Calais Reno

Truncated text of tweet from MrPitBull, Mar 11, 2026:

She kept finding women in laboratory photographs from the 1800s. Then she read the published papers—and every single woman had vanished. Someone had erased them from history.

Yale University, 1969.

Margaret Rossiter was a graduate student studying the history of science. She was one of very few women in her program.

Every Friday afternoon, students and faculty gathered for beers and informal conversation. One week, Margaret asked a simple question: "Were there ever any women scientists?"

The faculty answered firmly: No.

Someone mentioned Marie Curie. The group dismissed it—her husband Pierre really deserved the credit.

Margaret didn't argue. But she also didn't believe them.

So she started looking.

She found a reference book called "American Men of Science"—essentially a Who's Who of scientific achievement. Despite the title, she was shocked to discover it contained entries about women. Botanists trained at Wellesley. Geologists from Vermont.

There were names. There were credentials. There were careers.

The professors had been wrong.

But Margaret's discovery was just the beginning. Because as she dug deeper into archives across the country, she found something far more disturbing.

Photograph after photograph showed women standing at laboratory benches, working with equipment, listed on research teams.

But when she read the published papers, the award citations, the official histories—those same women had disappeared. Their names were missing. Their contributions erased.

It wasn't random. It was systematic.

Women who designed experiments watched male colleagues publish results without giving them credit. Women whose discoveries were assigned to supervisors. Women listed in acknowledgments instead of as authors. Women passed over for awards that went to male collaborators who contributed far less.

Margaret realized she was witnessing a pattern that stretched across centuries.

Women had always been present in science. The record had simply pushed them aside.

She needed a name for what she was documenting.

In the early 1990s, she found it in the work of Matilda Joslyn Gage—a 19th-century suffragist who had written about this exact phenomenon in 1870.

In 1993, Margaret published a paper formally naming it: The Matilda Effect.

The term captured something that had been hidden in plain sight for generations. Once you knew the term, you saw it everywhere.

Her dissertation became a lifelong mission.

For more than 30 years, Margaret researched and wrote her landmark three-volume series: Women Scientists in America. She examined letters, institutional policies, individual careers. She gathered undeniable evidence that women in science had been consistently under-credited and structurally excluded.

Her work faced resistance. Many dismissed women's history as political rather than academic. Others insisted she was exaggerating.

Margaret didn't argue emotionally. She presented data. Documented cases. Patterns repeated across decades and institutions.

Eventually, the evidence became undeniable.

Her research helped restore recognition to scientists who had been erased:

Rosalind Franklin, whose X-ray work revealed DNA's structure—credit went to Watson and Crick.

Lise Meitner, who explained nuclear fission—omitted from the Nobel Prize.

Nettie Stevens, who discovered sex chromosomes—received little credit.

Cecilia Payne-Gaposchkin, who discovered stars are made of hydrogen—initially dismissed.

And countless others whose names had nearly vanished.

Margaret changed the narrative. Science was no longer just the story of solitary male geniuses. It became a story of collaboration that included women who had been written out.

A bonus chapter today for you all - as I have to go back to work on Monday so I'm speeding up some of the posting!

by Holmesianlove

Chapter 8: Doctor Holmes

The sun had not lasted long and once the gloom and rain had returned, Holmes had whisked me immediately from the shop back to Baker Street. His mood had not improved. He dragged me straight to the bathroom, angrily, without a word and pulled out some medical supplies.

“Holmes, this is hardly necessary. It was just a scratch, a tiny cut,” I tried to interject, making light of it with an embarrassed laugh.

“Sit,” he demanded roughly.

I huffed a silent laugh. “I’m not sure if you know this, but I’m actually a surgeon? Actually you do know this. You recited my own life story back to me when we met. I still don’t know how you did that. So in any case, you know I’ve seen battle wounds. This is a tiny scratch. You must have nicked me in the scuffle of escaping from… What was that exactly? Are you planning on explaining that to me yet?” I waited but he was determined to stay silent. 

His jaw was clenched tightly. 

