Calais Reno

The Three Gables

The subdued omnipresent strain of period-typical racism that runs throughout the entire canon is at its worst in this shoddily plotted story. Though it gives us a hasty peek at the formidably under-used Langdale Pike, Holmes’ gossiping columnist friend, there is nothing that can redeem this adventure. Holmes is indeed a product of his time and privileged place in society, and as such displays a complex array of prejudicial attitudes, but it is hard to reconcile his relaxed mood at the conclusion of “The Yellow Face” with his aggressive racism toward the figure of Steve Dixie. The case itself is a rehash of an already twice-used plot, growing weaker each time: it is basically identical in premise to both the events of the Red-Headed League and the missing Garrideb, with clues that apparently no one but the reader picks up on, a Holmes with a remarkable absence of foresight, and the villain(ess) undeservedly getting away with her crime. One is left to wonder why it was considered for publication at all. 

Chapter 5 of a Chance of Showers is up on Ao3 for you now! Enjoy!

Summary: When the Watson's shower becomes unusable, John asks Sherlock if he can shower at 221b for a while. Now if only he could figure out why this feels so right.

Or start at the beginning here.

"Well, maybe he'll realise-" she began.

"Don't," Sherlock said, trying hard not to snap. "Please. He made his choice and it wasn't me."

"Not much of a choice that, if he didn't know all his options," Mrs Hudson tutted. "Really, Sherlock, I think if you had just told him …"

"If I had told him, he would have walked away and I would have never seen him again," Sherlock said firmly. "You know it's true."

What if the children go to schools unafraid of tear gas and bullets?

What if the birds come back, and the bees are healed, and every species moves from endangered, to threatened, to thriving?

What if the rainforest ADVANCES?

What if every parking lot had solar panels? What if every structure had solar panels? What if we built climbing gyms and terraced gardens in the skeletons of old coal power plants?

What if you baked your neighbor bread, and they shared their home-grown blackberries?

What if every person who needed a home, had one? What if every person who needed healing was healed?

What if every body was treasured for what it was, not what it should be?

What if every trans child's parents attended their graduation, their wedding, their new-name-day?

What if every warehouse became a closed-circle repair station? Goods flowing out, and back, and out again? What if landfills started to SHRINK?

What if the water and air were clean? What if there was enough public transit that the cars dwindled, leaving the streets safe for kids on bikes, evening deer, midnight cats and foxes?

What if we win?

The condors are back. The whales are saved. The sea turtles are no longer endangered. The cranes are back. The bees are recovering. The air in LA and Tokyo and London is clean again. The aquifers in the LA Basin are refilling.

Children are kinder than previous generations. Parents are stopping the abuse cycle. Being trans and queer is more acceptable than ever on a ground level.

It's hard to see if you're young, if you don't know how to step back from social media and the news. But remember--bad news sells, and the algorithm knows despair keeps you scrolling. It's a skewed lens.

We are fighting and we are winning against this adminstration's bullying. We are coming together against the bullies and they are running away scared because they don't understand that we will do that.

People are working hard every day to find ways to make sure fewer animals get hit by cars and planes and rockets.

Maker spaces are more common than ever. Solar and wind are more common than ever. Coal plants are shutting down every day.

Unprecedented numbers of acres are being bought back or given back to their rightful stewards, and the world heals because of it. People are working hard every day to learn how to help a forest recover faster.

We are not at zero. We are at decades of effort to heal the world. We've come SO far.

In 1982 there were only 22 California Condors left in the world. In 1992, when the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service (USFWS), with its public and private partners, began reintroducing captive-bred condors to the wild. In 2001 the first wild nesting occurred in Grand Canyon National Park since re-introduction. In 2002 there were only 8 pairs of wild nesting birds population-wide. In 2008, for the first time since the program began, more California condors were flying free in the wild than in captivity. Today there are nearly 500 – more than half of them flying free in Arizona, Utah, California, and Baja Mexico.

When I was born, there were no condors in the wild. I'm 37 now, and there are over 250 condors flying free.

When my mom was born in 1955, there were days when she wasn't allowed to go outside to play, because of the air pollution. When I was born, that never happened anymore.

When I was born, humpback whales were critically endangered, and people thought they were going to go extinct. Today, they've recovered to exceed their recorded numbers. Other whales too!

We fixed it.

Since 1990 extreme poverty has decreased worldwide by over HALF.

