Sherlocked report #9. Had a lovely time at the cocktail party. Our group got to speak to Sue Vertue and I asked in a sly way about S5 by asking whether it was up to the BBC to commission another series and she said no, the beeb would love to have more series made as, (my words not hers) it’s quite a money spinner for them. It really is down to Mark and Steven getting time to write it first of all. She said that hopefully she’d like to get them together early next year to discuss things like what the plot would be etc. Then they’d have to write a draft plot line and see if primarily Ben and Martin would be up for doing it with that plot. Then she’d have to send Mark and Steven away on holiday together to write as it worked so well for s4. Then they’d have to sort out the logistics of Ben n Martins schedules. Ben has been working pretty much non stop for a year and Martins not far behind in the constant workloads. So in short she herself is hopeful that a S5 will happen but even if she pushed them to write super speed they have Dracula to get through its first season first and then they’d have to work out when B & M could film. She said that they hope that Dracula will film next year for a possible 2019 release (they’ve not started writing it properly at all, just a draft plot.) So Sherlocked wouldn’t be able to start to film at the earliest until a few months after Dracula has wrapped. So I’m figuring that would mean a very late 2019 or mid 2020 release at its best possible. I’m so sorry I can’t relay any better news than that, but at least we know now that the BBC and Hartswood are both keen to do it. Let’s face it, the Sherlock fandom is used to long hiatuses! !
sherlock and john get home and its STRAIGHT into pajamas (the only kind of straight they deal in). its late and theyre tired and wanna be cozy. they make lil tv dinners in their pjs in the dimly lit kitchen and yawn a lot while leaning on each other and checking their phones. sherlock rubs johns back while he stands at the microwave. they settle onto the sofa and turn a nature program on as background noise while they eat (they’re eating two different dinners and keep stealing bites off of each other). besides some comments on the program they dont talk much because its been a long day but they enjoy each others company. sherlock finishes eating first and pokes around on his laptop with his head on johns tum (and john using sherlocks head as a table) until john suggests he make them hot cocoa. sherlock does that while john finishes and they get even cozier together and drink their cocoa while accidentally getting caught up in a dramatic black and white movie with a bad romance plot but an interesting crime plot (john remarks about how much better the plot would be if sherlock was working the case, sherlock goes on about how much better of a couple he and john are). they fall asleep tucked up and nestled into each other, very warm and cozy (sherlock just manages to kiss john goodnight before passing out, however john was already asleep)
To clear the air: I’m not just talking about Moftiss. But I’m also talking about Moftiss.
The thing about plot holes is that there are two types: ones which are unresolved plot threads, and things wherein the writers failed to show us something and assumed we would fill it in ourselves. An example of the first type would be John’s letter to Sherlock at the end of TST. Why introduce the letter if it was never going to be shown, read, or referred to again? An example of the second type is how John got out of the well and still had feet in later scenes. There, the writers could have showed us John realising that only his shoes were chained and showed him removing them and climbing up the rope, or they could have showed someone climbing down to cut through the chains. But it feels like a hole because they didn’t.
Eurus *could* have used all of her brainwashed fellow inmates/patients to make all of those arrangements, but without seeing any of it, it feels difficult to swallow. If they’d shown even one scene of her doing some of this, we might have been more willing to extend some benefit of the doubt, some extrapolation of “oh, I guess there was more of that, then, ok”, but we didn’t see any of it. There was nothing there to explain how supposedly-dead Mary kept sending posthumous home videos.
Then again, most Bond/spy movies do the same thing, honestly. If Bond’s credit cards were cut off, how did he rent that Aston Martin? Where did he get that new suit? Last time we saw him, he was wearing jeans and a ripped t-shirt and had no luggage with him. Has he been wearing the same underwear for the entire movie? Does he ever brush his teeth? Personally, I’m one of those irritating watchers who always wants to be shown the parts that make it feel real. I suspect that screen writers leave this stuff out deliberately for three reasons:
1) They think it will be dull. They figure audiences don’t want to see Bond trying on shirts or going to the bank to take out cash or maxing out on a credit card. Better put in some more car chases!
2) They’re already trying to edit things down to fit into a prescribed run time. Therefore Bond doing cardio to keep fit for all those foot chases gets cut.
3) They actually don’t want the protagonist (or villain, as the case may be) to seem human; they want us to see them as almost super-human, so Bond clipping his toenails never gets written.
