earth goes round the sun

A Study in Pink

The other night my entire life changed, I think for the better, and I want to tell you about it. So this is what happened on the night I moved in with Sherlock Holmes.

When I first met Sherlock, he told me my life story. He could tell so much about me from my limp, my tan and my mobile phone. And that’s the thing with him. It’s no use trying to hide who you are (or what you are, which scares me more) because Sherlock sees right through everyone and everything in seconds. It’s remarkable but terrifying. What’s incredible, though, is how spectacularly ignorant he is about some things.

This morning, for example, he asked me who the Prime Minister was. Last week he seemed to genuinely not know the Earth goes round the Sun. Seriously. He didn’t know. He didn’t think the Sun went round the Earth or anything. He just didn’t care. I still can’t quite believe it, and he’s not taken kindly to me spontaneously laughing about it. In so many ways, he’s the cleverest, most incredible person I’ve ever met but there are these blank spots that partly worry me and partly brighten my day (knowing something that Sherlock doesn’t brings a sort of thrill). At least I’ve got used to him now. Well, I say that, I suspect I’ll never really get used to him. He is like no one else I’ve ever met. It’s just, on that first night, I literally had no idea of what was to come. I mean, how could I? I’ve come to learn that when you’re with Sherlock Holmes, everything is an adventure.

Keep reading


(This is a little different because it’s from a fic that I’ve already written [I write so much…] so I’m sorry if you don’t like it.)

You were certain there was no other place for you on Earth. You were set on London, despite your brother’s warnings. His multiple warnings. Still, where else could could go? The city was your home, you were alive there. The cars moving, constantly, in the streets a trillion miles per hour like the blood in your veins and the thoughts in your head. That feeling was gone in the country. No exhilaration in the country. Only sheep and old people. 

You thought it was the age gap and the difference in the ways you thought that made your brother and yourself so different. He loved you very much, as you loved him, but he was slow and stable and you were a storm, a fast and unpredictable. He was calm water and you were raging fire and you were best friends. You were both too afraid of becoming the other. He was afraid of loosing his mind and you were terrified of being ordinary. 

So he drove you into London to you great aunt’s building and dropped you off. He didn’t stop in to see her because Aunt Louise was different like you and he was afraid of her. You loved her though and when you were young, you spent summers with her. Knocking on her door gave you a nostalgic feeling and you smiled when she opened the door, welcoming you in.

“Y/N, love, come in! It’s freezin’ out there why haven’t you got a coat on?” she scolded. “Mother Mary!” she exclaimed. “It’s been ages, hasn’t it?” 

“Yes, it’s been far too long.” 

“I’ve missed you dear.” she smiled. 

“I’ve missed you too.” you smiled back. She stared at you for a while, picking out the differences from last time she saw you. 

“Let’s get you settled then, shall we? Your flat’s down this way she pointed as she lead me down the hall way. “I cleaned it up for you, but I’m not your maid, so don’t get used to it, alright? I had the young lad next door help me carry in your furniture but if you don’t like the way it’s set up, I suppose you’ll have to get over it, won’t you?” 

“I’m sure it’s fine, Aunt Louise.” You nodded as she opened the door and you pulled your luggage inside. There was a loud bang and you thought something of yours had dropped an odd way on the floor to make the sound but then you realized it was coming from above. 

“Those boys.” Aunt Louise shook her head. 

“Mrs. Hudson!” someone yelled, a deep voice. She tusked all the way out of your flat and back into the foyer where she turned and walked up the stairs. 

“Sherlock!” she called, making her way up the stairs as fast as she could. “Sherlock, what have you done?!” 

“It’s alright, Mrs. Hudson! It’s alright, we’re alright!” someone else answered as the two of you stood in the doorway of the top floor flat. 

“No we most certainly are not.” a tall man with pale skin and curly, black hair stepped onto the coffee table in front of the couch against the wall. He was in night clothes and a robe. 

“Yes,” said the other voice as it came into view. A short man with blonde hair. “We are. Sherlock is being dramatic.” 

“I’m not being dramatic John, you are. What does it matter if the earth goes round the sun or the sun goes round the Earth or round and round the garden like a teddy bear, John. It’s unimport- Who are you?” he asked, stopping his angry speech to stare at you. Not glance, stare. His eyes flickered all around your body.
“Those clothes are old.” he said finally. “You’re new. Are you to be living here? In this building?” 

“Yes, sir.” you nodded. He stepped off the coffee table and stood before you, not really respecting your personal space.
“I’m sorry,” the shorter one, John, panted. “We’re sorry if we disturbed you.”
“Not at all.” you answered. “You’re Sherlock.” you smiled. “Sherlock Holmes.” you stood before him, looking up at him into his bright blue eyes. He looked at you carefully, his eyes scanning your entire body, seeming almost confused by you as you stood waiting patiently for him to assess you. 

“You know him?” your aunt asked. 

“I’ve read his blog.” you answered. 

“I’m John Watson… if anyone was wondering. Doctor John Watson.” 

“Nice to know you, Doctor.” You said absently, not taking your eyes away from Sherlock’s. “I’m waiting.” 

“What for?” Sherlock tilted his head but the circles of cold ice in his head never left the circles of warm forest in yours. 

“Your deduction, Sherlock Holmes. I’ve heard you’re quite good at it, what with the recognition of all those perfumes and ties and such. Tell me about myself, will you?” John and Aunt Louise  stood with their mouths open, watching the tornado rise around Sherlock, watching the wind from your head fight the wind from Sherlock’s. It was raining in his eyes and his teeth were clenched, making his jaw very tight. 

He stood in the dusty road on one end of town square and you stood at the other, both with your hands on your hips ready to fire. 

Two different armies fighting the same war. 

“Do I perplex you, Mister Holmes?” 

“No.” he answered. “Yes.” his eyes said and that was enough for you. You kept eye contact with him but smiled a little more as you saw the bewildered looks on the faces of your aunt and John. 

“Are you going to kill me or kiss me?” you asked. 


“That look you’re giving me, it can only mean on of two things. Are you going to kiss me or kill me?” 

“I haven’t decided yet.”

“Tea, anyone?” Aunt Louise asked quietly.

The obliquity of the eliptic, the solar system does in fact matter

JOHN: Whether the Earth goes round the Sun-
SHERLOCK: Not that again. It’s not important. I deleted it. (…) Listen, this is my hard drive, and it only makes sense to put things in there that are useful, really useful. Ordinary people fill their heads with all kinds of rubbish, and that makes it hard to get at the stuff that matters. Do you see? 

JOHN: But it’s the solar system!
SHERLOCK: What does that matter?! So we go round the Sun! All that matters to me is the work. Without that, my brain rots.

So… Sherlock believes he needs to make a choice of what to keep. Only the work matters, no need for useless trivia. He’s married to his Work, not to the Sun.

Sherlock’s usage of his brain reflects his understanding of how the world works. Sherlock must repress emotions to be a good detective, and as such, he deleted the solar system and everything about the Earth revolving around the Sun.

Brain>Heart (Earth). Delete sentiments, delete the solar system.

HOLMES: The obliquity of the ecliptic. I have to understand it.
LESTRADE: What is it?
HOLMES: I don’t know. I’m still trying to understand it.
LESTRADE: I thought you understood everything.
HOLMES: Of course not. That would be an appalling waste of brain space. I specialise. (…)  It’s the inclination of the Earth’s equator to the path of the sun on the celestial plane.

