Elementary habits
The quote of the day is: “They seemed to come suddenly upon happiness as if they had surprised a butterfly in the winter woods.” - Edith Wharton
On to the second to last fandom in quarantine meme answer. Today I give you another answer in flashfic form, this time from Elementary. I don't think I ever talked about that show here much, and I've never written in it before, but I really loved canon dearly. That show is the closest I've ever come to seeing my own partnership represented onscreen.
1) The main characters of one of your fandoms are quarantined together. How do they handle it?
2) The main characters of one of your fandoms are quarantined separately. How do they handle it?
3) How does one of your favorite characters from one of your fandoms deal with lockdown?
4) What new hobbies does one of your favorite characters from one of your fandoms start working on in quarantine?
5) One of your favorite pairings (or triads, or whatever) is quarantined together. Does this bring them closer, and maybe tip their UST into romance, if it wasn't already? Or does it create a less happy kind of friction?
6) What new habits, good or bad, does one of your favorite characters from one of your fandoms develop while isolating?
7) One or more of your favorite characters has to deal with a mask refuser. What do they do?
6) What new habits, good or bad, does one of your favorite characters from one of your fandoms develop while isolating?
It is completely unsurprising to everyone that Sherlock develops new habits of remote investigation. (Marcus had offered to let him come attempt socially distanced investigation at crime scenes, but Watson's recent remission still counts as a pre-existing condition, as far as Sherlock's concerned. He's not about to take any chances on that score. He'd floated the idea of taking Marcus up on his offer and then setting himself up in a hotel room for the duration, but Watson wouldn't hear of it.) Always one to think ahead, he'd auditioned some of the detectives and patrol cops before lockdown to check which had the best senses. Now, a long-suffering beat cop plays the part of his meat puppet at crime scenes with an iphone strapped to her forehead; he'd chosen her specifically because her nose had tested the best out of anyone's. Beeta Bagheri dutifully sniffs at whatever Sherlock tells her to, and tries valiantly to describe everything as objectively as possible. It's not ideal, but such are the necessary habits of pandemic investigations.
Sherlock is at first anxiously concerned that he's going to fall back into an old habit in quarantine: heroin. This has generally been a concern since the beginning of his sobriety, and even moreso since his return to Watson and her son, but he particularly worries about it now that he can't go to narcotics anonymous meetings in person or keep himself busy running around with cases. He mentions these concerns to Watson, who counters this by setting him to homeschooling Arthur in everything from physics to fencing. (Some people might consider it a little early for physics, but Sherlock and Watson are firmly united in the opinion that those people hobble their children with low expectations.) Sherlock is startled to discover how much he enjoys teaching, but then he reflects that he'd never expected how profoundly he'd value teaching Watson to be a detective, so he probably should have been able to see the connection.
Just in case teaching isn't enough to focus all of his considerable energies, Watson also stages mysteries in the brownstone every couple of days. She puts a lot of thought into them and she knows how Sherlock works and what his weaknesses are, so Sherlock isn't at all surprised that the mock cases are actually quite challenging. Even aside from the diversion of solving the mysteries themselves, the care she's putting into them would occupy his heart even if not his intellect. It's Watson, after all, and there is never a time when she is not enough to engage him completely.
These things give his time structure, which helps him feel stable. Getting into the habit of online NA meetings also helps, though Sherlock feels like something's missing in the virtual experience. But the most startling, stabilizing habit he picks up in lockdown has got to be the petting. The first time he does it, he doesn't really mean to; it's not something he plans to do, or even realizes that he's going to do before he finds himself with his hand stroking gentle circles onto Watson's back. He's just as startled by this as she is, if not more.
“Sherlock,” she says slowly, blinking at him, “Are you okay?” But she doesn't move to pull away, and she doesn't even tense up under his hand, so he doesn't stop.
“Relatively, under the circumstances.” He nods at her while fumbling inside his head for an explanation for something he didn't know he'd be called upon to explain until thirty seconds ago. “Deprivation of casual physical contact negatively affects both the body and the mind, you see,” is what he arrives at, which is certainly true. “In an inhumane experiment in the Victorian era, orphaned infants were given all basic bodily needs in terms of sustenance and physical comfort, but were never permitted direct human contact. They all died, Watson. Wasted away. The official cause of death was recorded as 'failure to thrive'.”
