So here we are, at the end. And it’s been wonderful.
I’ve been trying to figure out how to write this all week, and before anything else, I wanted to say thank you to everyone that’s messaged me, or submitted, or simply loved their rare pair!
The decision to end the blog hasn’t been an easy one, and it’s been some time in coming. I’ve been very lucky to be a part of this fandom, and to have the chance to interact with people who are genuinely passionate about it... Thank you, and thank you again.
But all good things must eventually come to an end. I’ll be letting the queue continue on two posts a day until it runs out, and then the site will be left up as an archive.
Remember: be supportive. Leave comments for the incredibly talented creators in your fandom communities.
So this is short and quickly written and I’m only half awake with one cup of coffee in my system, so I hope it makes sense! Written to celebrate Adcroft being picked for showcase by @sherlockrarepairs !
From Something To Nothing And Back Again (An “In So Few Words” Story) - Mycroft ponders his curious relationship with Irene Adler over the years.
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The room where she entertained her clients was not her actual bedroom, he had learned many years after the fact.
He had been in the room where she entertained her clients a few times, usually tied to the bed and at her mercy. Later they would go to her parlour for aftercare sessions, him in his shirt and trousers, no waistcoat, no tie, no jacket, her in a silk kimono that he had seen in Japan and thought she would like. He was surprised at the sentiment, that she would use the gift at all, let alone in his presence, but he appreciated the sentiment, just that once.
Eventually, as he went higher into the government circles and she began playing her dangerous game of secrets, their sessions came to an amenable end. He cared for her, perhaps even loved her, in his own way, but there would be no more. Sentiment is a chemical defect, after all, and he was made of steel and ice.
But later...after her infatuation with his brother brought her back into his orbit, he found steel had become malleable and ice had melted. Oh, it would always be that way with Irene, he realized, much to his dismay. When she got herself into trouble in Karachi, certain hints and clues were laid at Sherlock’s feet to find her; he’d have gone himself if it wouldn’t have amounted to an international scandal.
Oh, he knew she was alive. He knew she still fancied Sherlock, that his own sentiment seemed to be much like a secondhand piece of furniture now: used with love until it was no longer needed, then given away to someone who needed it more, but there was no one who needed him and therefore he was alone. Always alone, even though he might like not to be.
And then one night, a car waited for him, one that was not one of his regular cars. And she was in the back seat, waiting.
Sherlock loved another, this was a thing they both knew now, but what it meant for them, he didn’t know. It started with a conversation, an honest conversation between two usually dishonest people, and ended in a room he did not recognize, where he fell asleep next to her and woke up next to her, her hair spilled all over the pillow, a smile on her face.
He’d been allowed into her inner sanctum, it seemed, and for that, he was pleased. He wasn’t alone after all.
A/N: No, they're not named in the fic. And Mummy does refer to her husband as Daddy, which is kind of gross and creepy to me, but also something I grew up hearing—a close friend of the family had six kids, all born in the 60s into the early 70s, and they referred to each other in conversation as Daddy and Mother even to people outside the immediate family. It seems like a very midcentury thing to do, so I'm going with it. Takes place during HLV.
*
They hadn't gone all-out for Christmas in years. She always did some greens on the banister and the mantel and wreaths on the doors; lights, of course, but only just enough to be festive and still tasteful; a small tree with very generic, timeless ornaments and an antique mercury glass tree-topper that some Holmes toff generations before had nicknamed 'The Spear of Destiny' for its resemblance to a spearhead. Dinner was never anything special, usually a nice joint from the butcher's (turkey was nice, but too much for just the two of them), mash, sprouts, mince pies from the baker in the village, box wine. No gifts; they were coming up on fifty years and there wasn't anything either of them wanted that could be wrapped up under the tree.