I let out a heavy sigh. “In any case, I saw men lose an arm and still get up to fight to their death. I will survive this, I can assure you,” I teased.

Somehow that statement made Holmes pale even further, if that was possible. “Soldiers are idiots,” was the only statement he made.

“Oh I see. Tell me your real sentiments on the subject,” I scoffed.

Holmes looked at me as if he might just do so, and then returned to prepare what he needed. “Watson, you are a highly intelligent man. You are not a soldier, you are a surgeon.”

“You barely speak to me, how can you pass judgement?”

“I just… know things,” he said stiffly.

“Do you?” I teased, as I watched him in silence.

“I do,” he huffed.

Holmes swiped some ointment on a cloth and began dabbing gently at the cut on my face. It made me hiss from the sting of it.

“What is that?” I grumbled.

“Something to ensure you won’t get infected with anything and the cut will stay clean.”

I frowned. “Really this isn’t necessary. You simply must have caught me with a fingernail, or your cufflink or your tooth even... something in the scuffle, it’s a tiny scratch with just a little bit of surface bleeding. You’re over reacting.”

“Shhh!” he hissed angrily, as he went in for a second round of cleaning. He leaned in extra close and I could hear his shallow stress breathing. Having him so close, observing me so intently, next to my face, those eyes so heavily focussed on me, made me almost stop breathing myself. I couldn't understand the intensity with which he was treating this tiny little gash. I regarded him and then his eyes drifted to mine and I sucked in a breath, embarrassed to be caught noticing him. For a moment the two of us froze, staring at each other. 

“I’m… sorry I injured you,” he whispered.

“Honestly, Holmes, you’re making an unnecessary fuss,” I said gently back, reaching up and touching his hand. I was trying to be genuine, to reassure him that I was unbothered, but it startled him and he pulled away, stepping back and moving to the other side of the bathroom like a terrified animal.

His gaze dropped to the floor uncomfortably.

“You should… lie down. I want you to lie down on the sofa, where I can keep watch on you tonight.”

“What?” I asked, starting to chuckle in disbelief.

“I just… need to make sure you don’t… have any infections or any... issues.”

“Holmes, this really is too much,” I tried to reassure him.

“Watson, I won’t hear of it,” he said more firmly. “You must sleep out where I can check on you.”

I frowned. “I don’t understand any of this.”

“You don’t need to understand. I was responsible and this is what I want. You only need to respect my request.”

I frowned, sighing heavily. “Alright. If it is that important to you?”

“It is.”

Though what good the reassurance did, I will not know. He vanished quickly into his room and shut the door violently. I could hear him talking to himself angrily through the door, though I dared not walk closer to listen in case he opened the door suddenly and caught me. I did as he asked and lay down on the sofa. I didn’t feel tired initially but I must have been exhausted from all the walking, as I passed out and slept very hard, until I felt a sense of someone watching me again and I startled awake. But it wasn’t Holmes checking on me at all, as he'd promised. It was his brother, the rude man I had the encounter with once before in this very same room. He was glaring at me, watching me very closely.

“We have to stop meeting like this,” I grunted, sitting up awkwardly.

He didn’t seem amused by my humour. He looked at his shoes instead, his brow creasing in a clear sign of disapproval. “Doctor Watson…”

I frowned. Somehow I could already tell from his tone that I was about to get a lecture, and he was looking forward to this moment. I was not really excited for it at all.

“I see you're still here.”

“Yes, is that unexpected?”

“Well, my brother has rented his rooms before with very little success, for much shorter periods of time.”

“I've only been here a week!”


“Yes, that’s quite successful, really. Wouldn't you say?” 

“I'm not sure. Is it? I'm a little confused about what you're trying to ask me.”

“What’s the nature of your relationship with my brother?” he demanded.

“Relationship? 
N-no, no, there's no relationship. I’m merely his... his... his... Well, I merely. 
That is to say, I…” I realised I was babbling and stuttering and sounding like an idiot. I cleared my throat. “He asked me to assist him.”

“Well, I see you've cleaned. Are you his housekeeper then?”

