#reichenbach feels

[anthonyjanthony4004]

“nobody could be that clever.”

“you could.”

quick lil reichenbach feels sketch

[onthecrosslook]

I…er…wrote some angst.

*puts the angst at your feet like a cat giving you a dead bird and moves away*

If you’d like to read it, comments are always appreciated.

[sapphomite]

Did I watch Sarah Z rant about the TJLC conspiracy for one and a half an hour? Yes.

Do I realize that the ending of Sherlock is as bad as ending of Spn? Yes.

Am I gonna watch Sherlock? Absolutely yes.

I am not the one to shy away from getting screwed by tvshows.

[marta-bee]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

“Mister Holmes!" I cried out as I made my way across the market. "Mister Holmes!"

It wasn't such an uncommon name to give our game away, and the expression on his face was more than worth the risk. He looked up from the plum-cart, a moment of unguarded recognition, then a deep blush following fast on its heels at being so transparent. He swallowed deeply, forcing his customary mask back into place. Near-three years' practice at playing dead; you would have thought he'd be better at it by now. But in his defense, mine was certainly not a face he ever expected to see again.

"You have me confused with someone else. The name is Sigerson."

"Is it indeed?" I chided him. My appearance was much changed (both by design and by necessity, some persistent injuries had stubbornly refused to heal) but my smile at least was still my own. I let him see it, let the old gleam at the prospect of revisiting our old connection show in my eyes, and saw a second glimpse of recognition in his. His breath caught in his throat, his eyes dilated just that little bit more. In his hand, the plum juice colored his palm a nicely symbolic red from where he'd grasped it too hard, breaking the fruit's skin.

I paid the vendor for his ruined fruit and offered Holmes my handkerchief so he might clean his hand. "Will you join me?" I asked. Choice demanded an alternative and so was an illusion between Holmes and myself at this point, much as it had been on the precipice. Still, we were in a public market, and sometimes illusions could prove useful. "My rooms aren't far," I lied, "and I would welcome the company of a… countryman."

Holmes stood resolute in his silence. There wasn't much he could say in a public market, of course, and I chose to credit that silence as cleverness more than shock, if only because I enjoyed thinking of him still as among the wise, and that my own losses at his hands were to some degree justified. The last near-three years had not been kind to him, and I needed some foothold to maintain my faith in him. "Yes," he said at last, pocketing the handkerchief (still mindful of forensics; at least he still held on to that). "Yes; lead on."

(Continue.)

**********************************

The @holmestice reveals are up, so I can proudly claim my own submission.  Written for Trobadora.

Imagine that Holmes wasn’t the only one to survive his fall over the Reichenbach Falls, and that he meets Moriarty during the Great Hiatus for a more intimate final confrontation than events in “The Final Problem” allowed. Moriarty’s POV, and goodness what a head-trip that was!

Many thanks to @aristofranes, who beta’d and Brit-checked. As always, I appreciate her help greatly.

[mild-lunacy]

Between the Rational, the Good and the Sentimental

Have you noticed how many times the 'good' character (often the female) is portrayed as 'good' by way of making irrational choices that seem selfless? That is to say, for ex., we have no resources to spare, but let's share them anyway! It's the right thing to do, so surely a good, rational person would want to do it, even if it puts everyone else's survival more at risk. Or, the oldie but goodie: we can save the world/the lives of hundreds or thousands later, or we can save these people right in front of us now. Guess which one 'good' people are inevitably drawn to? Regardless of which choice is made, you're clearly supposed to be very tempted to just rescue the first person who needs it, even or especially in an extreme, apocalyptic situation where all resources are limited. Which is fine. Maybe it's how most well-meaning people are, even. It just extra annoys me when this attitude is applied equally to rational/intellectual characters as to the bold, idealistic or naive ones. Like to do otherwise would be to go into 'gritty dark' territory rather than basic realism for rational thinking people's behavior.

Not like I'm against helping others, or disagree that being 'good' means acting out of concern for them, though I do believe that it should be a balance between selflessness and selfish behavior in a realistic character. You don't have to stop being rational to be good, though, even though that's usually what happens. The character inevitably suspends their critical thinking skills and rushes off half-cocked in honor of some ideal. Impulsivity and bravado is pretty much par the course for Gryffindors, for example, while the more rational types in Ravenclaw or Slytherin stay on the sidelines and barely seem to contribute (if the Slytherins aren't actually fighting the heroes). Any sort of calculation happening where other people's lives are on the line is overwhelmingly considered suspicious. This is fine-- it's just annoying how this translates into inevitable unrealistic breaks in the established persona for rational character types. I mean, a tendency towards calculation isn't really something that just... turns off when important or emotionally weighty decisions are to be made. Quite the opposite: we can know the things that drive a given character by how they make difficult decisions. If a person is primarily driven by rational thought, it would be *most* obvious under duress.

