Calais Reno

My work for the @very-sincerely-yours-zine !

What an incredible honor to be surrounded by such talented creatives in a celebration of queer life, love, and perseverance 🩵🩵🩵

Sherlock fandom

Complete Deletion

“Greg? Is that what you call yourself nowadays?”

“It’s my name, Sherlock!”

“No, it isn’t.”

“His name is Greg, Sherlock.”

“No, John.”

“I give up. Want another pint, John?”

“Ta, Greg.”

“You can get your own, Sherlock.”

“I don’t drink beer, Gavin. If you had paid attention, you would have known that. Just as you would have known that your name – “

“Shut up, Sherlock!”

“Why is he so agitated, John?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Sherlock. Maybe because you can’t remember his name.”

“He is the one who – “

“Fine. Whatever. Let’s just pretend we never had this conversation, shall we?”

“Impossible, John.”

“Why?”

“I never delete any conversation you are partaking in.”

“Now, you’re just taking the piss, Sherlock.”

“Am not.”

“Fine, then. Tell me what I asked you this morning before I left for work.”

“You asked me to buy milk and eggs.”

“Oh, my God!”

“What? You did.”

“I am aware, Sherlock!”

“So?”

“So, why did I come home to a fridge utterly void of milk and eggs?”

“Because I never went out. If memory serves, I did not acquiesce to procure these items.”

“Christ. Hurry up with my pint, Greg, before I strangle this one!”

“You are so morbid, John.”

“Yeah, wonder where that comes from.”

“Certainly not from fraternising with Giles.”

by Holmesianlove

Chapter 6: An Invitation

After that strange encounter, life at Baker Street became a calm routine passing without much conversation, the occasional cup of tea shared, though he never seemed to drink much of it. He offered and accepted them as if it was a peace offering, a nicety, a way of communicating. A ritual. We would sit in silence, looking at our tea. Somehow, it never felt awkward though. There was a comfortable familiarity in it, as if we had known each other for many years and had reached this point of quiet companionship naturally over time. Sometimes, I would ask questions, and he would answer with very short responses. 
Not much was gleaned from our conversations. Occasionally, I would read the paper and tell him the highlights of what I had read. I did eventually remember to tell him the tale of my mysterious night visitor. On that occasion, he had been delighted, demanding every word be recounted in detail. He seemed to find my behaviour on the occasion outstanding. I, in turn, was horrified to learn the intruder was not his lawyer at all, but his older brother, Mycroft. Holmes, on the other hand, seemed to find the entire encounter very much to his liking. Apparently kicking his brother out raised me even further in his esteem somehow.

But there was still mystery despite our new comfortable routines. He wouldn't speak of his secret outings and I didn't want to pry. Mostly, he would go out as I was on my way to bed. 
I would be awake in the day sometimes with no sign of him just as he had predicted. 

Until one wintry, particularly gloomy day; when it had rained for a couple of days with no reprieve. The skies were dark, the rain had set in, and 
I was heavily ensconced in the prose of Oscar Wilde. A gentle throat clearing caught my attention and I raised my eyes to find him, leaning against the door frame, watching me. He was fully dressed – quite out of character for him during the day. Usually, if he ever surfaced, he would be in his satin robe and comfortable pyjamas. So, it was quite a surprise to find him in his dashing three piece suit, a top hat in his hand, a smirk on his lips as he watched me read. 

“Sorry. 
Have you been waiting for me?” I asked. 

“Have you anything important in your calendar today, 
Doctor Watson?” he asked. 

“I... No, I... was... 
planning a quiet day inside with the weather as it is”. 

“Well, come on, then, I have... a better idea.” 

“You're going outside? In the daytime?” I asked, shocked.


He smiled. He smiled at me. 

“I think I just might. 
I have an errand to run, and the weather seems quite perfect for it.”

 I frowned, looking out the window. “This? This is the perfect weather to go outside?” 

“For me it is, yes.” He grinned with delight. “Are you coming?” 

“You want me to come?!” 

“Yes.” He nodded. Enthusiastically in fact.

Well, I have to admit, I embarrassed myself by leaping up a little too eagerly and almost knocking over my tea cup. 
The thought of finally being invited to join him on his outing was far too enticing. I grabbed my coat, hat, and cane – which had been returned by the Inspector – and quickly followed. 

“You don’t need that,” he said, gesturing at my cane as he stepped out onto the street.

