Bask In My Extremely Correct Headcanon. Jean-Luc Picard Asexual Icon

I have this vision of Holmes getting sick or injured while out investigating, idk, anything that puts him into a vulnerable position really. But he will politely but very sternly prohibit anyone from fussing, or helping or touching him, insisting they GET WATSON, and that's his last word on it. And when Watson finally arrives, Holmes all but melts into his care, and Lestrade realises a) oh Mr Holmes was really not feeling great and b) those two have something really special going on

Escape Route

@sherlocktember2024 prompt - "Victorian"

It had often been difficult or impossible for Holmes to remotely fit into the dictates of society. On occasion, he wondered whether some past era might have been kinder to him. But then, at least based on his forays into historical research, it seemed that society had always operated along strict lines to which he could not conform.

He particularly wondered about this little problem when he was obligated to attend social functions. Thankfully, such occasions were rare. He had, after all, structured his life in a way that let him be his own master, not obligated to go to parties, socialize, or do anything he did not wish to do.

Or at least, that was the situation on the whole. Sometimes, however, his work required a foray into that most Victorian of social functions, the week-end country house party.

Holmes utterly loathed all such occasions. A trip to the country was not always objectionable provided he was not required to interact with anyone he did not wish to, nor to participate in social rituals and the horrors of polite conversation.

On this occasion, he was investigating a complicated string of extortions, and there was no better place to become acquainted with both victims and suspects. As a result, he had obtained an invitation for himself and Watson, and was now being thoroughly tormented.

He had endured it at first. As he was a known eccentric, he could get away with merely wearing his ordinary, comfortable outfit. He could not tolerate more formal attire, not while also struggling to cope with the unending social barrage, the overwhelming roar of voices and stench of perfumes, and the misery of unfamiliar food and drink.

Those factors, however, became less and less bearable as the evening wore on. He had been engaged in conversation by a gentleman who seemed determined to force Holmes to reveal his “secrets”, and was not in fact interested in an explanation of his work. Watson gently intervened, peeling the gentleman away for more romanticized conversation, and Holmes fled for an isolated corner.

This did not, however, solve the trouble. There were so many voices, and while on a case he could not afford to distract himself with something more interesting like examining the flower arrangements. There had been no sign of tension among the existing guests, and so he suspected that whoever was responsible for the extortion had not yet arrived. Still, he must pay attention.

The clamor rose higher and higher. Laughter and shouts from one person to another, the clink of glasses, the chatter of a metal tray as someone began some insipid party game. More clattering followed, and Holmes flinched.

He pressed all the way back into the corner, his chest tight and breaths restricted. Even thoughts of his case became impossible.

He could not endure this torment, the barrage of pointless overwhelming stimulation. It was not the sort of stimulation he loved, and without any form of mental exertion, the boredom manifested as something like physical pain. Aches all through his body, his muscles burning with the desperate need to do something, anything, before he went utterly mad—

“Holmes, can you hear me?” Even Watson’s gentle voice was like a blow, and Holmes jerked in pain. Watson did not touch him, but gestured to the door. “Come on, old man. Let’s go to the garden.”

Moving at all risked causing additional overwhelm, and he wished only to sink to the floor in the corner, shut his eyes, and try to center himself before he exploded. But this environment would not aid in that quest.

He followed Watson, focusing as intently as possible on his friend rather than the tumult of the party. He must control himself. The shame of erupting into distress would do damage to his ability to continue the case once it progressed again, and he could not allow that.

It was too cold outside in the garden, but he could at least breathe here. He sank onto a bench, folding his hands together, and stared at the path. His heart pounded in his chest, racing out of control. Even from here, the sounds of the party overwhelmed him.

“It’s all right, Holmes.” Slowly, Watson took his own coat off and settled it around Holmes’ shoulders without otherwise touching him. Holmes still tensed. “Easy, it’s just me. I’m right here. Take your time.”

With Watson here to watch out for him, Holmes covered his ears, closed his eyes, and bent forward. The whole world had gone blurry, his control over himself shattered. If he could not calm down now, he would utterly explode. This was already far past the point that he would ordinarily allow himself to slip.

