Vox Machine chases Dr. Ripley across the Island of Glass, but are they prepared for what she has in store?
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Imagine John and Sherlock at a crime scene, and it’s late.
They’ve been here for quite some time, and John is tired. In fact, everyone is. Even Sherlock, who would like to pretend otherwise.
And then, three times in a row, Sally Donovan interrupts what Sherlock is saying – and each time, John is getting more and more annoyed.
On the fourth time, John stands upright from where he was leaning and he points his finger at her. “If you call him a freak one more bloody time, we will leave.” He glares at her, then at Anderson and everyone else who is looking.
“John-” Sherlock starts, but John’s gaze falls on him next and it quiets him up.
“Honestly,” John continues, his eyes still on Sherlock. “He comes here because he enjoys this. Sherlock will never admit it, but he actually likes to help people. Not just the victims in these crimes, but he likes helping you lot as well. He doesn’t have to be here.” He pauses. “You’re not even payinghim.”
Sally opens her mouth to say something, but no words come out.
“If you all cannot let this man work and show him some respect…we will leave.” John repeats. “Sherlock Holmes does not deserve ill treatment. And, I won’t allow it any further.” He nods in conclusion at Sherlock, prompting him to begin speaking again, this time, without interruption.
Sherlock just looks awestruck for a few silent moments, eyelashes fluttering with his quick blinks. Then, he starts to speak.
Though Sherlock is talking to the NSY team again, he keeps his eyes on John. And, when it’s finally time to go home, they walk together shrouded in the barely risen sunlight.
John clears his throat. “I’m sorry…about earlier.” He says. “I know Sally is probably going to continue calling you a freak – and Anderson is going to continue to be an awful mess but-”
“What would I do without you, John?” Is all Sherlock says, but it seems more like he’s just saying it to himself and not to John at all.
John doesn’t know what to say back, because he doesn’t know what he’d do without Sherlock either. And, he doesn’t want to ever find out.
But then again, isn’t it all the same, our senses just mediocre inputs for our brain? Sure, we rely on them, trust they accurately portray the real world around us, but what if the haunting truth is, they can’t? That what we perceive isn’t t h e r e a l w o r l d at all butjust our mind’s best guess? That all we really have is a garbled reality, a fuzzy picture we will never truly make out.