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There's been a number of people reporting over on the AO3 subreddit that they're getting messages like this posted in the comments shortly after posting new fics.
The AO3 team are NEVER going to try and contact you about TOS violations via the comment section (or about anything else for that matter)
Don't click any links. Report the accounts involved (which might claim to be things like "LucySupport"), delete the message and move on.
Yes to most of this, but do NOT delete the comments if you're going to report! The AO3 team needs to be able to see the comments in order to take action against the spambot accounts.
Sherlock is thorough in his education of Rosie. When she starts asking about clocks, watches, and time itself, he dives in like an eager schoolboy.
John thinks it’ll be sufficient to teach their daughter about digital numerals. Of course, Sherlock cannot agree to such outrageous and inadequate tutelage.
“She might come across analogue clocks or watches, John, and what then? They will seem like hieroglyphs to her; she won’t understand them. At all!”
“Calm down, my precious husband. She’s barely eight, you know.”
“The sooner she learns this, the sooner we can move on to other topics. It is never too early to start.”
“What other topics?” John asks suspiciously.
Sherlock just waves a hand in lieu of answering, as if to say: “Oh, you know. Useful skills.”
This does not placate John, but he knows which fights to pick and which to leave behind. For now, at least.
***
Sherlock does his research and brings Rosie to the Clockmaker’s Museum in South Kensington, which is a part of the Science Museum. There are clocks, watches, and chronometers; more than 1400 objects in fact. John is sceptical when Sherlock divulges where he’ll take their daughter on a Saturday morning, but in the end, he decides to trust his husband.
Rosie is in awe of all the different items, and when Sherlock presents the treasure hunt form, she beams up at him.
Of course, they start with the frightening and gruesome section.
Can you find a watch which looks like a skull – ugghhhhrr!
Sherlock shudders at the unseemly collection of letters at the end, but Rosie just laughs and tries to find the correct glass case, which to Sherlock’s delight are all numbered with Roman numerals.
Rosie is obviously not overly impressed by the metallic skull. There is after all a real human skull residing on their mantle back home.
The next object on the scary list, as Rosie calls it, is more to Sherlock’s liking.
A lock of hair from the beheaded King Charles in 1649 is believed to be in this case – please do not faint!
“As if,” he scoffs, while Rosie makes her way to the case with the number VI on it.
They move to the Explosive Stuff after that, much to Sherlock’s delight.
This clever clock rewinds itself by making its own really explosive gas – do not worry it is not workingtoday!
“Pity,“ Sherlock mutters.
***
Once Rosie has found every object on the list, Sherlock decides to start the education for real. They walk around to look at the clocks now, which have larger faces and hands. He avoids the ones with Roman numerals since Rosie’s had enough of those after the hunt earlier.
The girl is just as curious as Sherlock was himself at her age, and she marvels at the ticking sounds the second hands make. She even startles a bit when the minute hand moves once the second hand has completed its revolution.
“Is time broken, papa?” she asks when they encounter a large grandfather clock that has stopped.
“Not as such. But most of these older clocks need to be wound up to work.”
“Do they get tired?”
Sherlock hides his smile and places a hand on his daughter’s nape.
“You could say that. They work relentlessly all day, always ticking and showing the correct time. That does sound exhausting.”
Rosie yawns and nods solemnly.
***
“Look, papa! They have that strange thing Uncle Myc has in his living room.”
“Ah, yes. That is a clock of sorts too, you know. It is called an hourglass.”
“Oh! Why is it called that? Does it only show one hour?”
“My clever girl! Though, the time depends on how much sand there is in them. They have been around for around one thousand years.”
“Wow! That’s old.”
“Hence why your uncle has one,” Sherlock smirks.
“Can we make one ourselves?” Rosie wants to know.
“Of course. There’s an instruction manual we can take home right there.”
“Brilliant! And when all the sand has run through, it will be as if time has stopped.”
“Well, yes. The hourglass is used to measure time, not to show it like clocks and watches do.”
“Like an old-fashioned stopwatch?”
“Exactly.”
***
Over dinner that evening, Rosie tells John all about their excursion.
“It was too bad you had to work, daddy. I had such fun!”
“I’m glad to hear it, sweetheart. Knowing how to read the time is a useful skill,” John replies and winks at Sherlock, who smiles knowingly at him.
