Final Problems | Empty Houses

OK OK OK. So I woke up after not very much sleep, and I rewatched TEH, and I had time to work out what it was about the bomb carriage scene that made me think it isn’t actually a horrible travesty.

YVMMmassivelyV. But the best way of explaining seemed to be this.

Title: You Can’t Switch the Bomb Off and You Did(n’t) Call the Police? Fandom: Sherlock BBC Author: pennypaperbrain’s evil unedited twin Rating: Teen Warnings: Angst, unedited florid writing - utter first draft, posted asap because this is more part of the current discussion than a fic Wordcount: 1,177 Spoilers: Up to and including TEH Summary: Sherlock stream of consciousness in the bomb carriage.

AO3 link

Much as they began and ended they begin again.

"A Sherlock Nursery Rhyme"

This was created in collaboration with magnetohydrodynamicjinglebells who wrote the nursery rhyme and advised on the overall style of the piece as part of the Sherlock Mini-Bang.

I was lucky to get the chance to participate at all after google, tumblr and the universe in general had conspired against it, and to be assigned this magnificent partner. I wish we’d had time to do more of these somewhat darker nursery rhymes. As for the style, it’s a somewhat simplified form of inked watercolours reminiscent of children’s books illustrations.

"You don’t make a big deal of it," Mary had explained as he had unwrapped the box, "but you love music and, well…I saw you drooling over this record player a few weeks ago and…oh hell — It’s too much, isn’t it? I went too big? I just knew you’d like it and—" 

John had cut her off with a gentle kiss. “It’s amazing and I love it. YOU’RE amazing. Of course, now I’m going to have to go start trolling the vintage vinyl shops and get a respectable collection up and running again.” 

"Oh! Wait! I have a start for you. I know it’s a little silly but…it’s Christmas. And a man in the store said I shouldn’t get you a record player and nothing to play on it, and he suggested that this would be festive, but would allow you to choose your own collection." She’d handed him an unwrapped sleeve adorned with a semi-tasteful pile of holiday frippery and looping gold cursive text proclaiming the record full of ‘Holiday Favorites" and that they were "On Violin!" Most likely, the store over-ordered and was instructing every employee to push the record on unsuspecting customers.

He’d smiled and kissed her cheek. “It’s lovely. Truly. It’ll make the flat positively cheery. Perhaps even jolly.”

They’d giggled and sipped tea together while the first few flakes of an unexpected Christmas snowstorm fell and it wasn’t until after Mary had left to meet with her sister for an early lunch that he’d remembered the record. It seemed as though it might be a nice accompaniment to his dinner preparations. 

The first few strains of Silent Night had caught him off guard for a moment. Just hearing the echoing sighs of a violin inside 221b after so much time was…startling. He’d smiled sadly and then shaken himself back into the present. And once he got over the initial shock, the music really was quite nice. Actually cheery. 

Until a quiet, haunting solo version of I’ll Be Home For Christmas poured out of the speakers. He’d sunk down in his armchair and just listened for the length of the song, tea forgotten next to him. When it ended, he’d remained sitting for the next two songs, fighting prickles at the corners of his eyes. 

Mary returned a few hours later, as he was pulling together the last minute details for dinner. 

"John, I tell you, we haven’t had a storm like this in YEARS, and for Christmas no less…" Her voice grew muffled as she struggled out the many layers of protection she was wearing against the weather. "Rather charming I suppose, though. Dinner smells amazing, love." As she walked through the living room, she noticed the record on the turntable. "So you filled the place with holiday cheer this afternoon, did you?" 

John glanced over, confused for a moment, and saw what she was looking at. He cleared his throat. “Yes…it was. Actually…quite good. I enjoyed it. You’ll have to thank the man at the shop for me. It was…just the thing.” 

Mary didn’t even look back at him as she absently rearranged a few small items on the mantle. “Oh, he wasn’t an employee,” she said off-hand. “Just some bloke. Tall.” 

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AWWWW YEAHHHHHH

after moriarty’s death, Sherlock tracks down his apartment

not his five or six fake apartments, his actual magpie home

where he nestles his toys and games and things that weren’t important at all in the end, because they weren’t Sherlock

but he has constellations painted on the ceiling and he has an old but more than functional telescope at the far east window, and, on the bookcase, books by Hegel, Proust, Schiller, Kant, Derrida.

when Sherlock opens Derrida’s Signature Event Context—it’s creased down the spine 143 pages in—he finds short but spindly writing in the margins. Moriarty’s commentary is acidic yet appreciative.