The thing is, the day and age of willing suspension of disbelief is over. Audiences are more analytical than they used to be. We’re used to getting explanations when we want them, because information is so widely available now. When things don’t add up or make sense, we find it irritating, not artistic. I honestly think that Moffat and Gatiss think they’re being artistic by not explaining things fully (though that doesn’t excuse them by a mile for constantly underplaying the realistic emotional fall-out of the things their characters suffer), but the fact is that their audience simply finds it underwhelming and sloppy. I think it may be partly a question of generations, too, but I also know fans of Sherlock who are their age and older, who find their plot holes as irritating as fans in their teens do. Personally, the more realistic something is, the more it will draw me in. I want to know where Bond got those dry socks from to replace the ones that got wet in the rain. I want to see him jet-lagged after flying halfway around the world. I want to know how he paid to get to that island or that city without any working credit cards or debit cards. You can’t book a flight with cash, not a commercial one, at least. “He took a charter,” the screen writer says, shrugging it off in an interview. Sure, fine: then show it.
Moffat mentioned somewhere that Sherlock delivered Rosie, which is a frankly appalling thought, especially given that there was an actual doctor in the car, and given Sherlock’s horrified face at the thought of an event involving female genitalia unfolding in his very presence, I somehow can’t picture this in the slightest.
Part of the problem is also that their episodes span too much time too rapidly to address the questions of how their day-to-day relationships function, what those dynamics really are, etc. Too much is skipped over for the sake of advancing the plot. I would personally rather see more attention given to detail and less to unbelievable plot arcs. I expect Doctor Who to be wholly unbelievable (and even there I used to snark about dropped plot threads and unsatisfactory resolutions as well as under-handled emotional fall-out, when I still watched it). I expect Sherlock to be believable, though, and there was just so many holes.
All I’m saying is that Sherlock is not the only show that does this. There are a LOT of holes in series 3 and 4, but my larger issue is the emotional fall-out thing and the dropped threads. (Why make such a big deal with the memory altering drug? Why was there a dog bowl that Sherlock recognised? What did that damned letter say??? What did Ella tell Sherlock to do for John? Because I bet it wasn’t “go to hell, Sherlock”, yet that’s the advice he chose to take. Why???) Yeah: we like to be shown these things. It’s not enough to explain it later in an interview or a panel at a conference. Put it right there in the canon as though you meant to all along. That’s what ticks my boxes, at least.
Rambling aside. Back to the current fic. As you were!
Both Mofftiss have said they will not just pop in discussion about a character’s sexuality unless it contributes to the plot. We’ve had so many conversations about that very subject in Sherlock that it is the plot.
Hi there! My name is Jay. I have had to retype this about three times lol. I really love Sherlock, this show has gotten me through some rough times. Observing the way sherlocks brain works, watching the growth of friendship between john and Sherlock, the plot, moriarty, the over all interaction of characters and the theme has helped me stay alive. Sherlock has taught me that even though I’m not the best at feelings, even though I have a very small circle of friends, I still have my bestfriend who helps to better me as a person, and I still have my talents. Sherlock is one of my lifelines, and my favorite show. I will post daily, share some conspiracies, etc:)
This is not the end (we were told between the lines).
We all know: TAB works as a mirror-episode for the events of following episodes. And how does TAB end?
With a remake of ACD’s TFP: Moriarty and Holmes face each other at the Reichenbach Falls to die together. But: TAB doesn’t follow ACD’s storyline here anymore, because the circumstances - times - have changed; other than in ACD’s TFP, John is there to save Sherlock from his demons, because he is the only one capable of doing so. The only uncontrollable variable.
But how does Moftiss’ TFP end?
John is reduced to a simple plot device; his absence wouldn’t have changed the events much either. He doesn’t save Sherlock, because he is utterly helpless. Again, Sherlock is the one to save John. But it’s not framed like any of that would really matter, anyway.
John is not there to save Sherlock from his demons; Sherlock has to face them all on his own. And - because John is not there this time - he gives in: Other than putting to rest what/who destroys him, moving on and living in happiness, he makes himself a humble, dependent slave to his demons.
That’s another reason for feeling rejection towards TFP: Because it wasn’t what we were told it would be, and it wasn’t at all what “love conquers all” feels like - it wasn’t a “happy end”, not for any of the characters at all. It was nothing new; it was subtly and slowly killing off the characters’ arcs which they painstakingly achieved throughout the first ten episodes:
“Does it really make a difference, killing the innocent instead of the guilty?”
