Tag Archives: FanFic

The One Fixed Point in a Changing World

By J.H. Watson
(~ 2,000 words)

 

John Watson stood alone on the edge of a tor gazing across the bleak, isolated sweep of Dartmoor. Dark clouds roiled overhead as a chill wind nipped his ears. The binoculars dangling from their strap weighed heavily upon John’s neck and occasionally thumped against his chest like a hanged man on a gibbet. John glanced briefly at the map in his hand and then again at the panorama before him, trying to orient himself in this empty land.

“What’s that?”

John looked up to see his best friend and partner, Sherlock Holmes, standing atop a rocky prominence soaring above. Sherlock stood in a typical Sherlock pose, stylish black tweed coat flaring about him, making him look taller, hipper, cooler than other people without looking like an obvious plea for attention. His arm jutted straight out commandingly pointed toward the distance. There was no one but John around to see this dapper act of dominance. It both exasperated and pleased John.

One the one hand, Sherlock’s attempt to place himself in a literal ascendency above, putting John in the subordinate position, was annoying. On the other hand, the fact that Sherlock felt the need to put on this civilized equivalent of beating his chest, even without other spectators, showed he recognized John as another alpha male Sherlock wanted to impress.

John smile ever so slightly to himself at his analysis. All those Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder therapy sessions had not been entirely wasted.

John peered through his binoculars, consult the map, and replied, “It’s Moriarty. That’s an ancient name for the devil.”

Suddenly John was aware that he was not holding binoculars but a black mobile phone. From it came Sherlock’s voice, in a sepulcher whisper, saying, “Good-bye, John.”

John looked up as Sherlock spread his arms and took a step forward into the air. John yelled, “Sherlock!” and took his own step — into the Grimpen Mire. He struggled to pull himself out of clinging morass. He felt the cold, clammy, deadly grip of the bog as he struggled in the sucking muck, never taking his eyes off his friend plunging towards the black rocks below.

John stretched himself out across the ground, grasped a spindly thorn bush and heaved with all his strength. There was a stab of pain as he dislocated his left shoulder, but he was free from the mire. He stood up, and as he stood cradling his damaged arm against his body for support, he discovered he was no longer in civvies, but in his combat gear and there was blood spreading across his chest.

John took three steps towards his falling friend and as Sherlock hit the solid black ground, John heard a click beneath his boot and froze. A glance down confirmed that he’d stepped on a land mine. A slight reduction in pressure would detonate it, blowing him into a red rain that would soon be absorbed by the surrounding peat.

He looked at Sherlock lying on his back, still, pale eyes open to the sky, the haze of death already spreading across the corneas. John looked down once more, then at his friend where blood flowed from Sherlock’s head and streamed down the rocks, red on black, like a macabre parody of the black coat’s red button hole.

John sighed.

And lifted his boot —

He bolted awake, momentarily disoriented, his breath shallow and fast, matching the beating of his heart. A sheen of evaporating sweat cooled his face. John took several deep gulps of air, letting them out through his nose, but making a small mewing noise. Then he recognized where he was and lay back in his bed, draping his arm across his face to block the light, or possibly the tears leaking from the corners of his eyes.

Despite the fact that there was no one else there, John still felt ashamed at the tears. He’d thought he was past the tears.

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What Happened, John?

 

By J.H. Watson
(~1,700 words)

[Author’s Note: Absolutely slammed with work right now, but John and Sherlock wouldn’t leave me alone until I wrote this one. I’ll be doing a bit about Season 3 later this week. Thanks for your patience.]

“What happened, John?”

God, how John Watson hated that question. It seemed to be how his therapist started every session lately. Of course, it would probably have helped if he saw her a bit more regularly.

But he’d see her and things seemed to be going better, so he’d skip the next session. And maybe the one after that. And sometimes the one after that. And then, well, then something would happen and he’d call up and make a new appointment.

John sat for a moment, silent. His therapist sat silent as well. John licked his lips and said, “Notcertain.”

“What?”

John flattened his lips in a pinched frown before clearing his throat and saying, “I’m not certain.”

“What do you mean?”

So he told her about New Year’s and Sherlock’s birthday and what he could remember and what he couldn’t explain the next morning and how he’d been feeling like he was being watched, which might be true, but he hadn’t wanted to ask Mycroft and find out if it was true because it would just make him angry, or angrier, and whenever he thought of Mycroft he wanted to punch Mycroft and John figured that wasn’t a very healthy impulse on a lot of levels and what he really wanted for his life to just be normal.

He didn’t tell his therapist that he was really starting feel like he might be losing his mind from grief.

“What do you mean by normal, John?”

Oh, hell. Now I’ve stepped in it, he thought. Don’t say anything crazy.

“You know. Getting up and going to work at a decent job, a night out with friends from time to time. A girlfriend. Maybe with time it becomes serious and we get married, have kids, a mortgage. You know. I want to settle down.”

“Is that what you really want, John?”

No! What I want is a bloody miracle. I want Sherlock Holmes to walk through that door and to have it all the way it was before with his brain racing, my adrenalin pumping, and us solving crimes back at 221B. But that’s not going to happen, is it?

