Everybody Shut Up!

 

By J.H. Watson

(~ 700 words)

 

At first I missed his voice.

There’d been times when I’d thought I’d go mad if he didn’t stop talking, talking, talking. He would talk for hours, for days; once he talked for three days straight, at least I assumed he’d continued when I’d fallen asleep, or gone to the loo, or even went out to get the shopping. I know he’d continued to talk when I’d gone to Dublin, missing nothing except my absence.

Now I missed his voice. I can still hear it in my head. Don’t tell my therapist I said that, she would misunderstand. But I do hear it in my head. Those rich, plummy, public school tones; that caustic, snide, superior note. I could read his mind with just a word. John, he would say, and I’d know whether to draw out a suspect or a gun. He could play me like his violin, and treat me as cavalierly — wanting me to hand, but setting me aside at a moment’s distraction. He once said he thought better when he talked out load — so he talked to me.

Then the talking would stop and a silence would begin.

And now I miss the silence. There wasn’t one silence, he had a quiver full of them that he’d fired at me. There was the cold, hard silence of his displeasure. The brittle, bright silence of his injured ego. A silence so taut the air seemed to vibrate around me when his mind was fully engaged, and I knew he would shortly release a brilliant string of deductions. He had an ominous, suffocating silence that seemed to hang like a sodden cloud when he was bored. I miss the cacophony of his silences. But now the deafening silence doesn’t stop, will never stop, there is no end to this dead silence.

So I talk to a skull named Billy to keep from being buried in the silence.

#

I thought I’d miss the quiet satisfaction I got from John’s listening. He listened actively; not in that fatuous way that therapist do when they “actively listen,” parroting your last remarks, twisting them into question like one of John’s insecure dates trying to appear interested and caring. He listened with his whole being, striving to catch the flow of my quicksilver thoughts, not knowing his efforts caused mine to split and tumble about like beads of mercury prodded with a rod until they suddenly coalesced into a single, bright pool of insight.

But what I miss is the sound of him.

His comings and goings in his solid shoes, his maddening two-finger typing that never found a consistent rhythm, his crap telly braying in the background, his giggling with his gaggle of girlfriends, then the shushing and murmuring before the predictable rhythm of his creaking bed and muffled exclamations as he had sex upstairs. In the morning would be tiptoeing down the stairs, the whispering and kiss at the door, followed by the unconscious humming as he made coffee. Even when he was quiet, he wasn’t still. I find myself waiting and realize I’m waiting for the sound of John’s shifting in his chair; leaning forward and back, his weight sliding from his left hip to his right — there and back again, his limbs moving with a restlessness that told me in the first moments of meeting that he was a man who craved action as much as I craved mental stimulation.

I hear him in my head sometimes, an admonishing “Sherlock.” Or that tight, strained rumble as he erupts into a verbally violent rage pouring forth some pent up frustration because he cannot keep up with my reasoning. He yells well.

The other day a waiter set a cup of tea upon my table and I said, “Thank you, John.” The waiter stopped, startled, and asked, “How did you know my name?” I told him I’d seen it on the seating roster. I lied. The cup and saucer had rattled exactly the way they would when John set tea beside me when I was working. Lost in thought, I’d spoken automatically.

In this well-built room, the sounds of the city and its inhabitants fall deadened. I cannot sleep in peace.

 

# End #

BBC Sherlock Season 3 Trailer With Bad Pun

BBC One has released a new Sherlock Season 3 Teaser trailer and it’s lovely (I especially like the pained and anxious look on Sherlock’s face after we see John in the restaurant. Personally, I think it’s the mustache. Really, I’m certain it’s the mustache. I certainly found it painful as I had 70’s flashbacks…)

I mustache you to forgive me, but I was about to make my own commentary regarding the John’s appearance when the YouTube comment copied below beat me to it.

