Tag Archives: John Watson

Sherlock-Unearthed From The Urban Meadow

sherlock-molly

SHERLOCK

UNEARTHED FROM THE URBAN MEADOW

WRITTEN BY ZARIUS

(Contains spoilers for “The Lying Detective”)


Sherlock’s hands gripped John’s head tightly as the good doctor, qualified to deal with so much in life, came to grips at last with the imposing vacancy provided by loss.

Mary was gone, that reality had finally sunk in as John confessed to her lingering ghost of his interest in another, a woman on a bus, a pretty little flower that had unearthed itself from the urban meadow and, in a casual manner, had spurred John on to embrace her fragrance.

It always starts so casually, and from there the complications grow. The risk, the danger, all the addictive elements that make up the psyche of John Watson.

The elements that had led him so easily to Mary, a moth to flame, a flame now extinguished. He felt almost akin to a puppet, his strings cut, nothing holding him up.

He had to turn and face the strange, but to do so in the arms of a stranger would bring him no peace. It is only fitting then, that he find solace in Mary’s legacy.

The two of them together, Holmes and Watson, together again, each the strongest part of the other, built to last for as long as the grief and pressure shall burden them.

The tight embrace of the two men, however, could not endure the repetitive joyful moans of a sexually perverse ring tone on the table next to Sherlock’s chair.

“Oh will you bloody answer that already?” John asked of his dear friend, releasing his grip from Sherlock and tending to his wet and weary eyes beset by tears.

“That’s not how she plays the game” Sherlock replied.

“She lost her game years ago, this is life we’re dealing with” John replied.

“She said it wasn’t a game” Sherlock muttered.

“Who did?” John asked

“Last person to cross my mind…” Sherlock mumbled.

“Molly?” John said, probing further.

“When she examined me for the medical, she said the drugs in my body were steadily killing me, that she’d seen healthier bodies on the slab”

“You looked like utter shit and you acted like one” remarked John.

Sherlock picked up the phone to read the messages left to him by Irene Adler, John now aware of her persistent existence, and not being overly fond of Sherlock having to prioritise her now at such crucial a juncture.

“Well, spit it out, anything other than birthday wishes?”

“She just says ‘had lunch?” Sherlock replied.

“…Doesn’t she always want dinner?” asked John.

“This isn’t a want on her part John, it’s an ask. A ‘how are you doing?‘ My god, she’s at that phase of her private life where she wants some reassurance there’s a voice out there that isn’t too busy”

“Well you kind of are…busy” said John, urging Sherlock to put the phone away and continue to provide him some measure of solace.

“I could try to give her some clarity, but that would only serve to form a connection…”

“What exactly do you think we were just doing there?” John said, trying to keep his frustrations in slightly. But only slightly.

“You’re different, you’re within reach” Sherlock replied, “And you have a fresh wound, hers is but a lingering scar, I’m the scab she likes to prick at on the skin, hoping I’ll turn blood red and pour myself out to her”

“And are you? Remember what I said Sherlock” said John.

“About not letting people like that out of my sight? Must you be reminded of the connections she has to the web of Moriarty? I haven’t spared him a thought the last three weeks, but rest assured, I have made plans to appoint fresh concerns for his posthumous game for the next week…who knows, perhaps this is a part of it”

“So answer it, and get your assurances out of my way so you can continue to help those within reach”

“It would be so easy, but as I’ve learned John, the urban jungle flourishes through hardship and an instinctive desire to put up with so many above the individual. I have committed to that cause, as have you. I cannot permit myself to play a game when the players around me are too much sane, in mind or heart, to play with either me or the one I concern myself with”

“Right, well then, guess she isn’t that kind of person then?” John replied, a slight look of assurance on his face.

“Hooper?”

“Last person you think of, but her words are never the last thing you think of”

“Oh don’t start that again” Sherlock replied

“She is though Sherlock. Without a moment’s hesitation, she’s there; you just push her to the back benches like some unwanted MP, when she has been to hell and back for you as long as I have”

“She’s seen more men than me in a state of undesired undress, none of them as capable of satisfying her needs as I, and they happen to be deceased. I think that’s the minimal amount of hell she’s permitted” Sherlock replied.

“Then give her a slice of heaven Sherlock, let her see with her own two eyes how you rebuilt this bridge between us, show her that you don’t just set things on fire because you enjoy the world more when it’s alight, invite her over for lunch, you, me, her, Rosie, all together, we’ll go and have chips…”

“Oh no, I mustn’t think of chips” said Sherlock, reflecting on his troubled evening spent with Faith, a figment of his imagination that had almost trodden his reality underfoot and compromised his investigation into Culverton Smith.

“Cake then. A place with cake” John suggested.

“Is that the drug that makes you think you have about a month to cross the street?” Sherlock asked.

“A place with cake Sherlock, the usual sort, we’re going to all have that. Cake and coffee, and chit-chat”

“Will there be cream?” asked Sherlock.

“Are you saying that to entice you further into going along with this, or are you just glad you got a text from Adler?” asked John

“Last thing to cross my mind John, I assure you” Sherlock replied.

“There, see, you’re learning, push Molly slightly upwards, leave the pawn behind and give your all to the players” said John.

Sherlock pondered John’s words; he admired greatly how quick he was to turn from the temper brought on by the grief, and to put forward to him the reminders he needed. To elevate those important to him.

To give their words to him even greater meaning in micro-managing his own path through the streets of London.