Instead, John answered, “Yes.” It was the answer he knew she wanted.

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Holmes Boys: Christmas — Originally He Wanted To Be a Pirate

 

By J. H. Watson

(~16,000 words)

[Author’s Note: Sorry about the delay. Sherlock & Mycroft wouldn’t let me publish it until I got the ending right…]

Holmes-Boys-Christmas Fanfic in PDF [for those who would like to download and read offline]

Savouring the last pain au chocolat with his Breakfast Blend tea and reading all of the available English papers, ten-year old Mycroft Holmes was seated in his favourite chair in the house (Mummy’s really beautiful and comfortable one that, while technically designated as a “lady’s club chair,” had the advantages of being slightly lower to the ground and not as long in the seat as Father’s chairs). He read the papers every day. It was an experiment he’d begun during the long summer vacation from school to see if he could accurately determine the outcome of various events and predict others from reports in the press. He’d even devised his own database and a method of scoring his results. Mycroft was quite pleased to note that changes in his process of observation had resulted in a 347% improvement in his score. He frowned as the thought came that the Labour Party would be doing quite well in the upcoming elections. Mummy and Father did not approve of the Labour Party.

Mycroft made a note on his shirt cuff about a change to his stock portfolio regarding Austin Rover (while technically the account was in Father’s name, it was one that neither Father nor Mummy knew about as Mycroft had long since shifted the start-up funds back to Father’s actual account). There was little chance that he would be caught like those stupid American kids who ran afoul of the SEC by overtly manipulating stock sales through newsletters and the burgeoning electronic bulletin boards. Mycroft’s broker did occasionally question the difference in shares and results between Father’s two portfolios, but Mycroft had deftly handled that by implying the first portfolio was constrained by Father’s government work. The second portfolio was strictly confidential. This had resolved both the questions and any potential indiscretions of his broker.

Mycroft was really quite pleased with the way things were going.

Nanny dashed in wringing her hands with an expression on her face that Mycroft had learned to associate with a crisis regarding his little brother, Sherlock. “What has he done now?” Mycroft asked as he folded the paper in his hand and stood.

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Plagiarism Makes Me Sad Too, Sherlock

Benedict Cumberbatch as BBC Sherlock Holmes holding violin and looking sad while wearing purple shirt

Why would someone write plagiarized fanfic? It doesn’t make any sense. It’s just sad.

I haven’t had a chance to read a lot of fanfic up to now (because I’v been busy writing my own for one thing), but several folks have made some recommendations to me so I’ve been trying to catch up (because I’m suppose to be writing my Sherlock NaNoWriMo project instead.) And, to be honest, I don’t really enjoy porn and I have a limited interest in reading slash (aka Johnlock) unless it’s something special (meaning close to in character and not porn and well written). But as I said, I was avoiding working on my own writing and I’d finished re-re-re-reading the original Canon, so I dove into some of the fanfic that had gotten multiple recommendations.

And then wasted a couple of hours digging around to make certain I wasn’t crazy, and the sense of deja vu was because I had read or heard those very words (let alone scenario) before.

I wasn’t crazy. In the first three stories I’d tried, the authors had plagiarized large chunks of dialogue, plot, narrative description, and what ever else they could lift from novels and films. And, no, I don’t mean the quotes from Sherlock, which were understandable. I mean commercial publications and releases. And I don’t mean borrowing concepts or ideas and re-working them into something new and fresh like Moffat & Gatiss have done with the original Canon, or Bridget Jones Diary did with Pride and Prejudice. I mean straight-forward (you should pardon the expression since all were Johnlock) theft, copying-and-pasting (or possibly retyping) the original material, taking scenes, plots, and so on, and simply changing the names.

In a word, plagiarism.

The only point to doing this is a desperate hunger for attention and recognition (albeit stolen recognition). And it seems to be working. I can only assume that in our modern world of continuous new content spewing forth and the fragmenting of our education and  our cultures, even successful movies can be ripped off without worrying that there will be much overlap between the people who saw it and the people reading “your” fanfiction.

But I confess I find it all very discouraging, disheartening, and sad.

And no, I’m not going to out anyone. The Cassie Claire scandal was disruptive enough, and proved that the authors who engage in this kind of “writing” don’t really care and actually profit from the attention. So I’m just going to go give my head a mental washout by watching Wimbledon and then get back to work on my NaNoWriMo project — although my heart just isn’t in it as much now.

 

Even Sherlock Needs a Bit of Recovery Time

Benedict Cumberbatch as BBC Sherlock Holmes lying on sofa in dressing gown and pajamas

A Supernatural cosplay won the Seattle Sherlock Con competition?! I still maintain that we would have won, if you had let me explain how to identify 243 different cigarette ashes, John.

You should have worn the hat, Sherlock.

Right. So I made it back from the Seattle Sherlock Con Monday in time to feed cats, clean the litter boxes, and dash off to my NaNoWriMo group meeting where I finally decided which Sherlock novella project I would work on and started roughing out the outline (only 7 days  behind schedule).

