Tag Archives: humour

Spooky Action at a Distance

Benedict Cumberbatch as BBC Sherlock Holmes and Martin Freeman as John Watson looking shocked[Warning: This is a story about Einstein, quantum physics, and John “Three Continents” Watson in action. There’s an expletive not deleted and reference to the physical response of male anatomy. Apologies in advance to any physicists reading this for the liberties taken with the science. Hey, don’t blame me. You guys named it entanglement.]


by J. H. Watson

(~1,300 words)

A chilly autumn rain started again. Umbrellas popped up; a business man raised a newspaper above his head; a young man in a pea coat shook like a dog and said, “Fuck.” Sherlock Holmes huddled deeper into a door frame, watching the entrance to an alley down the street. He sipped the hot coffee he’d just purchased at the cafe on the corner. He frowned. He forgot the sugar.


John Watson glanced around the room as he took a sip of his coffee. He made a face, looked to his right and said to the woman beside him, “I’m sorry. Apparently, I just drank your coffee. I’ll buy you another.”

She looked up from her phone screen, smiled and asked, “Are you flirting with me?”

John thought the woman had a lovely smile. He returned it. “No. But I’d be happy to flirt with you if you’d like.”

“What made you say that’s not your coffee?”

“Someone’s put sugar in it.” He wrinkled his face remembering the cloying taste, looked around for its possible owner.

“Yes. You did.”

“I did?”

“I saw you.”

John set the cup firmly on the counter and stared at it. A small dark stain spread slowly towards him where the coffee slopped over on impact. Rings of coffee waves rippled from the center.

“Is everything all right?” the woman asked.

John studied the cup as he replied, “Yeah. It’s just I don’t drink sugar in my coffee. I never drink sugar in my coffee.”

The woman beamed another smile at him. “Ah. Spooky action at a distance.”

“What?” John thought, Oh, great. A nutter. A pretty nutter, but still…

“Einstein’s comment on quantum entanglement. Oh. Right. You aren’t with the conference.” John took the opportunity to glance down at the woman’s chest. It was a nice chest. Presently it was adorned with a name badge declaring her to be Dr. Chris Cooke attending the International Conference on Quantum Implications and Intelligent Systems Engineering. Dr. Cooke asked, “Do you know anyone who drinks coffee with sugar?”

“I… used to.”

“Two spoonsful?”

John looked up sharply. “How did you know that?”

“That’s what you put into your coffee.”

For a moment John felt weak. Dr. Cooke said, “Are you alright? You look a bit pale.”

“I’m… I’m fine.” John shoved the disturbing images from his mind. He concentrated on Dr. Cooke’s smile. “I guess I was just… spooked. Like Einstein.”

Dr. Cooke’s smile widened. “Ooh, I like that. You could say Einstein was spooked by quantum theory. I don’t suppose I could steal that for my lectures…”

“Feel free.”

“Thank you… You know my name, but I don’t know yours.”

“Sorry. Dr. John Watson.”

“Please to meet you, Dr. Watson.” Dr. Cooke looked at John and smiled again.

John held her gaze, returned an even wider smile and replied, “John, please. So what’s quantum… What did you call it?”


“Quantum entanglement, right.”

“Well, you know how particles normally exist in their own state?”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“Sometimes, two particles act on one another so that the pair can only be described as a single quantum state. We call that pair entangled.” As she spoke, Dr. Cooke’s eyes widened, and she leaned slightly forward.

John leaned in closer as she said, “When one particle spins right, the other spins left, even if they are millions of miles apart. The particles are always connected and they act on one another instantaneously, behaving as one. That’s why Einstein called it ‘spooky action at a distance.’” Their two heads were nearly touching now. John noticed the deeper blue-green flecks in her pale blue-grey eyes. Long dark lashes stroked creamy skin when she blinked. She continued in a sultry voice, “Einstein thought Quantum Mechanics flawed because the affect of one particle on the entangled partner appeared to be faster than the speed of light.”

“Fascinating. May I buy you a drink?”

“I don’t really think I need any more coffee. I’m stimulated enough.”

“There’s a very nice restaurant in this hotel and I’m sure it has a bar.”

“I suspect you’re right. There’s also a mini-bar in my room.”

John stood up and tossed some money on the counter as Dr. Cooke collected her bag. One of the bills landed in the spilled coffee, soaking it up, marking it.


Sherlock dropped the offending shopping bag on the sales counter. “Excuse me. You apparently gave me someone elses purchase.”