“And in the end, I found another weird clock thing which is ill suited to show the time. At least in this rainy weather. Another time breaker.”
John lifts his eyebrows at his daughter, who rolls her eyes in a sherlockian fashion.
“A sundial. Obviously.”
“Obviously,” her parents mirthfully reply in unison.
Open a bank account or get a credit card without signed permission from her father or hr husband.
Serve on a jury - because it might inconvenience the family not to have the woman at home being her husband’s helpmate.
Obtain any form of birth control without her husband’s permission. You had to be married, and your hub and had to agree to postpone having children.
Get an Ivy League education. Ivy League schools were men’s colleges ntil the 70′s and 80′s. When they opened their doors to women it was agree that women went there for their MRS. Degee.
Experience equality in the workplace: Kennedy’s Commission on the Status of Women produced a report in 1963 that revealed, among other things, that women earned 59 cents for every dollar that men earned and were kept out of the more lucrative professional positions.
Keep her job if she was pregnant.Until the Pregnancy Discrimination Act in 1978, women were regularly fired from their workplace for being pregnant.
Refuse to have sex with her husband.The mid 70s saw most states recognize marital rape and in 1993 it became criminalized in all 50 states. Nevertheless, marital rape is still often treated differently to other forms of rape in some states even today.
Get a divorce with some degree of ease.Before the No Fault Divorce law in 1969, spouses had to show the faults of the other party, such as adultery, and could easily be overturned by recrimination.
Have a legal abortion in most states.The Roe v. Wade case in 1973 protected a woman’s right to abortion until viability.
Take legal action against workplace sexual harassment. According to The Week, the first time a court recognized office sexual harassment as grounds for legal action was in 1977.
Play college sports Title IX of the Education Amendments of protects people from discrimination based on sex in education programs or activities that receive Federal financial assistance It was nt until this statute that colleges had teams for women’s sports
Apply for men’s Jobs The EEOC rules that sex-segregated help wanted ads in newspapers are illegal. This ruling is upheld in 1973 by the Supreme Court, opening the way for women to apply for higher-paying jobs hitherto open only to men.
This is why we needed feminism - this is why we know that feminism works
I just want to reiterate this stuff, because I legit get the feeling there are a lot of younger women for whom it hasn’t really sunk in what it is today’s GOP is actively trying to return to.
Did you go to a good college? Shame on you, you took a college placement that could have gone to a man who deserves and needs it to support or prepare for his wife & children. But if you really must attend college, well, some men like that, you can still get married if you focus on finding the right man.
Got a job? Why? A man could be doing that job. You should be at home caring for a family. You shouldn’t be taking that job away from a man who needs it (see college, above). You definitely don’t have a career – you’ll be pregnant and raising children soon, so no need to worry about promoting you.
This shit was within living memory. I’M A MILLENIAL and my mother was in the second class that allowed women at an Ivy League school. Men who are alive today either personally remember shit like this or have parents/family who have raised them into thinking this was the way America functioned back in the blissful Good Old Days. There are literally dudes in the GOP old enough to remember when it was like this and yearn for those days to return.
When people talk about resisting conservativism and the GOP, we’re not just talking about whether the wage gap is a myth or not. We’re talking about whether women even have the fundamental right to exist as individuals, to run their own households and compete for jobs and be considered on an equal footing with men in any arena at all in the first place.
I was a child in the 1960s, a teenager in the 1970s, a young adult in the 1980s.
This is what it was like:
When I was growing up, it was considered unfortunate if a girl was good at sports. Girls were not allowed in Little League. Girls’ teams didn’t exist in high school, except at all-girls’ high schools. Boys played sports, and girls were the cheerleaders.
People used to ask me as a child what I wanted to be when I grew up. I said I wanted to be a brain surgeon or the first woman justice on the Supreme Court. Everyone told me it was impossible–those just weren’t realistic goals for a girl–the latter, especially, because you couldn’t trust women to judge fairly and rationally, after all.
In the 1960s and 1970s, all women were identified by their marital status, even in arrest reports and obituaries. In elementary school, my science teacher referred to Pierre Curie as DOCTOR Curie and Marie Curie as MRS. Curie…because, as he put it, “she was just his wife.” (Both had doctorates and both were Nobel prize winners, so you would think that both would be accorded respect.)