This amazing author - who had to work so hard to be recognized as a legit science fiction writer - predicted Donald Trump's America in a book published 31 years ago, set in the year 2024.

Fluffbruary Extended Version Infinifluff. June 14. (Sherlock fandom) Prompts: grove - arbour - formal + the image below.

Chapter 4: The Former British Government

Summary: For the first time since John arrived, the weather changes. It looks as if a storm is approaching. When Sherlock informs him that this has everything to do with his brother's predestined arrival, John doesn't believe him. Surely, dark clouds and the probable thunderstorm aren't signs of a human appearing at their doorstep?

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Sherlock fandom

Out With It

I've witnessed Sherlock do this on a number of occasions, and the fact is, I'm no stranger to the concept myself. 

When I’m writing a blog post, when I’m in the kitchen making dinner, when I’m daydreaming about my mad flatmate in the shower, are some examples of me being stuck inside my head. Of course, I don’t have a Mind Palace like he has. I don’t walk down imagined corridors, into libraries, labs, cellars, and what have you like he does when he leaves for his spacious second home.

Unlike him, I’m easily roused out of my torpor. Just a touch to my shoulder, my name softly spoken, or the scent of tea, is enough to pull me back to the present.

I’m not in the habit of losing myself in thoughts for longer periods like Sherlock does. Mostly, only a few minutes have passed before I’m back to full consciousness. Therefore, it’s utterly fascinating to me that my best friend can stay in his Mind Palace for endless hours.

“Have you ever got lost? Been unable to return?”

It’s a ridiculous question, of course, but I’ve always wondered. His answer both worries and astounds me.

“I have. Only once. It was unnerving.”

“Oh, wow. But… um… how – “

“Mycroft.”

Of course, his brother and mentor – the man who has taught him this memory technique in the first place – would come to his aid when he realised that Sherlock had lost himself in his head.

“How? When?”

“I don’t recall how. It was years before we met. I was… high.”

Despite that I’d suspected this, it hurts to hear him admit it. The stinging sensation in my heart - as if I’ve been stabbed with a stiletto - is as real as the toast on my plate.

“I’m glad he was there,” I say quietly.

“Indeed,” he agrees.

Let’s play the biggest game of kick the can on the internet.

Just a little tiny tiny thing of me projecting my woes onto holmes!

Hope you like this little heap of fluff!

The Illustrious Client

“He gave no explanations and I asked for none. By long experience I had learned the wisdom of obedience. But when I had left his room I walked down Baker Street, revolving in my head how on earth I was to carry out so strange an order.”

My back is up against the wall like never before. I just had to spend two full days and nights living in my car. While I was able to spend daytime hours at various locations like McDonald's and Dunkin (the Library being closed, so it wasn't an option), the nights were pure hell. No sleep from being crammed into the driver seat because my car holds all my worldly possessions.

I ended up so badly dehydrated that I've finally only been able to urinate in the last 15 hours; fear of not having overnight access to a restroom kept me from drinking enough fluids to function properly. My AFIB was triggered, making my heart race badly and pushing me to the edge of passing out from light-headedness. That happened when I was turning in redeemable bottles for the deposit money to buy food; I literally laid down on a bench waiting for it to pass, when the grocery store manager got an ambulance and I spent eight hours in the ER. When all my vitals returned to normal (and having gone that whole time without fluids of any kind until I asked for water at hour six), they released me to go "home" to my car. Two hoours later, my heart was back to racing again. After a single night in a room (last night), I'm just starting to recover, though my legs still ache very badly. I have no place to turn to as my short-term disability payments still haven't been approved. In two days, with temperatures in the 90's F, I'll be back in my car.

It's like a slow death, and if I could be unconscious throughout it, I'd choose that, but my body won't allow me to sleep. At this point, I'm begging for a single night at a motel at a time. $70 gets me that, even though the weekly rate is cheaper ($56/night). For the first time in this journey, I am out of both strength and hope. I never conceived of sinking this low. I have less than 48 hours to raise funds for the next night. I don't want to live through this again.

So some fanartist drew a “sexy” (read: booby) version of a (cartoon) character who is traditionally very non-sexualised. Fans of the character got mad about it because it’s kind of groundbreaking how that character is written and portrayed and this art totally ignores the entire point of the character. They demanded the art be deleted. In response to that other people said, well what the fanartist did may be distateful but they have every right to draw what they’re into. The two sides fight for days and each starts a harassment campaign and even report their “opponents’” accounts.