But by TAB, Sherlock realizes he need to know at minimum the basics. So, the Earth has a slight inclination. The goal we percieve is to seem cleverer than he is, because Mycroft is going to use his failings.

MYCROFT: Murderous jealousy. He’d written a paper for the Royal Astronomical Society on the obliquity of the ecliptic, and then read another that seemed to surpass it.
HOLMES: I know. I read it.
MYCROFT: Did you understand it?

Of course, he understood it but he can’t help but look at Watson.

And you’re starting to wonder if they’re actually talking about the Earth, or even astronomy.

MYCROFT: No. Did you understand the murderous jealousy? It is no easy thing for a great mind to contemplate a still greater one.

The solar system is about sentiment. To people were writing about the obliquity of the earth’s eliptic. But one was better and got killed out of jealousy.

Earth=John, the two people fighting over him are Sherlock and Mary. And one was driven to murderous jealousy.

Sherlock repressed sentiments for too long his understanding of the solar system, of the Earth and its obliquity. He gets the fact now, but does he really understand the jealousy that came with it?

It’s not his fault, you start thinking. He deleted it, he needed the space for his Work, repress sentiment to have the iron-clad logic.

EURUS: I remember everything, every single thing. You just need a big enough hard drive.

But we have Eurus here to give us some hard truth. You don’t need to delete what seems useless.

You can remember everything, every single thing and keep the solar system in your tiny brain, you just need a big enough hard drive. And I think Sherlock’s is big enough for the task.

Hello Detective (Chapter 20)

Part 1   Part 2   Part 3   Part 4   Part 5   Part 6   Part 7   Part 8   Part 9   Part 10   Part 11   Part 12   Part 13   Part 14   Part 15   Part 16   Part 17   Part 18   Part 19   Part 20   Part 21   Part 22   Part 23   Part 24   Part 25   Part 26  Part 27  Part 28  Part 29  Part 30  Part 31  Part 32  Part 33  Part 34   Part 35   Part 36   Part 37   Part 38  Part 39   Part 40     Part 41   Part 42   Part 43   Part 44   Part 45   Part 46   Part 47   Part 48   Part 49   Part 50  Part 51  Part 52  Part 53  Part 54  Part 55   Part 56  Part 57 Part 58 Part 59 Part 60 Part 61

(really long hahaha)

“We were worried when you didn’t come in this morning.” Lestrade said to you.

“Bit of a weird night.” You said, following Lestrade into his office where Donovan was waiting.

“Oh, look who decided to show up. What’d you do? Bang your head against the headboard to hard?” Donovan said, smirking and pointing to your bruised temple.

“Good morning to you too Sally.” You fake smiled, she was only jealous because Lestrade liked you more.

“You like the funny cases don’t you, the surprising ones.” Lestrade said to Sherlock, changing the subject.

“Obviously.” Sherlock said.

“Then you’ll love this.” Lestrade said. “That explosion.”

“Gas leak, yes.” Sherlock said.

“No.” Lestrade returned.

“No?” Sherlock asked surprised.

“No, made to look like one,” Lestrade explained, “Nothing left of the place, except a strong box. A very strong box, and inside it was this.” Lestrade said pointing to an envelope on his desk.

“You haven’t opened it.” Sherlock observed.

“It’s addressed to you, isn’t it?” Lestrade said. “We’ve X-rayed it. It’s not booby-trapped.”

“How reassuring.” Sherlock said. He examined the thick envelope under a desk lamp. “Nice stationary, Bohemian. From the Czech Republic. She used a fountain pen. Parker Duofold, iridium nib.” Sherlock deduced. He began to open it and dumped its contents out onto his hand. It was an iPhone in a pink case.

“But that… that’s the phone. The pink phone.” John stammered.

“What, from The Study in Pink?” Lestrade asked.

“Well obviously it’s not the same phone but it’s supposed to look like… A Study in Pink? You read his blog?” Sherlock asked annoyed.

“Of course I read his blog. We all do. Do you really not know that the Earth goes round the sun?” Lestrade asked, and Donovan snickered as she walked out of the room.

“It isn’t the same phone. This one’s brand-new. Someone’s gone to a lot of trouble to make it look like the same phone. Which means your blog has a far wider readership.” Sherlock said as he clicked the phone on. He went to the voicemail but all it was was 5 pips.

“Was that it?” Lestrade asked.

“No that’s not it.” Sherlock said, and he was right. After the message was over the phone received a text. It was a picture of a disheveled flat.

“What the hell are we supposed to make of that? An estate agent’s photo and the bloody Greenwich pips.” Lestrade said.

“It’s a warning. Some secret societies used to send dried melon seeds, orange pips, things like that. Five pips. They’re warning us it’s going to happen again.” Sherlock said.

“Hang on. I’ve seen that place before.” You said, taking the phone out of Sherlock’s hand.

“What’s gonna happen again?” John asked.

“Boom!” Sherlock replied.

The three men followed you out to the street to fetch a cab.

“I looked at this flat when I first moved here. We could have been flatmates.” You said to Sherlock.

“How do you mean?” Sherlock asked.

“This picture, it’s of 221C Baker Street.” You explained and the four of you caught a cab back to Sherlock’s flat. Sherlock hopped out first and went to unlock the door. The other two men followed, leaving you to pay.

“I’ll just pay then.” You said annoyingly as you handed the cabbie the fare.

“Mrs. Hudson!” Sherlock yelled as we entered the flat.

“I knew you looked familiar dear. You came to see about this flat around the same time Sherlock moved in here.” Mrs. Hudson said to you as she handed Sherlock the key.

“This door has been opened, recently.” He said.

“No, can’t be. That’s the only key. I can’t get anyone interested in this flat. It’s the damp, I expect. That’s the curse of basements. I’d a place once when I was first married. Black mold all up the wall…” Mrs. Hudson said, as the three men ignored her and walked down the stairs.

“Men…” you shrugged and smiled at her before following the guys down the stairs. When you made it to the bottom you saw that the only thing in the empty room were a pair of tennis shoes in the center. Sherlock began to walk towards them.

“He’s a bomber, remember.” John said, Sherlock continued on carefully. He knelt down next to the shoes slowly. Suddenly the pink phone rang, nearly making you jump. He stood up and answered it.

“Hello?” He asked.

“H…Hello… sexy.” the voice began, she was crying.

“Who is this?” Sherlock asked.

“I’ve…sent you… a little puzzle, just to say hi.”

“Who’s talking? Why are you crying?” Sherlock asked.

“I’m not crying. I’m typing and this study bitch is reading it out.”

“The curtain rises.” Sherlock mumbles to himself.

“What?” John asked, having heard him.

“Nothing.” Sherlock said.

“No, what did you mean?” John said.

“I’ve been expecting this for some time.” Sherlock replied.

“Twelve hours to solve my puzzle, Sherlock or I’m going to be so naughty.” The call ended.

Lestrade caught a cab back to Scotland Yard to start working things out back there, look for this poor kidnapped lady.  He instructed you to stay with Sherlock. This case was clearly all about him. Sherlock, John, and you went to Bart’s so you could start examining the shoes. Thank God Sherlock is a graduate Chemist.

When you walked in the lab you hung up your blazer on the coat rack. Now you were just in heels, tight slacks, and a brown strappy blouse.