Inevitably, I believe part of this is genre, part gender. For example, I consider Sherlock (at least, in BBC Sherlock) to be both rational and good, but he certainly doesn't generally rush in without a plan where fools fear to tread. This is a somewhat Noir mystery with the protagonist's unsentimentality a huge part of the plot, though. Part of this is probably gender-related, too. A male rational type character could get away with a lot more insensitive behavior-- especially Sherlock, who gets extra leeway as an eccentric genius. Inevitably, it's the female character who's going to bring up doing the sentimental 'good' thing, such as rescuing extra people that could not be supported on a ship. With Sherlock, there was John to poke him about being 'a machine', but I'm not sure John wanted Sherlock to do anything irrational. Though I suppose you could argue that checking on Mrs. Hudson in TRF was irrational, since Sherlock knew this was a diversion and she was fine. However, I believe John wouldn't have left if Sherlock told him so. It is in part because Sherlock kept so many of his plans (let alone his feelings) to himself that John defaulted to acting on instinct.

I think what annoys me most is the seeming knee-jerk nature behind the sentimentality of female characters, especially the rational ones. It inevitably throws me out of the story and makes me wonder why this is always so. I also think this about how goodness and/or ethical behavior is widely perceived, and/or how it's gendered. A lot of books have ethics depicted as being about a sort of mindless selflessness. The only reason for selfishness usually present in women (outside of villains) is self-preservation, if then. I particularly think selflessness is gendered, because even in the most naive good guy character, I've never seen one who so *instinctively* cares for others without a care for himself as your average 'good' female protagonist, especially while blaming himself for others' issues. It just doesn't happen. I find it annoying, and it turns maddening when it appears male characters have room to be selfish or rational-- or both-- while remaining fundamentally good.

Even the 'not-so-good' or bitchy female protagonist will generally succumb to the writer's need to show goodness through sentimentality, though it may not be as overt. Like I said, this also depends on genre. In a more action-centric or literary narrative and/or one that's not written by a woman to start with, things tend to be different. If the whole shtick is that the female character is tough and capable, she may still choose the sentimental thing, but she'd make it work even if it shouldn't. That's really what makes it palatable to me when Aelin inevitably tries to take everything on her own shoulders and save others in the Throne of Glass YA series. That's fine, because she *plans*, she works for it, fights for it. Additionally, she's not selfless on a purely interpersonal level. She's a happy bitch who can be trusted to look out for her own survival, not to mention her creature comforts if at all possible. She's also judgey and frequently harsh. She tries to do the right thing, but it's impressive rather than pathetic or irrational, because she backs it up through hard work and strong problem-solving skills. Not to mention her magic and pure martial arts power. She's someone who has the wherewithal to back up almost any claims she makes. If she says she'll save someone (or everyone, as the case may be), the lack of resources or other apparent limits wouldn't matter, because you know she'll simply fix it. Or if not, then she'll organize the friends who will. First though, she'll be 100% *familiar* with those limits to overcome.

This is at least in part because it's epic fantasy, though. The protagonist is thus very strong, gifted and unusual. Like with Sherlock, you could (but probably wouldn't) call Aelin an eccentric genius. She has a different field of expertise, but they both have strengths well beyond the average human. In a genre romance, you're dealing with the same old righteously sentimental female protagonist but without the superhuman abilities. Those tend to be reserved for the male love interest. Sometimes, of course, the female protagonist has some special skills or powers, like being a xenobiologist, a hacker or an empath/telepath (or all of the above, even). But these skills aren't on a superhuman level, so limits certainly exist. The character just blithely ignores them, often leaving the rational, unsentimental thinking to the man whenever he's around. This is particularly maddening to me because the rational thinking often emerges alone, or in the company of other women. That said, the tendency to blame herself for others' issues remains consistent. I can't even claim it's unrealistic, though that doesn't make it any easier to tolerate, unfortunately.

[88thparallel]

Love in a Photograph

The absolutely stunningly brilliant @shelleysprometheus invited me to co-write a ficlet with her, and I was absolutely honored! She was inspired by the beautiful song Photograph by Ed Sheeran.

We keep this love in a photograph We made these memories for ourselves Where our eyes are never closing Our hearts were never broken And time's forever frozen, still

So here it is, in two parts. The first part from John’s POV is hers, the second part from Sherlock’s POV is mine. Photo manips by me.

John 

(by @shelleysprometheus)

It's crumbling and torn and tattered. It's stained and crinkled and crushed. It's falling apart. Just like him.

He remembers the exact instant he took it, that photo in his mind.

The most illogical moment, in the middle of a most ridiculous conversation, in the middle of a busy street, seriously, earnestly debating just how much of one’s enemies’ blood would be needed to forge a sword from it “really John, it completely depends on the type of sword, an average longsword at 1.1kg, 400 men, a contemporary scimitar with a .75kg blade on the other hand...”