She arches an eyebrow and watches his face like she's looking for something. “I'm not an infant, Sherlock, and I don't think I'm in any imminent danger of wasting away.” But she still doesn't move away, so he still doesn't stop. His palm sweeps over the rise of her scapula and ripples down the ridges of her thoracic vertebrae only to follow the curve of her ribs outward and start the circle again. It's calming, like meditative breathing.
He has touched her before, of course. Any time it's been necessary, he's done so without hesitation or awkwardness. And more rarely, they've exchanged physical affection on special occasions. When he'd first found out she was sick, for instance, he'd held her tightly until she'd finally relaxed against him and simply leaned into his shoulder. He'd understood that dropping of her defenses for the gift of trust it was, and maybe there's some of that now, too. He keeps petting until she finally moves away when her phone rings.
But the very next morning when they're both standing in the kitchen, he does it again. She still doesn't stop him. In fact, her shoulders curve forward just a little, as if offering more of her back to him, and something loosens a little in the set of her jaw. He goes on theorizing out loud about a case in Denmark he's offering an opinion on without missing a beat, but he also goes on rubbing her back until Arthur bounds into the kitchen in search of breakfast.
It becomes a thing that they do in the mornings, in the quiet space of time they have while Watson makes coffee and Arthur is still asleep. They don't talk about it, and Sherlock is actually not entirely certain which of them he's trying to comfort, but it's probably a little of both.
Or, at any rate, they don't talk about it until Watson says, apparently out of the blue one morning, “I can see who the Victorian was in this metaphor, but who's the orphan?”
Sherlock's hand stutters a little in its sweep down her spine before resuming a steady path. Her hair whispers across his knuckles as his hand slides beneath its fall on the return journey. “As usual,” he says, “I was thinking along similar lines. There's a reasonable case on both sides.”
Joan seems to consider this for a moment. “I suppose it doesn't matter if it's either or both,” she finally says with a shrug that does nothing to dislodge his touch, instead pressing into the direction of his hand like a return caress. “As long as everybody's thriving.”
“Our partnership has sustained the height of thriving of which I never believed myself capable,” Sherlock murmurs earnestly, because it's the truest thing in the world and because he believes in always making the effort to be vulnerable to Watson. Only a fool would not be open with her about how much she means to him, and Sherlock is never that.
Watson makes a faint, pleased sound in the back of her throat, and turns a little so he can reach more of her back. The tilt of her head mostly eclipses her small smile, but Sherlock can still feel it anyway in the quality of her contented silence. For all the habits Sherlock will be glad to shed as soon as he can go back to his normal life, this one he hopes he can keep. Like so many things about his life with Watson, he'd been ambushed by a happiness he hadn't even realized he was missing. Like so many things about his life with Watson, it is needful in ways that make him feel stronger rather than simply needy.
When Arthur tumbles into the kitchen to demand pancakes, Watson pulls away. But she reaches a hand over her shoulder to brush her fingertips across the back of his wrist as she goes. “No Victorians in this house,” she says quietly.
Sherlock finds himself filling the moment with words. “For the best, I expect. Such dreadful colonialists, after all, and hopelessly neurotic into the bargain. Did you know they used to cover wooden table legs with knitted cozies because all that naked, hard wood seemed too suggestive?” He's a good ten minutes into a critique of Victorian insanity before he realizes he's smiling. But so are Watson and Arthur, so that's all right.
Dead Leaves and Sugared Cardamom: Exactly what it says on the tin. Mostly I smell the leaves, with the sugared cardamom just a hint of sweetness and citrusy tang in the background. As it wears, the leaves predominate even more. It lasts all day. It smells like October; I get the strongest image of sipping hot mulled cider on a porch on a windy fall day. It's nice.
Ameles Potamos: Tears and black water. Well, I don't know about the tears, but I do get a dark, watery scent like a bit like a deep river. It smells like gravity to me, and also the color grey. It's not awful, but I'm not a big fan.
And your three shiny links of the day are:
1) The Nazi werewolf program is a prime example of how psychological terrorism and the supernatural can be chillingly effective.
2) And the disturbing resilience of scientific racism is important to keep in mind to temper our understanding of ideas dressed up in the trappings of objectivity.
3) Lastly, to leaven this set of links, a cat arrested for drug trafficking in Sri Lanka escapes prison. This entry was originally posted at https://lyr.dreamwidth.org/132211.html. Please feel free to comment in whatever location floats your proverbial boat.
