is so quiet. Even when you were lying supine on the sofa, lost in your head, you filled the room with life. You were the most animated person I’ve ever known, even when you barely moved a muscle. I’m considering moving out, finding my own place. Too many memories and ghosts in 221B nowadays.
“There’s a new nurse at work. Mary. She tries to flirt with me. It doesn’t work, but she’s quite persistent, I’ll give her that. Soon enough, she’ll realise that it’s a futile endeavour. I’ve even said so, but she just shrugged and winked at me. It was unsettling. Nobody has winked at me since you did it before you walked out of the lab that January day in 2010. I guess I should be flattered. Once, I would have been. Not after meeting you, though.”
***
My nightmares are always worse after I’ve visited his grave. In this particular dream, I have blood smeared on my palms. I realise this too late.
Like I usually do, I place my hands on his cheeks, but instead of wiping bloody off his face, I add more. In desperation, I try do clean my hands by rubbing them on my jeans, but it keeps pouring out of my palms like small fountains. We both drown in it.
When I finally wake, the bed is damp. My t-shirt and pants are soaked. For one horrible moment, I thought I’d peed myself, but it is only malodorous sweat.
***
“It was my fault,” I tell Mrs Hudson when we have tea together the day after I thought I’d drowned in my own and Sherlock’s blood.
“Nonsense, dear. You know there was no stopping him when he had made up his mind. Silly boy.”
She cries a little and I hold her gently until she manages to gather herself.
We watch the last Bond film, which she takes great delight in. Strangely enough, this makes me miss Sherlock even more.
Despite that I chided him for ridiculing the plot and the insane stunts, I secretly loved it. I guess he knew that, because he never stopped commenting, and he had this smug expression on his face while doing it.
If I concentrate, I can hear his voiceover.
“That stunt is impossible to survive, John. He doesn’t even have a scratch, for God’s sake! This inanity kills your brain cells, you know.”
I smile when Daniel Craig – against all odds - survives yet again, regardless of Sherlock predictions.
***
To my surprise, I sleep well that night, and I wake more rested than I have in a long time. Perhaps this is a sign that things are about to change for the better.
“I don’t drink beer, Gavin. If you had paid attention, you would have known that. Just as you would have known that your name – “
“Shut up, Sherlock!”
“Why is he so agitated, John?”
“Oh, I don’t know, Sherlock. Maybe because you can’t remember his name.”
“He is the one who – “
“Fine. Whatever. Let’s just pretend we never had this conversation, shall we?”
“Impossible, John.”
“Why?”
“I never delete any conversation you are partaking in.”
“Now, you’re just taking the piss, Sherlock.”
“Am not.”
“Fine, then. Tell me what I asked you this morning before I left for work.”
“You asked me to buy milk and eggs.”
“Oh, my God!”
“What? You did.”
“I am aware, Sherlock!”
“So?”
“So, why did I come home to a fridge utterly void of milk and eggs?”
“Because I never went out. If memory serves, I did not acquiesce to procure these items.”
“Christ. Hurry up with my pint, Greg, before I strangle this one!”
“You are so morbid, John.”
“Yeah, wonder where that comes from.”
“Certainly not from fraternising with Giles.”
***
“Why do you have a problem with Greg’s name, love?”
“Who?”
“Sherlock!”
“What is it, John?”
“God, I can’t believe this. You are the most stubborn and mad person I have ever met.”
“Nothing new about that statement, John.”
“Okay. Honest question: Can you delete information completely?”
“Of course, I can.”
“And what criteria is required for deletion to be possible?”
“Oh, it depends, but mostly it has to do with dull and unimportant things that take up precious space in my Mind Palace. It is not an infinite storage room, mind you. I have explained this to you earlier.”
“Alright. But you said that you never delete any conversation I participate in.”
“True. The relevance being?”
“Well, how flattering that may be, my darling, I don’t believe that each of those conversations are worth preserving.”
“Bite your tongue, John!”
“You are adorable when you get affronted on my behalf, you know.”
“I’m warning you, John!”
***
“Can you just say my name like a normal person, Sherlock?”
“Since when do you consider me normal, George?”
“God Almighty, you are hopeless!”
“Yes, you have mention that. For the seventy-eighth time, in fact.”
“You keep count?”
“Of course.”
“But learning my name is too difficult for you? I thought you were a genius.”
“I am. Hence why you call me so often.”
“Right. Well, at least you know my surname. I guess that will have to suffice.”