So far so typical. But things eventually come to a head and they decide that this will be settled by votes - not through a poll. Through donations to a children’s education charity via each side’s portal. Whoever can get the highest amount of donation wins.

WIP Wednesday : The Sibylline Book

In 2019 I wrote a short fic called The Story of Us, inspired by a line from the movie Arrival. It was an intriguing idea and good enough story, but it felt incomplete, as if I'd skipped over a lot of the best parts. I had ideas about it.

A few months later, I started writing a story called Palimpsest, but backed away from it when other things took my attention.

At some point, I realised that these two ideas were made for each other. The John from The Story of Us with the Sherlock of Palimpsest might create an interesting dynamic.

In May of 2020 I wrote Sherlock investigating the murder of Vincent Karpaty. He didn't know John yet, but John had already -- well, you'll see.

The Sibylline Book includes some of my favourite things: ancient books, manuscripts written in unknown languages, conlang nerds, cold cases, murders, Chicago, classical scholars feuding over trivial things, first meetings, a John Watson obsessively trying to read a story written eight hundred years ago, and our favourite consulting detective falling in love. Did I say murders?

And Johnlock, for sure 💕

I'm aiming for early 2026, but will give you a bit now:

“I’d like to make a confession,” the old man said. “Not because I’m religious, but because in everyone there is something that wants unburdening. There are things I have kept to myself which I would like you to know. As you are one of the youngest men Scotland Yard has promoted to Inspector, I think you might benefit from my experience. And I would ask you not to reveal what I say to anyone else.”

“Of course,” said his companion. “You can trust me.”

“Thank you,” he said, and began his tale. “When I was a young man, I went into the priesthood, not because I wanted to give my life to God. In fact, I was quite certain that God did not exist. For me, however, there seemed to be no place in life— no calling which let me exercise my deductive talents. From a man’s fingers and boots and the knees of his trousers I could tell his profession and see how life had disappointed him. From a woman’s shoes and shirtsleeves and jewellery I could tell what she did to earn money and whether or not she loved someone. If anyone had asked me how I knew this, I could have explained the observations that led me there. Most people, however, regarded my deductions as impertinent and a bit mad. So I became a priest and looked into men’s souls, uncertain whether I had a soul or not. 

“One night a man came to me for confession, and his voice told me that he was a murderer. It had been a long time since he had killed, but now he was dying and wished to confess what he had done. 

“He had committed the perfect murder, he said, and knew it was perfect because he’d never been caught. His cancer was a slow form that would give him another few years. He did not reveal any details of his crime, but said that no one had even realised that the death was a murder. He chose a person he had never met, and had no reason for killing them other than to see if anyone would notice. The victim was too young to have died of natural causes. Nevertheless, a natural cause was assumed. The family accepted this unsatisfactory reasoning and let it go.  

“That is what the dying man confessed to me. He gave me no name, no date, no explanation of his method. Though I had many questions, I mumbled the words of absolution, and he left.

“This event changed my life. I began to look at unsolved murders, mysterious deaths of past years. I devoted my life to solving as many as I could, and was remarkably successful— so successful that I left the priesthood and became a detective. At first I worked with Scotland Yard, solving cold cases. Eventually, word of my successes spread, and I took on clients as a private detective. Solving crimes, finding murderers, restoring justice for victims— to these I have devoted my life.”

“It has been a remarkable life,” said his companion. “You truly found your calling, I believe. Did you ever solve the case that started you off, the perfect murder, as you called it?”

“I don’t know,” he replied. “I solved many murders in my career, unlocked many mysteries that no one else noticed. Perhaps I did solve it. There really is no way to know, is there?

“But here is what I wish to confess to you, my boy. I became obsessed, wondering whether there truly could be an unsolvable crime. It must obviously be a murder, but without any suspects, no weapon, and no opportunity for it to have happened. For many years I planned it, and at last I believed I’d invented the perfect crime. And so it was.”

“You— murdered a man? Just to see if you would be caught?”

Last Words by Calais Reno

If you were dying ... if you’d been murdered: in your very last few seconds what would you say? Now John knows what his last words would be. 

This is a Fandom Trumps Hate gift for the lovely and generous Margalo_Schiff! I thank her for the opportunity to write this.

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