Thank You to Everyone Who Donated or Bought a T-Shirt or Tote Bag

I met some lovely people at the Sherlock Convention and really appreciated the support, both verbal and tangible. We are completely out of both Small and 2XL quote t-shirts. Some folks had some smashing ideas for taking a Large t-shirt and recycling it into something they could use even though it was too big. Some of my favourite ideas was a pillow, a purse and a laptop case cover. I may play with those this winter.

I’ll be posting a big Thank You Shout Out tomorrow for as many of the lovely folks who assisted, said kind, words, and so forth at the SSC. I’ll also be getting up the promised PDF files for the complete set of Sherlock Quote (Artist) Trading Cards so that folks can download the sheets and print out their own set on business card stock. I’m glad so many folks enjoyed them.

Meanwhile, I’ve decided to try to add the rest of the non-Holmes Boys fan fiction to the PDF compilation Sherlock Cares Volume 1, that folks  can download, and if they want to kick it old school, print out and turn into a physical zine. I’m also going to test my copy of Scrivener to see if I really can create an epub in multiple formats (including Kindle) with cover. I have a few of the “What Might We Deduce About His Heart?” double-sided mini-posters/fanzine covers left and will figure out something to do with them later this year. So be a little more patient with me on that (I have to catch up on being roughly 12,000 words behind on NaNoWriMo (not to mention those pesky things like paying bills).

Oh, and naturally, my copy of Sherlock: The Casebook arrived on Saturday while I was gone so I’m trying to not spend the day reading it instead of actually getting work done.

Laterz!

Holmes Boys #7: Girlfriends — Not Really My Area

Girlfriends. Not Really My Area.

By J. H. Watson
~ 7,000 Words

 

Someone had made a small tactical error. While it was true Sherlock Holmes had been told he wasn’t to attend his brother Mycroft’s tenth birthday party, no one had expressly stated that Sherlock wasn’t allowed to observe the party. Besides it was boring stuck in the nursery alone. And it wasn’t fair that he couldn’t come because he was only almost-three. All the other people at the party were old. Some of them were even older than Mummy and Father!

At the moment, Sherlock was hidden behind a curtain trying to keep absolutely still. He’d had to slip into the room that acted as both library and Father’s study because someone was coming down the hall. He’d barely managed to get behind the curtains before two older boys entered it as well. Before Sherlock could decide whether to show himself and demand what the boys were doing in there, taking the what his older brother called the offensive, the boys moved to the window next to him, flung it open, and began smoking.

Apparently, they only had the one cigarette because Sherlock could hear them pass it back and forth, taking long, deep sucks, then holding their breaths for several seconds before slowly releasing the smoke in the general direction of the open window. One of the boys coughed. Some of the smoke drifted to the small pocket behind the curtain tickling Sherlock’s nose. He thought the cigarette stank and he knew Mummy was not going to be happy about the smell in her curtains. Even Father never smoked in the library.

The boy who coughed shifted his weight. His shoe made a distinctive squeak as he said, “Dude, this is good shit.”

The other boy inhaled deeply, held his breath, and after a moment replied, “Yeah. I nicked it from my sister’s boyfriend.” The second boy had the trace of a Scottish accent and a high pitch to his voice.

“He’s going to be pissed when he finds it gone.” The first boy sounded bigger and older with a deeper pitch, and had a solidly upper-class accent.

“Not as pissed as when he finds his fifty quid is gone, too.”

Then both boys broke out into a fit of giggles. Sherlock was trying to hold his breath to avoid the stinky smoke when the library door opened and he heard his brother say, “You aren’t suppose to be in here and you definitely aren’t suppose to be smoking…” There was a pause as Mycroft sniffed before finishing with “…marijuana in here.”

“Piss off, you fat faggot! And take you’re stupid girlfriend with you,” the bigger boy with the squeaky shoes said.

“Really? A fat joke and a sexual epithet? That’s the best you can do?” Mycroft said calmly in that supercilious tone that drove Sherlock mad. Sherlock heard Mycroft and someone smaller cross the room. Mycroft continued, “As for stupid, smoking pot while the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police sits in the next room with a judge, two members of Parliament and a member of the Cabinet staff hardly reeks of superior intellect. You two, on the other hand, do reek of cannabis. You may want to wash before rejoining the party.”

Here the larger boy with the squeaky shoes said something Sherlock didn’t recognize. Judging from the feminine gasp, Sherlock figured it was something he should not say around Mummy or even Nanny, but might try to shock his brother. The smoking boys stomped off with Squeaky Shoes in the lead. As the door closed as loudly and firmly as any door in Mummy’s house was allowed to close, Lady Beatrice “Bunny” Wigglesworth asked, “Should I go get Daddy or someone?”

“No. It would upset Mummy if her party were ruined by… unpleasantness. Why don’t you run along and get a us good seats before the music starts?”

“I hope there’s dancing.”

There was a brief hesitation before Mycroft said, “I’ll be along in a moment. I just want to air out the room a bit.”

Bunny’s footsteps moved away and the door opened and closed once more. There was a beat and then Mycroft said, “Sherlock, you can come out now.”

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