Companies could and did require women to wear dresses and skirts. Failure to do could and did get women fired. And it was legal. It was also legal to fire women for getting married or getting pregnant. The rationale was that a woman who was married or who had a child had no business working; that was what her husband was for. Aetna Insurance, the biggest insurance company in America, fired women for all of the above.
A man could rape his wife. Legally. I can remember being twelve years old and reading about legal experts actually debating whether or not a man could actually be said to coerce his wife into having sex. This was a serious debate in 1974.
The debate about marital rape came up in my law school, too, in 1984. Could a woman be raped by her husband? The guys all said no–a woman got married, so she was consenting to sex at all times. So I turned it around. I asked them if, since a man had gotten married, that meant that his wife could shove a dildo or a stick or something up his ass any time she wanted to for HER sexual pleasure.
(Hey, I thought it was reasonable. If one gender was legally entitled to force sex on the other, then obviously the reverse should also be true.)
The male law students didn’t like the idea. Interestingly, they commented that being treated like that would make them feel like a woman.
My reaction was, “Thank you for proving my point…”
The concept of date rape, when first proposed, was considered laughable. If a woman went out on a date, the argument of legal experts ran, sexual consent was implied. Even more sickening was the fact that in some states–even in the early 1980s–a man could rape his daughter…and it was no worse than a misdemeanor.
Women taking self-defense classes in the 1970s and 1980s were frequently described in books and on TV as “cute.” The implication was that it was absurd for a woman to attempt to defend herself, but wasn’t it just adorable for her to try?
I was expressly forbidden to take computer classes in junior and senior years of high school–1978-79 and 1979-80–because, as the principal told me, “Only boys have to know that kind of thing. You girls are going to get married, and you won’t use it.”
When I was in college–from 1980 to 1984–there were no womens’ studies. The idea hadn’t occurred in many places because the presumption was that there was nothing TO study. My history professor–a man who had a doctorate in history–informed me quite seriously that women had never produced a noted painter, sculptor, composer, architect or scientist because…wait for it…womens’ brains were too small.
(He was very surprised when I came up with a list of fifty women gifted in the arts and science, most of whom he had never heard of before.)
When Walter Mondale picked Geraldine Ferraro as a running mate in 1984, the press hailed it as a disaster. What would happen, they asked fearfully, if Mondale died and Ferraro became president? What if an international crisis arose and she was menstruating? She could push the nuclear button in a fit of PMS! It would be the end of the WORLD!!
…No, they WEREN’T kidding.
On the surface, things are very different now than they were when I was a child, a teen and a young adult. But I’m afraid that people now do not realize what it was like then. I’ve read a lot of posts from young women who say that they are not feminists. If the only exposure to feminism they have is the work of extremists, I cannot blame them overmuch.
I wish that I could tell them what feminism was like when it was new–when the dream of legal equality was just a dream, and hadn’t even begun to come true. When “woman’s work” was a sneer–and an overt putdown. When people tut-tutted over bright and athletic girls with the words, “Really, it’s a shame she’s not a boy.” That lack of feminism wasn’t all men opening doors and picking up checks. A lot of it was an attitude of patronizing contempt that hasn’t entirely died out, but which has become less publicly acceptable.
I wish I could make them feel what it was like…when grown men were called “men” and grown women were “girls.”
I am 70. I remember all those things. I was a student nurse from 64 to 67 and we were not permitted to “finish” a bed bath on a male or insert a catheter in a male. Seeing male genitals might cause us “harm” or upset our delicate sensibilities. Imagine when we graduated and were “thrown” to the wolves. Imagine if you were a male patient who had to be the first to be “practiced” on by a graduate nurse. (Ha!) At the school I attended no student nurse could be married. Only one school in my city (Atlanta) would even admit married women and Male Nurses weren’t even thought of. What man would want to be a nurse when he could be a Doctor. In all my training I only remember 3 or 4 Women who were Doctor’s and a very few, (less than 5 or 6) female interns or residents (and this was a teaching hospital) and most of those were OB/Gyns and one was a pediatrician.
When I graduated and was going to get married I wanted to go on birth control pills. You needed to be on them for a least one cycle before they were effective. I won’t go into what hoops I had to jump through to get a prescription from my Dr. (a man, natch) but when i went to the drug store to get the prescription filled I ended up having to get my future husband to “accompany” me so the pharmacist “interview” him and see if it was okay with him for me to be on the pill.
Even when we went to get a marriage license I had to get my Father’s signature and we had to go before a Judge because I was not yet 21 (I was 20 and 9 months).
I could go on and on, getting a credit card in MY name, etc., but I will tell you that WE MUST RESIST.
The number of people I know who romanticize gender inequality is frankly terrifying. A world never existed in which the lives of women were simplified by benevolent men who saw to her every want and need. That was not a thing. A world never existed in which women were all ladies, men were all gentlemen, & everything was some great big cishet fairytale. Feminists aren’t a bunch of upstarts who want to destroy a perfectly wholesome and non-harmful system. Just…look at history. Look at the posts above. We. Must. Resist..
This is what they mean, when they say “Old-fashioned values”
When conservatives start waxing lyrical about the ‘good old days’, this is what they mean. They are fully aware how much things blew for women, and they would like to return to that.
At first I re-blogged this with no commentary added because it’s already so thorough and good.
But then I realized I actually do want to add something. This was written nine years ago. In the 9 years that have come to pass the white nationalist Christian fascism ultra right agenda of misogyny has had many victories.
In the United States just off the top of my head a very few examples: there’s no longer a legally protected right to abortion. Countless laws across our country police, how woman you must look or be to enter a public bathroom. We know with certainty the president and countless people around him are pedophiles and rapists. Women’s participation in the workforce has been rolled back to 1980s levels. The pressure to be thin is higher now than 10 years ago.
If someone you know has bought into the MRA line–broach specific details like these, not misty tag lines or impalpable vibes. How okay are they with concrete unfreedoms like the examples in this post? Often, not very–and that’s an essential thin end of the wedge.
(The same goes for other categories, of race, ethnicity, sexual identity, etc.)
Read The Handmaid's Tale. That's what they want. That's why feminism exists. Because until very recently, women were considered property.
Feminism is simply the idea that women are fully functioning adults and should have the right to make decisions about every aspect of their lives, from their body to their health to their finances to their jobs. It's absurd that there are still people out there, women out there, who don't understand that their very personhood in the eyes of the law was fought and bled for by the very feminists they are so quick to disassociate from. And that this personhood is what these people want to undo. They want us to be property again. And we must fight against this like our lives depend on it, because guess what, they DO.
Being property can kill you. In so many ways. Don't want any more kids? Bad luck, that's your husband's decision. Get sick? Your husband decides what treatment you receive and what your doctors tell you. Don't want to marry the brutal town drunk? Not your call, your father has sold you to him, and that's your life from now on, because forget about divorce or even separation, because you have no money, can't earn money and can't own property without your husband's permission.
That's what they want to go back to. Women who don't say no because they can't. Legally. Women with no power, resources or agency. Women with no personhood. Obedient domestic servants who aren't allowed to say no to sex. Think about that. And tell me that's not a complete nightmare.
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One spot available again at European Fic Writers' Retreat (Belgium)
Dear Fic Writers! (Sherlock fandom and beyond!)
Life is unpredictable, and plans change sometimes! Last week, we've had to move the retreat from Germany to Belgium because of water damage (see this post) and now, due to more unforeseen circumstances, one participant has had to cancel, meaning that one spot has become available!
Here's all the info:
The European Fic Writers Retreat is taking place in Belgium from 13-16 August 2026.
Here are the details:
-Arrival from 3.30pm on 13 August (Thursday).
-Checkout at noon on 16 August (Sunday).
-Special discount price: 250 euros, to be transferred directly to the original participant. This includes accommodation (single room) and food (which we'll still have to cook ourselves, however).
Activities
There will be 3 writing/fandom workshops/activities each day. The rest of the time is for writing, hanging out and making new fandom friends.
Also there will be daily trips to the supermarket to get all the food we need. :)
There are currently 8 participants.
Venue
The accommodation has 8 bedrooms, several large common rooms, and a garden.
The location is in the very south-eastern part of Belgium. You have to arrange your own transport there, although there will likely be the possibility of getting a ride from a nearby city to the accommodation, as a couple of participants are travelling by car and are willing to pick up others.