So, I lurk in some writer subreddits, and a frequent topic of discussion is prose: what constitutes good prose, how do you write it, how do you improve it, etc. And yesterday I stumbled across one topic about the difference between good descriptive prose, and purple prose. OP asks people to share some of their favourite authors who they think write beautiful prose without tipping into purple. No problem; people are happy to oblige.
One person says that Steinbeck is one of their favourite authors for prose, and then they share an example of what they would consider purple prose. It is so violetly awful that I think the poster must have written it themselves as a kind of parody of purple prose. Other people assumed the same.
But as it turns out, they are quoting from a book written by a YouTuber whose channel ia dedicated to talking about writing (namely, their own writing, which is genius, but often not comprehensible to the drooling plebs).
Naturally, I read the free sample of their book in awe and horror, and I'd like to share some screenshots with you. If you also have trouble defining or understanding what purple prose is, it's this.
Yes, every single fucking page is written like this.
Reading some more of the preview for this book, and I realise this is by far not the biggest problem, but I'm begging this guy to just use 'shadow' instead of 'umbra'. I promise I will not accuse you of being a philistine.
Sherlock fandom has been a huge part of my life since I first joined (as a very, very quiet lurker) way back in 2011. As I became more comfortable- both in fandom and in my own skin- I started meeting all sorts of fantastic people. Of all the gifts this fandom has given me, the people in my life because of it is the biggest one of all. I am grateful for my fandom friends and for those who have become absolute rocks in real life.
One of those people was @splix71. I no longer remember when we first interacted online- it was years ago- but we clicked, hard, and when we first met in person four years ago, it was like stars aligning. I last saw her a year ago, when we spent a week together laughing, fangirling, eating, road-tripping, and making the most of what would be our last visit together.
I was so, so lucky to have her in my life and our friendship was a true joy. SHE was a true joy. I miss her more than I can say.
Today is @splix71/Alex’s birthday and in honor of my friend, I’ve got a whole bunch of posts queued up. For those of you who knew Alex, in fandom or outside of it, I hope you find some comfort today in remembering her and her vibrant, passionate personality.
Splix would have been 50 years old today. Two years ago we celebrated by overindulging at an Indian buffet and drooling over watching Hamlet!Batch on the big screen that night. I can’t eat my weight in Aloo Tikki this year like I did then, but I am going to celebrate Splix the best I can today. She deserves nothing less.
To repeat myself from last year: For those of you who knew Alex, in fandom or outside of it, I hope you find some comfort today in remembering her and her vibrant, passionate personality.
Almost four years since this beautiful, brilliant, and most hilarious person has been gone and I still can’t believe it. I hope she’s having a most fabulous time, wherever she is. Happy Birthday, Alex! I miss you more than I can ever fully say.
it’s not weird to find fanfiction from 2021, or 2017, or 2014 that you’ve never read and actually taking your time to read it.
it’s not weird to love it and comment and leave kudos because the author will probably still see it someday and it will make them happy.
it’s not weird to like said author’s work so much that you want to go look for other fics from them.
it’s not weird to go through the authors profile and look for other fics from the ships you like (or maybe some that you’ll give a chance because you liked the author) and maybe bookmark them for later.
it’s not weird to read these other fics and like them too and comment on them because you actually like them and you want to let the author know.
it’s not weird to read fanfiction from 5, or 8, or 10 years ago and actually enjoy and engage with it because it’s perfectly normal to relate to something that’s less than a decade old!
let’s stop treating fanfiction like they’re instagram posts that stop being interesting in 24 hours! fanfiction is NOT social media, fanfiction is art!!! and art doesn’t get old in one day, one year, or even a decade!
read fanfiction! write fanfiction! comment on fanfiction! let’s not let fanculture die people!!!!!
Not only is it not weird, it is ACTIVELY ENCOURAGED. Authors LOVE IT when people do this!!! Its not "weird" and its not "neutral" -- its a fucking DELIGHT. Feel very absolutely free to read though an author's entire back catalogue, leaving kudos and/or comments along the way; we absolutely freaking love when someone does this. There is nothing more joyful than getting a comment notification for an old fic. It will make our day, I promise.
To me it makes no difference if I wrote the story you enjoyed in 2011 or yesterday. So please let authors know you enjoyed their older works. It's why they're still online.
One spot available again at European Fic Writers' Retreat (Belgium)
Dear Fic Writers! (Sherlock fandom and beyond!)
Life is unpredictable, and plans change sometimes! Last week, we've had to move the retreat from Germany to Belgium because of water damage (see this post) and now, due to more unforeseen circumstances, one participant has had to cancel, meaning that one spot has become available!
