it had to be murder

First, do no harm

I worry for the soul of Dr. Joan Watson. Just a few seasons back Joan was in turmoil at the memory of assisting in surgery where the operating surgeon may have let a patient die because he had judged him as a murderer and not worthy of life. (The Many Mouths of Aaron Colville.) And now, in the season five finale, we have Watson willfully selling the life of a man, a horrible man, yes, but still a human life, in exchange for revenge, for justice?

At one point in season three Sherlock speaks of the balance needed in their partnership - one Watson, one Holmes. Right now, the partnership consists of one Holmes, embodied by Joan, and no true Watson.

Her metamorphosis has been visually illustrated in costuming. From season four until the end of five, we’ve watched her clothes become more and more tailored, severe, with suits and ties and vests dominant. She is now button upped tighter than Sherlock and her color choices are mainly black and white. (We do get a sort of glimpse of the old Watson in 5.24 when she asks Sherlock if he’s  relapsed - she is wearing warmer, lighter tones, still in suit and tie tho’).

Her becoming Sherlock is evident in Watson taking on more and more of the Holmesian hubris - that ’…I am above the law … I judge who has done wrong … I know better’ attitude.  In 5.21 Sherlock tells Bell to not mention his breaking a suspect’s leg to Joan. I’m not sure Joan would have been as appalled at his actions as Sherlock thought she would. The law-abiding Watson, the rule-follower Joan, the one who asked if they were going to turn in the old veteran for selling stolen phones (Snow Angels) has faded away. She has lost herself. While it’s been a slow slide down that slippery slope behind Sherlock, I think Joan may have hit bottom.

In truth, she probably has always had this dark side to her character, it’s what drew her into the work and perhaps is evident in how she’s always relished mafia lore. But the pendulum may have swung too far. At some point the partnership will need to be reset. A true Watson is imperative for a true Holmes to exist and vice versa. The problem is do we really know what is her true nature?  I guess we wait to see what season six brings.

Once on the long drive from Pueblo,Colorado, where Edmund Kemper had called Santa Cruz police from a phone booth and confessed to murdering his mother and her friend Sally Hallett, back to Santa Cruz, California, the officers transporting Kemper decided to stop for lunch.  At that point, two attractive women happened to walk past the police car, and catching sight of them, Kemper vomited copiously.  He explained to the officers that this was a common reaction for him when he saw women he thought were appealing.

Are there weapons in a bookstore?’
‘It’s a store full of books, which are objects that can be thrown as well as read,’ Monty replied blandly.
The Crows cocked his head. 'I had no idea you humans lived with so much danger.” 
― Anne Bishop, Murder of Crows

On May 25 1909 Oscar Slater was found guilty of murdering Marion Gilchrist in Glasgow.

For those that pay attention, this ties in with my post regarding Arthur Conan Doyle earlier in thee week.

In December 1908 83-year-old spinster Marion Gilchrist was beaten to death in a robbery in West Princes Street. The robber was disturbed when her maid returned and fled with just a brooch, although there was jewellery worth £3000 - £280,000 today – hidden in her wardrobe.

Slater left for New York five later but earlier had allegedly tried to sell a pawn ticket for a brooch. Because of this – or because he was the most convenient suspect – police applied for Slater’s extradition. And although Slater was told that this application would almost certainly fail, he voluntarily returned to Glasgow.

At his trial, defence witnesses provided Slater with an alibi and confirmed that he had announced his visit to America long before the murder. Despite this he was convicted by a majority of nine to six (five not proven and one not guilty) and in May 1909 was sentenced to death.

However, his lawyers organised a petition, signed by 20,000 people, and the Scottish secretary was forced by public opinion to issue a conditional pardon, commuting the sentence to life imprisonment.

He served 19 years in Peterhead prison.

Most who have looked at the case believe in Slater’s innocence, including Sir Arthur Conan Doyle who, in 1912, published The Case of Oscar Slater and argued for a full pardon. To no avail.

In 1927 a book by William Park led the Solicitor General, a year later, to quash the conviction on the ground that the judge had not directed the jury about the irrelevance of Slater’s previous character.

Oscar received £6,000 (£300,000+ today) in compensation. He died in 1948.

Although not cleared of the murder many eminent people through the years have put weight behind the theory that this was a miscarriage of justice. There is a more detailed account of the case here


someone asked me about if Amy was kinda like.. the female version of Warfstache, and y’know what ?? ?

I’m super in love with that idea tbh

the signs as 'life on the murder scene' moments

aries: “better stay on that side of the street, motherfucker. i’ll knock you out.”

taurus: frank trying to take a shower by the fence on warped tour

gemini: their adoration for new jersey/anytime they mention something about how grimy it is

cancer: ray putting his hand in a cupcake during a serious talk and thinking it’s hilarious

leo: the kickball game - “easy peasy pumpkin peasy. pumpkin pie, motherfucker!”

virgo: mikey straightening his hair on the bus and complaining about being recorded

libra: “i’m sick of seeing my face but i’m allowed to be sick of seeing my face because it’s my fucking face”

scorpio: almost drowning on the ghost of you set - “when my balls got wet, that’s when i got scared”

sagittarius: the band forgetting ray at the truck stop and driving away

capricorn: when they sell 11,000 records and mikey says his mom probably bought 10,999 of them

aquarius: gerard getting kicked out of his old band for not knowing how to play sweet home alabama on guitar

pisces: gerard reminiscing about playing peter pan as a kid - “everything i had built, i had ruined”

Let’s talk about an Ariel who walks away—limping, mouthing inaudible sailors’ curses, a sea-brine knife in her belt.