It was no different than ACD’s TFP, because, in the end, Moriarty does win over Sherlock, does burn the heart out of him, for John is nothing more than a plot device - just for decoration and for the sake of character-set completeness, even his clothing merging with the background.
TAB’s foreshadowing may have gotten lost in people’s minds somewhere along the way - so remember:
The longest 5 minutes, better make that 15, in TV History
Yesterday, after adding a comment to @just-sort-of-happened ‘s post about the connection between “watch” and “5 minutes”, and its relation to Sherlock’s deduction about Sebastian Wilkes’ watch in TBB, and John’s watch in Anderson’s Derren Brown fantasy in TRF, I began to wonder if we have yet to see how Sherlock got off that stupid plane. Now, after seeing @isitandwonder ‘s reply to the gifsets “You didn’t kill Mary. Mary died saving your life.”, it just dawned on me – what John said was a very round about way of the same thing Sherlock said to John in HLV:
In a way, Mary that John and Sherlock knew did die. Ironically, at the exact moment Mary shot Sherlock. I think… series 4 was indeed about tieing up the loose ends, and it all happened during that “5 minutes since Mycroft called" and 10 minutes after Sherlock landed – neither we saw complete versions of. And the loose ends are not just about the plot of Sherlock (TRF, HLV and everything since) but also about making a case for Johnlock.
Adlock AU, in which Sherrinford is the middle Holmes brother.
DISCLAIMER: Irene may seem ooc in this, or at least closer to ACD canon in personality than BBC canon.
The funeral was on a rare cloudless Sunday morning.
The wind was crisp and smelled of freshly-mown grass and overturned dirt from the cemetery outside. The candles and incense gave off a smokey, slightly heady aroma that filled the entire church.
Sunlight streamed through the stained glass windows, painting the casket and the veritable mountain of flowers beside it with a myriad of colors.
The church was so packed, one almost couldn’t see the casket. Everyone had come to pay their final respects to the beloved novelist, Sherrinford Holmes. The handsome, charismatic weaver of tales who, just three weeks before his untimely death, had been dubbed “a literary genius” by the New York Times, and “this generation’s Ian Fleming” by the Guardian.
The whole absurd tableau was so perfect, it made his brother feel sick.
Sherlock Holmes stood, unseen, in the shadows of the alcove behind the pews. Alone and unnoticed, he blended in with the mourning crowd, as was his intent.
His mother, eyes rimmed red with sorrow etched into every line of her face, had implored him to come today – to sit with the family in the front pew, to bid one last farewell to his favorite brother. Which, of course, was the reason why he was hiding here in the very back where his family couldn’t see him.
Sherrinford, of all people, would understand.
Sherrinford had always been known to everyone – even to their parents, though they would never admit it – as “the better brother”. Always the best at everything he did; Brilliant, precise, athletic, always sharply-dressed, with an irresistible smirk that made every woman – and more than a few men – in the vicinity melt with adoration. Sherrinford was the silver-tongued prince, the golden child of the Holmes family.
To Mycroft, five years his senior, and well on his way to becoming the British government by this time, the comparison had less of an effect. But Sherlock, being the youngest and closest to him in age, had always borne the brunt of his older brother’s legacy.
As a child, Sherlock had seen Sherrinford as a shining demi-god who could do no wrong, and worshipful little Sherlock had both treasured the moments when his Apollonian brother had deigned to spend time with him, and aspired to be like him when he grew up. By the time he was a teenager, Sherlock had stopped trying.
Still, there always seemed to be a patina of easy superiority and prestige around his brother that Sherlock could never achieve. And though he and Sherrinford always got along better than he and Mycroft did, it was this yawning gap of expectations and pressure that kept Sherlock away.
Of course, that wasn’t the only reason he’d maintained his distance.
…. And there she was. Sitting in the front pew, between his mother and Mycroft, her face pale and cold, like a marble Madonna.
She had lost weight, Sherlock observed. Her black dress was elegant, immaculate and tailored, but he could see where it hung from her slim frame. Her face was tight and drawn, and the usual clever sharpness in her eyes had been diluted somewhat by sadness and fatigue.
Still she stood erect in front of the casket, unbowed by grief. Something in his chest ached as he watched her, as if it had been hollowed out. It might have been his own grief, it might have been something else. But it came hand-in-hand with the guilt that clawed the pit of his stomach every time he looked at her.