I didn’t like his tone and I lifted my chin in defiance. “No, he asked that I would assist him during the day on various tasks.” 

“Like cleaning,” he stated firmly. 

“Uh, no, that wasn't one of the tasks. I just took that upon myself.” 

“I see. And cooking?”

“I do cook, yes. Not that he ever eats. And, to help on cases. For his clients. We've been out on a case today, in fact,” I said proudly, desperate to salvage my reputation as a useful addition to Baker Street.

“Today?!” 
He looked out the window. “During the day? But it was… there… was… sun today.” 

I looked confused and then I started to wonder. 
“Does your brother have a condition?” 

“What do you mean?” The older brother looked startled by my question.

“Is he not supposed to be in the sunlight? 
I know of a couple of conditions where it's unsafe to be... in the sun? He’s been very cagey about why he never goes out. It was the strangest thing… When we went out it was raining but he reacted quite badly when the weather changed and I... 
I was concerned for him. It’s just that he never talks about himself… and there was a little incident… and he’s been in his room ever since…” I looked down towards his door.

“Well, is he alright?” His brother looked concerned and started to get out of his chair.

“I’m not sure. He's been acting very strange. 
The sun came out, and he rushed us inside quite suddenly, and then in the scuffle, I suppose he scratched me, or cut me or something. It was merely an accident but he–”

“He scratched you?! Did he break the skin? Let me see.” The man rushed forward, crowding over me.

“It's fine. 
He simply…” Once again I was caught by surprise, not expecting his reaction and couldn’t understand what I was missing.

“So you’ve been lying down then? Did he treat it? 
Did he treat it, Dr Watson?” His words came out in a forceful flurry.

“Yes…” My brow furrowed, confused by the exchange and his sudden shift into such desperation. The two of them were behaving oddly.

“With the ointment? He used the ointment?!” He pressed.

“Yes, yes, he treated it with that awful ointment. I’m perfectly fine. 
Goodness gracious. You both know I'm a surgeon, do you not? It doesn't even need stitches. 
It was a small cut. I doubt it will even leave a scar in a week or two when the wound heals.” 

“You mustn't move. Stay right where you are. 
No sudden movements. Don't over-exert yourself. Just rest.” He frowned. 

His face looked so grave I felt my blood turn cold as if all my medical training had suddenly left me. “I don’t… I don’t understand what…”

“Let me check on my brother, and then I will come and bring you some fluids. Do you understand me? It's of utmost importance. Stay where you are,” he said so forcefully that for the first time I didn’t even want to argue. 


“You’re both as strange as each other, you know that?” I managed to say under my breath. 

“Believe what you will, Doctor Watson, so long as you do as we say,” he said gravely as he walked away.

“Yes, all right,” I agreed, and settled back into the cushions.

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

@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 

@lisbeth-kk @helloliriels @totallysilvergirl @221beloved @safedistancefrombeingsmart  

There's a post that I keep seeing on here. Currently it has about 18000 notes.

(I was going to do the underwater thing with a screenshot, but it turns out that would require me to use the app and I categorically refuse to do that. You're getting a link and a summary and you'll have to provide your own mental underwater filter to it)

The premise of the post is that the crew of the Enterprise should have introduced Data to the fine art of crochet, because, as the post puts in the mouth of sagacious Geordi, 'crochet can't be replicated by machine'.

This post bothers me on a number of levels, but the main one is that it represents a way in which certain claims about the world get made on tumblr, divorced from their context, and then elevated to the height of analytic truths through repetition. It's a common pattern, and I'm making this very silly post mostly to encourage people to notice it.

'Crochet cannot be replicated by machine' is a claim about the current production capabilities of the fashion industry, particulary the fast fashion industry. The force of the claim is that any crochet-ed garment you find for $4.99 on Shien was crocheted by a pair of human hands connected to a very underpaid human person. This is, from all I can gather, true. There are machines that produce a stitch that can mimic the look of crochet to an untrained eye, but actually crocheting a garment by machine is not currently possible.

But why not?

