Post-RF-Reichenfeels

Punch Me in the Face: Some Sherlock Series 3 Spoiler Notes

Right. Swore to myself I wouldn’t do this but the insanity has begun. For those looking for spoiler links, keep reading.

 Update: Warning! Warning! Danger, Will Robinson!

It has come to my attention I need to warn some fans about the Dark Side of the Internet. Do NOT follow the “Full Episode” links, and whatever you do, DO NOT give these sites your email address or a credit card. They are bad guys. Really bad guys! They are going to fleece you. You will entering hell on earth. If you want to read about what you are getting yourself into, here’s a link to The Atlantic article on the Emperor Palpatine  of the Internet empire. These folks who are putting up lures and hooking the unsuspecting fans are just as psychopathic and lacking in any morals, ethics, or scruples. So please, please don’t  fall into the trap.

Do really need to put a spoiler alert on this link?

For those in countries prevented from viewing BBC Player, here’s a link to a bunch of (safe) clips from The Empty Hearse: http://www.youtube.com/channel/UCAPW-8BTxHhMY3P2neDazlw/feed?filter=2
(Courtesy of BW whom I introduced to Tumblr yesterday and who hasn’t gone to bed in over 24 hours now…) I can’t guarantee how long they will remain up so catch them while you can.

One friend went absolutely bonkers yesterday and fell in full ravenous fan frenzy, calling me up and saying — okay shouting — “I JUST REALIZED THAT SHERLOCK EPISODE 1 HAS JUST FINISHED AIRING IN BRITAIN! DID YOU MASK YOUR IP AND WATCH IT ON BBC PLAYER? WHAT HAPPENED? DID YOU MAKE A VIDEO?”

I awoke to a few hundred Sherlock related emails and a few hundred more Sherlock news alerts.

Breaking the news that, while I could have masked my I.P. and watched it on BBC One streaming, I didn’t. Nor did I hop over the border to Canada to catch it. That in actuality I was enjoying the anticipation, per the principles of Happy Money and behavioural economics, and savour it with the folks attending my Sherlock Series 3 Parties (starting this Sunday when we watch Series 1 again).

I’ve already had 3 phone calls from Sherlocked friends wanting to discuss what is being discussed on the internet and have had to promise one I’d call her as soon as I watched the clip she wanted to dissect in detail.

I honestly must get some work done today, but I suspect it will be limited in scope given the state of the Sherlock Fannish Nation.

An Hour Later…

I give up. It’s obvious I am not going to get much work done today. The interruptions are not entirely Sherlock S3 Episode 1 related, but they constitute at least 90%. I can’t begin to tell you how much I’m looking forward to the 19th of January.

Oh, and regarding “how he did it…” I know I never posted my solution on the site, but did discuss it with several other people and to the person in L.A. who owes me £2, I forgive you. And to anyone who is buying the Moriarty kiss (or the other one), seriously? I do, however, expect to see the fan music video to Call Your Girlfriend uploaded on Youtube very soon, no matter what John said to Mrs. Hudson. Some people simply won’t accept reality. And isn’t that what makes life so interesting?

 

BBC Sherlock Interactive Trailer Like a Multiple Prezzie

Here’s the new non-interactive Sherlock Series/Season 3 trailer:

It’s also a massive SPOILER! So unless you want to be a complete Sherlock Series/Season 3 virgin, head off to BBC One’s new interactive Sherlock trailer.  Meantime, here’s a starter of some shots from the video.

(Yes, Virginia, there is a Hogfather and yes, he has done a capture of the video, but he’s also good and isn’t going to post it because there’s no reason for all the good little boys and girls NOT to go to BBC One’s site to watch.)

A big tip of the deerstalker to Anne Zanoni of Ariel’s Miscellany… a la Sherlock blog and Sherlockology for the tweets announcing the BBC announcement. There’s a nice little report of some Cumberbatch snark when Madonna makes the mistake of attempting to diss Mr. Cumberbatch (either that or she was caught in the Stupid Zone (the mysterious force field some people exude that causes others to suddenly lose a 100 I.Q. points — or more — thus rendering them utter morons and incapable of coherent thought, let alone conversation; it is, fortunately, a variable Superpower). And yes, John Watson’s blog has new content as reported the official BBC Sherlock blog, and if you haven’t checked out Mark Gatiss’ official blog, I recommend it highly.

By all means, Share This. Let’s blow away the internet by the time Sherlock Series/Season 3 premieres!

Have almost achieved velocity to escape Black Hole project. Re-cutting bad narration, missing video, and soundtrack today.

Have You Done It Yet?