He couldn’t do this. Not today, of all days.
The funeral mass was about to end, and mourners would be spilling out of the church. The pallbearers lifted the casket – Mycroft, with his wan, apathetic face, and his father, with his hunched, defeated back, at the lead. His mother broke into a fresh bout of weeping, sobbing into her handkerchief. The youngest Holmes brother was notably absent.
Without letting any of them see him, Sherlock slipped soundlessly out of the church. He was craving a cigarette, and he lit one far enough that Mycroft and his mother wouldn’t detect it. He took a deep drag, and let it fill his lungs, as if the cloud of smoke could somehow fill the great gaping hollowness in his chest.
Sherlock watched as the mourners crowded to the newly-dug grave in the family plot. She followed the casket, unspeaking.
He could still remember the first time they met.
It was as though he had been struck by lightning. The moment her eyes had found his and saw through his disguise, recognition sparkling in that translucent gaze, it was as if a current had passed between them.
“Disguise is always a self-portrait…”
She had seen through his disguise within seconds – the new violinist in the orchestra for the theatre production she was in, replacing the old violinist who had mysteriously gotten “sick”.
“You didn’t poison him, did you?”
He had smiled, the first and last time he ever did in her presence, one corner of his lips quirking upward. “Just a little bit.”
And when she had laughed, a thrilling, delighted sound, he had known in that moment that he was in danger of losing to this woman.
“I knew who you were the moment I saw your watch. Besides, Sherrinford told me you play the violin.”
The mention of his brother had brought home the reason why he had been there in disguise in the first place – to observe Sherrinford’s new wife. The woman who had secured his brother’s affections in a whirlwind romance, and encroached on their family without any of them knowing.
That had been two years ago.
Today, she stood at his brother’s fresh grave, and he watched her as he always had since that day he met her – from afar.
He waited until all the others had gone, and the crowd dwindled down to his family. He let his mother glimpse him for a second as she and his father drove away – just enough to ensure that she wouldn’t bombast him with a diatribe tomorrow for not attending his own brother’s funeral.
Mycroft went next. Just before he left, he stopped a few yards away from the tree Sherlock was leaning against. Sherlock rolled his eyes. Of course.
“Well, it looks like it’s just you and me left, brother mine.”
Sherlock blew a puff of smoke into his face. “Piss off, Mycroft.”
Mycroft pursed his lips into a dour smile, but Sherlock noticed his eyes flick from him to the lone figure standing at the family plot, then back to Sherlock. His only remaining brother wisely said nothing more, merely climbed into the car where his assistant was waiting.
As the black car pulled away, Sherlock discarded his cigarette and crushed it under his foot.
He should go.
This was exactly the sort of situation he was better off staying away from. The reason why he had seen his brother so infrequently in the past couple of years.
Before he could leave, however, he couldn’t resist one last look at her.
She stood silently at his brother’s grave, unmoving. Her face was perfectly still, perfectly composed. Her eyes were distant and glassy. It was almost as if her body was here, but the rest of her had followed Sherrinford wherever he was.
He should go.
Almost against his will, his steps shifted, and his legs carried him closer to her. Closer. Closer. Until he was almost standing behind her. But she remained oblivious of his presence.
He stretched out his hand, fingers just millimeters from her elbow. His usually steady hands trembled slightly. Just before he could touch her, he stopped, remembering whose grave it was they were standing on. He pulled his hand away, but in a quiet voice, he said her name.
Watching The Lying Detective again, it becomes clearer and clearer that we’re in some variation of a dream, a trip, an alibi, Sherlock’s mind palace - some sort of false reality. There’s plenty of good meta on this: see the EMP masterlist (someone lmk if there’s a more recent list to link to). There was a compelling case for it before TST & TLD, but I resisted, because I didn’t get why they would do this.
(I’m a bit like John Watson when he gets angry at Sherlock - not interested in the how, but the why. Plenty of amazing meta writers worked out the how of TJLC, but I had to write a 13k word meta before I could accept the why.)
Anyway, I can deny it no longer, EMP is happening. But… why?
Here’s my best guess (and, not coincidentally, my greatest hope): EMP is happening because they want to get even more metafictional.
I haven’t watched all of Moffat’s Doctor Who episodes. In fact, they used to annoy me – Moffat uses the sci-fi setting to set up really fantastical plot twists. In Sherlock, Moffat’s plots are bounded by reality, plausibility, science. Or, well, they were.
