Potential questions for Mofftiss at Sherlocked Con, feel free to add on to or use:
– “Clearly you admire Billy Wilder’s work, the man who directed a film called ‘The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes’, considering you went out of your way to name a character after him. Do you think Wilder would be proud of your contribution thus far to the Holmesian narrative and a 21st century audience? Why or why not?”
– “Earlier this year the BBC went on record to state how involved you are with advocacy for the LGBT community, is there a reason, then, you made every LGBT on-screen character in Sherlock, thus far, a sexual predator?”
– “One of my favorite moments - and I suspect yours too - in all of Doyle’s canon comes from the Adventure of the Three Garridebs. You perfectly captured the raw emotion of the original story in that brief nod during The Final Problem. What made you choose Garridebs for one of Eurus’ mind games?”
Rewatching the Reichenbach Fall because what’s a girl to do when she has all this other work to do?
I just had a revelation– one of my favorite Sherlolly moments is watching Sherlock completely blown away by Molly– the whole “I know what it means to look sad when you think no one can see you” “you can see me” “I don’t count” thing…
MOLLY HOOPER DOESN’T COUNT.
MOLLY HOOPER WILL NEVER COUNT.
SHE HAS NEVER EVER COUNTED,
YOU KNOW WHY?!?!?!
Because when you love somebody, when you trust somebody so much that you can be YOU around them, when all the masks and facades are useless, when you’re with that one person you can be your true self with….you’re YOU.
You don’t hide anything, do you?
Because when you love somebody, they become a part of you, you absorb them. You begin to share the same heart, the same lungs, the same soul. Because when you’re with the person you love the most, the world slips away from you- all your aches and pains….everything belongs to this other half of you.
When you’re upset, you don’t have to hide it from them, don’t have to put up this facade, this mask. You can be YOU.
That’s why Molly never counted.
He’s never had to wear a mask for her.
She’s never been an outsider looking in at Sherlock, she’s always been looking at him from inside.
Requested: ReidxReader where they go on a horrible date and he just does everything wrong. He later apologizes and asks for a second chance.
Penelope assures her it will be good. And after all,
Penelope has never steered her wrong before. Whether it’s fashion advice or
love advice, when she speaks, Y/N has learned to listen. So when her
brightly-dressed best friend insists she’s found the perfect guy to set her up
on a date with, saying yes is the only logical response.
He’s a co-worker of Penelope’s. “He’s sweet,” she says.
“Very smart, a bit on the shy side, but he’s got a good heart.”
Which sounds promising enough.
Until she is sitting at a restaurant alone, checking her
watch and wondering if he forgot. The waiter circles back glances at the empty
seat across from her – with sympathy – and she starts to worry that he’s
standing her up on purpose. It wouldn’t be the first time a date ended poorly.
Relationships haven’t been smooth sailing for her in the past.
She takes a few deep breaths and fixes her eyes on the door,
watching people come in and out and hoping that one will be her mystery man.
They were supposed to meet at 6:45. An older couple, a group of eight
teenagers, a family of five, and two women all pass through the doors of the restaurant
and are seated at a table that isn’t hers before three people come in at 7:19
to be seated. After a brief word with the hostess, they walk towards the
tables, and she sighs, disappointed. Until one of them breaks off from the
group and approaches.
“Excuse me, are you Y/N?” When he speaks his voice shakes
just a little, and fidgets with his hands. Oh.
So he’s not part of the other group at all. He’s here to meet her.
“I am. Y/N Y/L/N. You must be Spencer.” Just as she raises
her hand, she remembers what Penelope told her. This man doesn’t shake hands.
It’s a germ thing. So she quickly puts her hand back on the table, hoping he
He looks relieved at the gesture. “Reid,” he says. “Dr.
Spencer Reid. But, uh, you don’t have to call me doctor. I – I mean, you can
just call me Spencer. Um, I mean… I’m really not used to this. I’m sorry. Yes.