On to the second to last fandom in quarantine meme answer. Today I give you another answer in flashfic form, this time from Elementary. I don't think I ever talked about that show here much, and I've never written in it before, but I really loved canon dearly. That show is the closest I've ever come to seeing my own partnership represented onscreen.
1) The main characters of one of your fandoms are quarantined together. How do they handle it?
2) The main characters of one of your fandoms are quarantined separately. How do they handle it?
3) How does one of your favorite characters from one of your fandoms deal with lockdown?
4) What new hobbies does one of your favorite characters from one of your fandoms start working on in quarantine?
5) One of your favorite pairings (or triads, or whatever) is quarantined together. Does this bring them closer, and maybe tip their UST into romance, if it wasn't already? Or does it create a less happy kind of friction?
6) What new habits, good or bad, does one of your favorite characters from one of your fandoms develop while isolating?
7) One or more of your favorite characters has to deal with a mask refuser. What do they do?
6) What new habits, good or bad, does one of your favorite characters from one of your fandoms develop while isolating?
It is completely unsurprising to everyone that Sherlock develops new habits of remote investigation. (Marcus had offered to let him come attempt socially distanced investigation at crime scenes, but Watson's recent remission still counts as a pre-existing condition, as far as Sherlock's concerned. He's not about to take any chances on that score. He'd floated the idea of taking Marcus up on his offer and then setting himself up in a hotel room for the duration, but Watson wouldn't hear of it.) Always one to think ahead, he'd auditioned some of the detectives and patrol cops before lockdown to check which had the best senses. Now, a long-suffering beat cop plays the part of his meat puppet at crime scenes with an iphone strapped to her forehead; he'd chosen her specifically because her nose had tested the best out of anyone's. Beeta Bagheri dutifully sniffs at whatever Sherlock tells her to, and tries valiantly to describe everything as objectively as possible. It's not ideal, but such are the necessary habits of pandemic investigations.
Sherlock is at first anxiously concerned that he's going to fall back into an old habit in quarantine: heroin. This has generally been a concern since the beginning of his sobriety, and even moreso since his return to Watson and her son, but he particularly worries about it now that he can't go to narcotics anonymous meetings in person or keep himself busy running around with cases. He mentions these concerns to Watson, who counters this by setting him to homeschooling Arthur in everything from physics to fencing. (Some people might consider it a little early for physics, but Sherlock and Watson are firmly united in the opinion that those people hobble their children with low expectations.) Sherlock is startled to discover how much he enjoys teaching, but then he reflects that he'd never expected how profoundly he'd value teaching Watson to be a detective, so he probably should have been able to see the connection.
Just in case teaching isn't enough to focus all of his considerable energies, Watson also stages mysteries in the brownstone every couple of days. She puts a lot of thought into them and she knows how Sherlock works and what his weaknesses are, so Sherlock isn't at all surprised that the mock cases are actually quite challenging. Even aside from the diversion of solving the mysteries themselves, the care she's putting into them would occupy his heart even if not his intellect. It's Watson, after all, and there is never a time when she is not enough to engage him completely.
These things give his time structure, which helps him feel stable. Getting into the habit of online NA meetings also helps, though Sherlock feels like something's missing in the virtual experience. But the most startling, stabilizing habit he picks up in lockdown has got to be the petting. The first time he does it, he doesn't really mean to; it's not something he plans to do, or even realizes that he's going to do before he finds himself with his hand stroking gentle circles onto Watson's back. He's just as startled by this as she is, if not more.
“Sherlock,” she says slowly, blinking at him, “Are you okay?” But she doesn't move to pull away, and she doesn't even tense up under his hand, so he doesn't stop.
“Relatively, under the circumstances.” He nods at her while fumbling inside his head for an explanation for something he didn't know he'd be called upon to explain until thirty seconds ago. “Deprivation of casual physical contact negatively affects both the body and the mind, you see,” is what he arrives at, which is certainly true. “In an inhumane experiment in the Victorian era, orphaned infants were given all basic bodily needs in terms of sustenance and physical comfort, but were never permitted direct human contact. They all died, Watson. Wasted away. The official cause of death was recorded as 'failure to thrive'.”