By J.H. Watson

(App. 650 words)

The man across from him was French. Not Parisian, Sherlock knew that. Sherlock would not admit that he couldn’t deduce from where exactly, but was pleased he could deduce it was from someplace near another border; he thought not Switzerland, but perhaps Spain, Basque maybe. The man was of no value to Sherlock, simply a courier delivering an obscure item. The man sat across from Sherlock saying nothing as he waited for his food to arrive.

Sherlock reread a text on his phone as sipped his tea. He grimaced.  Noticing, the Frenchman asked “Les mauvaises nouvelles?”

“Not bad news. Bad tea. La mauvaise thé.”

The frenchman grunted. Sherlock glanced back down at his phone. He yawned, then rubbed his eyes and his face with one hand. “Fatigué,” said the frenchman flatly.

“Yes, I’m tired,” Sherlock said. He stared at the phone. Sherlock started talking, an old compulsion to air his thoughts taking advantage of his weariness. The frenchman sat still, said nothing. He was a sounding board, as good as a skull, though not as good as a friend.

Sherlock said, “I’m tired of the waiting. I’m tired of all of this. I feel like Continue reading

One Tiny Thing to Share, Sherlock

Bit crazed today with work and commitments, especially after attendee the volunteer meeting for the Seattle Sherlock Convention (much more information forthcoming). (And yes, Sherlock Cares will be there with t-shirts, totes and more. Thank you for asking.)

At the meeting I met a delightful actress and fan video maker named Beverly who has done this marvelous Post-Reichenbach piece I thought I’d share today (yes, I do have most of the flash fic I promised done and, knock wood, it will go up later today).

And yes, MAJOR SPOILER ALERTS.

Meanwhile, enjoy!


 

It Was You, Mycroft

Mark Gatiss as Mycroft Holmes in BBC Sherlock with a sour look upon his face

I think this calls for a dozen chocolate frosted Krispy Kremes.

I really wasn’t planning to write this today. I have no idea where it came from. You can’t exactly call it post-Reichenbach Fall (although I did tag it as such). But it’s definitely Reichenfeels.

I think it was the gray stratus clouds moving in today that got to me. And I’m really sorry I looked up information on the Krispy Kreme site (like Mycroft, I’m on a diet and even when I’m not, Krispy Kremes are deadly for me). Fortunately, the nearest Krispy Kreme is 80 miles away!

Anyway, if you enjoy, please feel free to comment or tweet, or something. Thanks!

It Was You

By J.H. Watson
~ 800 Words

 

Mycroft Holmes sat quietly in a chair designed and built for comfort in a room designed for long periods of comfortable, quiet sitting in the contemplative sanctuary afforded by the Diogenes Club. The club’s entire raison d’être, as the better educated diplomatic members would put it, or its purpose, as the rest of us would say, was to buffer its members from the hurly-burly, hustle and bustle of London’s ordinary residents. Mycroft Holmes knew he was decidedly not an ordinary resident, even for the Diogenes Club.

He glanced once around the room and made a mental note to have someone on his staff send flowers to Sir Smythe-Higgsbosun’s widow. Of course, she wouldn’t be a widow until the end of next week, but it was always better not to leave this things until the last moment. He also made a note to ensure that he had no investments in his portfolio connected with the any of the corporations controlled by the Right Honourable Charles Cœur-Défaillant who was planning to disappear with his latest mistress within the fortnight despite buying tickets to the National Theatre.

Mycroft felt a gentle flutter over his heart. It was a silent signal from his mobile politely requesting his attention. He discreetly removed the dignified and tasteful phone from the pocket of his equally dignified suit jacket. Everything, and everyone, in the Diogenes Club appeared tasteful and dignified at all times. Mycroft peered at the screen.

The text read: u o me

Mycroft stared at it a moment as if expecting something more. He read the message again. Unnecessarily, but it gave him another moment to rapidly consider the mind of his brother, Sherlock, before taking any action.

Continue reading

I’m Not The John Watson You Know

Martin Freeman as BBC Sherlock John Watson looking serious and hurt

Text: I’m alive. Let’s have dinner. —SH

 

Benedict Cumberbatch as BBC Sherlock Holmes looking sad with rain coming down window

Text: no —jw

 

A very short bit of Post-Reichenbach Falls flash fanfic.

 

I’m Not the John Watson You Know

by J.H. Watson

Text from Sherlock Holmes to John Watson: I’m alive. Let’s have dinner.

Text from John Watson to Sherlock Holmes: No.

 

Friends Protect People, Sherlock

Close-up Benedict Cumberbatch as BBC Sherlock Holmes bending over and staring at something

Alone protects me.

Alone Is What I Have

By J.H. Watson
~ 725 Words

 

Sherlock closed the article he’d been reading and restored the newsfeed on his phone as he said, “Well, John, that’s another assassin down.”

“Were you talking to me? My name’s Mohammed.”