But that was the trouble with being out of his ordinary routine. Back in Baker Street, he had all his familiar things in their proper place, ready to soothe him. Even in London itself, the familiarity often permitted him to ground himself. He could retreat to some quieter area, and calm his agitation with predictability.

A house party had none of that. Here, he had only Watson. Thankfully, that seemed to be enough.

When Holmes came out of the fog and opened his eyes again, his memory had blurred. He remembered leaving the house, and being here on the bench, but the moments between had become indistinct.

Watson, however, was solid and present. The good doctor had taken up a position at his shoulder, as if on guard. He wasn’t looking directly at Holmes, instead watching the path to the house.

“Do you intend to chase off anyone who would bother me?” Holmes asked, curious.

Watson glanced down, and the corners of his eyes crinkled as he gave a gentle, warm smile. “Well, I was certainly considering it. Do you feel any better?”

“I’m all right.”

“You were on the verge of a complete panic.”

Holmes sighed. There was little point in attempting to downplay his difficulties to Watson, who knew him so well. Who had so often sat beside him in the dark when he could only hide from the world. “I fear I became a little overwhelmed, yes. I owe you my thanks for retrieving me before I could be more of an embarrassment.”

“You are never an embarrassment.” Still moving slowly, Watson sat beside him on the bench. “I was glad to help. I’m only sorry I wasn’t there sooner, but it took some time to extract myself from Mr. Brixton.”

“Was that the gentlemen who kept shouting ‘rubbish’ at me each time I attempted to explain the art of deduction to him?”

“The same. He is one of the extortion victims, if you recall.”

“Ah, yes.” Holmes considered the matter, touching his fingertips together and then resting his hands in his lap. He was still dizzy, and felt as if additional strain might shatter him. Perhaps he would simply spend the night in the garden. “He almost makes me wish to abandon the case and leave him to his fate. He was exceedingly rude to me, Watson.”

Watson gave him a mildly alarmed look. “Surely you would not abandon the others!”

“No, no.” Holmes watched as another carriage parked in front of the house. Hopefully a more interesting late arrival. “I will not abandon any of them, Watson. But you must permit me my little amusements. I am very frustrated with the case at present.”

“I will gladly permit you any amusement,” Watson said softly. “I’m sorry the case is frustrating. I’m sure something will happen soon.”

“I am less certain. I begin to think these is no substance to this matter at all. Perhaps I am wasting my time, and subjecting myself to this torment for no reason.” Holmes sighed and pulled out his cigarette case and matchbox. He struck a match, lit his cigarette, and sank into the comfort of familiar smoke.

He had only been smoking for perhaps a minute, soothed by both that and Watson’s quiet company, when a gunshot rang out inside the house.

Watson jumped to his feet at once. “My God, what’s happening in there?”

“I have no data yet to be certain.” Holmes rose, much calmer and much more interested now, and tossed Watson’s coat back to its owner. “But it is quite possible that the person who has been extorting these people arrived in that most recent carriage, and was promptly shot by one of his victims.”

“You don’t sound very alarmed by that,” Watson said as they jogged towards the house.

“Well, there are no more gunshots, and very few screams, so I surmise there will not be too many injuries for you to attend to. And this may allow us to close this case more quickly.” Pleased, Holmes flashed a smile at his companion. “And then, we shall be free to return to Baker Street!”

I was thinking about this at work the other day and like. what if the reason Hastings is so in-the-moment to the exclusion of all other moments stems from his service during the War?

Don't think about the past. Go too far and you're confronted with the horrors of the trenches. Shells screaming overhead, no way of knowing where they'll land. The sound of explosions ringing so loud in your ears that you don't know if you'll ever hear anything else again. Great, metal beasts crushing everything in their path. Boys torn apart before they had the chance to come of age.

Go back even further and you have to face the man you once were. The man you can never be again. The man you could have been but can never become after living through what you did.

And as for the future, it simply doesn't exist on the battlefield. It's become a vague, nebulous, abstract concept that may or may not come to pass, so why give it too much thought? The here and now is all that matters. It's the only thing you're guaranteed.

Very specific example, but watching the central Park concert that Simon and Garfunkel gave. It always makes me feel warm and incredibly happy. Also laying on the sofa with a blanket and watching documentaries.