He glowered at the scrawny 26-year old sales clerk from Surrey who clearly had no medical need for those glasses nor the large quantity of alcohol, in unfortunate combinations, consumed the night before in a South London basement and on an East London rooftop, where she wound up cleaning the vomit off her shoes of someone male, judging by the aroma impregnating her sweater, who’d also consumed too much alcohol mixed with MMDA and West Indian soup made with an excess cumin. As she attempted to casually slip her phone under the counter, Sherlock observed she was looking for a new flat — and a new boyfriend.

The girl peered over her plastic frames at Sherlock for a moment before opening the bag and pulling out the sweater inside. “No. This is yours. It’s what you bought. I remember.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Do I look like someone who would wear…” Here words did not so much fail Sherlock as get censored by the filter of his former roommate. He waved an accusing and dismissive hand at the repugnant garment. “…That?”

The sweater was a deep red with black and white geometrics spreading from the neckline down to the shoulders and chest. Leather patches were stitched at the elbows on the sleeves. The yarn was a machine-washable blend. The sales clerk tilted her head and replied, “I thought you were trying to make an ironic statement.” Sherlock merely stared at her. She looked at the receipt and pushed it towards him. “Is that your signature?”

Sherlock glanced at the “Sigerson” scrawled in his writing. The strangled silence tightened between them as the sales clerk waited. “Yes,” he finally conceded.

“So I got it right and you’re returning it?”


“It was a sale item.”

Sherlock waited this time, an eyebrow raised in question, until the clerk flicked a strand of her dark hair off her face, sighed in resignation, and added, “So I can only give you an exchange or in-store credit.”

“Fine. Where are your dress shirts? Perhaps a dark purple. Aubergine.”

The sale clerk sneered. “So you are wanting something ironic?”


“I like your shirt. I like a man who’s well-dressed but not boring.” Dr. Cooke said as she handed John a glass of scotch from the mini-bar and settled beside him on the sofa. She opened her laptop and turned it on.

“Oh, uh, thanks.”

She slid the laptop where he could see it as well and shifted beside him. “It’s a very good color for you. What do you call it? Thistle or heliotrope?”

“I call it purple.” John could feel the heat where their thighs touched. He took a sip of his drink. “You know, I went in to buy a sweater. I don’t know how I ended up with this shirt.”

“More spooky action. Maybe you’d be interested in seeing my abstract for the conference.” Dr. Cooke looked at John over the rim of her glass and arched an eyebrow.

John smiled, leaned towards her and said, “I’d love to see your abstract.”


Sherlock awoke in the small hours of the morning from a disconcerting dream about a school exam he’d forgotten to prepare for involving calculations for momentum and thrust. Under the covers he had an erection.


### End ###





Sherlock Had Binders of Women? Really?

A serious of images in which Benedict Cumberbatch as BBC Sherlock Holmes claims he has binders of women -- except he thinks Romney was talking about handcuffs -- reactions follow

Sorry. I couldn’t resist.  Actually you are going to be stuck with more of this “binders of women” meme this week because I’m still reeling. (Not certain which is more appalling, the antiquated, misogynist attitude behind not knowing of any qualified women candidates in this century or the lack of technical awareness and competency displayed in using 3-ring binders to collect, organize, and transmit the data about these women. Personally, I’d love to see some of these executive women adding the phrase “I was in the binder” to their business cards and LinkedIn profiles.) Some of the other guys will be appearing with their comments on “binders of women.” (FYI, the Lord of the Rings “binders of women” images are hysterical. Especially Martin Freeman as Bilbo.)

I also apologize for not getting a) more posts up this week and b) getting the Mycroft Birthday story posted.

In the case of the story, it mushroomed (bloomed?) to over 7K words in length and I’ve just now found an ending I satisfied with. So I’ll be getting it up this week.  Honest. I just want to give it one more day to stew and to re-read it so I can get some of typos corrected before posting.

In the case of the posts, I’ve been finishing up with the online marketing classes I teach (Master WordPress is always such a monster — and I always forget what a time-sink it inevitably becomes) plus getting as many of the swag bag goodies done for the Seattle Sherlock Convention before this weekends work party. (Hint: There are lots of cool things in the bag, some of which will find their way onto the site *after the convention* and in time for the holidays).

I also discovered I can’t watch Sherlock, Season 1 or 2, while using a paper cutter. I keep wanting to watch Sherlock instead of the paper I’m cutting. I ended up switching to The King’s Speech and then watching Sherlock while I folded clothes (I had to have something to wear to the Sherlock Con work party.) Reminder, registration for the convention ends this week, 25th Oct., 2012.


Holmes Boys #5: It’s My Brother’s

Holmes Boys #5: It’s My Brother’s

By J. H. Watson
~ 3,400 Words


Mycroft Holmes was trying very hard to pretend that he didn’t feel like a complete boob in his riding clothes sitting atop a stocky pony who looked equally uncomfortable.  It had not helped that his little brother, Sherlock, giggled uncontrollably whenever he saw Mycroft in the riding habit.