Well, let's look at knitting machines for a second. Knitting machines are a pretty old bit of kit. They've been around since the 16th century and work basically the same way now as they did then. And that way that they work is crucially not like the way a human knitter works. A human knitter makes one stitch at a time, moving back and forth along the needles. This requires a very complex little hand motion, and one that takes beginners a sizeable amount of time to master. Knitting machines don't attempt to replicate it. Knitting machines are (basically) some cleverly-contrived hooks that, once threaded, can be processed extremely quickly through the motion of a shuttle. The shuttle passes the thread through the existing loops, and then a hooked comb-like structure lifts the new loops from between the old all at once. The machine looks like a loom, and you can use it basically the same way. It's very fast. An experienced knitter can probably make a basic sweater in a week - a machine can do it in minutes (though the pieces will still need to be seamed up by a human). Basically, the nature of the knitted stitch afforded the opportunity to replicate it - or at least a basic form of it - in a way that doesn't involve human hands, and thus is spared their inefficiencies.

The reason that can't be done for crochet is basically that crochet is much less linear than knitting. In the knitting machine, the frame and shuttle basically play the role of the two knitting needles. Crochet doesn't have two needles, it just has one hook. The loops that get picked up to do crochet stitches have to be taken from stitches that are already worked, and there's a pretty large variety of ways to do that. It requires somes serious manual dexterity, and a lot of turning the piece around in your hands and coming at it from different angles. Basically, it's much trickier to replicate with a machine than flat knitting is. We just haven't been able to come up with any way to do crochet that doesn't involve human hands and all their complex movements.

But that raises the obvious next question, which is 'well, why don't we make a robotic pair of human hands?' And the answer to that is not 'that's impossible', it's 'that's expensive'.

There are people right now making realistic human hand robots with a realistic range of motion. This is on the bleeding edge of robotics technology at the moment, and they're a lot more interested in prosthetics than they are in fast fashion manufacturing, but they do exist and they're improving all the time. It probably won't be too long (on a grand scale) before fully functional human hand robots exist, and at that point the mechanical problem of crochet is solved (though you'd also need a pretty sophisticated AI visual processing system attached to those hands to guide their movements - also very plausible with in-the-works technology). At that point it probably still wouldn't be efficient enough for fast fashion brands to use - the robot hands wouldn't be that much faster than human ones, since they're performing the same motions (unlike a knitting machine). Robot hands are also quite a complicated and delicate structure, so they'd be expensive and require a lot of maintainence. Your average fast fashion brand would probably prefer sweatshop labour, but hopefully by this point in time we'll have done something about that for unrelated reasons.

All this is to say.

There's no in principle reason crochet cannot be done by a machine, we just can't currently do crochet by machine. The reasons are technological (we haven't built a good enough robot yet) and economical (it wouldn't be worth it to build a good enough robot for this reason). Those reasons are not that machine crochet is somehow forbidden by the laws of physics. Crochet does not, uniquely amongst the handcrafts, require the delicate ministrations of the human soul, it just requires human hands.

Data has human hands. But that was never in question.

In the world of Star Trek, it is unambiguously possible for machines - and not even just androids - to do crochet. For one, you can just replicate it. Crocheting a scarf is significantly less complicated than reconstructing realistically-textured meat from base chemicals. But even setting aside the more magical Star Trek technologies, nobody in Star Trek is surprised that Data has hands that move like human hands would, or that he can precisely operate them. That is solidly old news by this point in history. When people comment on the impressiveness of Data's body, they're typically referring to either his processing power or to his body's minor details, like the fact that he can breathe or his... functions and techniques. They're not impressed by the mere ability of a robot to have the mechanical structure of a human hand. They're not surprised that he can play the violin or paint or do any of the other things human hands can do, they're surprised that he's unsatisfied by how well he manages to do those things.

So, your honour, unless there was actually a metaphyical reason that crochet and only crochet cannot be replicated even by an arbitrarily human-like machine, and there isn't, Data doing crochet would not prove anything to anybody, least of all him. I rest my case.

