🎹Irene🎹

Looking to add more of Roach in your rotation of blorbos? Curious about the Revenge's cook surgeon? What makes a background character with such few lines so compelling?

There's a whole free zine about his character - including annotated scene by scene screenshots, costume breakdowns, information on Amazigh culture, and links to Samba's interviews, BTS, deleted scenes, and other posted goodies!

You can find it here:

[id: graphic announcing the updated Roach zine - Tender as Hell. A Roach reference zine for artists , writers and creators. By Randy Roy/@royaleminit/bongbingbong, with the link to where you can download it and artwork by the compiler of the zine: A back view of Roach looking somewhere to our left in a sky background. His back is bare. /end id]

Here's the zine contents under the split!

[This piece is accompanied by @reidididier 's beautiful writing]

Faint strands of cigarette smoke curled toward the ceiling, and I, thoughtfully swinging my slippered toe, ran my hand through Holmes's hair.

My companion sat in his usual spot - at the foot of my chair, warming himself by the fireplace on this chilly, winter evening.

The weather wasn't great; it had been pouring rain all evening, drumming on our windowpane and hastening people on their way home from work.

Gabriel was late. I noticed Holmes had already glanced at his pocket watch several times. He always worried when things weren't going as he expected. But scratching the hair on the back of his neck calmed my restless man, and he rested his temple on my knee.

So we sat there, smelling the aromas of our cold dinner, both refusing to eat without our little inspector.

Finally, the key turned in the lock downstairs, Mrs. Hudson's inaudible lamentations could be heard from below, and we rose together, expecting our precious ferret any minute.

He entered our living room, shivering, his hair slightly damp, strands of which had escaped their coiffure, falling in dark lines across his forehead. Lestrade noticed us and smiled wearily as we took a step toward him.

Gabriel hummed in response to the greeting and closed his eyes contentedly as I cupped his face in my hands, pressing a few warm kisses to his cheeks and nose before kissing our lover properly.

He leaned against my chest, relaxing his shoulders, and I took some of his weight. Holmes fidgeted around us, like a worried cat, until he was finally behind the inspector, his hands resting on his waist, under his jacket, and running his thumbs over his stomach.

Lestrade turned his head, meeting a soft gaze, and reached out to him with one hand, resting the other on my chest.

“The weather is terrible. I couldn't catch a cab for a long time.” He said, apologetically, an inch from Holmes's lips, but he didn't let him continue.

“It's good you're not soaking wet.” I smiled, brushing the hair from his forehead and pressing a kiss to his temple.

Lestrade yelped, and I pulled away, noticing Holmes's hand sliding from his waist to his hips, even squeezing lightly through the fabric of his trousers.

A predatory smile spread across my companion's lips, almost completely hidden from me by Gabriel's head. He was clearly pleased with his little trick.

“Your jacket is damp; take it off.” I muttered, unbuttoning the top button of his jacket. The inspector shrugged, throwing off the damp, heavy fabric. He refused to move away from us for a second, as evidenced by the fact that his head rested comfortably on my chest.

However, to his regret, he still had to move away to remove his shoes and wet socks. He shivered uncomfortably, stepping with his bare feet onto the boards and immediately tried to jump onto the carpet.

“Have you had dinner?”

“We were waiting for you, Inspector.” Holmes had no intention of leaving his side, still clutching his waist in his hands as usual, while Lestrade delightedly loosened his tie, coming closer to me.

I reached for him, slipping my middle and index fingers under the silk strip of fabric, then clenched it in my fist, gently pulling Gabriel toward me.

His dark eyes glinted in the warm light of the living room, and he stared up at me, his lips barely curling into a smile.

“Are you counting on a second dinner after the main one, John?”

“The second dinner will be the main one.” Both my hands gently untied his tie, letting it hang over his trembling shoulders as Lestrade leaned in for a kiss.

He melted between us like the wax of a soft candle. I felt his weight distribute itself between us, and there was no better feeling.

I felt her slide up next to me before I actually set eyes on her. Turning my face to meet the eye of our long-suffering landlady, I was stopped in my tracks by her gaze, silently enquiring me to keep quiet. This, I could understand, the desire to not shatter the atmosphere, and the silent request to share it with her. 

Mrs Hudson was a sturdy but short woman, compact in her ways and in the way she moved. I loved her for her sternness and her compassion alike, and was endlessly thankful to her in the way she tolerated her two strange tenants. She had taken a motherly role to Holmes and I in that sort of way that comes so naturally you don’t realise it until you’re faced with it. In that moment though, in similar state of dress to myself with the exception of her favourite embroidered shawl thrown over her shoulders, she seemed quite small and fragile, much like how I myself felt. Her hair, done in a loose braid thrown onto one side of her neck gave her an appearance that was simultaneously more youthful and wise, settled in her years. I gawked at the sight of her, in nightgown and flower-patterned shawl, utterly unprepared for such a moment, in spite of the deep affection that was evident we held for each other. 

All things considered, I had retired to my room quite early for the odd hours I’ve known myself to keep. I was feeling rather fatigued and just as content from the day’s happenings though, and falling into Sleep’s arms was easy.

I must have slept for an hour or two before a knocking at my door roused me from my slumber. My old soldier’s instincts caused me to jolt in panic before my brain had the time to catch up to me. There was no danger for someone had simply knocked on my door, not burst in or hid under my bedboards.

The second knocking was even softer, somewhat, I recount now, timid.

“Come in, Holmes”, was my soft reply, for I was certain, even in my sleep and excitement muddled brain, that it was he.

Sure enough, Sherlock Holmes quietly opened the door and stepped in, before closing it back behind him.

In the darkness, my vision, which was starting to get used to the absence of light, was able to make out his glistening eyes and the apprehension in his features.

No matter. He had come in, hadn’t he?

I raised my upper half up to rest seated against the headboard. Holmes was in his nightshirt alone, hair flopping gently on his temple. He looked as vulnerable as I had seen him when ill, but he wasn’t taken by sickness. It was only a certain sort of sweetness that seemed to come over him sometimes, usually late at night like this, and my dearest friend looked decades younger, teary eyes staring down at me.

I could tell he wanted to come closer, give in to the natural human instinct of touch, of being warmed and giving warmth. Feeling suddenly brave and protective of the brilliant man in front of me, I reached out my hand.

He came closer timidly, padding softly closer. I held him by the forearm, unspeaking, and gently pulled him down. He went willingly.

An entirely involuntary exhale of relief left my friend’s lips once he found himself seated next to me. I smiled at him in encouragement, hoping he could make out my expression as well I was able to make out his.