“You're brilliant" he had blurted out.

And Sherlock had turned his head to face him, eyebrows together, curious then smiling, warmly, welcoming, dimply, crinkly.

That's his photograph. The one he summons when the pain becomes unbearable, when it's right before dawn and he doesn't feel like he has the strength to take another breath, survive another minute. When he's lost all hope, he summons that photograph and holds it until the world warms up a little.

But it feels like every time he holds it, it crumbles and tears and tatters little more. It stains and crinkles and crushes more than before. It's disappearing, just like him. He searches for it in the moments he is awake and in his dreams, desperately clutching at the edges trying to to draw it closer, trying to stop it from slipping away.

Like Sherlock did.

Sherlock

(by @88thparallel)

It’s creased through the middle, length and width split. There are stains at the edges where the paper is wearing thin, smudges revealing the spot where he unconsciously runs his thumb back and forth. Two corners are ripped away, and it bears the scars of being crumpled and contorted. It’s been through a lot. Just like him.

He can almost hear the click of the shutter, playing back the day he’d captured it.

The weight of the camera in his hands, tracking John through the viewfinder. Sherlock was sure the camera wasn’t haunted but agreed rule out technical error to appease the client. John had been talking to Mrs Hudson and Mrs Turner as Sherlock tried to flag down cabs across the street. Tea and Canasta at their usual table outside of Speedy’s, so it must have been a Wednesday. They’d greeted Sherlock too, but only John had stopped to be cordial, enquire about Mrs Turner’s recent bunion surgery, and remark on the new seasonal scones Mr Chatterjee had recently introduced to the menu. And wasn’t that just like John, to remember and notice? To genuinely care?

He’d made a comment Sherlock couldn’t hear which caused both ladies to giggle and earned John a playful swat. John gave the women a wave and jogged across the street toward the taxi that now sat waiting. Sherlock had chosen that moment to click, biting back the smile that tried to peek out from behind his own indifferent façade.

John had turned to jog across the street, eyes bright, grin lighting up his face, chuckling to himself, genuine, happy, soft.

That's his photograph. The one he reaches for when the loneliness becomes overwhelming, when night has fallen on another long day in a foreign country and he can’t imagine how he can continue the hunt, to dismantle something so much larger than himself. He tries to memorize it for the times he can’t look at it, for the unthinkable possibility that one day he might lose it, or it might be taken from him; this, his only picture of John.

But as gently as he holds it, each time he unfolds it, the photograph wears even more. It tears and crumples and fades. It's worn out, just like him. When he's exhausted and aching, when he’s scared or angry or despairing, he reaches for that photograph and holds it until he remembers why he’s doing it all.

Who he’s fighting for.

[discordantwords]

the death that wasn’t

He looked very dead.

 His face was slack, vacant, smeared with blood. Terribly pale. Her breath caught as she stood over him, worrying at her lower lip. What if he--

 "That went well," Sherlock said, his eyes snapping open. He sprang into sudden motion, leaping to his feet, swiping at the blood that threatened to run into his eyes. The gurney squeaked against the floor.

 Molly jolted back with a small sound of surprise, her heart thundering.

 He was pacing, his eyes glittering, full of the kind of manic glee he usually reserved for interesting corpses. He pressed his hands together, tented his fingers under his chin as he walked.

 It was hard to believe he'd ever been capable of lying so still.

 "It looked a bit, erm, messy," she said, muffled an awkward laugh. She gestured vaguely at his his gore-streaked face. He looked like the bloody walking dead, no, the bloody leaping dead, with his dark matted curls flopping wetly against his skull and the sodden collar of his coat sticking to the skin at the back of his neck.

 "Unavoidable," he said. He stopped pacing, looked up at her. "I'll need access to a shower."

 "Right," she said, leading him towards the doors. "I have a change of clothes. I'll need yours for. For the. For the, um—"

 "For the corpse, yes," he agreed cheerfully, and there was something strained in that voice. Something she didn't want to push too much at, because for all of his bluster there was something fragile about him, and if ever there were a time where he needed to not be fragile, this was it.

 "The other things you needed," she said. "At my flat. I left the bag under my bed, like you asked—"

 "We did already establish this, Molly," he said, abrupt, distracted, and even that seemed a bit forced, now that she was listening for it. "No need to repeat yourself. You know I hate when—"

 They both froze at the same time, the sound of footsteps and muffled voices in the corridor unexpected and growing closer.

 "It should be clear," she said, a little desperately. "Your brother said he made sure it would be clear. We're supposed to have ten minutes."

 Sherlock had already reversed his direction, was already sliding back onto the gurney, jerking the bloodied sheet up and over himself. His eyes were very wide, and it occurred to her that she had never seen Sherlock Holmes look surprised before.