Since I'm not very big on physical affection, I've been obsessed recently with finding things that feel like a hug, not physically but that happy, safe, warm feeling that people get from hugs. Like for instance, nighttime gives me that feeling, as well as sitting under trees, watching shows with my favorite characters/my favorite scenes, and of course curling up under floofy blankets.

I'd be extremely curious to hear what other people have as alternatives to hugs!

Ok hear me out: James T. Kirk.

I know that he's like THE famous womanizer and all, BUT does he have sex with these women? I remember an old blog post somewhere (not Tumblr) that kept track of every situation where it was possible/plausible for Kirk to have sex in whole TOS and it was VERY little. He flirts with everyone, sometimes out of genuine interest, sometimes to reach his goals, but it's flirting and kissing and so on. It's romantic. And with the women he is genuinely interested in he often ends up actually sad and heartbroken when in the end something happens to them or he has to leave. So I'd say it is pretty obvious that he feels romanticly attracted towards, well basically everyone in his vicinity, but we have actually no proof that he does feel sexual attraction. Soooo Jim Kirk is asexual.

Star Trek characters who are on the asexual and/or aromantic spectrums but who are not Vulcans, androids, or holograms. I'll start. Jean-Luc Picard :)

I go 2+4= 6 so 60 8+8=16 so 7+8=15 60+15= 75

Re-reading Sherlock Holmes and it strikes me all over again that the main draw of this man is not his intelligence but his kindness and courteousness towards his distressed clients, most especially women. I was like ten when I read my Dad's copy of Adventures and so fascinated and attached to him immediately. It could never be replicated by modern interpretations, especially Moffat's Sherlock. *soul deep shudder* I hated the series from the get-go and couldn't figure out why until I saw that Tumblr post that pointed it out.

Also? Irene Adler's sexualisation is obviously gross and so much less progressive and agentive than the version this Victorian man wrote, but I'm also repulsed by the sexualisation of Sherlock Holmes. The man hasn't had a boner in his life. It's canon that he's never had any interest in women and his only close relationship with a man was Watson, and all power to slash fans, but there's absolutely nothing in canon that hints at anything but a friendship of, get this, mutual respect and admiration. This is the most aroace character in the English canon is what I'm saying, and the most generous interpretation of his relationship with Watson is a queerplatonic connection.

TL;DR: Perpetually flabbergasted how we got from a very gentlemanly, deeply compassionate, grown-ass adult who never talks down to Watson nor burdens anyone, to this entitled misogynistic manbaby with the social skills of a hornet.

something about the way watson is immediately intrigued by holmes's character ("the proper study of man is mankind,") immediately begins studying the man like an anthropologist, has a natural inclination to help people, and continues to write and think about Who Holmes Is in addition to chronicling his actual work makes me think that, if the field had existed, he'd have been a psychologist.

something about being a doctor and then transitioning into the exact type of writer he becomes, his concern for holmes, his preoccupation with the unknown/darker aspects of human nature/taboo subjects not often addressed, his innate compassion... lad was writing letters to Freud fr (don't do it watson)

Yes, he is! He absolutely is!

Whenever I see someone discovering Ronald Howard's Holmes, I get so happy.

It is THE SHIT!

It captures Holmes' sillyness beautifully (even tho to a comedic degree), Watson actually doesn't resemble a Hamster and is, for lack of a better word 'cool', the dynamic between Holmes and Watson is sweet and amazing, for 20-minute episodes, the plot is great,

Oh, I love this series so much!

It is one of my favourite Sherlock Holmes adaptations, if not my favourite one! If you haven't seen it, give it a try, it is so worth it!!

I’ve just discovered the 1954 version of Sherlock Holmes and I think it’s tied with Jeremy Brett for my favorite holy shit

I don’t exactly know how to say it, but..... society doesn’t seem to realize that anger is an emotion. I mean most of the time we are told to stop being so emotional and the immediat response is, to stop showing vulnerability and replacing it with anger. When men tell women (or when women tell men or men tell men...etc.) that they are to emotional, most of the time they do it in an angry way. Anger seems to be generally viewed as acting strong and not emotional, which is weird because anger is probably one of the strongest emotions you can feel. 

I don’t know if that makes sense to anyone, but the whole concept of anger being more socially acceptable than sadness, or literally anything else is just wild to me.