Here's all the info:
The European Fic Writers Retreat is taking place in Belgium from 13-16 August 2026.
Here are the details:
-Arrival from 3.30pm on 13 August (Thursday).
-Checkout at noon on 16 August (Sunday).
-Special discount price: 250 euros, to be transferred directly to the original participant. This includes accommodation (single room) and food (which we'll still have to cook ourselves, however).
Activities
There will be 3 writing/fandom workshops/activities each day. The rest of the time is for writing, hanging out and making new fandom friends.
Also there will be daily trips to the supermarket to get all the food we need. :)
There are currently 8 participants.
Venue
The accommodation has 8 bedrooms, several large common rooms, and a garden.
The location is in the very south-eastern part of Belgium. You have to arrange your own transport there, although there will likely be the possibility of getting a ride from a nearby city to the accommodation, as a couple of participants are travelling by car and are willing to pick up others.
Organisation
Be aware that this retreat isn't anything fancy or well-organised; it's just me (@shirleycarlton) having made a reservation for a large holiday house in hopes of finding enough fellow fanfic (British M/M slash) writers, who would like to attend and spend some quality time together.
Originally, this concept arose from the Sherlock fandom, and I (Shirley) personally exclusively write johnlock. However, a lot of Sherlock writers have (understandably) moved on to other fandoms, so whether you're currently into Good Omens, LOTR, James Bond, Our Flag Means Death, or RWRB, it's all fine, as John Watson would say. :)
To register, click here!
Tagging a few people again below the cut. Please help signal boost!
Outdoor in sun perfec t place for president to do speech! Outdoor very warm very soft put old man on green lawn under sun. Put old man in warm sun. no problem ever in warm sun because good view and audience can see long speech. Nice podium outdoor sunny perfect place for old president can trust warm sun to give nice view to President good luck to President. friend sun.
Chapter 9 - Celebration, Nail Polish, and a Corpse
Summary: They keep their marriage small and private, and their wedding night is celebrated in the best possible way. There is no time for a honeymoon; everyday life is calling, and the two girls meet two very different and interesting women.
Summary: Six weeks have passed in a whirlwind of tedious chores in the wake of Harry and Clara's demise. John is exhausted and constantly on edge; he finds it hard to completely believe that things are working out so perfectly. Sherlock decides to intervene.
One spot available again at European Fic Writers' Retreat (Belgium)
Dear Fic Writers! (Sherlock fandom and beyond!)
Life is unpredictable, and plans change sometimes! Last week, we've had to move the retreat from Germany to Belgium because of water damage (see this post) and now, due to more unforeseen circumstances, one participant has had to cancel, meaning that one spot has become available!
Here's all the info:
The European Fic Writers Retreat is taking place in Belgium from 13-16 August 2026.
Here are the details:
-Arrival from 3.30pm on 13 August (Thursday).
-Checkout at noon on 16 August (Sunday).
-Special discount price: 250 euros, to be transferred directly to the original participant. This includes accommodation (single room) and food (which we'll still have to cook ourselves, however).
Activities
There will be 3 writing/fandom workshops/activities each day. The rest of the time is for writing, hanging out and making new fandom friends.
Also there will be daily trips to the supermarket to get all the food we need. :)
There are currently 8 participants.
Venue
The accommodation has 8 bedrooms, several large common rooms, and a garden.
The location is in the very south-eastern part of Belgium. You have to arrange your own transport there, although there will likely be the possibility of getting a ride from a nearby city to the accommodation, as a couple of participants are travelling by car and are willing to pick up others.
Organisation
Be aware that this retreat isn't anything fancy or well-organised; it's just me (@shirleycarlton) having made a reservation for a large holiday house in hopes of finding enough fellow fanfic (British M/M slash) writers, who would like to attend and spend some quality time together.
Originally, this concept arose from the Sherlock fandom, and I (Shirley) personally exclusively write johnlock. However, a lot of Sherlock writers have (understandably) moved on to other fandoms, so whether you're currently into Good Omens, LOTR, James Bond, Our Flag Means Death, or RWRB, it's all fine, as John Watson would say. :)
To register, click here!
Tagging a few people again below the cut. Please help signal boost!
Summary: The expected and welcome text from his brother, sets off a well of emotions in Sherlock. He realises that it is finally happening; the event he's been waiting for for so long. An event that will change his life forever.