But the bigger point here is not really that I have a quibble with the canonical logistics of a Star Trek shitpost. The real point is that people have got to be more careful about the slogans they learn on tumblr before they start applying them to different contexts. I've heard so many people repeat the 'crochet can't be replicated by machine' line verbatim without really thinking about why that's the case, whether it will continue to be the case, and what factors coud change to make it no longer the case. This is obviously a context where that doesn't matter, but it happens all the time in contexts where it does matter. It's a mechanism of misinformation. Nobody has said a word of a lie, but you end up with a false belief (that crochet is metaphysically humans-only forever) simply by failing to consider the scope of the initial claim. It's like how people on this site rather annoyingly apply the rhetoric of voting in the United States' two party system to countries that do not have two party systems. I'm sure you can come up with other examples.

by Holmesianlove

Chapter 7: On the Case

“So... What is this errand that we're running?” I asked, after I had followed him in silence long enough. 

“I’m... 
a detective, Watson,” he finally offered in reply.

“You are?” I turned my head to look at him, eyes widening.

“Yes. 
Among other things,’’ he offered, as if that made it so much more palatable. 

“Among other things?” 

“Yes.” 

I was astonished. Suddenly finding him the way I had done in the alleyway seemed to make more sense. At least… maybe it did?

“Right. And so... we're... detecting now?” 

He gave me a withering look. “Investigating... is the present participle you're looking for.” 

“Ah. 
I thank you, kind sir.” I gave him an overly dramatic gesture with my hand, signalling a regal bow, but he ignored me and I felt completely ridiculous for it, returning my hand to my pocket instead. “And so... What exactly are we... investigating then?” 

“My client seems to have misplaced a valuable item. A precious statue... a family heirloom. 
Someone seems to have taken it from his study and it is my…” He cleared his throat and looked over at me. “Our job, to locate its whereabouts.” 

I felt suddenly thrilled. Our job? He was including me in this investigation? I would not let him down. I thought hard about what to ask next but he was so serious about everything. I couldn’t help myself. “Has he looked around his house? Tidied up a bit? If it looks anything like yourapartment, it's likely to just be underneath a pile of papers,” I scoffed, pleased with myself for the useful suggestion tied up in a playful jibe.

“Thank you for your assessment, 
Watson. Yes, we have tried all of the obvious places.” 

I couldn’t tell if Holmes liked my suggestion or thought I was an idiot.

“He believes that one of his staff has stolen it and sold it for gold. 
It's very valuable,” Holmes carried on. 

“How valuable?” Suddenly my interest was piqued. 

“This piece is worth fifty pounds.”

I stopped walking. This was no small job. He paused with me. “Oh, I see. That's… considerable.” 

“Quite.”

“
And so, we are…?” 

“Investigating,” he said simply, beginning to walk again and I followed suit. 

“Investigating, I see.” I nodded. “Where does one start with such matters?” 

“I have a few people knowledgeable in such things, antiquities, dealerships. 
I am planning to speak to a few of my learned friends. See if they have come across the item. 
It's quite unusual. Likely to be something that people in the field will speak of amongst each other when it becomes available for sale.”

“Brilliant,” I interjected. He looked at me a little surprised by the compliment. It seemed to throw him off for a moment before he composed himself. 

“Failing that, we shall attend some gatherings.”

“We shall?” I turned my head, looking surprised. 

“Yes, I think so, if you're amenable to such things?” He stopped walking again to look at me. For a moment he seemed… nervous.

I was embarrassed to realise I blushed under his close scrutiny. “Certainly, I could... I… Yes, I could.” 

He let out a little sigh of relief and nodded happily. “Excellent, then we will attend some gatherings and listen to the gossip. 
Wealthy people love to gossip. About antiquities – items, they feel they have acquired at a bargain. Somebody will absolutely not be able to help themselves. And if the wealthy won't, certainly the servants might. One of us can sneak into the servants' quarters and also listen in.” 

“Oh… I see. You are suggesting that I would fit in better downstairs?” The disappointment was clear in my voice. I had briefly forgotten my place in the excitement.