“Who do you think it was?” John asked, you weren’t sure if he was talking to Sherlock or you.

“The woman on the phone… the crying woman.” John said again.

“She’s just a hostage.” You said.

“She doesn’t matter, no lead there.” Sherlock said.

“For god sake I wasn’t thinking about leads.” John said.

“You’re not going to be much use to her.” Sherlock said to John.

You walked behind Sherlock and examined all his equipment out on the lab table. On his computer he was trying to find a match for the dirt lodged in the bottom of the shoes.

“Are you trying to trace it, trace the call?” John asked you.

“No, whoever is doing this, planning all these intricate puzzles out for him,” you said pointing to Sherlock, “is not dumb enough to let his whole scheme crumple because of one traced call, he’ll have either re routed it through proxy servers or blocked the trace completely. This man is completely organized, I don’t plan on him making any mistakes.”

“Can you pass me my phone?” Sherlock asked you.

“Where is it?” You asked, standing behind him.

“My jacket.” He said. You rolled your eyes and reached into his jacket, your hand running against his chest and reaching into the breast pocket to pull out his phone.

“It’s a text from Mycroft.” You said, looking at his phone.

“Delete it.” He instructed, never looking up from the microscope.

“Delete it?” You asked, not sure why he wouldn’t even read it.

“Missile plans are out of the country now. Nothing we can do about it.” Sherlock said.

“Well, Mycroft thinks there is. He’s texted you eight times. Must be important.” You said.

“Then why didn’t he cancel his dental appointment? Mycroft never texts if he can talk.” Sherlock said.

“That’s not true, he texts me all the time.” You said.

“That’s because he’s infatuated with you. Look, Andrew West stole the missile plans, tried to sell them, got his head smashed in for his pains. End of story. The only mystery is this, why is my brother so determined to bore me when somebody else is being so delightfully interesting?” Sherlock said.

“Hold up… Did you say Mycroft was infatuated with me?” You laughed.

“Well he did take you to lunch yesterday didn’t he?” Sherlock said.

“Well so? He also offered me a job, that doesn’t mean he’s infatuated with me.” You argued.

“You’re probably the first woman he’s ever met that’s his intellectual equal… or at least mine.” Sherlock said. You were astounded, firstly by the fact that Sherlock believed you were his intellectual equal, which was saying something, and secondly by the fact that he thought Mycroft was basically in love with you.

“Try and remember there’s a woman here who might die.” John said, disappointed in our banter.

“What for? There’s hospitals full of people dying, Doctor. Why don’t you go and cry by their bedside? See what good it does then.” Sherlock replied insensitively. John got a little upset and walked out the door. He probably just went to the loo, he’d be back in five minutes. He does love to be dramatic though.

Suddenly Sherlock’s computer beeped, indicating its found a match for the dirt on the shoes.  As Molly walked in the door your phone rang, Lestrade was checking in.

“Any luck?” Molly asked.

“Oh yes!” Sherlock said excitedly. You turned to take the call.

‘Hey, any luck with the missing persons reports?” You asked Lestrade, who was looking if any women had been reported missing within the last few days. You heard the door open again and another voice was heard in the room.

Molly was introducing the man to Sherlock, she then turned to you

“And this is Sergeant Gregson.” Molly said, you turned around at the sound of your name and quickly shook the man’s hand, clearly more interested in your phone call.

“No none reported recently. What about on your end?” Lestrade asked.

“Hang on let me ask… Sherlock Lestrade wants to know the progress.” you said. You turned to Sherlock, your phone still pressed against your ear. You rested the other hand on the lab table next to him.  

“Tell him to meet us at our flat in an hour.” Sherlock said, still looking into the microscope.

“So you’re Sherlock Holmes. Molly told me all about you, are you on one of your cases?” The man said, clearly no one was going to reply.

“Did you hear that?” You asked Lestrade.

“Jim works in IT, upstairs. That’s how we met. Office romance.” Molly giggled.

“Yup, I’ll see you guys then.” Lestrade  said.

“Gay. I mean, hey.” Sherlock said, after one glance at the man.

“Alright, bye.” You said, ending the call.

“Well, I better be off. I’ll see you at the Fox. About six-ish?” The man said, turning and walking towards the door. You never got a clear look at his face but the fact that his underwear was hanging off was good enough to prove to you that this man was indeed gay.

“What do you mean gay? We’re together.” Molly said.

“And domestic bliss must suit you, Molly. You’ve put on three pounds since I last saw you.” Sherlock said rudely.

“Two and a half.” she tried to defend herself.

“No, three.” Sherlock stated again.

“Sherlock.” you said, warning him.

“He’s not gay! Why do you have to spoil… He’s not!” Molly yelled.

“Please, with that level of personal grooming? Tinted eyelashes. Clear signs of taurine cream around the frown lines, those tired, clubber’s eyes. Then there’s his underwear.” Sherlock scoffed.

“His underwear?” Molly asked, appalled.

“Visible above the waistline. Very visible, very particular brand. That plus the extremely suggestive fact that he just left his number under this dish here.” Sherlock said, picking up the piece of paper.

“Maybe the number was for her, I mean her tits are practically hanging out.” Molly said pointing to you.

“Hey! Even if the number was for me, do you really want to continue dating someone who was trying to pick up another chick right in front of his current girlfriend. I’d say you better break it off now and save yourself the pain.” You said. Molly rushed out the door angrily.

You immediately looked down at your chest. Contrary to Molly’s statement, your breasts weren’t hanging out that much. You couldn’t help it you had them, they were just there. You pulled the straps up on your blouse to see if they’d go in any more but you had no such luck. Sherlock noticed what you were doing.

“What she said bothered you didn’t it?” He asked. You looked up awkwardly, your hands practically on your boobs.

“Well, yeah.” You said, moving your hands to your waist.

“Leave them alone, they look great.” Sherlock said. You blushed.

“Sherlock!” You giggled, punching him lightly on the arm.  

“What?” Sherlock smirked.

“I don’t know, it’s just not like you to say something like that.” You laughed.

“I guess I’ve just never had anyone make me feel like you do.” He said, your eyes widened as you looked into his blue orbs. All you wanted to do right now was run your hands through those curls and let him take you on this table. The computer beeping broke your thoughts.

Sherlock pushed one of the shoes towards you, asking you to take it. You raised an eyebrow at him.

“You know what I do, go on.” Sherlock said.

“You want me to do what you do?” you asked and he nodded. You smirked and picked up the shoe.

“They’re very clean, but the sole of well worn, suggesting they’re old. Cleaned properly, the owner must have loved them. They’re quite large, suggesting a man, but there’s faint traces of marker inside where a name would have been written.” You said, in an arrogant way with your best British accent.

“You’re on sparkling form, what else?” Sherlock said, smiling at the accent.

“Adults don’t write their names in their shoes so these belonged to a child. Very ‘80s. Could be retro, or could be originals. If he loved them, kept this good care of them, then why did he lose them or give them up?” You added. “How did I do?”

“Well, Y/N, really well. I mean you missed almost everything of importance, but.” Sherlock said in an American accent. You laughed.

“That’s my line.” You said, smirking.

“Well, you know. I thought we were just doing impressions now,” Sherlock laughed, “You said that to me the day we met. God, I was so excited to find someone like me.” You smirked. You liked this Sherlock, this flirty, cocky, but still sweet. And always sexy.

“Your turn.” you smiled, handing him the shoe.

“Well you haven’t left me much left. He changed the laces three… No, four times. Even so, there are traces of his flaky skin where his fingers have come into contact with them so he suffered from eczema. Weak arches. Analysis shows the mud is from Sussex with London mud overlaying it. So the kid who owned these trainers, came to London from Sussex 20 years ago and left them behind.”

“So what happened to him?” You asked.

“Something bad. So a child with big feet gets…” Sherlock began and then he stopped. His eyes grew wide and you could tell he was thinking or remembering something.

“What?” you asked.

“Carl Powers.” He whispered.

“Who is that?” You asked.

“It’s where I began, Y/N. Go find John, we need to get back to Baker Street.” Sherlock instructed and you nodded.

When the three of you returned to Baker street, Lestrade was there waiting for you.

“Who is Carl Powers?” You asked Sherlock.

“1989, young kid, champion swimmer, came up from Brighton for a school sports tournament, drowned in the pool. Tragic accident. You wouldn’t remember it. Why should you?”

“But you remember?” You asked him.

“Yes.” He answered.

“Something fishy about it?” You asked again.

“Nobody thought so. Nobody except me. I was only a kid myself. I read about it in the papers.” Sherlock continued.

“You started young, didn’t you.” John commented.

“The boy, Carl Powers, had some kind of fit in the water, but by the time they got him out, it was too late. There was something wrong somewhere. I couldn’t get it out of my head.” sherlock said.

“What?” Lestrade asked.

“His shoes. They weren’t there. I made a fuss. I tried to get the police interested but nobody seemed to think it was important. He’d left all the rest of his clothes in the locker. But there was no sign of his shoes. Unit now.” Sherlock said, holding up the evidence bag with the shoes inside. You looked at your watch, there was only 6 hours left to solve the puzzle.

Sherlock sat down in the kitchen at his laptop researching. You sat opposite of him with Lestrade sifting through newspaper clippings. John was pacing in the living room, you knew he was concerned with the time and the kidnapped woman.

Sometimes, as an investigator it can be hard to remove yourself from the consequences. Just focus on the solution and stop stressing about what would happen if you didn’t solve the puzzle. In time sensitive cases like these it can be increasingly hard. Sherlock obviously has no problem with this. He wouldn’t even blink an eye if this woman died, all he cared about was solving it. Playing the game. Winning.

“Can I help? I want to help there’s only five hours left.” John said through the door, breaking you all out of your train of thought. You heard your phone ding in the other room.

“John would you mind getting that for me? It’s on the coffee table, thanks.” You said as he walked off to fetch it.

“It’s your brother. He’s texting her now about his case.” John said to Sherlock.

“Must be a root canal.” Sherlock said. John placed your phone on the table in front of you as you continued looking through the clippings.

“Look, he did say National importance.” John said.

“Hmph, how quaint.” Sherlock scoffed.

“What is?” John asked.

“You are. Queen and country.” Sherlock mocked, paying more attention to his investigation.

“You can’t just ignore it.” John chastised.

“I’m not ignoring it. I’m putting my best man onto it right now.” Sherlock said.

“Right good. Who’s that?” John asked, naively. You smirked, Sherlock looked up to him and raised his eyebrow.

“Well you better get going. Like you said… National importance.” Sherlock said.

The next time you looked at your watch there were only 3 hours left. Sherlock had moved to his microscope and Lestrade had gone out for coffee. Sherlock was analyzing the shoelaces from Carl Power’s trainers.

“Poison!” Sherlock yelled suddenly.

“What you going on about?” Mrs. Hudson asked, you hadn’t realized she’d entered the room to bring you all food.

“Clostridium botulinum! It’s one of the deadliest poisons on the planet.” Sherlock said.

“Are you saying he was murdered?” Lestrade asked from the doorway. He handed you your coffee and you thanked him.

“Remember the shoelaces. The boy suffered from eczema. It’d be the easiest thing in the world to introduce the poison into his medication. Two hours later, he comes up to London, the poison takes effect paralyses the muscles and he drowns.” Sherlock further explained.

“How come the autopsy didn’t pick that up?” Lestrade asked.

“It’s virtually undetectable. I’m sure no one would have been looking for it. It would have only taken about 75 nanograms to do it. One kg would be enough to kill the entire human population.” You answered.

Sherlock began typing furiously into his computer and you saw it was on his blog. Smart. This whole case was centered around him. The perp probably had text alerts for his blog.

“FOUND. Pair of trainers belonging to Carl Powers (1978-1989). Botulinum toxin still present. Apply 221b Baker St.” Sherlock typed.

“The killer kept the shoes all these years.” Lestrade said.

“Yes… Meaning?” Sherlock asked.

“He’s our bomber…” You answered. Suddenly the pink phone rang, again it was a blocked number.

“Well done, you. Come and get me.” The voice sobbed.

“Where are you? Tell us where you are.” Sherlock spoke into the phone. The woman answered and Lestrade looked to you, wide eyed.

“Let’s go!” He said to you. The two of you rushed down to his squad car and sped off to the location. You called for bomb squad once you got in the car.

“She lives in Cornwall. Two men broke in wearing masks, forced her to drive to the car park and decked her out in enough explosives to take down a house.” You explained to Sherlock once he met up with you guys back in Lestrade’s office at the Yard.

“She had to read off from this pager.” Lestrade said, placing the pager on the table.

“If she deviated by one word, the sniper would set her off.” Sherlock observed.

“Or if you hadn’t solved the case.” You pointed out.

“Oh… Elegant.” Sherlock said softly.

“What was the point? Why would anyone do this?” Lestrade asked.

“No, I can’t be the only person in the world that gets bored.” Sherlock said. Suddenly the pink phone buzzed again, indicating there was a voicemail. He played it and this time there were only four pips.

“First test passed, it would seem.” Sherlock said. “Here’s the second.” He held up the phone so Lestrade and you could see it. It was of a car, black, sporty.

“It’s abandoned, wouldn’t you say?” Sherlock observed.

“Go check if it’s been reported.” Lestrade instructed you, pointing outside to the phone and monitors. You nodded and glanced at the picture one last time, memorizing the make and license number. As you left the room Donovan entered, letting the ‘freak’ know he had a phone call. He stepped out of the room and stood near you, tapping away on the computer, holding the landline against your ear.

“Who is this? Is this you again?” you heard Sherlock ask. A moment passed before he spoke again.

“You’ve stolen another voice I presume.”

“Who are you? What’s that noise?”

The voice on your end spoke, killing your train of thought. You listened to the words they said, alerting you they found the car.

“Great.” you spoke, placing the phone back on the receiver.

“Found it.” you told Lestrade, passing by Sherlock who slowly lowered the phone from his ear. He turned to follow you and Lestrade out the door.

Enlightenment, awakening, liberation, nonduality—so many fancy words to confuse us. So many different conceptual formulations or pointers: “You are not the body,” “There’s no self,” “All is One,” “Nothing is really happening,” “Everything is Consciousness.” So many different instructions to try to follow: Be here now, Stand as Awareness, Identify as Awareness, Stop thinking, Let Go, Rest as presence, Pay attention, Do nothing, Relax, Surrender, Be mindful, Give up trying to be mindful, Meditate, Don’t meditate. It’s easy to get confused. The habitual way of tackling all of this is to try to figure it all out and “get a grip” mentally by thinking and analyzing and trying to understand it all, and/or by trying to have some special experience other than the one that is happening now.

But this is all so simple. Whatever is happening right now is happening by itself, effortlessly: reading, thinking, hearing, seeing, breathing, digesting, moving, sensing, awaring. Can we pause for a moment and simply notice this happening right now that is going on effortlessly? Even what we experience as “our own effort” is happening effortlessly by itself. Can that be noticed? This eternal present is one whole undivided happening, even though it has many different colors and shapes and textures, and even though thought can identify many different and apparently independent objects: chairs, tables, people, dogs, cats, clouds, stars. But look more deeply, and it can be seen that none of these objects exist independently of everything else in the universe, and that all of these different things are ever-changing appearances in (and of) consciousness. They show up as one whole moving picture, one seamless happening. Don’t take that on as a new belief, but give attention to the living reality Here / Now and see for yourself how it is.

Thought can label this happening and all the different things that appear here—we have stories and theories and beliefs about cause and effect and how things happen and what they mean—scientific stories, religious stories, all kinds of stories. And these stories and theories and beliefs can all be questioned and doubted, and different people will hold conflicting beliefs and give differing descriptions of “the same” phenomenon, and over the centuries some of our apparent certainties may change. The flat earth turns out to be round, the earth goes around the sun, and so on. But the bare happening itself—before the labels and the stories about it—that is beyond doubt.

And this awaring presence that is right here beholding it all—this knowingness of being here now—this is also impossible to doubt. We can doubt our ideas about it, but not the bare actuality of being here, being present, being aware.

We may think that we are a person who is aware, that awareness is a function of the brain, that we are looking out at a world that exists independently of us, but the more closely we look, the more this deeply conditioned story about the nature of reality doesn’t actually hold up. What exactly is this person? Where are the boundaries? Is this the same person that was here 60 years ago, or even 5 minutes ago? What exactly is “my body”? Where does it begin and end? Does it stay the same from one second to the next? Is there an actual boundary between “me” and “not me,” or between inside and outside? Can any such boundary be found in direct experience? And if it seems that we’ve found such a boundary, how solid is it and where exactly does it begin and end, and what is beholding it? Doesn’t this body appear in awareness along with the chairs and tables, the dog and cat, the sky, the trees, the whole universe? Can an actual place be found where awareness ends and the body (or the cat, or the sky, or the tree) begins, or vice versa? Is there any actual boundary or division between subject and object, seer and seen, or is the reality undivided seeing-being? Don’t answer any of these questions from belief, and don’t rely on what anyone else says, but explore all of this directly for yourself. Look and listen. Feel into it. Discover for yourself.

That’s what true meditation and true inquiry (as I use the words) are really all about—not sitting in the lotus position trying not to move and concentrating on our breathing or asking ourselves over and over, “Who am I?” – but simply BEING Here / Now – looking and listening, questioning, wondering – not by thinking, but by paying attention, by being aware, by BEING awareness.

Is it possible to be here in this moment without an agenda, without needing to define what’s happening, without seeking something different, without judging what’s showing up or trying to control it any way—just being here? What is that like, to simply be here?

Is it possible to explore Here / Now without knowing what might be found? Can we simply feel this presence, this aliveness? Can we explore directly what we are referring to when we say “I”? What do we mean when we say, “I am”? Superficially, we are referring to an apparent person—this body, this mind, this personality, this “me” that has a name, a gender, a race, a nationality, an age, a story. But more deeply, if all of that disappeared, what would remain? Is it possible that the “I” to which we all refer is—at its depth—exactly the same I, the same boundless awaring presence?

Can we feel the spaciousness, the openness, the fluidity, the freedom that is Here / Now?

And if we can’t, or don’t think we can, then can we simply be with whatever IS showing up, just as it is? And whenever the sense of being separate shows up—when we feel hurt or defensive or angry or victimized or upset or misunderstood or overwhelmed or attacked or afraid or lacking or unworthy—can we explore directly what is going on? Can we hear the thoughts without being totally seduced into believing them? Can we recognize that they are a conditioned commentary and not an objective report on reality? Can we find the “me” who seems to be thinking these thoughts, the “me” who seems to be angry or lacking or who feels insulted or misunderstood—or is that “me” simply a bunch of changing thoughts, sensations, memories and mental images? Can we feel the bodily sensations without judging any of it or trying to change it in any way? Can we question our beliefs, our assumptions, our certainties, our stories about ourselves, about others, and about the world? Can we simply be here in the midst of a tumultuous storm of emotion-thought, being and beholding it all, in the same way we might behold a thunderstorm, without taking it personally or giving it meaning?

We are this storming, it is inseparable from what we are and all that is, and we are also that which beholds the storm, that which remains when the storm has passed, that which is untouched by the storm. And if the thinking-seeking mind is now about to go out in search of “that,” trying to figure out what “that” is—can that movement be seen for what it is? It is an old habit, to seek what we already are, to try to grasp what is ungraspable, to try to find wholeness as an object—trying so hard to get to this place Here / Now that we have never left, and then trying not to try. Instead of following this old habit, is it possible instead to simply be here as this undeniable awaring presence and this undeniable present happening, however it is? Not forever after, but right now, in this moment: hearing, seeing, sensing, awaring, thinking, trying, tensing, relaxing, contracting, expanding, breathing, storming, calming, opening, closing—BEING this whole seamless happening, beholding it all. Discovering the openness that is open enough to include being closed, the freedom that is free to be limited, the vastness that is vast enough to include specificity, the oneness that appears as multiplicity, the timelessness that includes all of time—THIS—Here / Now, just as it is.

What is it? Any answer we give is just a sound—a word—a label. But THIS—the direct, living reality itself—is effortlessly and undeniably presenting itself. Explore it, enjoy it, BE it. And recognize finally that there is no way not to be it. It is all there is.

—  Joan Tollifson

I love airports.

I cannot even tell you how much I love airports.

It isn’t the cheap carpeting on every square inch of the floors, it isn’t the constant overhead hum of boarding announcements, and I don’t think it’s the cheap, miniature versions of franchise restaurants that line the hallways like LED lights on a christmas tree.

It’s the fact that airports, by nature, are exempt from the concepts of “time” and “place.” Airports are like purgatory; a strange purgatory where everything is overpriced and instead of waiting for your eternal judgment, you’re waiting to board a flight to LAX or JFK or some other semi-exciting destination. Airports cater to the bored; they distract you, they fill up your time with expensive cocktails and lowbrow magazines, they keep you comfortably sealed in a bubble from the rest of the world.

See, when you’re in an airport, you aren’t really anywhere. You’re just waiting to leave somewhere or waiting to go somewhere. And you aren’t existing in the typical timeline that the outside universe is experiencing; until your flight leaves at precisely 11:15 a.m., there is no time. Time is not a moving, flowing thing in airports; it is stagnant water, teeming with mosquitos, until the moment you are called to board your plane. Airports are a black hole.

This all sounds depressing, but if I put it together for you in simpler terms, you’ll understand what I mean: in an airport, you don’t have to worry that maybe you’re wasting your time and that you should be doing something more productive. In an airport, all you have to do is wait for your flight to take off. No one expects you to be writing that six-page paper or studying for your history final or painting your next masterpiece.

Airports were built for people like me, who want to make something of themselves but are too tired-slash-unmotivated-slash-lazy to do so. People who relish those two hours of timelessness, those two hours of not really existing, because to plot yourself on a point in time and space is too concrete and you aren’t sure where and when you want to be, not yet. Airports tell you “it’s okay that you aren’t doing anything productive right now.” Airports say “don’t worry, you’re about to go someplace wonderful.”

I love airports because, really, everything outside those concrete walls is moving too fast for me to process. Sometimes I think my clocks have learned to tick in fast-forward and hurtle me into the future without a leg to stand on.

No matter where I am I cannot stand it, and I know that I will not be able to stand whatever place I happen to find myself in next. I love airports because Inside them, I am not in any one place; I am straddling a blurry grey line between the place I am leaving and the place I am going, and thus I am nowhere. 

I love airports because from the moment I check my bags to the moment I step onto the plane, I am defying all laws of nature, all physics books that say every action has a reaction, what goes up must come down, the earth is round, the sun is the center of our solar system, the sky is blue, the grass is green, you have two-hundred and six bones in your body. Inside an airport, I am not even really existing.

I love airports.

Hello Detective (Chapter 23)

Part 1   Part 2   Part 3   Part 4   Part 5   Part 6   Part 7   Part 8   Part 9   Part 10   Part 11   Part 12   Part 13   Part 14   Part 15   Part 16   Part 17   Part 18   Part 19   Part 20   Part 21   Part 22   Part 23   Part 24   Part 25   Part 26  Part 27  Part 28  Part 29  Part 30  Part 31  Part 32  Part 33  Part 34   Part 35   Part 36   Part 37   Part 38  Part 39   Part 40     Part 41   Part 42   Part 43   Part 44   Part 45   Part 46   Part 47   Part 48   Part 49   Part 50 Part 51  Part 52  Part 53  Part 54  Part 55   Part 56  Part 57 Part 58 Part 59 Part 60 Part 61

After a little while your phone rang. You noticed it was Sherlock calling, which was strange because he usually prefers to text. You answered it and Sherlock immediately began talking.

“It’s me. Have you found anything on the South Bank between Waterloo Bridge and Southwark Bridge?” He spoke fast.

“Um, let me check.” I said, before asking Lestrade the same question. He flipped through some papers before answering.

“A body’s just washed up.” He said. Grabbing his things to leave, you followed. Sherlock must have heard Lestrade because he hung up.

Once you arrived to where the body was, Sherlock and John showed up no more than five minutes after.

“Do you reckon this is connected then, the bomber?” Lestrade asked Sherlock.

“Must be, odd though, he hasn’t been in touch.” Sherlock answered.

“Then we must assume that some poor bugger’s primed to explode, yeah?” Lestrade asked again.

“Yes.” Sherlock said.

“Any ideas?” Lestrade asked.

“Seven, so far.” Sherlock smirked, bending down to examine the body.

“Seven?” Lestrade said, amazed. Sherlock finished looking around, stood back up and pulled out his phone. John then bent down to look at the body as well.

“He’s dead about 24 hours. Maybe a bit longer. Did he drown?” He asked.

“Asphyxiated.” You said.

“There’s quite a bit of bruising around the nose and mouth. More bruises here and here.” He pointed.

“Fingertips.” Sherlock suddenly said.

“I’d say mid thirties, and he’s not in the best condition.” John continued.

“He’s been in the river a long while. The water’s destroyed most of the data.” Sherlock spoke. He then suddenly smirked. “But I’ll tell you one thing. That lost Vermeer painting’s a fake.”

“What?” Lestrade asked, lost.

“We need to identify the corpse find out about his friends and…” Sherlock said before Lestrade cut him off.

“Wait, wait, wait, wait. What painting? What are you on about?” Lestrade asked.

“It’s all over the place, haven’t you seen the posters? Dutch old master, supposed to be destroyed centuries ago. Now it’s turned up, worth £30 million.” Sherlock explained.

“Okay, so what has that got to do with the stiff?” Lestrade asked.

“Everything. Have you ever heard of the Golem?” Sherlock asked.

“The Jewish folk story or the assassin?” You asked.

“Oscar Dzundza, one of the deadliest assassins in the world. That is his trademark style.” Sherlock said, pointing to the body.

“So this is a hit.” Lestrade said.

“Definitely.” Sherlock said.

“The Golem squeezes the life out of his victims with his bare hands.” You explained.

“But what has this got to do with that painting?” Lestrade asked, still lost. Sherlock rolled his eyes and looked up to you, asking you to explain. You nodded slightly.

“The killers only left us with the shirt and pants. Cheap, and too big for him so standard-issue uniform. So he was going to work. There’s a hook on his belt for a walkie-talkie.” You began.

“Tube driver?” Lestrade asked.

“More likely a security guard.” Sherlock said, urging you to continue.

“You’d think he led a sedentary life but his feet and legs show otherwise. So a lot of walking and a lot of sitting around. Security guards looking good. His watch showed he did regular night shifts, the buttons are stiff so he set it a long time ago and his routine never varied. There was some sort of badge or logo ripped off the of the shirt front, so it must have been something recognizable. Wad of ticket stubs in his pocket so probably a museum gallery.” You said.

“I did a quick check, the Hickman gallery has reported one of its attendants is missing. Alex Woodbridge. Tonight, they unveil the rediscovered masterpiece. Now, why would anyone want to pay the Golem to suffocate a perfectly ordinary gallery attendant? Inference, the dead man knew something about it, something that would stop the owner getting paid £30 million. The pictures are fake.” Sherlock said, wrapping it up.

“I better get my feelers out for this Golem character.” Lestrade stated.

“Pointless, you’ll never find him, but I know a man who can.” Sherlock returned.

“Who?” Lestrade asked.

“Me.” Sherlock smirked. You shook your head smiling. Lestrade went back to the office, and as you were apparently Sherlock’s handler you got in a cab with him and John.

“Why hasn’t he phoned? He’s broken his pattern. Why?” Sherlock said, talking to himself. The question was simple enough but the answer was complex. The numerous possibilities each frightened you. The bomber wasn’t just sitting and watching us now, he was planning something. His end game. He’s clearly not afraid to rack up a boy count. He also isn’t going to allow himself to be caught by authorities, this was about him and Sherlock. They had to share some sort of connection. Every single case so far had been about him. Car Powers was his first case, the shoes were found in his bloody flat. The rest of the cases were tests, trying to find out just what makes him tick.

“The Hickman is contemporary art. Why have they got hold of an old master?” John asked, breaking your trance.

“Don’t know. It’s dangerous to jump to conclusions. Need data.” Sherlock said, jotting something down in his notebook and ripping out the page. He then pulled out 50 pounds and wrapped it around the note. He suddenly yelled at the cabby to stop and asked him to wait. Sherlock jumped out of the cab and gave the money to a homeless person. Must have been someone in his homeless network.

When we arrived outside of the gallery Sherlock stepped out of the cab, he helped you out and then stopped John before he could exit.

“No, I need you to find out all you can about the gallery attendant. Lestrade will give you the address.” Sherlock said.

“Okay.” John said annoyed.

“You know Mycroft is going to get upset the longer you wait to solve his case. If I keep ignoring his texts he’s just going to trick John into looking into it.” You told Sherlock as you were walking to the gallery together.

Once inside, you went to talk to some of the other security guards to see if Alex Woodbridge had told them anything about the painting. Sherlock on the other hand grabbed a hat and jacket out of the security office and slipped off his long coat. He handed it to you and you folded it over your arm, parting ways. You wondered what he had planned, but he walked off before you could ask.

After about twenty minutes you met Sherlock back outside of the gallery. He stalked towards you in just his suit, it was odd seeing him without his large coat. It was as if that coat protected him, not just from the cold but from reality. The coat was his security blanket in a way, it made him safe, comfortable, and at home. You stuck it out to him as he approached, he smiled and took it from your hands. He slipped it on and flipped up the collar as usual. The two of you began the 30 minute walk back to Baker Street. As you were nearing the door you noticed the same homeless woman from earlier leaning against the fence.

“Any spare change?” She asked repeatedly.

John’s cab pulled up and he informed us that Alex Woodbridge knew nothing about art, but he was an amateur astronomer. Sherlock told him to hold the cab as he approached the homeless woman.

“Spare change, sir?” She asked.

“Don’t mind if I do.” He said, receiving a slip of paper from the woman.

“Vauxhall Arches.” Was all it said. The three of you hopped back in the cab. You checked your phone and ignored three more texts from Mycroft. You texted Lestrade quickly that there was still no word from the bomber.

The cab ride was surprisingly silent. By the time you got there it was about 10 o’clock at night. You could see the stars overhead.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Sherlock said, when he noticed where you were looking.

“I thought you didn’t care about…” John began before Sherlock cut him off.

“Doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate it.” Sherlock said. You hopped the two of them wouldn’t get back into the ‘earth goes round the sun’ fight again.

“Listen, Alex Woodbridge had a message on the answerphone at his flat. A Professor Cairns.” John began. The three of you continued into the arches, they were covered in filth. The only people who come down here were homeless people trying to sleep out of the rain.

“Nice. Nice part of town.” John said, looking around. You took a step closer to Sherlock, nervous of what might pop out of the shadows. You pulled your coat closer around your body.

“Uh, any time you want to explain?” John asked Sherlock.

“Homeless network. Really is indispensable.” Sherlock stated.

“Homeless network?” John asked, confused.

“My eyes and ears all over the city.” Sherlock explained.

“Ah, that’s… clever. So you scratch their backs, and…” John said, looking around.

“Yes, and I disinfect myself.” Sherlock said with a smile.

You moved deeper into the tunnels, the only light now was coming from your flash lights. You noticed homeless people curled up against the walls and surrounded by piles of belongings. You turned around as you noticed Sherlock staring at a large shadow emerging down the tunnel, he quickly pulled you behind a wall, out of view of who you assumed was the assassin you were looking for.

“What’s he doing sleeping rough?” John whispered.

“Well he has a very distinctive look. He has to hide somewhere where tongues won’t wag… Much.” Sherlock whispered back. You pulled out your gun as Sherlock pulled one out of his coat and handed it to John just as he was about to say he’d wish he’d brought his gun.

Oscar Dzundza began to run down the tunnel, we turned on our heels and chased him. He jumped into a car at the clearing and ran off. Where ever he was heading, he seemed to be in a hurry.

“No! No! No! It’ll take us weeks to find him again!” Sherlock shouted angrily.

“Or not. I have an idea where he might be going.” John said.

“What?” Sherlock asked him, surprised.

“I told you. Someone left Alex Woodbridge a message. There can’t be that many Professor Cairns in the book. Come on.” John said, we followed him. He was right, there was only one, she worked as an astrology professor at Roland Kerr Further Education College. We hurried there and once we arrived we saw the car that Oscar Dzundza sped off in parked behind the Astrology Auditorium. We rushed into the building before it was too late.

You ran into the room, gun at the ready.

“Golem!” Sherlock shouted as you saw the tall man squeezing the life out of the woman that had to be Professor Cairns. You heard her neck snap and the lights cut out of the room as her hand slipped down the control board.

“Pro koho pracuješ pro tuto dobu, Dzundza?” You yelled in his native language. Who are you working for this time, Dzundza? The lights acted almost in strobes. One moment they flashed on, the next was complete darkness. In the momentary lightness, you saw him perk up at the sound of his native language, Czech. The lights cut out for what seemed like minutes this time, and when they came back on you noticed him standing behind Sherlock. In a moments notice he had his hands over his face, restricting his breathing. You cocked your gun up and pressed the cold metal against his head.

“Já bych ho nechal jít, kdybych byl tebou.” You muttered fiercely. I’d let him go if I were you. He removed his hands from Sherlock, who let in a sharp breath. Dzundza towered over you as the lights cut out again, before you knew it he had thrown your body into the first row of seats. You landed with a thump and let out a groan. You stood up as fast as your body would allow and searched for your gun. When you found it and turned around, Sherlock was on the ground. The Golem was above him with his hands over his face again, but John was on his back, trying to pull the Golem off Sherlock.

You tried to stand but couldn’t. When the lights cut back in you saw the Golem throw John off his back and began to run out the door. You fired three shots at him, one seemed to clip his arm, but he continued running.

By now it had to be nearly morning but you had to get back to the museum before the painting premiered.

anonymous asked:

Favorite Sherlock episode and why?

The Great Game

And I have a list:

  • Grammar nazi Sherlock.
  • Bored, pouting five-year-old Sherlock and the shooting of the wall.
  • The constellation discussion and Sherlock’s assertion that he only files things that are really useful, which just makes his absolute obsession with everything related to John Watson (which starts really coming to a head after the pool) that much more compelling.  You can’t be bothered to know the earth goes ‘round the sun, but you MUST know John’s middle name?  Oh, Sherlock.
  • Sherlock watching John out the window because, yes, they did just have a bit of a domestic, and John sleeping on Sarah’s couch because of it.  You can’t make this shit up.
  • Snarking at Mycroft and the way Sherlock loves it when John sasses.
  • John’s hair.  John in a suit.  John just looks dead sexy this entire episode, actually.  And he keeps doing the tongue thing.  Asd;flkasdofiphasdfjas;dlfj;asdf
  • The fact that this is the episode where they become a cohesive unit.
  • Learning that Sherlock and Moriarty literally have a life-long rivalry. 
  • John getting Sherlock’s phone out of his jacket.
  • Jim from IT.
  • The purple shirt of sex.
  • Johnlock gaaaaaazzzzzzzeeeeeeeeee.
  • Have I mentioned the Purple Shirt of Sex??
  • John trying to lie to Mycroft.  And his I’m absolutely harmless smile. 
  • Confirmation that Sherlock is still on the patch, when he falls completely off the wagon after the pool.  Hmm……
  • Moriarty
  • Moriarty being super gay for Sherlock.
  • Sherlock taking John to eat even though he’s not hungry.  (This is a reoccurring theme.  Whispers: Subtext.)
  • Inappropriate giggling. (I’m a sucker for this.)
  • The way John wants to put his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder after the old woman dies but instead puts it on the back of his chair. 
  • Both of them using the sociopath fiction to protect themselves from their feelings. 
  • Even when John’s mad at Sherlock, he can’t stop himself from saying, “Fantastic.”
  • The way Sherlock jumps over things vs. the way John jumps over things.  (We get to see this again in HLV.) 
  • John impressing Sherlock repeatedly.
  • The boys looking like hobbits while fighting the Golem. 
  • John being BAMF.
  • Moriarty
  • Pretty much everything about the pool:  The way Sherlock can’t stop looking at John because he’s absolutely terrified for him.  John willing to die for Sherlock, Sherlock’s immediate and lasting reaction to that, and the fact that this is where John has to stop denying to himself that he’s in love with that mad bastard.  Jim calling both of them on their feelings for one another.  Like, blatantly.  Sherlock’s absolute freakage to get John out of the explosives, and the blowjob camera angle.  The two of them agreeing to die together with a look and a nod.   
  • Jim
  • Jim
  • Jim

I’m serious, there is so much fandom headcanon derived from this episode alone, it’s mind boggling.  

