rabidsamfan: (basil nigel)
And I'm on the "Holmes Through the Years" panel, so I came up with a sort of a survey, trying to figure out which performances have stuck in people's minds.

http://goo.gl/forms/rX90IbF2H7

Don't know if any of y'all are interested, but it's there if you are! Feel free to pass it along.
rabidsamfan: samwise gamgee, I must see it through (quest)
For a Watson's Woes ghost story challenge. Crossposting here so I don't lose it.


I first noticed the most unusual aspect of my new fellow lodger during our visit to Brixton Road. I had, at the time, seen a number of murder victims, but the expression on Enoch Drebber's face was exceptionally horrific, and after an initial glance at the state of the room, I thought it best to make certain that I had not drawn the doctor into something beyond his present capacity.

He was paler than usual, which was not alarming, but to my surprise his eyes had dilated far past the degree for which the dimness of the room would account, and his gaze had fixed upon empty air. He nodded, ever so slightly, and then looked in quick succession at the mantelpiece, the wall above the mantel in the corner, a spot near the hearth on the floor, and then to the corpse. He blinked once, for half a breath longer than usual, and when his eyes opened again they had returned to normal, and his expression held no more emotion than the natural dismay any man might feel at the sight of so grim a scene.

Gregson and Lestrade were busy presenting the case, so I had no time then to consider Watson's odd reaction. I did remember it, however, particularly when Lestrade revealed the word written in blood in just the corner where my companion had cast his glance. But as I had every reason to know that Watson had been safely at Baker Street at the time of the murder, no real conclusion could be drawn from his odd behavior. I dismissed it, therefore, having other things to think about.

Four days ago Watson reacted in the same peculiar manner. It was also a case of murder, although when we first investigated the disintegrating tenement where the victims had been held prisoner I had not yet discovered the full extent of the crime. It was broad daylight, however, and both Watson's sudden pallor, and the strange dilation of the pupils were so evident that young Wiggins, who had brought us to the place, noticed as well. He had to ask three times if Watson needed a chair, so fixedly was Watson staring at the wood-lined wall, but again Watson blinked and came to himself, and did not seem to know why the boy had taken alarm. He took his seat more out of toleration for the child than any concern for himself, but I was glad he was sitting when I discovered the concealed door in the panelling, and the evidence of mayhem behind it. Hardened Watson may be to the deaths of men, but the murder of children invariably sickens him.

His nightmares that night were so violent that he fell from the bed with a thump which wakened me from my sleep. I climbed the stairs to his room when his cries continued, and found him still unconscious, writhing on the floor in a tangle of blankets, pleading for mercy from "Jack" in a plaintive, high-pitched voice that was not his own.

"Who is Jack?" I wondered aloud, as I tried to pry Watson free of his woolen cocoon, and to my astonishment the voice answered me.

"Jack Sutherland. The lodger. Don't let him hurt us anymore."

I all but swallowed my teeth. The name Jack Sutherland was not new to me -- I'd seen it among the reports and witness interviews filed at Scotland Yard when Bradstreet had pulled me onto the case -- but Watson hadn't been with me. And not once had the name come up in our conversations. "How can I stop him?" I croaked past dry lips, for at that midnight hour it was all too easy to believe what I would have scorned by daylight. "How can I find him?"

"He drinks at the White Rose," I was told, though Watson's eyes never opened, and his lips barely moved. "And then he comes and hurts us. Oh, please don't let him hurt us anymore."

"I'll stop him," I bargained. "But you must let Watson go. He'll need his sleep if he's to help me."

"Promise?" The first voice was joined by the echoes of other voices -- all young, all desperate, and Watson's entire body went rigid, although I could feel it quivering under my hand. "Do you promise?"

"Of course I promise," I said. "But please, let Watson go!"

With a mighty convulsion, and a last cry of "Promise!" Watson threw both me and the bedclothes aside, but when I scrambled back to his side he was limp against the floorboards, breathing as gently as if his head were still on his pillow.

I was able to put him back into bed without rousing him, which was a mercy, as I was in no mood to discuss what had happened just then. Instead I went down to our sitting room and found tobacco and pipe. I needed to think.

Had Watson, next morning, made any indication that he remembered the events of the night, my ruminations might have led to a different conversation. But on inquiry, he said he'd slept quite soundly -- too soundly, indeed, to have noticed that he had turned upon his bad shoulder and aggravated its aching. "I'm afraid I shan't be of much use to you today, Holmes," he apologized over breakfast.