Organisation
Be aware that this retreat isn't anything fancy or well-organised; it's just me (@shirleycarlton) having made a reservation for a large holiday house in hopes of finding enough fellow fanfic (British M/M slash) writers, who would like to attend and spend some quality time together.
Originally, this concept arose from the Sherlock fandom, and I (Shirley) personally exclusively write johnlock. However, a lot of Sherlock writers have (understandably) moved on to other fandoms, so whether you're currently into Good Omens, LOTR, James Bond, Our Flag Means Death, or RWRB, it's all fine, as John Watson would say. :)
To register, click here!
Tagging a few people again below the cut. Please help signal boost!
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Dead Boy Detectives (TV), Pismo Beach
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Relationships: Edwin Paine | Edwin Payne/Charles Rowland, Charles Rowland/Barbara Lasagna
Characters: Charles Rowland (DCU), Edwin Paine | Edwin Payne, Barbara Lasagna
Additional Tags: Drag Queens, Falling In Love, Magic, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Loneliness, Drag Queen Edwin Payne, yes you heard right
Summary:
“So, Brit pick,” she drawls, and laughter trails up from the audience, “you have a name to go with your rude attitude and -’ she pauses and circles the air head-level in front of him “ - ridiculously gorgeous face?”
“Charles,” he says, and tags on with a little stooped bow, “Miss. At your service.” He can be a little playful, too.
“Oh, at my service?” Barbara echoes flirtatiously, playing the audience for more laughs. She steps forward to grab his chin, forcing him to raise his eyes to meet hers. From so close, he can smell her, hair powder and makeup and a bit of musk from where the stage lights must make her sweat in her sequin frock.
Her fingers are warm on his face, her grip strong. Something zings in the air between them - chemistry, he thinks, thrilled. He knows he’s grinning, but so is she, unable to hide her delight. “We’ll see if you can be of service,” she announces dryly, to roaring laughter, painted lips curled into a smile, her voice dripping with innuendo.
Since I'm taking my time with my second Fandom Trumps Hate story, I've decided to give you all a small teaser. I won't give the title away yet, but the prompt from the brilliant @totallysilvergirl was that John can sing. Really sing. And he's managed to keep it a secret. Even from Sherlock! Yes, that's right.
As is my wont, I always rec fics (influenced long ago by my lovely recipient) and to my astonishment, I found that there are very few fics with this topic. Another reason to write one.
Excerpt:
John’s blog.
Anniversary Post
Congratulations to me on my tenth blog post! I know for a fact that the main character I’m writing about won’t even notice, but to me it is kind of a milestone. If you think that this is the tenth case I’ve been privy to, you’re wrong. Not every case is worth writing about. Some of them are actually classified if you can believe it. Shh…
If you are a regular reader, you know how this normally goes – clients and/or the police want Sherlock to help with their predicament. This time, though, things were slightly different.
I got an email from an acquaintance I hadn’t spoken to – nor thought of – in years. Claire Burnell nee Turnbull who I went to school with back in the day, has moved up in the world apparently. She is now the lady of Matfen Hall: Northumberland’s only five-star hotel. In fact, it is also a spa and a golf resort. Very posh going by the website, which is extensive. Or excessive, as Sherlock described it.
Anyway.
A little digression – you all know how heedful Sherlock is of his brain capacity, which is why I was utterly befuddled when he seemed to know Claire’s sister, Chloe. I only remember her as a clingy eight-year-old, but of course, she’s a grown woman now. And an acclaimed classical pianist. Hence Sherlock’s knowledge, I suppose.
Having read the email, I was quite certain I would have to disappoint Mrs Burnell – the case was a five at best – and Sherlock refuses to even leave the flat for less than a seven. If we were to help with this one, though, we’d have to leave London for the rural parts of Northumberland. My hopes weren’t high, but for the sake of my previous relations to Mrs Burnell, I decided to at least ask Sherlock when he got home from wherever he was at that particular moment. He sure wasn’t at Tesco to get milk, I can tell you that much!
I won’t bore you all with Sherlock’s deductions about my previous relationship with Claire Turnbull (now Burnell) – let’s just say they were just as substantial as Matfen Hall’s website.
To my utter befuddlement, Sherlock readily agreed to take the case.