She arches an eyebrow and watches his face like she's looking for something. “I'm not an infant, Sherlock, and I don't think I'm in any imminent danger of wasting away.” But she still doesn't move away, so he still doesn't stop. His palm sweeps over the rise of her scapula and ripples down the ridges of her thoracic vertebrae only to follow the curve of her ribs outward and start the circle again. It's calming, like meditative breathing.
He has touched her before, of course. Any time it's been necessary, he's done so without hesitation or awkwardness. And more rarely, they've exchanged physical affection on special occasions. When he'd first found out she was sick, for instance, he'd held her tightly until she'd finally relaxed against him and simply leaned into his shoulder. He'd understood that dropping of her defenses for the gift of trust it was, and maybe there's some of that now, too. He keeps petting until she finally moves away when her phone rings.
But the very next morning when they're both standing in the kitchen, he does it again. She still doesn't stop him. In fact, her shoulders curve forward just a little, as if offering more of her back to him, and something loosens a little in the set of her jaw. He goes on theorizing out loud about a case in Denmark he's offering an opinion on without missing a beat, but he also goes on rubbing her back until Arthur bounds into the kitchen in search of breakfast.
It becomes a thing that they do in the mornings, in the quiet space of time they have while Watson makes coffee and Arthur is still asleep. They don't talk about it, and Sherlock is actually not entirely certain which of them he's trying to comfort, but it's probably a little of both.
Or, at any rate, they don't talk about it until Watson says, apparently out of the blue one morning, “I can see who the Victorian was in this metaphor, but who's the orphan?”
Sherlock's hand stutters a little in its sweep down her spine before resuming a steady path. Her hair whispers across his knuckles as his hand slides beneath its fall on the return journey. “As usual,” he says, “I was thinking along similar lines. There's a reasonable case on both sides.”
Joan seems to consider this for a moment. “I suppose it doesn't matter if it's either or both,” she finally says with a shrug that does nothing to dislodge his touch, instead pressing into the direction of his hand like a return caress. “As long as everybody's thriving.”
“Our partnership has sustained the height of thriving of which I never believed myself capable,” Sherlock murmurs earnestly, because it's the truest thing in the world and because he believes in always making the effort to be vulnerable to Watson. Only a fool would not be open with her about how much she means to him, and Sherlock is never that.
Watson makes a faint, pleased sound in the back of her throat, and turns a little so he can reach more of her back. The tilt of her head mostly eclipses her small smile, but Sherlock can still feel it anyway in the quality of her contented silence. For all the habits Sherlock will be glad to shed as soon as he can go back to his normal life, this one he hopes he can keep. Like so many things about his life with Watson, he'd been ambushed by a happiness he hadn't even realized he was missing. Like so many things about his life with Watson, it is needful in ways that make him feel stronger rather than simply needy.
When Arthur tumbles into the kitchen to demand pancakes, Watson pulls away. But she reaches a hand over her shoulder to brush her fingertips across the back of his wrist as she goes. “No Victorians in this house,” she says quietly.
Sherlock finds himself filling the moment with words. “For the best, I expect. Such dreadful colonialists, after all, and hopelessly neurotic into the bargain. Did you know they used to cover wooden table legs with knitted cozies because all that naked, hard wood seemed too suggestive?” He's a good ten minutes into a critique of Victorian insanity before he realizes he's smiling. But so are Watson and Arthur, so that's all right.
Dead Leaves and Sugared Cardamom: Exactly what it says on the tin. Mostly I smell the leaves, with the sugared cardamom just a hint of sweetness and citrusy tang in the background. As it wears, the leaves predominate even more. It lasts all day. It smells like October; I get the strongest image of sipping hot mulled cider on a porch on a windy fall day. It's nice.
Ameles Potamos: Tears and black water. Well, I don't know about the tears, but I do get a dark, watery scent like a bit like a deep river. It smells like gravity to me, and also the color grey. It's not awful, but I'm not a big fan.
And your three shiny links of the day are:
1) The Nazi werewolf program is a prime example of how psychological terrorism and the supernatural can be chillingly effective.
2) And the disturbing resilience of scientific racism is important to keep in mind to temper our understanding of ideas dressed up in the trappings of objectivity.
3) Lastly, to leaven this set of links, a cat arrested for drug trafficking in Sri Lanka escapes prison. This entry was originally posted at https://lyr.dreamwidth.org/132211.html. Please feel free to comment in whatever location floats your proverbial boat.