Without argument, I left the cane in the coat racks by the door and followed him out.

The link to AO3

A huge thank you to @helloliriels for the stunning cover art created for #FTH2026

Thank you to all my lovely supporters who have read my writing before. Please let me know if you want me to remove you before the next part! Or if you’d like to be tagged

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Around this time, six years ago, I began posting on this Sherlock BBC blog. 😀

For at least the last 5 and a half years, I have been actively posting and reblogging on tumblr basically every single day.

I do not intend to stop any time soon. 😁

Welcome to Throwback Thursday, which -- thanks to @curiouspupsicle, @rogue-bard, @sakascal, @quitequaintrelle and now @ineffabildaddy and @scribblerinthestars (and I've probably missed someone) -- is now apparently A Thing! (I have yet to catch up with all the er tempting fics that have been posted. Damnit, real life, really.)

I started doing Throwback Thursdays a couple of years ago, featuring favorite fics from the first year or two of the Good Omens fandom, or my own fics that hadn't gotten traction when I shyly poked my foot in the door. Post-s3, these delightful writers have joined in to reflect on their early fic and let us enjoy. I love it.

About a year after s1 aired, I got, shall we say, medically beaten-up. A lot of staples and things were involved, along with a stern admonition to make no whoopee for six solid weeks. It's not as if I hadn't written smut before that, but... umm, I went kind of crazy, and for the first time took a fly at gender-switching our Ineffables, in F/M and F/F combinations. First it was a three-part arc featuring Naughty Nanny Ashtoreth, and then -- well, Mistress Aziraphale deserved a turn. Last week I re-read the first of four fics featuring her in all her buxom glory, and realized it suited the moment we face after season 3 *makes apotropaic gesture*.

Faith, or, Serpent In My Bosom - rated E, ~3,300 words

They're free of Heaven and Hell, the Earth and their earthly corporations are theirs to enjoy, and it's time to experiment (with an occasional spice of tender blasphemy). And if Crowley still worries that Aziraphale might long to reconcile with Heaven, his angel is quick to reassure him.

(Redeeming Social Value. We need that right now. Don't we?)

“Alexander’s mother was supposed to have nursed her snakes. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”   “Wasn’t even in the area. Not a snake thing anyway. Urban legend.”

“No one would know it to look at you, dear.”

“Entirely selfless, what I’m doin’ here. Mmhm. Spirit of charity. Atonement for my many sins.”

“Oh, certainly.”

Read On AO3

Tagging in the replies as usual; drop a note if you want on or off the list.

by Holmesianlove

Because I'm impatient. Just like all of you. Have another chapter!

Chapter 4: The Contract

The flat was indeed lovelier than my own. An eclectic mix of antiques, interesting books, experiment paraphernalia and papers strewn everywhere. He had what I am fairly sure was a Stradivarius simply laid out on a table as if it held no value. A skull sat on the mantle. An actual human skull! The fire was already well stoked. Somehow, his rooms were equal measures of eerie and homely all at once. 

I nodded as I looked about. 

“So?” he asked eagerly, hands placed behind his back in anticipation, watching me.

“What exactly am I agreeing to here… Mister…?” I asked, realising we hadn’t even finished our formal introductions yet.

“Holmes. It’s Sherlock Holmes. I sleep during the day. I’m not very talkative. And I tend to work a lot during the night. I may want you to come with me at times, or I may need you to do some leg work for me during the daylight hours while I rest. I can’t be out during the day.”

I looked across at him, finding his statement odd, and yet he continued as if this was nothing out of the ordinary to mention. Then again, placed amongst so many other oddities it did somehow seem strangely normal.

“I can be moody. I don’t eat or drink much. I can play my violin for hours on end. It helps me think. I am not very sociable. But you won’t have to pay much rent. That is mostly taken care of. It’s comfortable. It’s central. And I will pay you a wage. It’s certainly nicer than that place you are currently lodging in.” 

I opened my mouth to argue, extremely affronted. Then again, he was not incorrect in his assessment of it. This entire encounter should have made me immensely uncomfortable but I was instead confused to find that I was enthralled by it. My pulse was thrumming with excitement. I was entertained. I did not want to leave the room, despite a very small part of my instincts trying to urge me that there was danger here.