I’m Spencer. And I’m so sorry I’m so late. There was a case. I work for the
“I know. Penny told me. You’re here now. Don’t worry about
it.” Spencer smiles, but the anxiousness doesn’t fade from his face. “Would you
like to sit?”
He does so gratefully. This must be that shyness Penelope
mentioned. Though, she must admit, he’s rather handsome. Brown eyes, hair
that’s a bit on the messy side, very
tall. And those cheekbones.
“So, um, what do you do? For work?” he asks.
“Well, I studied at anthropology, but right now I work at
the Museum of Natural History. I’m a curator.”
Spencer raises his eyebrows. Surprised. “That seems an odd
career path. Wouldn’t you rather be involved in research or field work?”
The words carry a sting. It’s obvious of course that she
would. But times are tough for humanities majors. Jobs are few and far between,
and she’s lucky to find people who think first of the academic discipline and
not of the extremely overpriced clothing store upon hearing the word
“Yes, I very much would. Unfortunately, it’s not that easy
to find an open position.”
The color on his cheeks nearly matches the shade on her
lips. Observation is a particular skill of hers, and she can tell he’s beyond
nervous. Folding and unfolding his hands, licking his lips – admittedly, she
finds that a bit distracting – and stuttering as he tries to repair the
Spencer asks her about school, and they swap stories of
college and grad school. He really is brilliant, with three doctorates to his
name. They cover the basic topics; they both like their jobs, he’s fond of his
coworkers while hers can be difficult, they both are coffee addicts, and he’s
the only person she’s met who has read more books than her.
However, the discussion occasionally halts when he responds
in a negative manner.
When he mentions Sherlock Holmes she says, “I’ve read every
book there is. I was a little obsessed with them in high school. I was
disappointed when I finished, but luckily there are a number of adaptations to
fill that spot in my heart. BBC’s Sherlock
is my favorite at the moment.”
And he replies, “I find that none of the adaptations measure
up to the original. I don’t know why anyone bothers with the films and TV shows
when there are other books to read.”
“It’s a good way to relax,” she counters. “Watching
“On the average day, Americans spend two hours and
forty-seven minutes watching television. If we maximized productivity by using
that time for more important things, imagine what we could collectively
It’s just a comment, another one of the statistics he
rattles off from time to time, but for some reason it feels like a direct jab
at her. So he doesn’t watch television and he thinks Sherlock isn’t very good. That doesn’t mean she isn’t allowed to
like those things. It doesn’t make him superior. Suddenly she’s feeling very
defensive. Who is he to question her? He doesn’t know her. Profilers don’t have
authority on every stranger they meet.
An hour in and she’s still waiting for that “good heart”
Penelope mentioned to shine through. In brief flashes he appears genuinely
interested and kind, but overwhelmingly the score is not in his favor. Between
inappropriate remarks, uncomfortable silences, it’s not going well. He seems
aware of this fact, for his nervous habits only become more frequent. In the
middle of explaining what drew him to the FBI, he gestures wildly, and knocks
his drink off the table. Water spills onto the floor, and the glass shatters
into tiny pieces, scattered across the wood floor. A waiter comes to clean it
up, and Spencer flushes scarlet, apologizing profusely.
Hoping to distract him with something simple, she says, “The
dessert menu looks nice.” Which isn’t a lie. It’s enticing, far more so than
this date, which is saying something.
Spencer looks it over, and smiles. A smile looks nice on
him, even a small one. “It does. You know, I’ve never been on a date where we
stay for dessert.” Pitiful is the first word that comes to mind. Does that
imply a lack of experience? Or simply a lack in tact and etiquette? “I think that’s
my fault. I’d like to at some point, though. Stay for dessert, that is.”
“How long has it been
since you went on a date?” she asks, figuring it’s best to just be direct with
this man. In an unexpected response, he looks down, and she thinks she sees
sadness in his eyes.
When he looks up, he says, “Unless you count an awkward
meeting for coffee, it’s been two years, seven months, and nine days. It didn’t
go as planned – in fact, my date didn’t even make it to dinner.”
