Tag Archives: Sherlock Holmes

The One Fixed Point in a Changing World

By J.H. Watson
(~ 2,000 words)

 

John Watson stood alone on the edge of a tor gazing across the bleak, isolated sweep of Dartmoor. Dark clouds roiled overhead as a chill wind nipped his ears. The binoculars dangling from their strap weighed heavily upon John’s neck and occasionally thumped against his chest like a hanged man on a gibbet. John glanced briefly at the map in his hand and then again at the panorama before him, trying to orient himself in this empty land.

“What’s that?”

John looked up to see his best friend and partner, Sherlock Holmes, standing atop a rocky prominence soaring above. Sherlock stood in a typical Sherlock pose, stylish black tweed coat flaring about him, making him look taller, hipper, cooler than other people without looking like an obvious plea for attention. His arm jutted straight out commandingly pointed toward the distance. There was no one but John around to see this dapper act of dominance. It both exasperated and pleased John.

One the one hand, Sherlock’s attempt to place himself in a literal ascendency above, putting John in the subordinate position, was annoying. On the other hand, the fact that Sherlock felt the need to put on this civilized equivalent of beating his chest, even without other spectators, showed he recognized John as another alpha male Sherlock wanted to impress.

John smile ever so slightly to himself at his analysis. All those Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder therapy sessions had not been entirely wasted.

John peered through his binoculars, consult the map, and replied, “It’s Moriarty. That’s an ancient name for the devil.”

Suddenly John was aware that he was not holding binoculars but a black mobile phone. From it came Sherlock’s voice, in a sepulcher whisper, saying, “Good-bye, John.”

John looked up as Sherlock spread his arms and took a step forward into the air. John yelled, “Sherlock!” and took his own step — into the Grimpen Mire. He struggled to pull himself out of clinging morass. He felt the cold, clammy, deadly grip of the bog as he struggled in the sucking muck, never taking his eyes off his friend plunging towards the black rocks below.

John stretched himself out across the ground, grasped a spindly thorn bush and heaved with all his strength. There was a stab of pain as he dislocated his left shoulder, but he was free from the mire. He stood up, and as he stood cradling his damaged arm against his body for support, he discovered he was no longer in civvies, but in his combat gear and there was blood spreading across his chest.

John took three steps towards his falling friend and as Sherlock hit the solid black ground, John heard a click beneath his boot and froze. A glance down confirmed that he’d stepped on a land mine. A slight reduction in pressure would detonate it, blowing him into a red rain that would soon be absorbed by the surrounding peat.

He looked at Sherlock lying on his back, still, pale eyes open to the sky, the haze of death already spreading across the corneas. John looked down once more, then at his friend where blood flowed from Sherlock’s head and streamed down the rocks, red on black, like a macabre parody of the black coat’s red button hole.

John sighed.

And lifted his boot —

He bolted awake, momentarily disoriented, his breath shallow and fast, matching the beating of his heart. A sheen of evaporating sweat cooled his face. John took several deep gulps of air, letting them out through his nose, but making a small mewing noise. Then he recognized where he was and lay back in his bed, draping his arm across his face to block the light, or possibly the tears leaking from the corners of his eyes.

Despite the fact that there was no one else there, John still felt ashamed at the tears. He’d thought he was past the tears.

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BBC Sherlock Season 3 Guide and Guesses

Last Update: 08 January, 2014

As we get more information, hints, teasers, rumours, sightings, and so forth, I’m going to update and fine-tune my guesses.

And for those who don’t want any spoilers, you might want to go look at something else. There are some nice fanfic or captions or videos you can amuse your self with.
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What Happened, John?

 

By J.H. Watson
(~1,700 words)

[Author’s Note: Absolutely slammed with work right now, but John and Sherlock wouldn’t leave me alone until I wrote this one. I’ll be doing a bit about Season 3 later this week. Thanks for your patience.]

“What happened, John?”

God, how John Watson hated that question. It seemed to be how his therapist started every session lately. Of course, it would probably have helped if he saw her a bit more regularly.

But he’d see her and things seemed to be going better, so he’d skip the next session. And maybe the one after that. And sometimes the one after that. And then, well, then something would happen and he’d call up and make a new appointment.

John sat for a moment, silent. His therapist sat silent as well. John licked his lips and said, “Notcertain.”

“What?”

John flattened his lips in a pinched frown before clearing his throat and saying, “I’m not certain.”

“What do you mean?”

So he told her about New Year’s and Sherlock’s birthday and what he could remember and what he couldn’t explain the next morning and how he’d been feeling like he was being watched, which might be true, but he hadn’t wanted to ask Mycroft and find out if it was true because it would just make him angry, or angrier, and whenever he thought of Mycroft he wanted to punch Mycroft and John figured that wasn’t a very healthy impulse on a lot of levels and what he really wanted for his life to just be normal.