He looked at me and there was something hopeful in his eyes. He needed me. I wasn’t sure I understood why. I was certainly confused by the whole situation. Despite this, I had nothing else going on in my life. I was only waiting out the days until I thought of a more interesting way to end my own and somehow he knew that. I had nothing to lose. And so it was agreed. We shook hands briefly and he gave me a key. The man’s hands were the iciest I had ever felt. He quickly let go and mumbled something about bad circulation, misplacing his gloves and needing to sit by the fire amongst his apologies as he thanked me with a gentle smile which I found to be quite lovely. It was the first time I had seen him smile openly. We made arrangements for my belongings to be brought to the flat the next day and with that, I said my farewells and left. I practically floated home, unsure if I had imagined the encounter, half expecting to find it had been a dream.

Chapter 5 tomorrow...

The link to AO3

A huge thank you to @helloliriels for the stunning cover art created for #FTH2026

Thank you to all my lovely supporters who have read my writing before. Please let me know if you want me to remove you before the next part! Or if you’d like to be tagged

@otter-von-bismarck @silvergoldsea @calaisreno @westandforships @fuck-off-watson-rp @notjustamumj @melodious-me @sherlocke3d

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by Holmesianlove

I will post a chapter each day (there are 14)  AO3 link below as well.

Chapter 3 - Avoidance

I brought him a cup of tea, and those eyes never left me. He had not said a word. It was incredibly unnerving. I had not received a name, or an explanation. He had followed me willingly, once the police had released him into my care. It felt strange, to lie, to take charge of a situation, in order to ensure the mystery man didn’t leave my sight again. In truth, I wasn’t entirely convinced that he was real until the Inspector had arrived and started speaking to him in person. Until that moment I was convinced I was hallucinating. How could the man I had seen on a few strange and isolated occasions, usually either drunk, or in agony, be right here in front of me? Surely it could only be explained as another hallucination? Perhaps a response to trauma? I had witnessed a murder and in my moment of horror, the very same man had appeared again? Surely that must be it. Only this time he was real. This time? Had he been real every time? Or only this time? I had so many questions. Was I allowed to ask them? Would he even speak to me? How could he possibly have been present at the Battle of Maiwand? Surely that one had been a hallucination?

I sat opposite him. “I’m… ah… Watson. Doctor… John Watson,” I offered awkwardly.

He smiled at his tea cup, not looking at me. “I know,” he said, nodding.

I frowned. “You… you know?”

He simply nodded as his only reply.

“Well how is that possible? We’ve never met!” I asked.

His smirk was somehow equal measures of irritating and charming because he was clearly in on some sort of joke that I had no knowledge of and I didn’t enjoy not knowing.

“Doctor John H. Watson studied at St Bartholomew's Hospital in London, receiving your medical degree from the University of London, with further training at Netley as an assistant surgeon in the British Army. Sent to India with the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers Regiment of Foot before being attached to the Sixty-sixth Berksire Regiment of Foot. Wounded at the Battle of Maiwand, suffered an enteric fever and sent back to England on the troopship HMS Orontes. Your family is all gone now and you’re leading a rather tragic and lonely life wandering London and drinking yourself to an early grave, which is a sad and sorry state of affairs given your god-given talent as a surgeon and the fact that you have simply got a psychosomatic limp.”

“You read Heinroth? You know of psychosomatic disorders?” Was all I could think of to say in reply as I sank back in my chair. I swallowed hard, staring at the man who simply stared back. “And besides, I assure you my limp is…”

“You left your cane in that alleyway and you haven’t needed it for an hour. You practically carried me up that staircase without it,” the man said simply, to end the discussion. “This is a rather depressing flat, if I may observe.”

“You are rather impertinent, for a man who very nearly died and was just rescued.”

“Oh I assure you that was mere theatre,” he retorted.

“I beg your pardon?”

“For your benefit,“ he added, with a little bow of his head.

“For my…?!”

“Indeed.” He gave a half smile and then sipped his tea politely and returned his cup to his lap.

I looked horrified. I was certain of that. The man was entirely far too familiar. And yet somehow I was intrigued and excited by it. No one had ever been close enough to me to be bestowed that honour. He made my pulse beat faster. I had no idea what he would say next and it was the most electrifying thing I had ever felt.

He sipped at his tea again, his eyes never leaving mine, making every one of my nerve endings light up without having to lift a finger to touch me. He was… observing me. And enjoying it.

“Are you going to tell me about yourself then?” I attempted to ask.