Bad puns that make snarky comments about John Watson's mustache in BBC Sherlock Season 3

I really feel John’s been punished enough without Gatiss inflicting the mustache on him (and us), but judging by the look on Sherlock’s face, we aren’t the only ones to suffer in this episode…

And, of course, BBC releases the trailer while I’m traveling through the wilds of British Columbia and don’t have internet for two days…

There’s also a new interview in The Guardian with Steven Moffat that’s quite interesting. I have no idea why Continue reading

Sherlock Season 3 Update Notice

CIA Agent in BBc Sherlock A Scandal in Belgravia with mouth taped shut

When Sherlock says he doesn’t want spoilers, he means it! If you feel the same way, don’t read Sherlock Season 3 Spoilers, Sweetie or Guides and Guesses.

Just a quick note to let everyone know that I’ve updated the Sherlock Season 3 Spoilers and Guides and Guesses posts with the information gleaned from the San Diego Comic Con panel and the BBC title teaser. Remember, don’t read if you don’t want any speculations or spoilers of any kind.

Latest update is Sherlock Series 3, Episode 3 villain announcement by Sue Vertue and what it might mean in terms of plot.

Congrats, Mycroft, on the Royal Success-ion!

After reading all the rumours about the Duchess of Cambridge looking at pink baby clothes and requesting pink items for her baby shower and  the subsequent speculations in the tabloids that the new heir to the throne would be a girl, which was followed by some rather studious revisions to the Order of Succession law — which very nearly didn’t get passed in time, — only to have the baby be a new little prince after all, I couldn’t help but see a certain person’s hand in all of this…

A Succession of Events

By J.H. Watson

(~ 875 words)

 

Dr. John Watson accepted a glass of whiskey from a totally silent staff member of the Diogenes Club. The unsolicited scotch meant Mycroft Holmes wanted something from John Watson. John sipped his scotch and found it an extremely expensive, very old, and probably very rare single malt whiskey. Correction, Mycroft Holmes wanted something very big from John Watson.

Mycroft Holmes sat across from Dr. Watson speaking softly into his mobile phone, and it says a great deal about the man that, even though his CV would state Mycroft  “held a minor position in the government,” he was talking with a Vice-Premier of China. Mycroft finished his call and slipped the phone into his suit breast pocket before offering a crocodile smile to John.

Mycroft said “I have need of someone who can pass for an army doctor.”

“I am an army doctor,” John replied.

“Then it should be a piece of cake for you.”

“What exactly should be a piece of cake?”

John’s therapist had put the phrase “trust issues” in her evaluation case notes. Mycroft knew this. John knew that Mycroft knew. It pretty much summed up their relationship.

“How’s the drink?”

“Excellent. Which is why I want to know exactly what you want me to do and why you need someone who can pass for an army doctor.”

Mycroft simply offered another smile. “There will be a car waiting for you when you leave here,” he began. There was always a car; sleek, black, sophisticated, expensive, like a first-class British brolly. It might even be the same one that had picked John up off of Gower Street and brought him to the Diogenes Club.

Mycroft’s phone must have vibrated because he stopped and pulled it out of his pocket with the faintest crease to his brow. He glanced at it and made a mild face of displeasure, setting the phone on the table beside him. Mycroft continued, “In the car you will find a uniform, identification, a phone, and everything else you will need.”

“Need for what exactly?” John asked.

Continue reading

But What Did Sherlock Plan for the Bachelor Party?

SPOILER ALERT: The following contains information and links that reveal confirmed information about Sherlock Season 3 content. Please Stop Reading Now if you do not wish to know anything in advance of the actual airing of the Sherlock Series 3 in your area.

Okay, you can’t say you haven’t been warned.

Martin Freeman as John Watson looking at Benedict Cumberbatch as BBC Sherlock Holmes wrapped in just a sheet

So, Sherlock, that’s what you’re planning to wear to the wedding, is it?


Continue reading

Benedict Cumberbatch Gave His Sherlock Fans the Birthday Present

Benedict Cumberbatch as BBC Sherlock Holmes peering closely at a corpse

Are you absolutely certain this is a Birthday cake? I think I should test it first. John, eat a slice.

Just in case you missed the previous post, Team Sherlock released a video gift at the San Diego Comic Con with a lovely Martin Freeman and charmingly manic Benedict Cumberbatch just in time for Mr. Cumberbatch’s birthday — which just happens to be today.

Happy Birthday, Mr. Benedict Cumberbatch!

May all your birthday wishes come true.

