Every time I watch you dance, your energy and enthusiasm are so overwhelmingly refreshing, it was like you were born to perform. You’ve taught me, many, many times over, that simply watching someone enjoy doing what they love most is magical. Good luck at Kobe this weekend! We’ll be cheering for you. Thank you for inspiring me (￣^￣)ゞ
“Mary Morstan”, Murderer, Gaslighter, and Abuser (The Final Problem)
Gaslighting: a definition:
A form of abuse that centres around destabilising the victim’s perception of reality and devalues said person’s experiences and feelings. This can be done in private or in front of other parties. In the latter case, the victim is also humiliated and devalued in front of someone else.
Typical statements of gaslighting:
Victim: I’m cold. Gaslighter: It’s not cold in here.
Victim: It’s been about fifteen minutes. Gaslighter: No it hasn’t. It’s only been three minutes.
Victim: I’m really upset about this! Gaslighter: No you’re not.
Gaslighter: It doesn’t matter how you feel. It doesn’t matter what you want. Who you are doesn’t matter. What you perceive isn’t real.
Mary gaslights John in the majority of their canonical interactions. I’ve posted about this before, but their opening scene in HLV is classic gaslighting.
John: Look, is it Sherlock Holmes you want? Because I’ve not seen him in ages. Mary: About a month.
Correcting his perceptions in front of a third party.
Kate: Who’s Sherlock Holmes? Mary: (To John): See? That does happen.
Mary: Seriously? John: Why not? She’s not going to the police. Someone’s got to get him. Mary: Why you? John: I’m being neighbourly. Mary: Since when?
Questioning his motives. Then there’s this lovely bit:
Mary: Why are you being so… John (while physically trying to leave the scene): What? Mary: I don’t know. What’s the matter with you? John (yelling): There is nothing the matter with me. Imagine I said that without shouting. Mary: I’m trying.
Now Mary has belittled John to the point of anger, leading to him attempting to leave the scene, and with her last line here, makes it seem as though John is the aggressor. That’s another classic move. She hasn’t succeeded in getting him to apologise yet, but that’s the eventual aim: to make John feel as though he was in the wrong all along. Then Mary makes it clear that John isn’t going to be permitted to leave without her and tries to expressly forbid him from going. He gives in and Mary not only comes, but drives - she takes over. If that isn’t enough, she then points and laughs at the tyre lever John gets out of the trunk.
Mary: What is that?? John: It’s a tyre lever. Mary: Why?
Why indeed, Mary? Why would John Watson want to arm himself upon going into a smack house? Why ask that, except to belittle John still more, make him feel ridiculous? This behaviour continues throughout Mary’s actual life. She doesn’t feel, upon having shot John’s best friend in the heart, any need to apologise, and she feels completely justified in castigating John over not having spoken to her in months (again, the aggressor turning the tables on the victim here). She refers to John and Sherlock as a dog and a pig at various times. She insinuates that their friendship is only possible with her there to broker it. She traps John into a pregnancy that was clearly a surprise to him. She uses her own death scene to manipulate John into feeling guilty, citing that her alias of “Mary Morstan” was her favourite one ever, while still owning ninja assassin outfits, firearms, and drug-infused papers like a Cold War spy. She literally tells Sherlock to get himself killed or kill himself, “go to hell, Sherlock”, she snarls in a video that magically pre-dates her death.
“Go to hell, Sherlock.” - “Mary Morstan”, The Six Thatchers
And now, not only does Mary Morstan claim credit for having “created” a friendship that managed to survive despite everything she did to them both, but the creators of this monstrous character have validated it, as @constancecreamposted here. Who they are doesn’t matter. Who they were before Mary ever came into their lives doesn’t matter. They’re whatever she says they are. The creators are gaslighting the audience through their precious ninja assassin/mommy in turned-up jeans/Mary Sue.
We observed: a woman who shot Sherlock in the heart, who lied to John from start to finish, who uses gaslighting and reverse psychology (”if you read it, you won’t love me anymore”) to bend him to her will. We were told that consequences don’t matter when you’re Mary Morstan; they only matter when you’re Sherlock Holmes. We were told that Sherlock and John being on the side of the angels doesn’t matter when it comes to the women they “need” to be with - someone who murders for personal gain, and an employee of Moriarty’s who betrayed her nation for personal benefit. We were told that being evil only matters if you’re male; otherwise it’s sexy or cute or both. We were told that our observations were wrong: Mary was never a villain - hey, nobody’s perfect! Mr & Mrs Psychopath it is! This isn’t the only place they did this to us. We were shown a tarmac scene so starkly sober and heartbreaking that we barely batted an eyelash at Moriarty’s seeming return. And then they told us it was all a silly drug trip, whee, are those ginger nuts????, and it left a flat taste in our mouths. Because we were told that what we saw wasn’t what we had really seen after all.