“You do realise we need to travel to Northumberland, yes?” I asked, just to be sure he’d understood what it would entail to solve Mrs Burnell’s plight.
“Don’t be obtuse, John!”
And that was apparently that, because the next day we were on the 8.30 train from King’s Cross, which would reach Newcastle a little after 11 a.m.
Sherlock fandom. TW: canonical suicide, blood, depression.
It Was My Fault
Somehow, I can’t shake the feeling that I was to blame for Sherlock’s suicide. I should have observed more carefully. When I think about our last encounter – before the roof incident – God, I was so angry with him! But now, I’m able to peel away his obnoxious behaviour and to see how anxious he was. He already knew what he was about to do next - once he got me to leave - and it must have terrified him. Even the great Sherlock Holmes couldn’t have been indifferent to jumping from a building to his inevitable death.
“You have blood on your hands, Watson. His blood.”
This is a mantra I tend to torment myself with when I wake from a nightmare; a horrible dream where I see him fall in slow motion to prolong my agony. When I finally reach him - no one stops me this time - I place my palms on his beautiful face, wipes away the blood, closes his eyes, and pecks his lips.
“Sleep tight, Sherlock. I love you. I’m sorry.” I whisper in his ear.
The dream always ends with people appearing to take him away. I fight them like a tiger, but to no avail.
I wake with his name on my lips, tears streaming down my cheeks, and my heart shatters once more.
***
He looked like twelve that day – his last day on Earth. Just like he did the first time I met him. Seen in hindsight, something was different, though.
There was a bone deep sadness in his features when he played with the stress ball as if he’d realised how I and his other friends would react once they realised that he was dead. And yes, he did have more than one friend; I was just one of many.
Mrs Hudson, for starters. In fact, she was more like a mother to him. She grieves as if she were, for sure.
Then there’s Greg, Molly, Angelo, Wiggins, Mike; his entire homeless network, for goodness’ sake! Not to mention everyone who owed him a favour; there must be dozens, if not hundreds.
And still, he was dead (pardon the pun) serious when he declared that I was his only friend after we’d solved the Baskerville case. I could tell that he wasn’t shamming; trying to get into my good grazes again. It was pure honesty. By then, I had learned to discern the difference.
I can’t spend too much time thinking about that, or I’ll break down.
Why did he feel the need to take his own life when…
***
I’ve stopped bringing Mrs Hudson when I visit his grave. She’s so fragile. It’s as if her sassy personality died that day too.
In the beginning, I always stood in front of his elegant gravestone like a soldier keeping watch, but now – if the weather allows it – I sit cross-legged on the grass instead. It’s oddly comforting to talk to the black stone as if it is actually him.
“Hi, Sherlock. I miss you. The flat is so quiet. Even when you were lying supine on the sofa, lost in your head, you filled the room with life. You were the most animated person I’ve ever known, even when you barely moved a muscle. I’m considering moving out, finding my own place. Too many memories and ghosts in 221B nowadays.
“There’s a new nurse at work. Mary. She tries to flirt with me. It doesn’t work, but she’s quite persistent, I’ll give her that. Soon enough, she’ll realise that it’s a futile endeavour. I’ve even said so, but she just shrugged and winked at me. It was unsettling. Nobody has winked at me since you did it before you walked out of the lab that January day in 2010. I guess I should be flattered. Once, I would have been. Not after meeting you, though.”
***
My nightmares are always worse after I’ve visited his grave. In this particular dream, I have blood smeared on my palms. I realise this too late.
Like I usually do, I place my hands on his cheeks, but instead of wiping bloody off his face, I add more. In desperation, I try do clean my hands by rubbing them on my jeans, but it keeps pouring out of my palms like small fountains. We both drown in it.
When I finally wake, the bed is damp. My t-shirt and pants are soaked. For one horrible moment, I thought I’d peed myself, but it is only malodorous sweat.
***
“It was my fault,” I tell Mrs Hudson when we have tea together the day after I thought I’d drowned in my own and Sherlock’s blood.
“Nonsense, dear. You know there was no stopping him when he had made up his mind. Silly boy.”
She cries a little and I hold her gently until she manages to gather herself.
We watch the last Bond film, which she takes great delight in. Strangely enough, this makes me miss Sherlock even more.