He didn’t tell his therapist that he was really starting feel like he might be losing his mind from grief.

“What do you mean by normal, John?”

Oh, hell. Now I’ve stepped in it, he thought. Don’t say anything crazy.

“You know. Getting up and going to work at a decent job, a night out with friends from time to time. A girlfriend. Maybe with time it becomes serious and we get married, have kids, a mortgage. You know. I want to settle down.”

“Is that what you really want, John?”

No! What I want is a bloody miracle. I want Sherlock Holmes to walk through that door and to have it all the way it was before with his brain racing, my adrenalin pumping, and us solving crimes back at 221B. But that’s not going to happen, is it?

Instead, John answered, “Yes.” It was the answer he knew she wanted.

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Gatiss and Moffat, Who’s Your Favourite Child?

A series of shots with Benedict Cumberbatch as BBC Sherlock Holmes and Matt Smith as Dr. Who competing for popularity

Well, this could be a bit awkward.

In case you’ve missed the news, both Sherlock and Dr. Who, as well as Benedict Cumberbatch and Matt Smith, are going head to head in the National Television Awards competition. The winners will be announced on 23 January, 2013. I confess as much as I like Matt Smith and The Doctor from time to time (no pun intended), I’m rooting for Sherlock and Benedict Cumberbatch (although, I have some friends who are in a real fehklumpt (I was going to use “feshmeckle” but can’t find out how to spell it correctly in Yiddish), because they are true fans of both the shows and the men).

My reasons for supporting Sherlock are beautifully explained in a Los Angeles Times article for which I’ll simply include the following excerpt:

For the generations of men who have wondered what it is women want, this year has made it fairly obvious. We want a man of devastating intelligence, cerebrally and physically nimble, whose vast store of arcane knowledge is foundation for a super-human ability to solve problems and the fascinating, frustrating wall that protects a tender heart.

We want Sherlock Holmes.

No! You?

By J. H. Watson

(App. 1,000 words)

[Author’s Note: Right. If I’m late to the Seattle Sherlock Birthday Party, it’s not my fault. I’d timed everything perfectly, but the boys had other ideas and insisted I write this and post it before I leave. I’ll be back later to fix the typos and what not, but right now, like the White Rabbit, I’m late.]

John Watson awoke with a hangover and a desperate need for the loo. He sat up groggily on the sofa. The blanket fell to the floor beside his shoes. Funny, he didn’t remember taking off his shoes or getting the blanket.

As he stumbled in his stocking feet to the bath room, he ran through the fragments of what he could remember. He’d stopped at a pub for a drink on his way back to his flat. A routine he’d developed, and probably should stop, every since New Year’s Eve when he thought he heard… well, he should probably just avoid pubs for awhile.

There’d been some idiot with one of those tabloid rags with Kitty Riley’s name on it. She’d done a piece for Sherlock’s birthday raking up the coals of the past by cobbling together a few quotes from people who believed Moriarty was real and rehashing Brook’s bits of lies and half-truths. That was when the drink became drinks. Things were a bit fuzzier after that.

And louder. John remembered some louts about half his age making some snarky comments about posh fakers and wankers and eventually John threw the punch.

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Does Sherlock Look Happy?

Benedict Cumberbatch as BBC Sherlock looking serious and arrogant as someone

What do you mean my Christmas gift was also my birthday gift?

Ooh, you are in trouble now. People with late December and early January birthdays hate combined gifts! Trust me/ (I have a friend born on Christmas Day and you’d better make certain there are two gifts and one isn‘t wrapped in Christmas wrapping paper…)

For those who don’t know, Sherlock Holmes birthday has traditionally been listed as 6 January, 1854. The date of 6 January was never actually specified by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle in the canon, however, through a bit of specious logic, the Baker Street Irregulars members agreed upon the date and hold an annual party in celebration. As for the year, Sherlock Holmes centennial was celebrated in 1987, the year he first appeared in print, however in the story His Last Bow, set in August 1914, Sherlock is said to be 60-years old which would mean he was born in 1854. There’s a nice little piece about all of this in the New York Times, along with the argument that Sherlock’s birthday should be 2 December because that is Dr. Joseph Bell’s birthday (the actual man on whom Sherlock Holmes is based).

Personally, I like the 6 January because it is the 12th Day of Christmas known as Epiphany (celebrating the arrival of the Magi or Wise Men with their gifts for the 3-year old Jesus; which is why my family did not put out the Wise Men in the Nativity until 6 January). I like the idea that Sherlock was born on Epiphany which means  a moment of sudden revelation or insight. So very Sherlock!

The Seattle Sherlock Holmes fans seem to agree with a gathering on the traditional 6 January and will be gathering this Sunday for celebration (and more than a bit of fun). I look forward to seeing some of you there.

I’d hoped to get something extraordinary done to post for Sherlock’s Birthday, but work is interfering so I may be running a bit late. Meanwhile, everyone should plan on celebrating one of the world’s most beloved fictional characters in an appropriate style (I will, however, eschew the often suggested 3 pipes of tobacco or 7% solution in favor of some bubbly (perhaps not a case) and some good reading and viewing.)

May your New Year be filled with Health, Happiness, Joy, Peace, Prosperity and Plenty of Sherlock Holmes!

 

For The Fandom Who Waits

I wasn’t planning on writing today. I’ve got a lot work and cleaning to do, but Sherlock and John had other plans for me. So I hope you enjoy.

And a Happy New Year

By J.H. Watson
(~900 words)

It had been an awful mistake. John Watson knew he should not have gone with Harry to a New Year’s party. But his therapist insisted he get out more, mingle, meet people and she was becoming suspicious of the meet-ups with Stamford and his coworkers, the dates, and the other social outings he invented. He’d had a row with Harry after he’d found her, drink in hand, chatting up someone by the bar. The drink was obviously not her first despite her promise of sobriety. Now John was alone again, a little drunk, a bit despondent, uncertain of his direction.

A sudden rush of people spilled out from a restaurant sweeping John into the crush. As he looked for an escape, he realized the restaurant was Angelo’s and that he must have come up Northumberland. He’d must have come this way by old habit. He’d avoided the area for months. Ever since he’d moved out of Baker Street. He wondered for a moment what Mrs. Hudson was doing tonight, if she was also alone. Perhaps he ought to check. No. He couldn’t go back there. Not yet. Certainly not tonight.

The crowd pressed around him had been counting down and now a cheer went up as Big Ben chimed, bells rang, horns honked. People began the indiscriminate kissing and hugging of desperate desire.

Above the noise came the sound of a violin and, as the individuals picked up the tune and began singing quavering versions of Auld Lang Syne, John Watson froze. “Sherlock?” he whispered. He looked quickly in the direction the music came. Through the swaying bodies he glimpsed a tall, thin figure in the shadows. As he pushed his way through the throng, he called out, “Sherlock!”

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Holmes Boys: Christmas — Originally He Wanted To Be a Pirate

 

By J. H. Watson

(~16,000 words)

[Author’s Note: Sorry about the delay. Sherlock & Mycroft wouldn’t let me publish it until I got the ending right…]

Holmes-Boys-Christmas Fanfic in PDF [for those who would like to download and read offline]

Savouring the last pain au chocolat with his Breakfast Blend tea and reading all of the available English papers, ten-year old Mycroft Holmes was seated in his favourite chair in the house (Mummy’s really beautiful and comfortable one that, while technically designated as a “lady’s club chair,” had the advantages of being slightly lower to the ground and not as long in the seat as Father’s chairs). He read the papers every day. It was an experiment he’d begun during the long summer vacation from school to see if he could accurately determine the outcome of various events and predict others from reports in the press. He’d even devised his own database and a method of scoring his results. Mycroft was quite pleased to note that changes in his process of observation had resulted in a 347% improvement in his score. He frowned as the thought came that the Labour Party would be doing quite well in the upcoming elections. Mummy and Father did not approve of the Labour Party.

Mycroft made a note on his shirt cuff about a change to his stock portfolio regarding Austin Rover (while technically the account was in Father’s name, it was one that neither Father nor Mummy knew about as Mycroft had long since shifted the start-up funds back to Father’s actual account). There was little chance that he would be caught like those stupid American kids who ran afoul of the SEC by overtly manipulating stock sales through newsletters and the burgeoning electronic bulletin boards. Mycroft’s broker did occasionally question the difference in shares and results between Father’s two portfolios, but Mycroft had deftly handled that by implying the first portfolio was constrained by Father’s government work. The second portfolio was strictly confidential. This had resolved both the questions and any potential indiscretions of his broker.

Mycroft was really quite pleased with the way things were going.

Nanny dashed in wringing her hands with an expression on her face that Mycroft had learned to associate with a crisis regarding his little brother, Sherlock. “What has he done now?” Mycroft asked as he folded the paper in his hand and stood.

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A Boxing Day Sherlock Surprise

Absolutely brilliant! Would never have thought of combining such a cheery carol with the sentiment and images.

Am dashing off now to finish the very last bit of the Holmes Boys story. Might even get a chance to do a bit of proofreading before posting.

Happy Boxing Day (and the 2nd Day of Christmas).