Thoughts and musings of an asexual violin lover who has a passion for Victoriana, Britain, and all loverly awesome things, including Sherlock Holmes and Benedict Cumberbatch.
My 30 Day Asexual Challenge
My massive Sherlock fanfic, A Scandal in Britain
So it just happened that I finished posting this behemoth of a fanfic on the one-year anniversary of Sherlock debuting. I really can’t remember what my Holmes fandom was like without it, to be honest. This last year has been crappy for me beyond words, and to have this crazy lovely jam-filled fandom to be able to disappear into whenever necessary…that’s a great gift. That’s a tremendous gift. Thank you, all of you! And I can’t wait for season/series 2!!!1!!11eleventy!11!!1 Remember, Moffat, it’s not too late to steal a few plot points or lines of dialogue…
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Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12
22 December
Some time later, I was strolling through Addie’s gallery. She had an impressively large collection of fine art. For some reason, I had been expecting a series of paintings of circles and squares, but her tastes were surprisingly old-fashioned - bucolic landscapes, Victorian portraits of mothers and children, cats and dogs. The voices of doctors and policemen buzzed in the distance. A pair of footsteps strode through the gallery with great purpose, then stopped.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11
21 December
John, ever decisive, was the first to take useless action. “I’m calling the police,” he said, taking out his phone.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10
20 December
Addie looked from me to John and back to me again. Her expression was one of incredulity - shock - horror - disbelief - with a touch of amusement, as if she couldn’t quite believe what was happening. Her amusement, I thought, was unwarranted, and so I took the phone from my pocket.
“Addie? Addie, are you there?” Brunton demanded.
I felt a burning satisfaction as the colour began to drain from her face. “Rich - ?” She cleared her throat. “Richard? What - ”
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9
December 17
I elbowed my way through the crowded French restaurant.
“Pardon me, monsieur, you must have a reservation - ” a host interrupted, but I ignored him. Instead I took a chair, lifted it over the heads of several confused patrons, and set it next to John and Sarah’s table for two.
“John,” I said, eschewing introductions. “I need your help. Desperately.”
“What the - ?” He stared. “How’d you find me?”
“Sarah likes French food and this is the closest French restaurant to Sarah’s place. Hello, Sarah.”
“Um. Hi, Sherlock.” Something suddenly struck her. “Wait - how do you know where I live?”
Part 9 comes on the first day the BBC crew starts work on A Scandal in Belgravia… You better do us Adler-lovers proud, Mr. Moffat! ;)
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Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8
December 16
[Forgive me if my entries from here on out are more abstracted than usual. I have just been called to a rather odd case involving, among other things, a priceless gem and a factory farmed goose. Consequently I am writing during spare moments of my investigation.]
I arrived at Tiki at nine-forty-five precisely. According to its website, Tiki was “London’s premiere artistic restaurant and club.” It was situated in a remodelled parking garage, nestled between an upscale women’s clothing boutique and a minimalist artist’s studio. I couldn’t tell much about its décor besides the fact that it was lit exclusively by chasing neon lights.
The moment I stepped in the front door, a comely red-haired dwarf tapped my elbow and asked for my coat. I was too surprised to protest when she carried it beneath a tiny arch with the words “Coat Room” stencilled in metallic paint above.
Slightly unnerved, I stepped up to the host’s podium. “I have a reservation for ten o’ clock,” I said.
“Name, please?”
I cleared my throat. “Holmes. Sherlock Holmes.”
The host - a tall, lean man dressed in a white shirt and waistcoat, and wearing a nose ring - ran a finger down his book. “Ah. Excellent. Mrs. Holmes is waiting upstairs.”
“Mrs. - ?”
“This way, please.”
I bit my tongue and followed him.
December 13
John and I were in the back of a cab, buses and shops and pedestrians flashing past, when I decided that it was no use postponing the inevitable.
“Do you know much about gay men?” I asked.