Mummy, of course, looked like perfection in her riding attire. She was slim, lithe, poised, and there was something about the way she held the riding crop, the small gestures she made with it, the way she occasionally twisted the leather in her gloved hands, that caught not only Mycroft’s attention, but the attention of some of the other boys, particularly the older ones. Certainly the other men in attendance followed her with their eyes.

Most of the other women were also slender and poised, but lacked the quiet confidence, the je nais se quoi as Mycroft’s French tutor put it, that Mummy possessed. Mycroft had heard his father say that Mummy had “an aura of power.” Mycroft had decided that it was good thing to have so he was secretly practicing cultivating it. The cultivation might have gone a bit better without his weedy little brother asking him why he looked like he was constipated.

At the moment, Mycroft felt strongly that the only aura he had, or would ever have where sport was concerned, was the funk of boredom — and sweat. A rivulet crept down his cheek from under his helmet. He fought an urge to wipe it away with his coat sleeve.

The other boys and girls wore their inherently silly riding outfits on their slender, taunt frames with a certain nonchalance. They appeared fit, trim, sporty, secure and relaxed. They were veritable poster children for affluence and influence.

Mycroft suspected he looked more like Lady Beatrice “Bunny” Wigglesworth, the plump, pallid younger daughter of the Earl of Hamilton. Bunny never looked liked she was wearing her riding clothes so much as they were wearing her — and she didn’t fit.

Bunny was the only member of a polo mad family who was actually afraid of all things equine, including her squat, little pony. She always looked as miserable as Mycroft felt. The two were invariably paired at the end of the line up and usually ignored by the others.

Mycroft wasn’t afraid of horses, but he didn’t like them much. He didn’t wish them any particular ill. He was perfectly willing to live and let live provided their lives did not connect with his. And he saw no reason why he should torture one for an hour or more twice a week when he could be spending the time on something valuable like reading the Financial Times or John LeCarré. But Mummy was very pleased that he was Bunny’s partner and encouraged Mycroft to be “helpful” and kind.

He didn’t actually need the encouragement. He rather liked Bunny and she was quite possibly the only friend Mycroft had — or might ever have.

Which would have surprised everyone else if they had known, because Bunny was what the adults euphemistically called “intellectually challenged” and the other students simply called dumb. Mycroft, on the other hand was called “intellectually gifted” by the adults and a “know-it-all” by the other children. “Know-it-all” was the kindest and politest term used, usually because there were adults present.

What no one else seemed to understand was that Bunny was always trying her best. She worked at understanding things. And she really appreciated someone taking the time to explain things to her. The other people Mycroft met didn’t seem to even try to use their brains. It drove him mad. Mummy said his brains were his secret weapon and he could use them to get whatever he wanted.

So far his brains hadn’t gotten Mycroft out of the riding lessons.

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Wedding: #1 The Not-Really-Johnlock Version

Sorry. After doing the caption here, I just couldn’t resist the challenge of coming up with a non-gay, non-slash version of the Sherlock Holmes — John Watson BBC Sherlock wedding. So I hope you enjoy. (I’d love to have some art for this and if I get a chance I may work on it this fall.)

We’re Not A Couple. Of Course You Are.

By J. H. Watson
~1950 words


In all fairness John Watson was justified in failing to become suspicious a bit sooner. He’d received a call from an agent about the possibility of turning his blog into a book, and the follow-up email had put him under a short deadline for the first draft. Which was why he was rather distracted when his flatmate and colleague, Sherlock Holmes started what seemed an abstruse and irrelevant conversation.

“John, would you insist upon a religious wedding?”

John continued typing in his uniquely personal, two-finger method and replied, “Hmmm?”

“Weren’t you listening?”

“Sorry, Sherlock, I wasn’t listening. I’m trying to work over here. I’ve got to get at least another two stories done tonight.”

Sherlock had been sitting in virtually silent contemplation for the last two days. Since they had had to pretend to be filing intentions for a civil partnership so Sherlock could swipe some files from a London registry for some new case. It’d made John a little nervous, but since Sherlock had sprang it on him after they’d reached the desk, John had no choice but to go along or blow the gaff.

Fortunately, the silence had allowed John to complete close to a third of the book, but he knew it was too good to last. He was at the point of writing a tricky bit where he and Sherlock had bent a few laws into pretzels and was trying to figure out how to include it without incriminating themselves, so in his later defense he was a tad preoccupied.

“I asked if you would require a church wedding.”

“Not necessarily. I don’t have a lot of people to invite and church weddings tend to be a bit expensive, not to mention tedious.”