“I said no such thing. I simply…” 

“Hmm. I'll try not to be offended but your meaning was apparent, Holmes. You are wealthy and I am not. I would be better suited downstairs. I shall go where you need me to. I’d like to be of use. That was the purpose of my moving in. The arrangement, was it not?”

“Watson, I said no such thing.” 

Suddenly, he seemed wrong-footed and our conversation stopped. Tension had returned between us. We continued to walk in silence. I could tell he was deep in thought and we didn’t discuss the topic again. I followed him in silence as we visited two different, unusual stores selling nick-knacks and strange items, books and antiquities out on the Main Street. Stores I had never been into before. At one point I nearly cried aloud and embarrassed myself when an unmounted, stuffed bear’s head caught me by surprise. 

My feet were starting to ache from the amount of walking across London we had managed without my cane for support and my ears had begun to ring from the deafening silence between us. “Goodness, it really is a gloomy day, isn't it?” I couldn’t help saying aloud, as we rounded yet another corner. 
I gathered my coat closer to my body, desperate to try and keep out the chill, which seemed not to affect Holmes in the slightest. 
As if my words had called to the heavens in a plea, the clouds suddenly parted and the sun appeared out of nowhere. Before I could even comment, I heard the strangest noise, like an animal in pain. I didn't realise it was Holmes at first. It was almost like a squeal. 
And he grabbed at me and pulled me into another shop, knocking the wind right out of me. 

“Holmes, 
what the devil?!” I shouted in fright. 

I barely have a memory of what happened next but I swear my feet left the ground and I moved faster than felt humanly possible. Suddenly I was inside a very dark and very musty store, a ringing in my ears. It took a moment before I understood it was the doorbell instigated upon our entry. Holmes had  the front of my coat firmly grasped in his hands and had shoved me quite firmly against a wall inside the store. We were pressed together against the wall as if we were hiding for our lives from the law.

I breathed heavily, trying to work out what had occurred to cause this response and I looked up at him to see him also breathing at a rapid pace, in a blind panic. “Holmes?” I asked gently, trying to see if he was alright. His eyes were clasped tightly shut and he was not listening at all. “Holmes?” I asked again, trying to get his attention. “Are you quite alright?”

He nodded frantically, but didn’t open his eyes at all. “I don’t… understand what happened just now. Why are we—?”

Slowly, he opened his eyes and looked down at me. And I lost the ability to speak. Those eyes were looking right into mine, panicked, frightened.

“Well now, we’re alright. I don’t know what caused your response... but everything is—“ 

His eyes had started moving across my face and he gasped, stepping away from me, letting go of my coat as if I was hurting him and then he suddenly grabbed at my face and now it was my turn to suck in a breath in surprise.

“Holmes?”

“You’re… you’re cut…” As quickly as he had touched me he let go and stepped away as if touching me caused him great pain. 

“Holmes?” My face was drawn with concern and I didn’t understand what was happening at all. The two of us stood there awkwardly and I had no comprehension of what was the cause of it.

“You’re bleeding,” he choked out, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and handing it to me, as he looked away.

“Oh. Sorry I…”

Holmes started pacing and mumbling to himself and occasionally glancing in my direction. Apparently I had done something criminal based on his reaction. Perhaps he had a fear of blood? Some people were afflicted with that - a sudden weakness that came over them when they smelled it or saw it. Perhaps he didn’t want to be embarrassed by it in my presence? Perhaps he felt faint?

“Ah Mister Holmes! What a lovely surprise!” The shopkeeper cried out. “We rarely see you during the day. What can I do for you?”

Holmes flashed me an angry look, before disappearing into the store to speak to the owner, leaving me absolutely confused. I turned to look in an antique mirror on the wall, dabbing at the scratch on my cheek and wondering what on earth had just occurred between us.

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

@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 

@lisbeth-kk @helloliriels @totallysilvergirl @221beloved @safedistancefrombeingsmart  

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

@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 

@lisbeth-kk @helloliriels @totallysilvergirl @221beloved @safedistancefrombeingsmart  

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

@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 

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

@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 

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: