Every Conversation With Sherlock and Molly After TFP
Sherlock, can you-
Get you coffee, take you out to dinner, get married, have three children and a house and a dog and grow old together looking after bees and our grandchildren because I love you and want to make you happy?
.....pass me that pen? *internally* And the other stuff too.
Kent has routines. He’s naturally a superstitious guy, but nowhere close to being excessive by hockey standards, but something changed after the incident with Jack. He starts to have these little routines. His therapist said it was probably because he’s seeking some semblance of balance, which Kent thinks is a load of shit. So he cuts his peanut butter-Nutella sandwiches diagonally and never horizontally (who the hell cuts sandwiches horizontally?) So maybe he pets Kit no less than ten times before a game. So maybe when he wakes from another nightmare about finding Jack on the bathroom floor, he doesn’t go to sleep until he’s counted to ninety. It’s not a big deal.
He still waits for the fallout when Tater starts sleeping over more often, when he tries to find his sweatpants but all he finds, to his annoyance, are Tater’s socks and jeans made for giants. He wait for Tater to abandon him, or maybe not abandon him but still for the impending freak out looming like an eternal storm because Tater is not part of his routine.
But it doesn’t happen.
They make peanut butter Nutella sandwiches together, licking chocolate off their fingers and cutting their sandwiches diagonally. Kit curls into a ball and rests on Kent’s stomach while Kent uses Tater’s lap as a pillow while he reads some Russian classic, Dostoyevsky, probably, or one of those dead Russian literary greats whose names remind Kent of keyboard smashing (“Kenny, this is Eat, Pray, Love.” “Oh.”) on their couch like he’s lived there for ages, and not only every so often when their schedule happens to match up. And when Kent shoots up in bed, shaking from another bad dream, he feels Tater reach for him from his left, blindly, tiredly, and say “Shh, is dream. Shh.” And Tater kisses him on the jawline, alternating between sides, exactly 7 times, because “is lucky number. No more bad dreams.” Like it’s a routine.
When he kisses Kent tonight, he’s visibly tired, so he ends up mouthing at Kent’s jaw like he’s a fish gaping for water.
“What the hell are you doing?” Kent says. Tater’s lips are moving very gently along his skin, and it’s getting ticklish.
“Tired,” he says, and finishes his kisses with a real one, complete with an obnoxious smack. “There. 7 kisses. Eh. More or less. Good enough.”
“90’s a luckier number.”
“Got me pretty far, you know. Have the trophies to prove it.”
“7 is better. More lucky.” Tater saves this into Kent’s hair. “90 I think is little bit ok.”
“Oh yeah? What do you know about luck?”
“Lots,” Tater says, rubbing Kent’s arm gently. “I’m lucky man.”
“How so?” Kent says quietly, his eyes nearly sliding shut again. “You don’t–“ He yawns. “You don’t have a Cup.”
“Not yet,” Tater agrees. “But have hockey. And Kent Parson. And Kit. And sandwiches cut in…” He gestures vaguely, his hands flapping gently like birds, like he can’t quite grasp the word, then says something in Russian, a slow, full rumble that Kent adores. “You know.” He waves his fingers again, mimicking a shape.
“Triangles?” Kent prompts, huffing a laugh in Tater’s throat.
“Hah! Yes. Triangle sandwiches. Most lucky shape, I think.”
“Okay,” Kent says, his heart so, so full, and snuggles back in to Tater’s arms. “If you’re so sure.”
I took a closer look at the cover of The Dark Prophecy and...
Do we know who this girl is?? My first thought was Calypso, since she’s definitely been confirmed as a character in the book, except I don’t think they’d have Calypso on the cover without Leo. I also don’t think it’s meg because the girl show here seems to old, plus she doesn’t match Meg’s description.
If you look even closer, you see she’s wearing a silver jacket, matching the exact description for the Hunter’s of Artemis uniform. It leads me to think she’s a hunter, or even Artemis herself!
Dear Netflix…writing “[speaking Spanish]” in closed captioning is half-assing your job. Like “no shit, didn’t pick that up or anything…What is the Spanish Spangulating? My monolingual self wants tah naww.”