Hello Detective (Chapter 18)

Part 1   Part 2   Part 3   Part 4   Part 5   Part 6   Part 7   Part 8   Part 9   Part 10   Part 11   Part 12   Part 13   Part 14   Part 15   Part 16   Part 17   Part 18   Part 19   Part 20   Part 21   Part 22   Part 23   Part 24   Part 25   Part 26  Part 27  Part 28  Part 29  Part 30  Part 31  Part 32  Part 33  Part 34   Part 35   Part 36   Part 37   Part 38  Part 39   Part 40     Part 41   Part 42   Part 43   Part 44   Part 45   Part 46   Part 47   Part 48   Part 49   Part 50  Part 51  Part 52  Part 53   Part 54  Part 55   Part 56  Part 57 Part 58 Part 59 Part 60 Part 61

You hadn’t seen Sherlock in about three weeks. You had been so caught up at work, since there were no big cases your whole department was drowning in paperwork that you all had been putting off. You had Friday off and you almost forgot about the lunch you had planned with Mycroft. He had picked the restaurant and sent a car to pick you up. You weren’t sure what he wanted to meet about but you were curious. You decided on professional look: blazer, top, tight slacks, and heels.

You heard the car pull up as you were making your way down the stairs. You hadn’t seen Mrs. Astor all morning, she must have been off at the store. The driver knocked on the door and you answered.

“Y/N Gregson?” He asked.

“That would be me.” You smiled. He opened the car door for you as you locked up your flat. You thanked him and sat down in the back of the sleek black car.

Soon you were at the restaurant and you stepped out of the car. Outside was Mycroft leaning on his umbrella. He smiled when he saw you.

“Hello Y/N, it’s nice to see you.” Mycroft greeted.

“Hello Mycroft, thanks for inviting me.”

We walked into the restaurant which was packed, mostly with businessmen. There was a line waiting, the two of you walked up to the host.

“Normal table Mr. Holmes?” He asked, as you skipped the line. Mycroft nodded.

“Thank you Scott.” Mycroft said as you were seated at a table.

“How’s work been?” He asked.

“Kind of hectic. We’re backed up with paperwork we’ve been putting off.” You answered. He nodded.

“You know, I still don’t know what you do exactly.” You stated.

“That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about today. I believe you are overqualified for the job you currently have. I think you’d be a better fit with me.” Mycroft said. You were surprised.

“And what exactly would that be.” You asked.

“You know I occupy a minor position in the British government.” He began.

“Sherlock said you are the British government.” You smiled.

“Well, specifically I run MI5, MI6, and the Secret Service. Among other smaller projects.” He said calmly.

“Wow. I wasn’t expecting that.” You said, taken aback.

“Will you consider it?” He asked.

“To be honest, I don’t think I’m ready for something like that. I’ve barely been here six months.” You said, still in shock.

“I understand, if you ever change your mind the offer still stands.” He said kindly.

After a while you two were done eating and Mycroft had bought your meal. While you were waiting for the bill Mycroft asked a favor of you.

“Anything.” you said.

“Will you check on Sherlock. I’m sure you haven’t seen him in a while with work. If you haven’t had any big cases I’m sure he hasn’t either. I’m worried about what he does when he gets bored. He just got back from Minsk and that case turned out to be nothing.” He said.

“What exactly do you mean?” You asked him.

“I want you to check his arm.” Mycroft said, a serious tone in his voice. Your mouth formed an ‘O’ shape when you realized what he was referring to.

“You think he’s been taking…” you looked down, not able to finish the sentence.

“Exactly.” He said.

“And what if I do find something?” you asked.

“Distract him. Find him a case, anything. Keep him busy.” Mycroft said.


As Mycroft walked you back to the car you said to him, “You’re a good brother Mycroft. He’s lucky to have you.”

“If only he would see it that way sometimes.” Mycroft smiled. He opened the door for you, “Keep in mind my offer.”

“I will, thank you again.”

“Back home Ms. Gregson?” The driver asked.

“No, actually can you take me to 221 Baker Street?” You asked and the driver nodded.

When you arrived at Sherlock’s flat you thanked the driver and stepped out of the car. You heard gunshots inside and you quickly rushed up the steps to the front door. You opened it, surprised it was unlocked and rushed up the stairs. You nearly ran into John on his way out. He was clearly in a bad mood and you weren’t about to push it. You knocked on Sherlock’s open door and he turned to face you. He was in pajamas and his blue robe. He was standing near the window.

“You here to tell me the earth goes round the sun too?” He asked, clearly in a bad mood also. He must have gotten in a fight with John about his blog, everyone at work was talking about it. Donovan took it as an opportunity to make fun of Sherlock even more so than she usually does.

“Um, no. I was just passing by and I heard gunshots. What did the wall ever do to you?” You asked, seeing the holes in it.

“I was bored. And I know you’re lying. You were with Mycroft, I can smell his cologne on you. I’m going to assume that either you two had lunch and he told you to check on me.” Sherlock began.

“Or?” You asked.

“Or you two are sleeping together and I really don’t want to picture that.” Sherlock said. You laughed.

“No, we’re definitely not. He just gets worried about you.” You said, Sherlock rolled his eyes and sat down on the couch. You moved and sat down next to him.

“So, I heard you just got back from Belarus.” you said.

“Yep, open and shut domestic murder. Not worth my time.” He said, disappointed.

“Shame, seems like you need a case.” You said.

“Desperately.” He said. You began to inch your hand closer to his arm, ready to pull up his sleeve to see if Mycroft had been correct but he moved his arm, running his hand through his hair and laying back onto the couch.

This was going to be tougher than you thought. Even if you did grab him fast enough, he processes things so fast that he would stop you before you got the sleeve up. You were going to have to distract him, do something that you knew would fluster Sherlock Holmes and give you a chance to see what you needed. Suddenly a plan popped in your head and a smirk grew on your face.

“I’ve missed you.” You said seductively. He turned to look at you as you moved to straddle him. As planned, you placed your hands on the side of his face and placed your lips on his. He clearly was taken aback, as expected.

He kissed you back and you used this chance to run your hand up his arm, exposing the area riddled with needle marks. You removed your lips from his and glanced down to see if it was true.

You sighed and pinched the bridge of your nose, still straddling Sherlock. You shook your head and he realized what you were looking at. You got off of him, stood up, and began to walk towards the door when he stopped you, grabbing your hand.

“Y/N…” He began.

“Why?” You cut him off.

“Without the work, without a case, my brain rots. I need something, anything…” Sherlock began, he was still holding your hand. He was cut off by a huge explosion, chattering the windows, and forcing the two of you to the floor. On the way down you hit your head on the coffee table, knocking you out cold.