“She stood you up?” If it was a bad experience, perhaps this
explains his nerves.
“N-no. Not exactly. My girlfriend, she, uh, she was being
stalked and I thought I saw her stalker in the restaurant… She was killed a
month later. In front of me.” There is a rigidness in his voice. The words are
rehearsed, meant to be said in a forced casual tone, as though in some way he
could make them feel lighter. It doesn’t work. They hit her like the weight of
the world. Even one small fact has thrown at her the burden of his baggage.
This man has a past, an unbearably heavy one.
This date has taken a turn for the uncomfortable. “I’m sorry
to hear that.”
“She was very different from you.”
Anthropologists are by definition, observers. What she
observes is that this date is going very poorly. Being compared to the dead
girlfriend of a man with very little social skills? It’s a disaster. Which
means it is time to flee the scene.
“Look, Spencer, I’m really sorry to do this, but I don’t
think this is going to work out. Penny spoke very highly of you, but clearly
we’re not compatible.” Digging through her bag, she scrounges up twenty-five
dollars and sets it on the table. “It was nice to meet you. I hope you find
someone who can stay for dessert someday. Bye.”
With that she grabs her things, and walks out of the
restaurant without looking back. Her luck with relationships is apparently
unlikely to change. Some things are constant in this world. In that, she can
take comfort at least. She knows Penelope will be disappointed, but even the
self-declared Queen of Matchmaking misses the mark sometimes. In her heart of
hearts, she’s the slightest bit disappointed as well. After the nightmare that
was her last relationship, she’d had really been hoping to find someone nice.
Spencer was probably nice, under the right circumstances.
Smart and sweet, as promised. Far more awkward than anticipated. And
judgmental. And not to mention, carrying baggage and grief that was too heavy
to introduce on a first date. A murdered girlfriend? That’s something she isn’t
prepared to deal with. It’s best to leave it alone. Forget about him, and his
bright eyes and lanky limbs.
The single life isn’t
that bad, she ells herself. It was cheaper and quieter. It gave her more
time to work and to read. To utilize
those two hours and forty-seven minutes in a more productive manner. Who
even knew things like that?
After careful consideration over a glass of wine, she
resigns herself to a life of spinster-dom and cats, living happily among her
little library of books and British television shows.
Until that Monday, on her lunch break. Break time is her
opportunity to spend time in her own little sanctuary, a tiny set of stairs
tucked away on the side of building. Trees grow around it, sheltering it from
most of the public eye. Weather permitting, she always takes her breaks out
here, with a paper bag lunch and a book. It’s the perfect place to be alone.
Except she finds she isn’t.
Spencer Reid is sitting there. Either the universe is intent
on creating cruel coincidences, or he’s there for her.
“Y/N,” he says. “I was looking for you. Garcia said I could
find you here.” The latter it is. He is there to see her.
“Sorry, can I help you with something?” She doesn’t mean to
sound callous, but it does come out that way. The last thing she wants on her
break time is to relive a bad date.
Spencer stands, putting his hands in his pockets. The
anxiousness he carries today is a different kind. Less jumpy. “I’d like to
apologize for our date on Friday; and I was hoping for the opportunity to
explain myself. If you’ll let me, that is.”
Y/N crosses her arms, holding tight to her paper sack.
For a second he looks startled, as though he hadn’t actually
expected her to agree to his request. The doctor quickly composes himself. “I
was nervous. Really nervous.” That much she knows. “The case we were on was a
tough one, and it didn’t end well. I was already stressed when I met you, and
I’d been even more nervous because Garcia had so many good things to say about
you. Even before I met you, you seemed incredible.”
This Spencer Reid is eloquent, precise. She’s intrigued.
