We visit our flat, my new home in TV Land, and then we’re in a not-real cab, and Sherlock deduces everything about me except the one thing that matters, and then there’s a dead woman, and, oh, yes, she is really dead. I knew to expect it; Mycroft Holmes has explained it in interviews, that of course they have to have real corpses, or Sherlock would figure out the game. They get them through legal channels; in fact, since Sherlock started doing murder investigations, more than one person has actually willed their body to the show. A team of forensic geniuses cleans them up and plants evidence for Sherlock to find. In this case: dirty wedding ring, water under her collar, mud spatters on the back of her leg, chipped fingernails. No suitcase. Sherlock takes the bait, and we’re off.
Or rather, he’s off. We’re separated, which means that he’s on camera, and I’m…not. A script consultant pops out of the woodwork and chats with the others—Anderson, Donovan, Lestrade—and they come up with a game plan, where Sally warns me off of Sherlock and I go off by myself to be abducted by Mycroft. So far, nothing about Sherlock’s behavior has surprised them, including his running off without me. I try to decide whether John Watson would be annoyed by this. Would I be annoyed by this? Am I annoyed?
Things roll along to one of their many possible conclusions, Sherlock and me sitting in an Italian restaurant. I order wine, because there is an edge that needs taking off. I make small talk; asking Sherlock if he has a girlfriend feels extremely strange, since I know very well that he has only ever been single (speculation about his sexual identity is rampant; if he’s ever sex, it was completely darked out), but it feels like the thing to say in the moment. Something about my delivery must be off, though, because he thinks I’m chatting him up. Am I chatting him up? Would John Watson chat him up?
We’re saved by a high-speed foot chase, and for a while I stop worrying about whether it’s real, just fling myself into the action as hard as I can. Sherlock runs, climbs, leaps; I run, climb, and leap after him. Afterward, when we’re standing, breathless and laughing, in the foyer of our house, he—fuck. He’s called up Angelo to hand me my cane.
My fucking psychosomatic limp. It’s been deleted. It was never real, anyway; a phantom injury, a phantom pain. Sherlock has restored me to myself. The lie of pain has been revealed, truth restored. Jack Wilson or John Watson—one of the two—is now a little more real.
Fill Part 7 (formerly part 6!)
We visit our flat, my new home in TV Land, and then we’re in a not-real cab, and Sherlock deduces everything about me except the one thing that matters, and then there’s a dead woman, and, oh, yes, she is really dead. I knew to expect it; Mycroft Holmes has explained it in interviews, that of course they have to have real corpses, or Sherlock would figure out the game. They get them through legal channels; in fact, since Sherlock started doing murder investigations, more than one person has actually willed their body to the show. A team of forensic geniuses cleans them up and plants evidence for Sherlock to find. In this case: dirty wedding ring, water under her collar, mud spatters on the back of her leg, chipped fingernails. No suitcase. Sherlock takes the bait, and we’re off.
Or rather, he’s off. We’re separated, which means that he’s on camera, and I’m…not. A script consultant pops out of the woodwork and chats with the others—Anderson, Donovan, Lestrade—and they come up with a game plan, where Sally warns me off of Sherlock and I go off by myself to be abducted by Mycroft. So far, nothing about Sherlock’s behavior has surprised them, including his running off without me. I try to decide whether John Watson would be annoyed by this. Would I be annoyed by this? Am I annoyed?
Things roll along to one of their many possible conclusions, Sherlock and me sitting in an Italian restaurant. I order wine, because there is an edge that needs taking off. I make small talk; asking Sherlock if he has a girlfriend feels extremely strange, since I know very well that he has only ever been single (speculation about his sexual identity is rampant; if he’s ever sex, it was completely darked out), but it feels like the thing to say in the moment. Something about my delivery must be off, though, because he thinks I’m chatting him up. Am I chatting him up? Would John Watson chat him up?
We’re saved by a high-speed foot chase, and for a while I stop worrying about whether it’s real, just fling myself into the action as hard as I can. Sherlock runs, climbs, leaps; I run, climb, and leap after him. Afterward, when we’re standing, breathless and laughing, in the foyer of our house, he—fuck. He’s called up Angelo to hand me my cane.
My fucking psychosomatic limp. It’s been deleted. It was never real, anyway; a phantom injury, a phantom pain. Sherlock has restored me to myself. The lie of pain has been revealed, truth restored. Jack Wilson or John Watson—one of the two—is now a little more real.