This year was different. They were getting a present in the form of their adult sons (and friends!) coming home for Christmas dinner. It had been over a decade since they'd been together for a holiday; she supposed there was always something about Sherlock when he was fresh out of rehab that made him long for the comforts of home and family. Or maybe his brush with death had made him re-evaluate things a bit, made him realize he wouldn't have that much more time with them. And of course he had a bit of an ulterior motive, too, he always did; John (who they'd only just met when Sherlock was in hospital, despite having heard so much about him) and his wife Mary were going through a rough patch, first-time parenthood looming, and Sherlock thought maybe they'd have some sage advice. After all, he'd said, they'd managed to stay together after everything he'd put them through (and oh, how that broke her heart; she hoped she lived long enough to find a way to apologize to him for letting him think his problems were of his own making), so they must have some wisdom they could share.
Honestly, it didn't matter why, only that everything had to be just so. A fire in every fireplace, candles, a full spread on the table, fairy lights and ribbons and green everywhere. Proper Christmas.
Daddy helped her bring all the boxes down from the attic, including the box. The one that had been stashed in the sluice room and forgotten (we'll take up to the attic at the weekend, but the weekend was always busy), one of the few things to survive the fire when photos and school papers and baby blankets were lost. It went with them from house to house, overseas and back, every move until they'd finally retired. The boys didn't know it existed (well, maybe Mikey did, he was always a snoop) and it would always stay that way.
Most of what was inside was nothing special, just tinsel garland and paper cut-outs that had been taped to windows, but it held the most precious treasure, too.
She pulled out a wreath made by Mycroft, aged 10, little squares of green and read tissue wrapped around a pencil eraser, dipped in glue, and meticulously stuck to bristol board—he'd done it as a project with Sherlock, who had wanted to make a star, instead. Sherlock's tissue paper star was next to it, chaotic and irregular, without regard for neatness or color composition, completely average for an almost-four year old that couldn't sit still long enough to pick his nose. Below that, a tempera paint, crayon, and glitter rendering of a reindeer that Mummy had made with Eurus—the antlers were her handprints, the face scribbles. Mummy flipped it over, Christmas 1980; two and a half. Such tiny hands. Hands that never got the chance to get much bigger.
Next was a perspex photo frame shaped like a Christmas ball and with a loop of silver thread for hanging; inside a picture of all three of them sitting in front of the tree on Christmas morning, surrounded by wrapping paper and new toys. 1981, at a guess. Someone else's family, Mummy thought, looking at her husband.
He was turning something shiny over in his hands and oh. The sword. Sherlock had made an angel for the top of the tree that last Christmas ('83); he didn't care so much about the symbology, he just wanted to make the wings from feathers he'd saved from years of nature walks (always a packrat, the state of his flat was never surprising). Eurus had taken it upon herself to make a sword, because angels always had them in church windows and paintings. She was so diligent with the cardboard and tinfoil and they hadn't been thrilled when she'd somehow got ahold of matches and melted a red crayon to make it bloody (because it was a smiting angel like in the paintings) but it was creative and constructive and she was doing something with Sherlock for a change, so they let it slide.
And then, the next morning they found the animals. Well, the pieces of them, scattered in the tree like ornaments. Bones, for the most part, cats and squirrels; bits of a mummified bird; and the mice. Fresh, the blood still tacky. They'd been scared, then, properly scared of her, not just for her. When asked why, she said she was using her collection like Sherlock had used his. Hers was better, though, since Sherlock only found his feathers by getting lucky, she'd made hers herself. Why didn't they like her surprise?
Terrible memories and the heavy press of old grief left her winded, dizzy for a moment, and then Daddy was methodically repacking the box, sealing it up, taking it back upstairs. They didn't have the heart to throw it away, but some things were best left buried.
@sherlockrarepairs Holiday Bingo, Sherlolly fic for the prompt “scarf”.
“No, Molly. Don’t struggle.”
Molly shivered as she tried to relax into the scene. Her fists clenched on the bedpost they’d been tied to with a scarf. The soft fabric of the scarf was no real obstacle, but she acted like she couldn’t free herself from it, desperately fighting against the restraint while that voice dripped like honey into her ears.
“I said. Don’t. Struggle.”
The whip hissed through the air, about to inflict the punishment she craved, she could feel the pain already, almost. But not quite. Because –
– it was a daydream.