It is so rare to witness John struggling with food. He is not a picky eater like me. In fact – before we visited my parents - I had no idea if there was any food he couldn’t stomach.
Currently, he is trying his best to put on a brave face when exposed to my mother’s cooking, which is detestable at best. One should think that she grew up in a place where there was no way to preserve fresh food, but her parents had access to both fridge and freezer. Nevertheless, she cooks everything to an unrecognisable mush when Father isn’t quick enough to suggest that he make dinner.
In all fairness, I did warn John that the culinary “treats” in my childhood home would leave him nauseous and appalled. Of course, he thought I was just being my dramatic self.
“Sherlock, darling, I have met your parents, and they are lovely. Surely, your mother knows how to cook. She’s an intelligent woman.”
“Intelligence has nothing to do with it, John,” I tried to reason with him, but to no avail.
“We are visiting your parents this weekend, and that’s final,” he said in his captain’s voice.
“Fine. Consider yourself warned, though. I suggest you bring some snacks with you, or you will get all grumpy when you’ve thrown up after dinner.”
Suffice it to say, I was not rewarded with a snog after that statement.
***
“Have some more broccoli, John,” my mother urges him.
He swallows thickly and looks at the almost grey bits of broccoli he is offered. I decide to rescue my poor boyfriend.
“I will have some,” I say, grip the porcelain bowl with the atrocities, and feign loosening my grip. With a spectacular crack, the bowl hits the tiled floor, spreading the disgusting vegetables far and wide, while the bowl only gets slightly chapped.
“William Sherlock Scott Holmes!”
“Apologies,” I mutter and sweep up the gooey mass with some thick kitchen roll.
I catch John’s eye when I seat myself again, and I must look away quickly lest I fall into a fit of giggles. He is obviously aware that it was all a ploy to save him and his dignity.
***
“Thank you for that, love,” John whispers when we’re tucked up in bed later.
“I did contemplate to let you suffer through it, but I want you in her good graces. She already adores you for putting up with me, but I have no idea how she will react if she gets wind of your true opinions about her cooking.”
John shudders by the mere thought; Mummy can be quite intimidating.
“I guess this explains your aversion to eat properly,” he muses. “If your childhood was filled with overcooked – “
“It was, John. Only Mycroft and Father’s cunning ways kept me from starving. I didn’t have broccoli for ages until Angelo persuaded me to taste his after I had told him about my abominable experience with it. He was outright scandalised when I told him Mummy boiled them for twenty minutes.”
“It shouldn’t be done like that!”
John laughs when I imitate Angelo’s voice and accent, and he ends up gasping for air when I continue.
“She thinks the vegetables are alive and need to be annihilated?”
“Oh my God,” John wheezes, “he didn’t know how funny that was, did he?”
“Of course not, John. Food is a very serious business for Angelo. I thought you knew that.”
John sobers a bit and clears his voice awkwardly.
“Well, yeah, I do. Remember when I told him how my mum used to make Carbonara?”
It is my time to start laughing.
“Cream, onions, and garlic, John. What was she thinking?”
“Dunno, but I’ve never been more grateful for my mum’s passing than I was then. He was very gracious about it afterwards.”
“Obviously. Family is also extremely important to the Italians. You can dine there for free on your own now, you know. He felt awful when you told him your mother had been dead for more than a decade.”
“And why would I go to Angelo’s without you, my darling? To quote our Italian friend: “It shouldn’t be done!”
“Quite right,” I agree.
***
The next morning, John rises early to beat Mummy to the kitchen.
“Heaven knows what she is capable of doing to the scrambled eggs, not to mention the bacon,” he whispers when I complain about him leaving the bed - and more importantly me - in favour of cooking.
All that aside, the breakfast is a great success if my mother’s gushing is any indicator.
“How do you manage to get the eggs so fluffy but not runny, dear?”
“It’s fairly easy. You just finish them when they’re still a bit wet. The temperature in the eggs will ensure that the mass keeps cooking for a few more moments after they’re taken out of the pan. And then they’re perfect.”
“I will try to remember that. Or perhaps you can remind me, darling?” Mummy addresses Father, who makes just as perfectly scrambled eggs as John does.
My Father agrees vigorously, but his expression is somewhat sceptical. Mummy’s ability to forget domestic chores in a heartbeat is after all legendary.
Summary: Sherlock does what he does best - transforms a terrible hairdo into perfection. He loses himself in thoughts of what John will do now that he's free to move back to London. Surely, he will realise that that is the sensible thing to do; to bring Freya back to her familiar environment?