Despite that I chided him for ridiculing the plot and the insane stunts, I secretly loved it. I guess he knew that, because he never stopped commenting, and he had this smug expression on his face while doing it.
If I concentrate, I can hear his voiceover.
“That stunt is impossible to survive, John. He doesn’t even have a scratch, for God’s sake! This inanity kills your brain cells, you know.”
I smile when Daniel Craig – against all odds - survives yet again, regardless of Sherlock predictions.
***
To my surprise, I sleep well that night, and I wake more rested than I have in a long time. Perhaps this is a sign that things are about to change for the better.
“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.”
***
“Why do you have a problem with Greg’s name, love?”
“Who?”
“Sherlock!”
“What is it, John?”
“God, I can’t believe this. You are the most stubborn and mad person I have ever met.”
“Nothing new about that statement, John.”
“Okay. Honest question: Can you delete information completely?”
“Of course, I can.”
“And what criteria is required for deletion to be possible?”
“Oh, it depends, but mostly it has to do with dull and unimportant things that take up precious space in my Mind Palace. It is not an infinite storage room, mind you. I have explained this to you earlier.”
“Alright. But you said that you never delete any conversation I participate in.”
“True. The relevance being?”
“Well, how flattering that may be, my darling, I don’t believe that each of those conversations are worth preserving.”
“Bite your tongue, John!”
“You are adorable when you get affronted on my behalf, you know.”
“I’m warning you, John!”
***
“Can you just say my name like a normal person, Sherlock?”
“Since when do you consider me normal, George?”
“God Almighty, you are hopeless!”
“Yes, you have mention that. For the seventy-eighth time, in fact.”
“You keep count?”
“Of course.”
“But learning my name is too difficult for you? I thought you were a genius.”
“I am. Hence why you call me so often.”
“Right. Well, at least you know my surname. I guess that will have to suffice.”
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So, I lurk in some writer subreddits, and a frequent topic of discussion is prose: what constitutes good prose, how do you write it, how do you improve it, etc. And yesterday I stumbled across one topic about the difference between good descriptive prose, and purple prose. OP asks people to share some of their favourite authors who they think write beautiful prose without tipping into purple. No problem; people are happy to oblige.
One person says that Steinbeck is one of their favourite authors for prose, and then they share an example of what they would consider purple prose. It is so violetly awful that I think the poster must have written it themselves as a kind of parody of purple prose. Other people assumed the same.
But as it turns out, they are quoting from a book written by a YouTuber whose channel ia dedicated to talking about writing (namely, their own writing, which is genius, but often not comprehensible to the drooling plebs).
Naturally, I read the free sample of their book in awe and horror, and I'd like to share some screenshots with you. If you also have trouble defining or understanding what purple prose is, it's this.
Yes, every single fucking page is written like this.
Reading some more of the preview for this book, and I realise this is by far not the biggest problem, but I'm begging this guy to just use 'shadow' instead of 'umbra'. I promise I will not accuse you of being a philistine.
Sherlock fandom has been a huge part of my life since I first joined (as a very, very quiet lurker) way back in 2011. As I became more comfortable- both in fandom and in my own skin- I started meeting all sorts of fantastic people. Of all the gifts this fandom has given me, the people in my life because of it is the biggest one of all. I am grateful for my fandom friends and for those who have become absolute rocks in real life.
One of those people was @splix71. I no longer remember when we first interacted online- it was years ago- but we clicked, hard, and when we first met in person four years ago, it was like stars aligning. I last saw her a year ago, when we spent a week together laughing, fangirling, eating, road-tripping, and making the most of what would be our last visit together.
I was so, so lucky to have her in my life and our friendship was a true joy. SHE was a true joy. I miss her more than I can say.
Today is @splix71/Alex’s birthday and in honor of my friend, I’ve got a whole bunch of posts queued up. For those of you who knew Alex, in fandom or outside of it, I hope you find some comfort today in remembering her and her vibrant, passionate personality.
Splix would have been 50 years old today. Two years ago we celebrated by overindulging at an Indian buffet and drooling over watching Hamlet!Batch on the big screen that night. I can’t eat my weight in Aloo Tikki this year like I did then, but I am going to celebrate Splix the best I can today. She deserves nothing less.