John figured out how to avoid mentioning Sherlock questioning a suspect while John held a gun on the man and went back to pounding the keys of his computer. He said, “But I’d be willing to go with whatever my partner wanted.”


John shrugged. “I figure I’m not going to get a lot of say anyway and it doesn’t make any difference to me, so long as the marriage is legal. Actually, I’d prefer something small with just a few friends.”

“What a sensible attitude, John.”

“That’s me, Mr. Sensible. I just hope you’re aren’t expecting to be best man.”

“Of course not,” Sherlock replied from behind his steepled hands. A beat later he did a double-take and said, “Why not?”

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Look, I’ve Got a Blanket, Sherlock

Woman crying as she talks on phone from BBC Sherlock

Is this the Sherlock Fan Hotline? Help me. I don’t think I can make it to Season 3.


The Fandom Who Waits

“Hello. Thank you for calling the Sherlock Fan Hotline. My name’s Molly. How may I help you?”

“I…I…I don’t think I can wait any longer.”

“You don’t think you can wait any longer. Any longer for?”

“Season 3. The pain. The pain is so  unbearable.”

“The pain has become unbearable waiting for Season 3?”


“Where are you? Are you some place safe and comfortable?”

“I’m home. In my living room.”

“Are you alone?”


“I see. Tell me did  you just watch The Reichenbach Fall?”

An uncontrollable sob nearly deafens Molly. “Yee—es!”

“How many times have you watched RF?”

“Over two dozen.”

“And do you always watch it alone?”

“Yes. After the fifth time. Yes. No one else in my family will watch it with me any more.”

“I see. I understand. You’re suffering from Chronic Reichenfeels. It’s okay. You’re not alone. Do you understand, you are not alone.”

“Ye—es. But I feel so alone.”

“Of course you do. You feel like John.”

“Yes! Yes! That’s it exactly. Poor John! He doesn’t know.” Here the crying begins again. After several moments it subsides. “If only I could let John know Sherlock’s not dead. That he did it because he loves John and cares about Mrs. Hudson and Greg Lestrade. Poor John. I just feel so helpless.”

“So alone?”


“All right, you are not alone. I’m here for you. And there are lots of other people suffering from Reichenfeels like you. So here’s what I want you to do. Are you listening?”


“Repeat after me. I am not alone.” There’s a pause. “Come on. Say it. I am not alone.”

“I…am not alone.”

“Good. There are millions of Sherlock fans suffering from the same affliction. Now whenever you start feeling alone I want you to say to yourself I am not alone. Okay?”


“Good. Now the other thing I want you to do is promise me you won’t watch RF by yourself again.”


“I understand, but I want you to find some other Sherlocked people who can watch the episodes with you. If not face to face, then video conference, real-time tweeting, if all else fails, call here again and ask for Molly. Promise.”

“All right. I promise.”

“Good. Now I want you to also go find some good fan fiction and artwork. Not the gloomy, angsty things that make your RF worse, but try something that makes you all tingly and bubbly like these suggestions Ariel’s Miscellany. Or try the cartoons and Sherlock cracked insanity on Tumblr. Okay?”

“All right. I’ll try.”

“Feeling better?”

“A bit better.”

“Good. Now go watch the Buckingham Palace scene from Scandal in Belgravia and the post-shooting scene in A Study in Pink.”

“Oh, I love those scenes!”

“I’m in shock —”

“Look. I’ve got a blanket!”

Both women start to laugh. And another fan is saved from Reichenfeels tragedy thanks to the Sherlock Fan Hotline.

I’ve actually got a Season 2 Sherlock-a-thon scheduled for this Saturday. There will be four of us. Two have never seen Season 2 all the way through. I’m the only one who can quote most of the episodes…

The Prayer of Sherlock Fans Everywhere

Benedict Cumberbatch as BBC Sherlock standing with his hands in prayer position and his eyes closed in front of Martin Freeman as John Watson

Let us pray. Dear Lord, grant me the Serenity to accept the plot points I cannot change; the Courage to change the fanfic errors I can; the Wisdom to know the difference; and the Strength to survive until Season 3. Amen.

Preach it, Sherlock! Can I get a witness, John?

I have felt the exultation of A Study in Pink. I have repented the sin of Pride as I witnessed The Blind Banker. I have faced Evil in The Great Game. I have made a joyful noise throughout A Scandal in Belgravia. I have battled the hell of doubt from The Hounds of Baskerville. And I have been baptized in the tears of The Reichenbach Fall.

Join me Brothers and Sisters of Sherlock! It is time for all  of the Sherlocked to stand up and Testify  in the his name, to Convert the lost, to Console the wandering, to Lead a great Revival to the Promised Land of Season 3.

Do you believe?