He simply shook his head slowly from side to side, still maintaining eye contact.

“I have a spare room, nicer than this. Perhaps you would like to see it? I could use a doctor. If you would like employment?”

“What exactly were you doing in that alleyway?” I asked.

“Not important.” He put down the cup and grabbed his coat. “Come on then. I assume you’re interested.” And with that he walked out, expecting me to follow. His coat billowed behind him in a ridiculous and enticing flourish as he left the room.

“My life isn’t tragic and lonely!” I called out to him as I sat there for all of a minute longer before I finally leapt up and followed.

Chapter 4 tomorrow…

A huge thank you to @helloliriels for the stunning cover art created for #FTH2026

Read from the beginning on AO3

Thank you to all my lovely supporters who have read my writing before. Please let me know if you want me to remove you before the next part! Or if you’d like to be tagged

@otter-von-bismarck @silvergoldsea @calaisreno @westandforships @fuck-off-watson-rp @notjustamumj @melodious-me @sherlocke3d

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my american lit professor went to this poe conference. like to be clear this is a man who has a doctorate in being a book nerd. he reads moby dick to his four-year-old son. and poe is one of the cornerstones of american literature, right, so this should be right up his alley?

wrong. apparently poe scholars are like, advanced. there is a branch of edgar allen poe scholarship that specifically looks for coded messages based on the number of words per line and letters per word poe uses. my professor, who has a phd in american literature, realizes he is totally out of his depth. but he already committed his day to this so he thinks fuck it! and goes to a panel on racism in poe’s works, because that’s relevant to his interests.

background info: edgar allen poe was a broke white alcoholic from virginia who wrote horror in the first half of the 19th century. rule 1 of Horror Academia is that horror reflects the cultural anxieties of its time (see: my other professor’s sermon abt how zombie stories are popular when people are scared of immigrants, or that purge movie that was literally abt the election). since poe’s shit is a product of 1800s white southern culture, you can safely assume it’s at least a little about race. but the racial subtext is very open to interpretation, and scholars believe all kinds of different things about what poe says about race (if he says anything), and the poe stans get extremely tense about it.

so my professor sits down to watch this panel and within like five minutes a bunch of crusty academics get super heated about poe’s theoretical racism. because it’s academia, though, this is limited to poorly concealed passive aggression and forceful tones of inside voice. one professor is like “this isn’t even about race!” and another professor is like “this proves he’s a racist!” people are interrupting each other. tensions are rising. a panelist starts saying that poe is like writing a critique of how racist society was, and the racist stuff is there to prove that racism is stupid, and that on a metaphorical level the racist philosophy always loses—

then my professor, perhaps in a bid to prove that he too is a smart literature person, loudly calls: “BUT WHAT ABOUT THE ORANGUTAN?”

some more background: in poe’s well-known short story “the murder in the rue morgue,” two single ladies—a lovely old woman and her lovely daughter who takes care of her, aka super vulnerable and respectable people—are violently killed. the murderer turns out to be not a person, but an orangutan brought back by a sailor who went to like burma or something. and it’s pretty goddamn racially coded, like they reeeeally focus on all this stuff about coarse hairs and big hands and superhuman strength and chattering that sounds like people talking but isn’t actually. if that’s intentional, then he’s literally written an analogy about how black people are a threat to vulnerable white women, which is classic white supremacist shit. BUT if he really only meant for it to be an orangutan, then it’s a whole other metaphor about how colonialism pillages other countries and brings their wealth back to europe and that’s REALLY gonna bite them in the ass one day. klansman or komrade? it all hangs on this.

much later, when my professor told this story to a poe nerd friend, the guy said the orangutan thing was a one of the biggest landmines in their field. he said it was a reliable discussion ruiner that had started so many shouting matches that some conferences had an actual ban on bringing it up.

so the place goes dead fucking silent as every giant ass poe stan in the room is immediately thrust into a series of war flashbacks: the orangutan argument, violently carried out over seminar tables, in literary journals, at graduate student house parties, the spittle flying, the wine and coffee spilled, the friendships torn—the red faces and bulging veins—curses thrown and teaching posts abandoned—panels just like this one fallen into chaos—distant sirens, skies falling, the dog-eared norton critical editions slicing through the air like sabres—the textual support! o, the quotes! they gaze at this madman in numb disbelief, but he could not have known. nay, he was a literary theorist, a 17th-century man, only a visitor to their haunted land. he had never heard the whistle of the mortars overhead. he had never felt the cold earth under his cheek as he prayed for god’s deliverance. and yet he would have broken their fragile peace and brought them all back into the trenches.

my professor sits there for a second, still totally clueless. the panel moderator suddenly stands up in his tweed jacket and yells, with the raw panic of a once-broken man:

by Holmesianlove

A huge thank you to @helloliriels for the stunning cover art created for #FTH2026 I will post a chapter each day (there are 14)  AO3 link below as well. Let me know if you want to be tagged for updates!