To repeat myself from last year: For those of you who knew Alex, in fandom or outside of it, I hope you find some comfort today in remembering her and her vibrant, passionate personality.
Almost four years since this beautiful, brilliant, and most hilarious person has been gone and I still can’t believe it. I hope she’s having a most fabulous time, wherever she is. Happy Birthday, Alex! I miss you more than I can ever fully say.
it’s not weird to find fanfiction from 2021, or 2017, or 2014 that you’ve never read and actually taking your time to read it.
it’s not weird to love it and comment and leave kudos because the author will probably still see it someday and it will make them happy.
it’s not weird to like said author’s work so much that you want to go look for other fics from them.
it’s not weird to go through the authors profile and look for other fics from the ships you like (or maybe some that you’ll give a chance because you liked the author) and maybe bookmark them for later.
it’s not weird to read these other fics and like them too and comment on them because you actually like them and you want to let the author know.
it’s not weird to read fanfiction from 5, or 8, or 10 years ago and actually enjoy and engage with it because it’s perfectly normal to relate to something that’s less than a decade old!
let’s stop treating fanfiction like they’re instagram posts that stop being interesting in 24 hours! fanfiction is NOT social media, fanfiction is art!!! and art doesn’t get old in one day, one year, or even a decade!
read fanfiction! write fanfiction! comment on fanfiction! let’s not let fanculture die people!!!!!
Not only is it not weird, it is ACTIVELY ENCOURAGED. Authors LOVE IT when people do this!!! Its not "weird" and its not "neutral" -- its a fucking DELIGHT. Feel very absolutely free to read though an author's entire back catalogue, leaving kudos and/or comments along the way; we absolutely freaking love when someone does this. There is nothing more joyful than getting a comment notification for an old fic. It will make our day, I promise.
To me it makes no difference if I wrote the story you enjoyed in 2011 or yesterday. So please let authors know you enjoyed their older works. It's why they're still online.
One spot available again at European Fic Writers' Retreat (Belgium)
Dear Fic Writers! (Sherlock fandom and beyond!)
Life is unpredictable, and plans change sometimes! Last week, we've had to move the retreat from Germany to Belgium because of water damage (see this post) and now, due to more unforeseen circumstances, one participant has had to cancel, meaning that one spot has become available!
Here's all the info:
The European Fic Writers Retreat is taking place in Belgium from 13-16 August 2026.
Here are the details:
-Arrival from 3.30pm on 13 August (Thursday).
-Checkout at noon on 16 August (Sunday).
-Special discount price: 250 euros, to be transferred directly to the original participant. This includes accommodation (single room) and food (which we'll still have to cook ourselves, however).
Activities
There will be 3 writing/fandom workshops/activities each day. The rest of the time is for writing, hanging out and making new fandom friends.
Also there will be daily trips to the supermarket to get all the food we need. :)
There are currently 8 participants.
Venue
The accommodation has 8 bedrooms, several large common rooms, and a garden.
The location is in the very south-eastern part of Belgium. You have to arrange your own transport there, although there will likely be the possibility of getting a ride from a nearby city to the accommodation, as a couple of participants are travelling by car and are willing to pick up others.
Organisation
Be aware that this retreat isn't anything fancy or well-organised; it's just me (@shirleycarlton) having made a reservation for a large holiday house in hopes of finding enough fellow fanfic (British M/M slash) writers, who would like to attend and spend some quality time together.
Originally, this concept arose from the Sherlock fandom, and I (Shirley) personally exclusively write johnlock. However, a lot of Sherlock writers have (understandably) moved on to other fandoms, so whether you're currently into Good Omens, LOTR, James Bond, Our Flag Means Death, or RWRB, it's all fine, as John Watson would say. :)
To register, click here!
Tagging a few people again below the cut. Please help signal boost!
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Outdoor in sun perfec t place for president to do speech! Outdoor very warm very soft put old man on green lawn under sun. Put old man in warm sun. no problem ever in warm sun because good view and audience can see long speech. Nice podium outdoor sunny perfect place for old president can trust warm sun to give nice view to President good luck to President. friend sun.
Chapter 9 - Celebration, Nail Polish, and a Corpse
Summary: They keep their marriage small and private, and their wedding night is celebrated in the best possible way. There is no time for a honeymoon; everyday life is calling, and the two girls meet two very different and interesting women.
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