Ta for now.

Benedict Cumberbatch Reveals Sherlock Season 3 Secret at Comic-Con

Yeah. Like That’s going to happen. but Team sherlock did release a video of Martin Freeman in Bilbo regalia (and nearly getting blown away in the New Zealand wind) stating that as soon as he finished his filming in New Zealand, he was heading back to London to film Sherlock Season 3 Episode 3, and that meanwhile fans should pummel Team Sherlock (aka Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat aka Moftiss) with rude, pushy questions and rip their clothes off. Meanwhile, Benedict Cumberbatch had fun pretending to be confused as to his purpose and then making a lot of gesticulations and faces explaining how Sherlock survived the Reichenbach Fall (no, really, you have to watch it). The really good news is that Benedict cumberbatch comfirmed that they are back in the UK at the end of July to begin filming Episode 3 of Sherlock. Hurrah! (And London prepare for the fan attack. It’s not really a riot.)

Laterz!

Sherlock Is Lost in Space

 

Benedict Cumberbatch as BBC Sherlock reading a  sheet of paper

I bet John’s going to blame me for this. I didn’t think they’d take it as a challenge.

For those of you who saw Benedict Cumberbatch on BBC’s Top Gear (or caught the clip on YouTube before it was pulled), you know he was:

  • Adorable (It’s like watching the human version of Labrador puppy; just so much good-natured enthusiasm )
  • Charming
  • Genuine
  • Fun

He also had a bit of fun at Mycroft’s expense with the stupid question about how Sherlock survived the fall in Season 2, Episode 3, The Reichenbach Fall. There’s a nice bit of summation — with wonderful screencap photos and gifs — here on Buzzfeed. There’s also a lovely promotional teaser on the TopGear.com site here. I nearly wet myself laughing when Mr. Cumberbatch channeled Obi-wan Kenobi saying “Use the track, Benedict.”

But part way through Benedict Cumberbatch did a riff on fan fiction — slash aka Johnlock in particular — which included what I’m certain he thought was an impossible scenario.

Benedict Cumberbatch on BBC TopGear ribbing Sherlock fanfiction

Benedict Cumberbatch underestimates the ability of fan writers to meet his challenge.

Actually, I believe the line was:

“Now there’ll be a load of fan fiction of  John Watson, handcuffs, floating in space.”  

Unbeknownst to Mr. Cumberbatch, I love a challenge… so below is a bit of flash fanfic (and please note, Mr. Cumberbatch, it is not slash aka Johnlock. We aren’t all prurient, but we are  creative).

[Oh, and I should point out that I managed to work in Clue #2 for Sherlock Season 3 — Rat — into the story so I’m counting it as part of that challenge as well.]

Sherlock Is Lost in Space

by J.H. Watson

(~ 700 words)

His instincts were screaming “Danger! Danger, John Watson!” and he turned towards a movement in the shadows just before nothing.

#

John opened his eyes to find himself blind, all was black. He stifled a moment of panic and called out, “Sherlock!”

John Watson was relieved by a slightly muffled reply of “Don’t shout.” He tried to move, but he struck something within a fraction of inch. “Ow! John, don’t move,” Sherlock ordered.

“I’m cramping.”

“At least you’re short. I’m folded up like an origami crane.”

John chose to ignore the short remark, letting it feed the slow burn he was building until it could safely boil over. He tried to flex in place as he asked, “Where are we?” Before he got an answer, he added in a tight voice, “It felt like something just crawled over my arm.”

“Probably a mouse.”

“A mouse?”

“Or a rat. Could be a rat. I didn’t get to check all of the experiments being sent.”

John stifled a shriek as he felt something slip down his stomach and nestle in the hollow between his thighs. He felt unusually light-headed and queasy and would swear he was floating about an inch from the side of the wall — or floor — or ceiling. “Sherlock. Where. Are. We.” John gulped and pinched his lips together to choke back the upheaval in his stomach.

“Don’t you dare vomit! We’re in a cargo box in space.”

“Space! Outer space?”

“Stop shouting.”

“You just said we’re in outer space in a small box with rats! I think this justifies a bit of shouting!”

“It could be worse.”

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