To be fair to Mofftiss, BBC Sherlock is still bounded by plausibility. They’ve gone to the trouble to present multiple in-universe mechanisms for us to be watching a false reality. Interestingly, these are all introduced in the second series. We get drug-induced dream sequences in ASiB. We get drug-induced hallucinations and memory-altering substances and the mind palace in THoB. We also, in Series 2, get the first truly metafictional storylines: Irene Adler and the destructiveness of love; Henry Knight haunted by his own story, a distorted truth; and of course, Moriarty, telling Sherlock’s story all wrong.
Prior to Series 4, I thought this was more or less the limits of their metafictionality. Sure, they’ll throw in a lot of imagery and symbolism, but they wouldn’t go further than that, would they?
Of course they would. They ended Series 2 with a character called The Storyteller writing Sherlock to death. That was half a show ago. They had go somewhere after that.
Requested: Anon asked - Sherlock x reader where the he is so horny he fucks the reader on a table
Plot: Sherlock comes back from the his current case and finds the reader in only a bath towel.
Warning: Smut, language
As Sherlock’s room mate, you didn’t really expect Sherlock to be back in the middle of the day. So, after your shower, you didn’t expect to find Sherlock in the living room with multiple connecting pictures across the wall above the sofa.
Since you were still slightly wet from your hair and, oh yeah, STANDING IN ONLY A TOWEL, you tried to get to your room without Sherlock noticing you.
But, sadly, your clumsiness had to ruin your plan. As you tripped over something on the floor Sherlock failed to clean up, Sherlock whipped around to find a clear view of your naked ass.
Instantly, Sherlock felt emotions he had never felt before. He thought he felt… what’s the word?… aroused. Horny, almost. You stood up from your laying position on the ground to find Sherlock a few inches away from you.
He pressed your body against the wall behind you quite roughly, his hands landing on your ass. From that, you felt turned on. Sherlock crashed his lips against yours and roughly kissed you. One of your hands flew to Sherlock’s curly hair, the other going behind his neck.
His kisses trailed from your lips, to your jaw, to your neck. You moan as Sherlock kisses the sensitive skin just below your ear. He nibbles on the skin, satisfied by your pleasure.
His lips travels down your collarbone to just above your towel. “I don’t think we need this,” he says seductively into you ear. He lifts his hand to the crease of the towel, letting the piece of cloth fall to the floor.
Your hands come from behind his head to the buttons of his shirt. It was your turn to mark Sherlock as your own. Your lips attacked his neck, nibbling at the skin. This action caused soft growls come from his Cupid’s bow lips. The sound made a sense of wetness flood between your thighs.
Sherlock picked you up from the ground, wrapping your legs around his waist. He carried you towards the kitchen table as you tried to undo to last two buttons, resulting in you tearing the shirt off, breaking the buttons off.
He laid your back against the cool wood as he smirked down at you. “Couldn’t wait, could we?” he said in a very sexy voice. He undid his pants buttons, pulling them off.
“But Sherlock, we can’t just have sex here!” you say. Sherlock crawls on top of you. “Does it really matter that much?” he asks into your ear, nibbling your ear lobe. “But it’s where we eat!” you exclaim, pulling him down towards your face.
You could feel the tip of his long member touch your thigh as you moaned into the kiss. Sherlock pulled away and aligned himself with your entrance. His eyes traveled up your body, looking into your eyes, asking for permission.
You chuckle as he looks at you. “You shouldn’t be asking me, considering I’m not the virgin.” Sherlock leaned down and made another hickey on your neck. He pushed into you as you called out his name, not realizing he was THAT big.
Sherlock waits, grunting, you both getting used to the feeling. Soon after, Sherlock takes his first thrust. Then another, slightly faster. Soon enough, Sherlock is pounding into you, the room filled with your moans.
You feel the familiar twist in your stomach as you feel your climax coming along. “Sherlock! I’m-I’m gonna c-cum!!!” You scream. Sherlock grunts one last time as you both cum at the same time.
Sherlock pulls out of you, picks you up in his arms, bridal style, and walks to his room. He lays your naked self on to the bed then joins you soon after. As you were about to fall asleep, you hear Sherlock whisper, “I love you, Y/N.” With that, you snuggle into Sherlock’s warm body and fall asleep in his arms.