"I doubt I'll require you to lift any heavy objects," I said, and then mentioned that I intended to take a trip to the White Rose, wondering if, indeed hoping, that the name would be familiar to him. It was not. I bade him stay at home then, and tasked him with collecting every edition of the papers in my absence, to search the agony columns for mention of a list of names pulled out of the air. It made him feel useful to do so. And gave me time alone to consider what next I should do.

A brief visit to the White Rose bore no fruit, so I went off to see if I could find more tangible evidence in the case; and that night, Watson suffered the same visitation as before. The pattern repeated the following day and night, leaving both of us pale and hollow-eyed, with Watson blaming his condition on the return of the cold weather, and I struggling to reconcile my love of logic and scientific evidence with the haunting voice of the child who kept beseeching me to find his murderer. Yesterday, driven to desperation, I took Watson with me to the White Rose, and we settled in to while the hours away.

The beer at the Rose is passable, and there was little enough to do but drink and talk, as new companions do, of this and that. I waited until Watson was well into his cups before broaching the topic of superstitions, and led him from there to the more hazardous topic of ghosts.

“Ghosts aren’t real,” he scoffed with a smile. “At least I’ve never seen one, and if anyone should I would, for I was born with a caul.” He patted his chest absently, unaware of the gesture. “I used to keep it in a little bag my grandmother made for me, as protection. There’s superstition for you, Holmes, if you like. But it’s hard to break a promise you made when you were small.”

“What became of it?” I asked.

“Murray used it at Maiwand, to staunch the bleeding from my shoulder.” Now his hand moved to cover that wound, and he rubbed at it thoughtfully. “Another superstition, that, although I can’t say his notion of first aid didn’t work. I seem to remember him putting a bit of it on my tongue too.”

“Whatever for?” I asked, but Watson didn’t answer. He had gone pale, and his eyes were fixed upon the doorway. I turned to see and a burly fellow matching the description of Jack Sutherland sauntered in. As he crossed the room to reach the bar, he drew close to our table, and I was able to observe the way that Watson’s blank eyes fixed upon the left-hand pocket of Sutherland’s coat.

A moment more, and Watson recovered himself, taking a large draught from his glass. “What were we talking about?” he asked.

“I’m sorry, old fellow,” I said, “I was distracted. My suspect has arrived. Would you be so good as to go send Gregson a telegram, asking for official reinforcement?” I would have gone myself, had I not feared that the fit would come on Watson again, and either cause him to lose Sutherland, or confront him alone.

Watson went, Gregson came, and we made the arrest. I had to construct a taradiddle of Sutherland patting his pocket to justify searching his coat as closely as necessary. The pocket itself was empty, but he had constructed a second pocket, within the lining, and there we found the bloodstained mementos of his crime which will send him to the hangman before the month is out.

And last night Watson slept quietly. I know, for I watched him through the night.

There are more things in heaven and earth I know, but my philosophy is not so narrow that I doubt the evidence of my own eyes and ears. But what a blow to my reputation for rational thought were I to admit to the professionals at Scotland Yard that I believe my fellow lodger to possess supernatural powers? Powers which he himself denies exist? (And what a boost to that same reputation if I swallow my pride, keep mum, and merely follow Watson’s lead when he sees evidence that I do not?)

What a mystery to be solved, if solved it can be!

A pretty puzzle indeed!
rabidsamfan: samwise gamgee, I must see it through (quest)
(All gen and without warnings unless noted otherwise.)

For Holmestice, I wrote:

Goose (8626 words)
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle

And then there was Yuletide... )
rabidsamfan: samwise gamgee, I must see it through (quest)
You can watch, here, but unless you understand Russian you'll be as frustrated as I am.

And for all of that, 25 minutes in and I am already wildly happy about this John Watson.

http://russia.tv/video/show/brand_id/17605/episode_id/698444/video_id/698444/viewtype/picture

27 minutes in and I think I'm in love!
rabidsamfan: (granada)
I missed signing up for Yuletide this year, but I did manage to get something done for acd_holmesfest. It's called Lion and I've put it up at AO3.

It's gen, and basically a bit of character study/timeline contemplation about Watson and the Maiwand memorial. http://archiveofourown.org/works/1032872 Expect my usual indulgences in internet research, and Watson whumping.


Also, earlier, I wrote something for holmestice and I think I forgot to post it here. Slash, Granada, and also at AO3, it's a missing scene from The Priory School, and distinctly aimed at audiences who don't need to consider age statements. http://archiveofourown.org/works/1011984

Both are ex-WIPS I picked up and dusted off and finished. I'm going for threesies now, for another round of Holmestice and jamming in the same place I did before. But I think I may have finished the excessive internet research part of the proceedings.

Wanderer

Jul. 2nd, 2013 11:09 pm
rabidsamfan: samwise gamgee, I must see it through (quest)
There was a certain pleasure in being forced to abdicate, to follow at random the wide and narrow paths of a fascinating world. But as Sherlock Holmes strode the ancient camel paths of the Silk Road, he knew that his respite was temporary. Too soon he reached the ancient city of Bactria (Balkh, the Afghans called it, since their conquest not half a century gone). There, in the shadows of an empire crumbling into dust, where Zarathustra had once sought the balance between truth and lies, he felt the pull of distant fog-bound streets and a friend to walk beside.
rabidsamfan: samwise gamgee, I must see it through (quest)
Once he had accepted shelter as a given, watching the world from the safe harbor of his brother’s shadow. But he had been very small then, and the world had been full of sunlight. No sooner had he looked beyond the gentle shade to the bright green world than he had known he must venture forth, leaving umbra for penumbra, and further yet again. And when he stood in the antumbra he turned to see the light that had been hidden from him and saw only Mycroft’s silhouette, standing guard, a blotch between him and the glories of the sun.

When he found himself thinking that even the sky was mourning, he knew that exhaustion was catching up with him at last. A week since the murder, scant hours since he’d solved the crime, using every resource, calling in every favor, forever since he’d paused to dream. He wanted nothing more than sleep, but this was a funeral he could not miss. Not with John bending down to Harry’s grave, tossing a handful of mud onto the coffin. Mycroft’s umbrella was unfurled above him, fragile silk and steel against the elements, and Sherlock stood beneath that shelter and was glad.
rabidsamfan: samwise gamgee, I must see it through (quest)
When you have become utterly trapped by your research while writing a Sherlock Holmes story, don't forget that Conan Doyle wouldn't have bothered.

THINK OF THE MILK DRINKING SNAKE AND KEEP WRITING.
rabidsamfan: (watchalongs)
AO3 link if you prefer reading there.
Rating: G
Characters: Holmes, Watson
Warnings: character deaths, angst, chronology musings
Summary: The War is over and much has been lost, and yet some things can still be found.
Disclaimer: – Credit must go to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, for creating a world where the people are quite real and the timing is quite impenetrable.

AN: I wrote this for KCS during the acd_holmesfest challenge. Well, finished it anyway. And now I have another story in my WIP pile. )

Elementary

Oct. 20th, 2012 09:45 am
rabidsamfan: (hoooolmes)
I told myself after the pilot that I'd give it a few episodes before deciding whether or not I would give up on it. And I'm glad I did, because the most recent one was very promising. It's beginning to look like Sherlock Holmes!

In other news, I need more hours in the day. Or at least more hours when my head doesn't hurt.

Elementary

Sep. 27th, 2012 11:24 pm
rabidsamfan: (watchalongs)
Stayed awake long enough to watch, and am now remembering why I prefer watching tv series on DVD without commercials. But I did watch it, and now I shall do the obvious thing and blog about it.

Enter the Spoiler Zone )

Yay!

May. 5th, 2012 08:58 am
rabidsamfan: samwise gamgee, I must see it through (Default)
Sherlock is finally coming to US tv!

And there are some neat promo vids and photos at the pbs website:

http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/masterpiece/sherlock/
rabidsamfan: (watchalongs)
If you have ever watched "Without A Clue" and liked it you MUST GO AND READ THIS FIC.

http://archiveofourown.org/works/299438?show_comments=true&view_full_work=true#comment_492632

Trust me. It is brilliance.
rabidsamfan: (whathaveyoudone)
Well, I went and saw A Game of Shadows tonight, and despite having made the mistake of eating something new and different before the movie, I'm glad I went. Internal distractions aside, I had a good time, having gone in expecting adrenaline charged crackfic and getting it, by heaven!

Spoilers Ahoy! )
rabidsamfan: (whathaveyoudone)
Well, I went and saw A Game of Shadows tonight, and despite having made the mistake of eating something new and different before the movie, I'm glad I went. Internal distractions aside, I had a good time, having gone in expecting adrenaline charged crackfic and getting it, by heaven!

Spoilers Ahoy! )
rabidsamfan: (bbc sherlock and john)
"Colleague?" Sherlock asked.