 She didn't have much time to think on it, because as they grew closer the voices grew clearer, and her heart plummeted.

 "I have to—I just have to—I have to see—"

 John.

John.

 "Sir—" the attendant arguing with him seemed to have no luck restraining him. "You cannot just—"

 "He's my friend," John said, as if that explained everything.

 She looked over at Sherlock with horror, saw only the dark curly top of his head poking out from under the sheet. Now was not the time to freeze. He'd trusted her. She wouldn't freeze.

 She moved to the gurney at the sound of a scuffle immediately outside the morgue doors. There was a slide and a thump that could only be someone hitting the ground. She wondered how many people John had fought past just to make it this far.

 She put a hand on Sherlock's arm, felt the jump of his traitorous pulse. The sheet shifted minutely, stilled. He was holding his breath.

 The door swung open, hard, bouncing off the wall. She jumped a little.

 John took two steps into the room, blinking, as if surprised to find himself there. He looked at her.

 "Molly," he said, and the expression on his face was utterly crushing.

 Tears sprang to her eyes and she blinked rapidly, trying to clear them until it occurred to her that she should be crying, and then she just let them flow.

 She slipped around the gurney, putting herself between it and John, wiped at her cheeks.

 "Is that—?" he asked, and then his knees buckled at her slow nod.

 She moved towards him, but he waved her off, gripping the edge of a table to keep himself upright. He closed his eyes, sucked in air through clenched teeth.

 "He—" John said. "He—"

 "I know," she said. She bit her lip. Her eyes had welled up again.

 "Did they try—?"

 "He's gone, John," her voice cracked a little bit.

 He was looking past her, at the sheet. She turned to follow his gaze. There were blooms of blood on the white fabric over Sherlock's face.

 She opened her mouth to say—to say what, exactly?—but he had already straightened up and pushed away from the table. He stepped towards the gurney with his shoulders squared and his jaw set.

 "Don't," she tried.

 He looked up at her, his hand hovering just over the sheet. He was trembling a little bit. She thought it was adrenaline and adrenaline alone that kept him on his feet. There were scrapes on the side of his face, angry red lines against pale skin.

 "Don't," she said again. She looked down at the sheet, at the way it draped and clung damply to Sherlock's face. One breath would give him away.

 "He—" John said again. He seemed to have frozen up, his hand still hovering just over the edge of the sheet, his fingers closed over open air.  

 "He wouldn't want you to see him like this," she said. Tears spilled over her cheeks and she bit her lip again, looked down. "Please. I wish I hadn't—but—"

 John's hand dropped onto the sheet over Sherlock's shoulder, but he did not tug back at the edge. Instead his hand patted once, twice, a clumsy half-caress, and then he'd doubled over, his hands on his knees, and he was making a sound that was not quite a sob. All of the air seemed to have gone out of him.

“I’ll take care of him,” she whispered. He gave no sign that he had heard her.

 She moved towards him again, and he shrank back from her touch, shaking his head. He straightened up and went out of the room without looking back, his hand clenching at his side. She listened to his retreating footsteps as they echoed through the corridor.  

 When she turned back, Sherlock was once again sitting up. The wild-eyed energy had fled him entirely. There was a slump to his shoulders, and something terribly young and bewildered in his face. He reached up, touched his shoulder, ghosted his fingers over the place John had laid his hand.

 Molly turned away, sniffed hard, wiped the last of the tears from her eyes. She went out of the room into the hallway, crouched to check on the slumped attendant. He tipped his head up and blinked at her, dazed. John had blackened his eye.

 "I'll call security," she told him.

 She went down the hall into her little office, retrieved a black duffel bag. Went back through the doors into the morgue, set the bag on the table.

 "Change of clothes," she said. She did not look at Sherlock, kept her voice steady, brusque. "You'll have to move quickly. Keep quiet."

 He did not respond, and she looked at him, frowned at the lost expression on his face. He was still touching his shoulder. The tips of his fingers were sticky with dried blood.

 "You have to move," she said, frantic now, feeling her pulse pick up. "If you don't, it will all have been for nothing."

 That got through to him. He stood up, slipped out of his coat. She turned away as he reached for the bag.

 She went to the phone on the wall, picked it up, dialed.

 "This is Dr Hooper," she said. "We've had an incident in the morgue. An attendant has been injured. He's all right, but he'll need medical attention. Please send someone."

 She set the phone back in the cradle, took a steadying breath.

 “You should tell him,” she said as she turned back. She stopped, put a hand to her mouth.

Sherlock had gone. His blood-stained clothes lay in a neat pile on the gurney, next to the discarded sheet.

 She listened for the sound of his footsteps in the hall, but heard nothing.

[cupidford]

Johnlock Love Letters

(AKA - JL3 Declarations of Love from fan fiction) #966

The Burning of the Leaves by blueink3