Chapter 2 - Making Acquaintances

When I awoke I was told that I suffered an enteric fever and had been unconscious for three weeks. A soldier had brought me in from the battlefield and somehow, I had miraculously healed. I was sent home to London. Home is such a subjective word for it, though, with no family, and a pension barely worthy to live off. Adding to that an injury which made it impossible to work, I almost longed to have died in the war, or perhaps to have been sent back to be killed properly to have ended the emptiness that festered inside. For many days upon my return, I wandered aimlessly, finding myself hopelessly drawn back to establishments. Somehow, I thought if I could achieve that state of mind I had been in the night before I first travelled to war, I might find that stranger again, that face with the magic eyes. Maybe I could somehow conjure him up from somewhere. I knew it was a ridiculous fantasy, for no matter how many times I tried, I was left feeling empty, helpless and alone. 

Well, perhaps not alone. There was always something strange. I constantly felt like I was being observed. However, when I turned, there was never anyone behind me. It seemed paranoia had been a gift I had returned with also. The only relief I found from it was at the end of a bottle. When I had the coin spare I would find myself at a variety of taverns in the town, it mattered not which ones. I spent many early hours limping about the London streets, stumbling aimlessly, alone with no purpose, feeling helpless. For what was a soldier with no mission, a surgeon with no patients, a man with no family meant to do with his life? I was utterly useless on this earth now. 

It was on one particular night, as I bumbled about, that I was to come upon an attack in a nearby alleyway. I heard a scuffle and some loud grunting. I looked down into the dimly lit, narrow space to see a group of people, all in dark clothing. It was hard to tell how many were there, or what was the cause of the commotion. Was it a strange lover’s tryst? Was it a mugging? A murder? Should I involve myself at all? My soldier’s instinct, boredom and if I was honest, the fact that I had no desire to live made me move forward, faster than I had anticipated. I dropped my cane and rushed into the alley.

“You there? What are you about? Do you need assistance?” I called, as I moved toward the noise. 

The shuffling instantly stopped, the huddle froze, but no faces appeared.

“I say, do you need help?” I tried again.

I heard whispering and suddenly the group dispersed. One body remained on the ground, unmoving. Another collapsed back and three pushed past me, as they took off at an alarming speed. I knew I wouldn’t be able to catch them; not in my state of injury and drink. I rushed forward to observe a lady who was pale and somewhat beyond help and a man in a weakened state. I saw familiar dark curls and as he turned his head to look at me, I knew at once.

“It’s you,” I gasped as he closed his light eyes and let his head drop back to the ground.

Chapter 3 tomorrow…

Thank you to all my lovely supporters who have read my writing before. Please let me know if you want me to remove you before the next part! Or let me know if you'd like to be tagged!

@otter-von-bismarck @silvergoldsea @calaisreno@westandforships @fuck-off-watson-rp @notjustamumj @melodious-me @sherlocke3d

@therealalexisamess-blog @e-b1838 @rhasima @salmonsown @tropelovingpainter @dw91165 @pileofstardust2106 @moonkeller @surprisinglyokay @r4venlyn  

@wssh13 @br-nz @solarmama-plantsareneat @givemesherbet-blog-blog @sillygirlsmindpalace @johnlockficclub @rainstarboii @bheadhe 

@battledress @kholkate @randomquadballpun @kittenmadnessandtea @whatnext2020 @egregiously-chuffed @chriscalledmesweetie @catlock-holmes

@starlitkeys @lumilama @yorkiepug @talkativeanxiousturtle @kettykika78 @givemesherbet-blog-blog @naefelldaurk @a-victorian-girl @phoenix27884 @peanitbear 

Fanfic is as old as writing, if not older. A HUGE body of work in Ancient Greek was literally just Homeric fanfiction. And Homer himself may have been working off older stories, making it fic of fics.