John's ears reddened. "Yeah, well," he mumbled, "I didn't want that smarmy bastard to cry confidentiality and send me away, so I promoted myself."

Sherlock shook his head a fraction, as if recalibrating his thoughts, one eyebrow flying. "Ah. 'Colleague' implies a need to know, and 'partner' would have been misconstrued, as would 'flatmate'."

"And bankers don't hand 'friends' money." John held out the cheque, shrugging his apology. "One of us ought to be able to pay the rent."

Sherlock ignored the offering. "Keep it," he ordered. "One of us needs to remember to pay the rent."













Nudged into being by a wonderful fic over here
rabidsamfan: (bbc sherlock and john)
"Colleague?" Sherlock asked.

John's ears reddened. "Yeah, well," he mumbled, "I didn't want that smarmy bastard to cry confidentiality and send me away, so I promoted myself."

Sherlock shook his head a fraction, as if recalibrating his thoughts, one eyebrow flying. "Ah. 'Colleague' implies a need to know, and 'partner' would have been misconstrued, as would 'flatmate'."

"And bankers don't hand 'friends' money." John held out the cheque, shrugging his apology. "One of us ought to be able to pay the rent."

Sherlock ignored the offering. "Keep it," he ordered. "One of us needs to remember to pay the rent."













Nudged into being by a wonderful fic over here
rabidsamfan: (hoooolmes)
Watson shared the story with me on the train ride north. A small boy punished in an unheated room, a small shivering ghost wandering Gilsland castle forever after, seeking out the victims of fever, laying spectral hands on them and chanting “Cauld, cauld, forever cauld, ye shall be cauld forever more.”

The person dies soon after that, Watson told me, diffidently, the Border country vowels of his childhood fading away again into the accent of public school and London university as he leaned back against the cushions and watched me from beneath his lashes.

A fairy tale, I scoffed, then, and one which cannot even find its footing. There is no Gilsland castle.

But there are castles near Gilsland, and we are in one of them, imprisoned by the blizzard which rages outside the ancient stone walls, unwilling guests of the very man I came north to investigate. My case is in ruins, yet I dare not add this place to my litany of failures. Watson is ill.

The fire on the hearth sheds light but what little heat there is in this dusty chamber comes from my friend. His head is tossing restlessly on his pillow; his voice is cracking as he calls my name, shouting over the thunder of a waterfall only he can hear. But I cannot turn to him. I cannot even turn to see whether his eyes are open, for my own eyes must stay upon the door. It is nearly time.

And when the small grey ghost drifts once more through the oaken panels, what shall I offer it beyond the frostburnt hands which will never again do better than fumble upon a violin’s strings? What shall I give up to keep the ghost another night away from taking my Watson’s life? What warmth have I left to sacrifice? My head and limbs are already half frozen from the ordinary cold, and my gut is cold with fear. What is left? My heart?

My heart.

So be it.
rabidsamfan: (hoooolmes)
Watson shared the story with me on the train ride north. A small boy punished in an unheated room, a small shivering ghost wandering Gilsland castle forever after, seeking out the victims of fever, laying spectral hands on them and chanting “Cauld, cauld, forever cauld, ye shall be cauld forever more.”

The person dies soon after that, Watson told me, diffidently, the Border country vowels of his childhood fading away again into the accent of public school and London university as he leaned back against the cushions and watched me from beneath his lashes.

A fairy tale, I scoffed, then, and one which cannot even find its footing. There is no Gilsland castle.

But there are castles near Gilsland, and we are in one of them, imprisoned by the blizzard which rages outside the ancient stone walls, unwilling guests of the very man I came north to investigate. My case is in ruins, yet I dare not add this place to my litany of failures. Watson is ill.

The fire on the hearth sheds light but what little heat there is in this dusty chamber comes from my friend. His head is tossing restlessly on his pillow; his voice is cracking as he calls my name, shouting over the thunder of a waterfall only he can hear. But I cannot turn to him. I cannot even turn to see whether his eyes are open, for my own eyes must stay upon the door. It is nearly time.

And when the small grey ghost drifts once more through the oaken panels, what shall I offer it beyond the frostburnt hands which will never again do better than fumble upon a violin’s strings? What shall I give up to keep the ghost another night away from taking my Watson’s life? What warmth have I left to sacrifice? My head and limbs are already half frozen from the ordinary cold, and my gut is cold with fear. What is left? My heart?

My heart.

So be it.

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