What we saw isn’t what we saw. What we observed doesn’t matter. Who Mary really is doesn’t matter. Who Sherlock and John already were doesn’t matter. Listen to nothing but Mary’s voice; that’s all that matters.
Khadgar: The master has gone mad! Moroes: More than usual? Khadgar: He’ll be after us, but you had better run as well. Take Cook and flee as far as you can. Moroes: Flee? Wherever would I go? Khadgar: But…what will happen to you here?
For @4wksoffluff . (Also: sorry I haven’t really been keeping up with the 4 weeks of fluff.) Thanks to @yeahitsmaegan for looking over this and other fics for me!
Summary: Simon is angry at Baz, and things get emotional. An angst-to-fluff snowbaz fic with slight hurt/comfort.
Snow’s face is so close to mine and his eyes are narrowed to slits. His nose is nearly touching mine, but it’s not out of affection, rather aggression. He speaks more like he’s spitting, every word like a flame.
“Go to hell, Baz!” he snarls, his eyes no longer soft and watery, a new sharpness taking over them instead.
“Oh, Fuck off, Snow,” I sneer back at him. “You’re the one who started all this. It’s ridiculous, really. I hardly did anything.” I step away from him and gesture at his desk, a disbelieving look on my face. All I did was spell his stuff stuck to his desk. All it will do is complicate his schoolwork until he figures out how to undo it (which won’t be long if he asks Bunce, anyway.). It’s hardly a bother - it’s not like I tried to kill him.
“It doesn’t matter!” He’s moved away and is shouting across the room in a high-pitched voice. It’s whiny, like a small child’s. “You do this kind of thing all the time and I’m sick of it! You’re never nice to me. And I know I’m not the best to you either but at least I don’t spell your stuff to the desk! I even said good morning to you this morning, Baz! Why can’t you be nice to me just once?” He has tears in his eyes now, they’re back to their softer tone. They’re vulnerable. And I want to cry along with him. I want to hug him and tell him I’m sorry and take away his pain. I want to hold him until we both feel better. Because I don’t feel good about this either. It’s not like I enjoy making his life a misery. I love him, but this is what I have to do. It’s what’s expected of me. He’s looking at me with his watery, pleading eyes, and all I want to do is reach out to him, but I stop myself. I can’t. He’d never forgive and then I’d never forgive myself for being so weak. But I do allow myself to say: “I’m sorry, Simon.” And then I can’t stop myself this time. I walk over him, spur of the moment, and he’s just staring at me, tears falling down his cheeks. It’s finally too much for him, and it’s finally too much for me as well. If I just do it this one time, maybe I’ll be fulfilled enough to never do it again. I take him by his back and hug him. I can hear his sniffling as I pull him into my chest, resting my chin atop his head. I say it again.
“I’m sorry, Simon,” I murmur softly. He’s not shoving me off him, and I think I’m crying about an entirely different thing because of it. I touch my nose to his hair, closing my eyes and inhaling his cinnamon/smoke scent. Simon Snow, you beautiful nightmare. He pushes away from me gently after a while, looking up into my eyes.
“Thank you, Baz,” he says, then gives me a quick kiss on the cheek. All the blood I have in me rushes to my cheeks. Simon. Snow. Just. Kissed. Me. On. The. Cheek. I try not to let my feelings show too much across my face, but then I think ‘Crowley, I’m already bloody crying,’ so I let myself smile and close my eyes as I feel the blush intensify. When I open my eyes, Snow is blushing too. He’s adorable- standing there in the half dark with his golden curls and pink apple cheeks. I kiss him on the cheek.
“I promise never to spell your books to your desk again, Snow,” I tell him. He hugs me again, resting his head on his shoulder.
“I guess this is a truce, then,” he murmurs.
“Sure Snow,” I say, “a truce.” Because I’m wrapped up in the moment and that’s what I want, a truce. I want it so much. I want to hug Snow without thinking about how my family will probably ask me to poison his scones one day. I agree. Truce. It’s nice. And then he looks up and kisses me with all the confidence I’ve never had to do the same to him. Like it’s no big deal and incredibly important at the same time. I lean into it, placing my hand gently around the back of his neck. The soft-lipped, golden-haired, mole constellated boy I’ve always dreamed of is kissing me, and I want it to be infinite. I want ‘truce’ to be infinitely true.
“Truce,” I mutter, chuckling when we break apart. “Truce.” I kiss him again. I’m in love with him, and he kissed me and called a truce.