The question was met by stony silence. “Why?” he finally said.
“Because I need you to play one.”
His incredulity was both palpable and predictable. “I’m playing a gay man? Why can’t you play the gay man?”
“I am playing a gay man.”
“Sherlock - ”
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5
12 December
Once we got back to Baker Street, I peevishly threw off my coat onto the sofa and began to pace.
“Those things can’t be coincidences. They can’t be.”
“Maybe she teleported,” John muttered. Usually he made a show of picking up my coat when I neglected to hang it on the hook, but this time he just threw his own jacket on top and sighed.
I found myself prattling. “Maybe I’m giving her too much credit. I do occasionally give the criminal too much credit. Maybe she did hire someone else. Maybe she took the snake - gave it to someone else to use. But who? When? How? And why on a night when she was off the stage for fifty minutes while the murder was happening? Maybe it was the only date and time the hit-man was available. That could be. Or maybe the hit-man disobeyed her order. Or maybe she hired more than a hit-man - some kind of group - and there was a miscommun - ”
I stopped dead in my tracks.
John’s wary voice broke into my thoughts. “A group led by some kind of consulting criminal, you mean?”
I collapsed onto the chair in front of my desk. “With the resources to spy on us… To know we went to the Diogenes Club…”
A heavy silence settled over the room.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4
11 December
It was nearing nine o’ clock, and the corridor adjacent to the morgue was even quieter than usual. The only sound was the high-pitched buzz of the fluorescent light above.
“We’ll need to talk to that girl,” I said. “What’s her name again?”
John’s voice was weary. “Molly.”
I came up to a door and peered through the tall, narrow windowpane set in it. “I have to be careful. Last few times I’ve talked to her, she’s been less than accommodating.”
“You did discover that her boyfriend was a gay criminal mastermind.”
I grimaced. “That may have something to do with it, yes.”
I opened the door.
10 December
“The Addie case? The reporters finally stop asking about it, and now you want to know about it?”
We were sitting at Lestrade’s desk. The offices around us were dark; most of the other inspectors had gone home for the night. A single light burned white above Lestrade’s desk.
“I don’t want to know about it,” I said. “I need to know about it.”
He gave a bitter laugh. “Yeah. Well. I need to be at home with my family.” He stood and took his coat off a hook on the wall, shaking his head.
I glanced at the floor. I didn’t like to have to do this, but…… “Maybe you should have thought about your family when you were drinking those six beers here last night,” I said.
His eyes widened. “How - ”
I leaned down and lifted the wire mesh trash bin from beside his desk. There were six bottle caps in the bottom of the bin. He sighed, then hooked his coat back up and sat down again.
“Oh, go ahead,” he said. “It’ll go quicker if I humour you.”
7 December
John didn’t speak until we were standing at the front door and I was digging for the key in my pocket.
“So,” he said. “You interrupted my shopping for that.”
I pushed open the door. “Oh. That’s right. We were shopping, weren’t we?” I wriggled out of my coat and tossed it over an arm as I trotted up the stairs. “Well, you’ll just have to go another day. Mycroft is so unbearably self-centred - he gives no thought as to how his requests might affect - ”
I opened the door to our flat to find Addie sitting in my chair by the fire.
Two things were immediately clear. She was rich and she was used to getting her own way. Wealth could be deduced by her makeup (coordinated shades of quality lipstick, eye shadow, and eye and lip liner, all of which had been carefully applied by someone other than herself) and her hair (moisturised russet curls streaked with a trendy golden dye). Her sense of entitlement was obvious the moment she looked up at us - dryly, condescendingly, as if the flat was her own, rather than two strangers’. Oddly, she was wearing a faded denim shirt and pants - a workman’s uniform - rather than the designer dress her face and hair might suggest. Her attire did no favours to the voluptuous figure no doubt hiding beneath.
Both John and I stood in the doorway for a moment, admittedly rather speechless.
“Oh my God,” John finally said.