Sherlock looked up sharply. John wasn’t there. Sherlock scanned the only person there. Single. College student. Education visa from Pakistan. Left-handed engineering major who would be lucky to get a Second at City University London. Dating an economics major far smarter than him and two years older. Slow developing kidney disease.

Sherlock shook his head. The man tossed the t-shirt he’d been folding into the basket, picked the basket up and left Sherlock alone in the laundromat. In was after two in the morning. Sherlock had chosen the time deliberately. He’d been surprised to find even Mohammed sharing the facilities with him.

Sherlock thought of John’s reaction to finding him doing his own laundry, let alone at a public laundromat. He smiled. Of course, it had been awhile since he’d had to deal with his own laundry. He’d forgotten exactly how tedious the task was.

At the thought of John Watson, an almost overwhelming craving for a cigarette washed through Sherlock. He walked over to the vending machines, shoved some coins into one, selected something chocolate. It didn’t really matter what, it wouldn’t be satisfying. Very little was satisfying right now.

Sherlock ate the chocolate candy automatically, tasting little. He considered coffee, but he hadn’t slept in several days and he knew he needed to sleep soon. He’d been getting careless, talking out loud more often. Talking to John.

Who wasn’t there.

But Sherlock hated sleeping. When he slept he dreamed and when he dreamed he saw John. Falling. Crumbling to the ground, a neat hole in the front and the back of his head a ragged, gaping hole. The occipital lobe gone along with large parts of the parietal and temporal and the blood flowing, flushing more brains onto the ground. And Sherlock stood there, looking down, automatically classifying the damage, the smoking gun in his hand.

The dryer beeped recalling Sherlock to his purpose. He took the clothes from the dryer and dumped them on the folding table. He looked at the pile.

John Watson would have taken one look at the jeans, t-shirts and hoodies and said, “Decided to give Spencer Hart a night off?”

Once more a smiled played at the corners of Sherlock’s lips. He fought the sentiment stirring in his chest, trying to soar in a rush of dopamine to his brain. Sentiment was a chemical defect found in the losing side. Love was a dangerous disadvantage.

But even more dangerous was lying to oneself.

In the honest moments, like this one, Sherlock knew he loved. He’d let Moriarty destroy everything but his friends. And Sherlock had even lost them, for now.

He was no stranger to being alone. He’d felt alone most of his life. Alone had been peaceful, detached, like floating above the chaos, looking down on ordinary people’s lives. He had learned to embrace detachment like a Buddhist monk.

Now alone felt like a huge, sucking vortex, a black hole threatening to pull Sherlock in, extinguishing all light, crush him in the darkness. With a start of surprise, Sherlock realized he was…lonely.

As he folded the last of his clothes, he explored the experience. Like a tongue drawn inexorably to a sore tooth, Sherlock probed the pain, recalling John in that first taxi ride to a crime scene, the moment of realization that John Watson had saved him from swallowing the poisoned pill, the lurch in his chest as John wrapped himself strapped in a Semtex vest around Moriarty, and all the other moments until the last.

But the point of all this was to prevent it from being the last. John was not dead and neither was he. And as soon as it was safe, he would let John know he was alive. In one last moment of open honesty, he thought, “Alive but not living.

Some other night owl entered the laundromat and gave Sherlock the once over and a brief nod. Homeless. Alcoholic. Looking for a relatively dry, warm, safe place to kip. Sherlock threw the last garment in his backpack, drew the hoodie further over his face, and stepped out into the night — alone.

### End ###

Maybe You Could Make a Trail, Like in E.T., John

Benedict Cumberbatch as BBC Sherlock looking at something off camera with decided interest

Ooh, look, Smarties!

I’m Not That Angry

by J.H. Watson
~ 150 words

“Black, two sugars.”

It’s funny what you remember, John Watson thought as he put down his cup of coffee.   He pulled out his wallet and signaled for his check. When the waitress merely waved a lazy hand and continued chatting with the tall man who’d ordered the coffee, John tossed a note on the table and left.

He’d been fine. He’d been fine for days. Until he heard a posh baritone order a cup of coffee black, with two sugars. John pressed his lips together and blinked telling himself it was the biting, bitter wind that made his eyes sting and well up. He walked on, his hands jammed into the pockets of his black jacket, his shoulders hunched, against the cold he told himself again. It’s just that I’m cold.

It seemed like lately John was always cold.

## End ##

I swear this started out to be a comedy… I have no idea what happened. I think I had an attack of the Reichenfeels.

But seriously given how Sherlock takes his coffee and the fact that the one thing he raided from Mrs. Hudson’s fridge was a icing covered tart, I think it’s safe to say that Sherlock has a sweet-tooth. So I’m thinking John (or Molly) could do a bit of neuropsychology here…