But, perhaps more tellingly, to unearth his own flower from the urban meadow.

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Sherlock-The Appropriate World

sherlock-molly

SHERLOCK:

THE APPROPRIATE WORLD

WRITTEN BY ZARIUS

(Contains spoilers for 4×01, “The Six Thatchers”)


Molly had tended to the baby’s needs all day, so much so that she had neglected to tend to her own.

Her hair was a mess, she hadn’t popped over to the stores for a supply of fresh make-up, she hadn’t been eating all that much, the money being spent more on giving little Rosie her baby food and milk when John would occasionally forget to make the ’rounds as he dealt with late hours at his practice.

Throughout it all, the lingering stench of dread hung over her, dread for what was to come next.

Death was always a horrific business. Working for the police had taught her nothing else. There was an unkindly pattern to it all, the very worst emotions slip out when dealing with it, and the people affected by whatever lingers in its wake.

Ghosts of the past, and there had been so very many, had rarely been laid to rest within her circle, and this was perhaps the unkindest ghost of all.

Ironic perhaps, because of how inviting, warm and strong Rosie’s mother, the late Mary Watson, had proven to be in life.

Molly could still remember the day she and John Watson wed, a day also filled with mayhem. A best man in high spirits, a speech that turned into a murder inquiry, the humiliation she felt when her then fiance Tom had tried to offer ‘input’ into the impromptu case. The wedding photographer stood exposed as the culprit.

And the sight of the best man walking out into the cold, the dark, alone. As was his normal sort of manner.

Into the concealment of night, bleeding into the black like a vampire.

How unfair she thought at the time, that he would prefer to bleed into the black than sustain his energies in the light of good company with good graces.

He had made a vow that day to safeguard the couple to protect them from harm, to cast out the forces of darkness like some naive nobleman, still believing the world’s cruelty could be held at bay, that there was hope.

Molly looked into Rosie’s innocent and engaging eyes, and from it drew the kind of strength that the last few days had sapped from her. Sapped from everyone.

Mary was lost to them now, taken in a manner that made no sort of sense, but has reckless self sacrifice ever made any?

That uncontrollable human urge to put your needs before others is what had given humanity it’s bravery, it’s very character, no matter how despairing their view of the world had become, all of us, from soldiers to police, clung to hope that what they do in their field would lead to a more prosperous and affirming future for all the love they left behind.

There was a difference though. These people all knew what they were getting into. They had learned to keep their ego in check, left it firmly standing at the door awaiting instructions. They knew not to engage it when dealing with a crisis.

And here was Sherlock, the naive nobleman, putting his foot in it at the last crucial moment. A case solved, the perpetrator jail bound, but he could not resist trying to tear off whatever vestiges of armour were left on the composed and modest culprit. Ego compelled him to. And it was that smug need to satisfy himself that forced Mary into the line of fire and take that bullet for him.

Molly knew as she looked into the baby’s eyes, peering into that welcome window to what remained of John’s own world that she had to be more of a rock than ever. She and Sherlock had been appointed god parents by the Watsons, and she was more than able and ready to honour her commitments to the child.

But she would have to do it alone.

The note from John had made it clear that Sherlock was to have nothing to do with the family from this point forward, and she was to turn him away if he were to drop by offering condolence or help of any kind.

John had come through so much, but losing Mary to Sherlock’s vain indulgences had seemingly put to bed any illusions there could be a solid foundation between the two men. Now he was going to make sure the existing circle he had built was sound enough to keep Sherlock from intruding further into Rosie’s young life, to ensure his last vow no longer entails a permanent solution to life’s cruel perspective on the John Watson problem.

That’s what Molly truly thought, that John was deeply focused on his place in the universe, and that it had been continuously dealing him a very deliberate and cruel hand through his pursuit of adventure, his pursuit of the game.

For Christ’s sake, was that all this world of hers had been reduced to?

Or had the world always been like this?

The doorbell rung.

Molly knew instinctively who it was.

She held Rosie tight and walked over to the door, and answered it.

There he stood. The naive nobleman. Offering exactly what John’s note had cautioned her about.

Molly wanted to say so much, she wanted to reach out to him, let him hold the baby in his arms, let him gaze into her eyes and understand the magnitude of the world that he had destroyed, and to strengthen his vow there and then, and to then face, with her, the challenges in dealing with Rosie’s development in years to come.

She didn’t have the confidence to do any of that. That wasn’t how the world had taught itself to work.

No, as much as it pained her to realize, to remain self-satisfied, today’s society moves along more efficiently by embracing awkwardness and turning shyly away from the hurt, not towards it.

It wasn’t her place to tell him it was alright, it was Johns’. He was the one best qualified to make judgement on the vitality of their strengths and weaknesses, whether Sherlock’s vow could prove as viable as her own.

John was Sherlock’s strength; all she could do was offer him his best friend’s present judgement on his weakness.

That may not be the noble thing, but it was, in her mind, the only just resolve to the present situation.

Whatever feelings she had, whatever love she wished to offer, that naive nobleman world in itself would have to wait a little longer, for she had to deal with an appropriate one.

Sherlock-Potential Season Four Edit Idea

Whenever Sherlock’s fourth series begins properly, I’ve been strongly considering using the final few minutes of The Abominable Bride as the pre-credits sequence for whatever the season four premier proves to be. It’s very easy to play the reinchenback falls confrontation scene in it’s entirety and then cut to the titles just as Sherlock wakes up from his overdose and says “Miss me?”