Ariel traded her voice for a chance to walk on land. That was the deal: every time she steps, it will feel like being stabbed by knives. She must win the hand of her one true love, or she will die at his wedding day, turn to sea foam, forgotten. The helpful steward tells her to dance for the prince, even though her feet scream each time she steps. Love is pain, the sea witch promised. Devotion calls for blood.

But how about this? When the prince marries another, nothing happens. When Ariel stands over the prince and his fiance the night before their wedding, her sisters’ hard-won knife in hand, she doesn’t decide his happiness is more important than her life. She decides that his happiness is irrelevant. Her curse does not turn on the whims of this boy’s heart. 

She does not throw away the knife and throw herself into the sea. She does not bury it in the prince and break her curse—it would not have broken. She leaves them sleeping in what will be their marriage bed and limps into a quiet night, her knife clean in her belt, her heart caught in her throat. Her feet scream, but they ache, too, for the places she has yet to see. 

Ariel will not be sea foam or a queen. There is life beyond love. There is love in just living. Her true love will not be married on the morn—the prince will be married then, in glorious splendor, but he had never been why she was here.

Ariel traded her voice for legs to stand on, a chance at another life. When she poked her head above the waves, it wasn’t the handsome biped that she fell for. It was the way the hills rolled, golden in the sun. It was the clouds chasing each other across blue sky, like sea foam you could never reach.

(She does reach it, one day, bouncing around in the back of a blacksmith’s cart, signing jokes to him in between helping to tune his guitar. They crest up a high mountain pass and into the belly of a cloud. Her breath whistles out, swirls water droplets, and she reaches out a hand to touch the sky. Her feet will scream all her life, but after that morning they ache just a little bit less). 

I want an Ariel who is in love with a world, not a prince. I don’t want her to be a moral for little girls about what love is supposed to hurt like, about how it is supposed to kill you. Ariel will be one more wandering soul, forgotten. Her voice will live in everything she does. She uses her sisters’ knife to turn a reed into a pipe. She cannot speak, but she still has lungs. 

Love is pain, says the old man, when Ariel smiles too wide at sunrises. It’s pain, says the innkeeper, with pity, as Ariel hobbles to a seat, pipe in hand. At least you are beautiful, soothes the country healer who looks over her undamaged feet. The helpful steward had thought she was shy. Dance for the prince even though your feet feel stuck with a hundred knives.

Her feet feel like knives but she goes out dancing in the grass at midnight anyway. She’s never seen stars before. Moonlight reaches down through the depths, but starlight fractures on the surface. Ariel dances for herself.

She goes down to caves and rocky shores. Sometimes she meets with her sisters there. Mouths filled with water cannot speak above the sea, so she drops into the waves and they sing to her, old songs, and she steals breaths of air between the stanzas. She can drown now. She holds her breath. She opens her eyes to the salt and brine. 

Ariel uses canes and takes rides on wagons filled with hay, chickens, tomatoes—never fish. She earns coins and paper scraps of money with a conch shell her youngest sister swam up from the depths for her, with her reed pipe, with a lyre from her eldest sister which sounds eerie and high out of the water. The shadow plays she makes on the walls of taverns waver and wriggle like on the sea caves of her childhood, but not because of water’s lap and current. It is the firelight that flickers over her hands. 

When she has limped and hitched rides so far that no one knows the name of her prince’s kingdom, she meets a travelling blacksmith on the road with an extra seat in his cart and an ear for music. He never asks her to dance for him and she never does. She drops messages in bottles to her sisters, at every river and coastline they come to, and sometimes she finds bottles washed up the shore just for her. 

They travel on. When she breathes, these days, her lungs fill with air.

Some nights she wakes, gasping, coughing up black water that never comes. There is something lying heavy on her chest and there always will be.

Somewhere in the ocean, a sea witch thinks she has won. When Ariel walks, she hobbles. Her voice was the sunken treasure of the king’s loveliest daughter, and so when they tell Ariel’s story they say she has been robbed. They say she has been stolen. 

She has many instruments because she has many voices—all of them, hers; made by her hands, or gifted from her sisters’ dripping ones. Ariel will sing until the day she dies with every instrument but her vocal cords. 

She cannot win it back, the high sweet voice of a merchild who had never blistered her shoulders red with sun, who had never made a barroom rise to its feet to sing along to her strumming fingers. She cannot ever again sing like a girl who has not held a dagger over two sleeping lovers and then decided to spare them. She decided not to wither. She decided to walk on knives for the rest of her life. She cannot win it back, but even if she could, she knows she would not sound the same. 

They call her story a tragedy and she rests her aching feet beside the warming hearth. With every new ridge climbed, new river forded, new night sky met, her feet ache a little less. They call her a tragedy, but the blacksmith’s donkey is warm and contrary on cold mornings. The blacksmith’s shoulder is warm under her cheek.

Her feet will always hurt. She has cut out so many parts of her self, traded them up, won twisted promises back and then twisted them herself. She lives with so many curses under her skin, but she lives. They call her story a moral, and maybe it is.

When she breathes, her lungs fill. When she walks, the earth holds her up. There is sun and there is light and she can catch it in her hands. This is love. 


maybe we can make our life a story. so, marry me grace violet blood. 


she had the world // panic! at the disco