“I struggle with social cues to begin with. I’ve always been
different, and when you’re a child prodigy you don’t really learn how to interact
with people very well. I can’t read social situations the way most people can,
and after the case I was tired and I was anxious and for me that’s not a
combination. Then I saw you, and you were even more beautiful than Garcia told
me. You have the most lovely smile. I know I messed up. I know I shouldn’t have
said most of what I did say, and I’m sorry if I offended you. I didn’t mean to.
And as for Maeve – for my previous girlfriend, I shouldn’t have brought it up
on a first date. That’s something heavy, and I shouldn’t have put that weight
on you so suddenly.”
eloquent. His candor makes her blush. No one has ever been this straightforward
with her, and the fact that he’s come all this way to the museum just for her
is a wonderful gesture. Still…
“It’s okay, I get it. You’re still mourning her.” If he is
in love with a ghost, there is nothing she can do. Time and space are the only
ways to heal from a wound that deep. A broken heart is something she cannot
“Yes, but that’s not what I came here to say. I know that I
made you uncomfortable by saying that you were different from Maeve. I didn’t
mean it as a comparison or as an insult. Just as an observation. You were
present, and real, and so passionate about everything you said. You were… you are alive. And I don’t mean that you’re
living, but rather that your persona – your spirit – it’s bright. Alive. I like
that. I – I like you. I know that I ruined that date, and I understand if you
don’t want me to see you again, but I’d really like the chance to make it up to
Her grip on the paper sack tightens. “Are you asking me
Spencer swallows hard, but manages to nod. “I am. I’m asking
for a second chance at a first date. Only if you want to though.”
Observe. That’s what she does best. Notice people and the
stories they tell. Before her is a man who has asked her best friend where to
find her, and come all the way to apologize for any unintended offense and to
offer to make it up to her. It is sweet.
She’d be lying if she said it wasn’t a little moving. Dinner was a disaster
last time, but maybe the stars just weren’t aligned for them that night. First
dates rarely go as smoothly as they do in books and in movies.
He has a broken heart. But he’s offering it to her.
“Okay,” she says.
“Okay?” The bewilderment in his expression is plain. Braced
for rejection, her acceptance has taken him by surprise.
“Okay,” she laughs. “I’ll give you a second chance.”
Confusion transforms into a grin, one that puts his previous
small smiles to shame. Happiness really does look good on him.
“Thank you, Y/N.”
She hopes Penelope is right about him. She wants Penelope to be right about him.
Maybe, just maybe, he’ll be someone worth staying for.
Sherlock: I said, no. Very very close, but no. You got carried away. The game was too elaborate. You were enjoying yourself too much.
Irene Adler: No such thing as too much.
Sherlock Holmes: Oh, enjoying the thrill of the chase is fine, and creating the distraction of the game I sympathize entirely, but SENTIMENT… sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side.
Irene Adler: Sentiment? What are you talking about?
Sherlock Holmes: You.
Irene Adler: Oh, dear God. Look at the poor man. You don’t actually think I was interested in you? Why? Because you’re the great Sherlock Holmes, the clever detective in the funny hat?
Sherlock Holmes: No… because I took your pulse: elevated; your pupils: dilated. I imagine John Watson thinks love’s a mystery to me, but the chemistry is incredibly simple and very destructive. When we first met, you told me that disguise is always a self-portrait; how true of you. The combination to your safe: your measurements - but this…
Sherlock Holmes: [taking her cell phone] … this is far more intimate. This is your heart, and you should never let it rule your head. You could have chosen any random number and walked out of here today with everything you’ve worked for, but you just couldn’t resist it, could you? I’ve always assumed that love is a dangerous disadvantage. Thank you for the final proof.
Irene Adler: Everything I said - it’s not real. I was just playing the game.
He’s just so wonderfully awful to her in this scene. Most say Molly is seduced and does not know he’s just playing her, but I think she knows exactly what’s going on and is just too aroused by the idea to resist.
um one of my favorite #confirmed johnlock moments is when john comes in and sherlock is being all cute and goes “you- you had a row with a machine?” with the tiny smile and soft eyes and then he’s all “take my card” and the smile grows im cryin