A heavy sigh of frustration escaped her as she forced herself to face reality again under the cold fluorescent light of the morgue.
So much paperwork needed to be done, and there weren’t even any fresh bodies to cut open. The last one had been fascinating, a serial killer’s victim. He’d looked like he was sleeping. Not a single wound, no signs of poison, no internal bleeding, nor anything that could have killed him. It had taken the whole morning and all of her skill and experience to find the cause of his death. On mornings like that she loved her job. Now, when all that was left to do were some boring chemical tests and paperwork, she hated it.
The scarf was still in her hands because she didn’t quite know where to put it after she’d picked it up from the floor. She wondered if it could be used to strangle someone. Probably it could; she’d seen enough victims of strangling to know what worked and what didn’t. On the other hand, this particular scarf was really exceptionally soft. She thought about how ridiculous it would be if a serial killer tried to strangle someone and failed because he’d chosen this scarf and it was too soft. The thought made her smile, as she imagined the victim whimpering and tearing at the fabric with both hands and then going – oooh, cashmere.
“What do you think of this, Bert?” she asked the corpse in the other corner of the room whose cause of death happened to be asphyxiation. “This scarf could have saved your life. And it’s probably also really nice and warm in the winter.”
Her mind immediately supplied another daydream in which she saw herself wearing the scarf proudly around her neck. Dressed in a fur coat and expensive leather boots, she was strolling through a shopping center towards the luxury goods. She wasn’t even planning to buy anything, only wanted to show that she could, she could buy the entire shopping center if she wanted, but of course she had more important things to do. Meeting Hollywood stars in exclusive party locations, organizing charity events, attending the christening of her new yacht…
She pressed the scarf to her face and inhaled deeply. It smelled like a dream, like being admired and respected and lo-
“Hey, Molly!”
“Oh, hi, Sherlock!”
It wasn’t before she had put on her friendliest and most intelligent-looking smile that she realized she was still pressing his scarf against her chin and had probably drooled on it.
“How long have you been standing there?” she asked shyly.
“Long enough,” he replied with that enigmatic smile, the closest thing to affection that he could manage.
“I’m sorry, I was just checking it for, um, chemicals.”
“Chemicals, of course. There’s no other way to find out if my scarf has been contaminated with something hazardous than burying your own face in it and inhaling –“
“It smells like you!” The words were out before Molly could stop herself. She felt her cheeks reddening even more than they already had, probably her face looked like a glowing tomato by now.
Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. He stared at her with that piercing look as if she’d suddenly become interesting. He seemed confused for a moment, like he was trying to deduce her but ended up seeing nothing but question marks above her head.
“So, can I have it back now?”
“Sorry. Of course,” she stuttered, and handed him the scarf. He let it disappear in his coat pocket, and his enigmatic smile came back.
“Do you know what smells even more like me than my scarf?”
Her eyes widened.
“I – I have no idea what you –“
“Me,” he said, and grabbed her suddenly and pulled her into a tight embrace. She wasn’t entirely sure, but she thought she could feel him chuckling deep in his chest.
Due to lack of interest, we will not be having a Eurus Holmes rec list for this week.
However, as this will be the last rec list for the SRP? I would like to announce a last-minute theme change. (Because this has been on my wishlist since I started this blog, and has always gotten shuffled to to the bottom of the list).
Gen Fics.
We have 48 hours to collect a list of your favourite Gen fics in the Sherlock fandom.
From the beginning, the SRP has tried to reach as many people as possible-- something that’s become much more of a challenge after Tumblr’s decision to jettison all common sense.
Currently Tumblr is our main site and archive, and for the foreseeable future that won’t change. However, we do cross-post announcements and updates to Twitter as well.
Unfortunately, I’m still hearing a lot of “I didn’t see the notification!”.
(And a lot of “Oh, I don’t read announcements”, but that’s a different problem entirely!)
So, I’m polling all you! When you’re not on Tumblr, where are you checking these days? If we do decide to expand to a new site, where should we go?
